A.N.: The second part…
Valyrian Steel
19
Balm
The door was unbolted, and steam billowed out. It was the sultriest place in the entire castle, and made Sansa think of the capricious summer lightning storms that occasionally took hold of King's Landing, when weeks of breathless humidity had threatened to choke the city - broken by fierce storms that drenched everything, scouring away the dust and muck, settling cool air across the city that made Sansa think of the tranquil chill of the godswood. She had anticipated every storm for that brief moment, the lungfuls of crisp, clean air that reminded her of home.
Now, she wandered into the baths, already stripping off her fur-trimmed gloves and heavy cloak, sweltering in the humid heat, as Larra reluctantly followed. The guard stayed beyond the strong door, and Larra bolted it from the inside. Sansa waited, watching, as Larra turned from the door, eyeing the vast chamber. There were several pools, of varying sizes and depths, with the smallest bubbling deliciously - clever stonework meant hot coals could be placed inside the walls of that particular pool, making the water even hotter than the regular pools, which steamed beguilingly, the water eddying delicately as it flowed from the careful irrigation system - pipes separated water-flow so that each pool had its own source and its own overflow spill, ensuring the warm water was always clean.
Sansa had weighed the expense, and had candles littered around the large chamber, making the steam glow and the carvings on the long walls flicker strangely.
"Do you remember what Old Nan used to say, whenever one of us was overwrought?" Sansa asked, and a sad smile lingered in the shadows at the corners of Larra's beautiful lips.
"A long soak in warm water is the best balm for battered spirits and weary bones," Larra said, and Sansa smiled softly.
"The first thing I did when we reclaimed Winterfell was to come down here, and soak it all away," Sansa told her sister quietly. Her lips twitched, as she added, "All those years in King's Landing, I had forgotten, you know…the cold. It was strange to get used to it again… Only when I immersed myself in the water did I realise how cold I had been for weeks… I thawed myself out, soaked everything away… When we were little, we used to come down here, all of us…we would play. And only you could gentle Arya long enough to comb the tangles from her hair. We'd wrap ourselves in terrycloth before the fire to dry off, playing games… You used to braid my hair."
Larra gazed at the huge fireplace, where once their family had enjoyed playing as they dried off, Jon's and Larra's hair curling riotously, Sansa's glowing as vibrantly as the flames, Arya always sitting too close and coming out in a rash from the heat, baby Rickon carried back to the nursery, fast asleep in Larra's arms, his tawny hair soft and silky, his ferocious little face relaxed in sleep. "I didn't think you remembered."
"I do," Sansa sighed softly. "I remember everything. The last words you said to me, do you remember? 'You're smarter than this, Sansa'… You don't know how those words haunted me…"
"Good," Larra said, her gaze unflinching as she stared at Sansa. "You were smart enough to survive King's Landing. You're the first Stark in generations to be able to boast that."
"I was angry with Father, when they came for him," Sansa confessed suddenly, staring at her fierce, clever sister. "Furious about Lady…about him trying to take me from the capital. He tried to get us out and I -"
"It doesn't matter," Larra said quietly, her voice gentle but unyielding. "You're home. That's what Father would care about. You're home, at Winterfell; you're safe… And you and Jon did what no-one else could. We can fight together for a future because of you. Your parents would be very proud of you. I am."
Relief and pride swept through Sansa's body, sparkling like beads of incandescent light through her blood, and she smiled sweetly, allowing Larra to see how honoured, how pleased she was to be thought well of by her.
"I…thought perhaps you were angry with me."
Larra's eyebrows rose, her violet eyes widening, and her lips parted in stunned incredulity. "What on earth do I have to be angry at you about? I was teasing you about the gowns."
"I know that," Sansa smiled softly, but it faded at Larra's curious, guarded look - as if anticipating something horrific. "But I have taken the role you trained all your life to fill."
Larra sighed, her gaze flitting over Sansa's face. "I am glad that you have taken my place… When we returned to Winterfell, I could not have walked into the Great Hall and been what people needed me to be. But you are."
Larra crouched down at the edge of the steaming pool, on the balls of her feet, perfectly balanced, with Dark Sister tucked out of the way and the hilt of her hunting-knife gleaming at her back amid her unkempt furs. Her face glowed pale as moonlight in the candlelight, her hair black as night in the shadows, and Sansa watched silently as Larra reached out, sighing heavily, and dipped the fingertips of one hand into the warm water. They sent delicate ripples across the surface of the water, sparkling in the candlelight, and the soft lapping noise was soothing as Larra idly flicked her fingers through the water.
When she spoke next, it was to the water, to the steam rising around her, obscuring her features, making her look eerie and out of place, her voice faraway and devastated: "I walk these halls, and…I know every stone, every passageway, every tapestry and tower, they have not changed. But the halls are filled with strangers, and I feel…" She turned to Sansa, and the candlelight caught her violet eyes, making them glow like amethysts, wet with tears that did not fall, her features solemn, heartbroken; her voice caught the longer she spoke, thick with feeling. "I feel as if I had died, after all. As if I am a ghost, haunting the halls of Winterfell, and everyone I knew and loved has gone ahead without me. I feel as if I have been left behind, and I know they are gone, and yet everywhere I go, I cannot help but look for them. I do not recognise our home."
"Or me," Sansa murmured, struck by the depth of her sister's devastation.
"You are who you've always had it in you to be..." Larra said, her gaze steady as she held Sansa's eye. She sniffed delicately, her lips twisting as she fought to control the emotion threatening to overwhelm her. "I haven't…had the time to think about it, ever since Edd told me."
Sansa blinked, startled, and devastation crept through her body, leaving nothing but raw anguish in its place. "Edd told you?"
Larra cleared her throat softly. "When we reached Castle Black. Edd spoke of the King in the North - I thought he meant Robb…" For a heartbeat, Larra smiled, and it was a harrowing sight, her eyes glittering. "He had to tell me. He had to tell me everything. The Red Wedding, Rickon…all of it. Here I am, home, safe and sound with Bran…" Her eyes glittered, but the tears did not fall; her lips twitched, and she sniffed delicately. She closed her eyes, and after a few seconds, she whispered in a dull voice filled with grief, "They're gone but they're everywhere."
Sansa's eyes burned. "You truly knew nothing, until weeks ago?"
"I lived with someone who was all-seeing…who parted with information like a miser with gold…" Larra said grimly. "The ink was already dry… He knew I could do nothing, so what would it do to tell me?"
After a few moments, Sansa said, "It was a backhanded kindness, not telling you."
"Eventually the hammer had to fall… Hope is the only thing stronger than fear," Larra said, sniffing delicately again, her voice stronger, clearer. She turned to Sansa, saying, "And I needed even the smallest glimmer of it, to get us back to the Wall and beyond it. If I'd known then…about Robb, and his poor wife, and their little baby…about Rickon…and you…about Jon… If I had known all of that…"
"You wouldn't have stopped fighting," Sansa said, with fierce certainty.
Larra's lips twitched into a humourless smile. "You sound so sure."
"You've never given up in your entire life, not at anything. You've had to fight for everything…" Sansa said, ashamed for her mother. The closer she had grown to Jon over these months, the more ashamed she was of her mother's treatment of the best man she had known since Father's death. "You weren't about to stop fighting when Bran needed you most." Sansa sighed, and murmured, "I wish Mother was here." Larra gave her a look, her eyebrows raised, as if simultaneously compassionate of Sansa's desire to see her mother, and relieved Lady Catelyn was not around to sneer down her nose at the bastard twins. Sansa smiled warmly, "The bastards she despised are the two people who did what she could not: Protected her children. I fought through seven Hells to get to Jon; and you kept Bran alive against all odds. She owes you both an apology."
"She loved you fiercely, and if not for her I would not have you. To me, she was a harsh and ungodly woman…" Sansa did not look away, as she might once have; because this was Larra's truth, and Sansa knew it to be true. Her mother had wished the twins dead since the moment she arrived at Winterfell with Robb to find the babies already ensconced in the nursery. Larra sighed, shaking her head slightly, her voice grim when she said, "She did not deserve her death."
Sansa's mother had never had a kind thought for or act towards the twins all their lives. To hear Larra speak well of her…
It was Larra who had raised Rickon, and protected Bran. She had abandoned their ancestral home to protect her half-brothers. And she had done it without question, because as fiercely as Lady Catelyn had hated Larra and Jon, Larra had loved her brothers and sisters.
"You didn't deserve the way she treated you," Sansa said quietly. "All those years in King's Landing…I started to realise that Cersei treated me with the same viciousness and contempt that Mother threw at you every chance she could. All because Father loved your mother more."
"It's interesting to hear you say that," Larra said, her eyes glittering. "You were once scandalised that Father could ever love anyone but your mother."
"I'm not quite as naïve as I once was," Sansa scoffed, smiling delicately, and Larra's eyes shone as she smiled in response, amused but also saddened that Sansa's innocence had been stripped away so brutally. "Your mother must have been magnificent, whoever she was, for Father to love her so fiercely."
Larra's face, already snow-white but for her constellation of dramatic freckles, turned greyish-green as she stared at Sansa, who frowned, bewildered by the visceral reaction. Sansa had thought it a compliment to Larra's mother - if she had been anything like Larra, she had to have been truly extraordinary.
"Larra?" she asked uncertainly.
Larra faltered, staring at Sansa as her skin lost the sickly tinge just as quickly as it came, and hitched an uncomfortable smile on her lips. It did not reach her eyes, but her tone was gentle and coaxing as she said, "Let's have that bath, before the candles burn themselves out."
One by one, Larra unstrapped her weapons - a small pile of them accumulated at the edge of the pool, clacking and clanging, startling Sansa with every secret hiding-place as yet more weapons were withdrawn from the folds of thick furs.
And then Larra shed her furs. She shed a tunic that glittered black like thousands of tiny beetles, and stood in worn, knitted longjons, Old Nan's stitching utterly familiar to Sansa even after all this time; they were made of fine musk-ox wool, the warmest yarn in the world, long-sleeved, reaching the ankles, buttoned down the front from belly to neck. Or they were usually buttoned; Larra's appeared to be sewn together. The longjons were heavily darned, and they hung from her slender frame, where once they would have fit snugly. She had to reach for her hunting knife to slice through the stitches before she could shimmy and wriggle out of the longjons.
Sansa couldn't help it. She gasped.
Jon was the shield that guarded the realms of men.
Larra was the shield that guarded Bran.
And like any effective shield, she was battered.
Even at first glance, Sansa knew there was not a single limb or part of Larra's body that was not scarred.
Some were burns, hastily sealing a messy wound; some were neatly-stitched slashes. Some scars were white and old, some still pink, shining, angry and raised. One on her right outer-forearm slashed from elbow to wrist, an inch wide at its widest point, shining and jagged; an arrow-wound to her lower-abdomen had been neatly stitched to a tiny pucker. There was a slash below her collarbone, a triple slash to the base of her throat, and the firelight caught a milky-white scar beneath her ear toward the back of her neck. One thigh showed the damage of a knife-wound; her calf caused nausea to build in Sansa's stomach, remembering Father's wound and his limp as they dragged him up the steps of the Sept, stabbed in the back of the leg by a spear… Even her hip had been slashed; her arms were a criss-cross of healed scars, and one wicked scar jagged from hip to kneecap, a curving, slice that might have cost her life - it had been a clean wound, a sharp blade…
And her back…
When Sansa had left Winterfell, Larra's back had still been healing from a flogging ordered by Cersei. Larra had struck Joffrey in the nursery, for tormenting Tommen and Rickon. Now, Sansa was filled with pride and smug elation that Larra had dealt Joffrey that sharp slap - the only time she had ever hit one of them in the face, rather than round the back of the head as a warning, and probably the only time in Joffrey's life he had ever been struck for his foulness - but at the time, Sansa had been mortified.
Sansa knew now that Cersei had had Larra flogged as much for smacking Joffrey as for reminding King Robert so much of Lyanna Stark - of a time in his life he had fancied himself in love with Lyanna, and happy. Sansa remembered the way Robert's jaw had hung agape at the sight of Larra in her feast gown, frost-bitten hellebores braided into her hair, her eyes sparkling, vibrant, her smile flirtatious and charming…
Cersei had never mentioned Larra again, and likely never even thought of her: But Myrcella had cried when they learned the Ironborn had taken Winterfell. Larra had painted her portrait, taken the Princess to collect a winter posy from the godswood, and gifted Tommen a kitten from her own Northern Longhaired cat Cinder's litter. They had adored Sansa's bastard half-sister. Most children did.
Sansa had not remembered that Larra had been flogged. Not really. They had left Winterfell before Larra was healed. Before Sansa had seen either the damage, or the scarring left behind. Now she saw it.
It looked like a weirwood had been scarred into Larra's back, a tangle of shining white limbs across her shoulder-blades, a few deep slashes down her spine creating a sturdy trunk.
She was scarred, and so slender, but not deathly thin as some of the wildlings were, and Sansa knew it was Larra's tiny but frequent meals that made all the difference - she looked healthy, not an ounce of extra fat on her, her musculature not overly pronounced but visibly strong; her breasts were high, unblemished and very pretty, not as heavy as Sansa's because of her weight loss, her dainty, upturned nipples the colour of iced plums rather than the rosy apricot of Sansa's. There was even a scar beneath Larra's left breast, tucked down amid her ribs.
"Sansa…are you alright?" Larra asked, her voice gentle - absurdly kind, considering Sansa was gaping at her naked body in horror.
"There are…so many," she breathed, her eyes flitting from one impossible scar to another. Larra's side was still healing from a vicious bruise.
Larra stared back at her for a long time. Quietly, she told Sansa, "Every one of them tells a story of my strength in surviving."
She said it in such a way, Sansa knew Larra felt no shame in any of her scars. They had been hard-won. They were proof of her strength - her survival. That strength emboldened Sansa to wriggle out of her own clothes - Larra's lips twitched, and Sansa heard her soft chuckle as she approached, naked and unabashed, to help unlace Sansa out of her fortified gown, the many layers she wore beneath it - a silk chemise to protect her skin, a fleece-line tunic and musk-ox wool underdress for warmth, two pairs of wool stockings, quilted petticoats, fur-lined leather boots to keep her feet warm and dry, a silk neckerchief to protect her neck from irritation from the feathered collar with silver direwolves clasped nose-to-nose. Larra's scarred fingers were nimble and as gentle as Sansa remembered as she unknotted ties, pinched clasps loose and unthreaded hidden buckles.
"You've armoured yourself well," Larra murmured, her eyes flashing like dark amethyst embers, and Sansa took a breath that struggled to fill her lungs as Larra lifted the last, stone-grey silk chemise over Sansa's head, revealing her naked body. She was not slender like Larra, she had been well-fed all her life - the journey to Castle Black had been one rare instance that had shown her what hunger and terror truly were - but her waist was still trim, her limbs supple and lean; there was a softness to her curves that brought to mind Larra's old figure, when her embrace had been all warmth and bosom.
Like her sister, Sansa's body was scarred. Not heavily, the way Larra's body had evidently been used as a shield, but her body was no longer unblemished, the injuries not nearly as harrowing and jagged and life-threatening - they had been inflicted to elicit pain and fear, rather than to cause lasting damage or drain the life from her. The weeks she had been prisoner in her own home, Sansa had gained several scars, and compared to Larra's they were almost laughable, so small and neat - but their size did not diminish the horror she had endured to earn them.
She was healing. One day, the angry pink scars would turn white, like Larra's. They would always be there, a reminder - of her strength, of what she had it in her to survive.
They were still new, though, and sometimes, when she caught sight of one of them as she dressed, she was startled by their presence marring her skin. And she often thought, if her skin had reflected every emotional wound inflicted by Joffrey, people would stop looking at her with yearning and open lust, and realise just how much she had endured - they would recoil in horror at the sight of her, rather than attempting to undress her with their gaze, wondering what it would feel like to mount her. She looked untouched, pure… Beneath the skin, she was as scarred as Larra.
They had both endured the impossible, and survived it against the odds.
They were more alike now, through their own experiences, than they had ever been before. Two ferocious she-wolves of Winterfell.
Larra's face went cold and hard as marble as her glowing violet eyes traced the delicate scars on Sansa's body. She was the first person Sansa had shown; she bathed and dressed herself in privacy now, behind a folding screen, her maids merely bringing her clean garments and leaving them to warm draped by the fire in her chamber, waiting for Sansa to finish lacing herself up before tending to her hair and nails.
"I hope it was lingering," Larra growled low, dangerous, her eyes wrathful violet flame.
"It was. And well-deserved," Sansa told her gently. She forced a smile, and found herself brushing off the agony that temporarily squeezed her heart. She reached out to touch Larra's arm, leading her to the smallest, shallowest pool where soft towels had been laid down over the stone lip of the bath to rest against, and earthenware pots and jars, delicate glass bottles and a woven basket full of combs, brushes, exquisite Qartheen snips and loofas had been arranged beside a cluster of fat beeswax candles, a delicate glazed candleholder melting solid perfumed oils to fragrance the entire chamber with warm vanilla, fig and camomile.
"What is all this?" Larra asked, more curious than suspicious, eyeing the arrangement of pots and bottles, brushes and the two simple chairs arranged beside the roaring fire beside the shallow pool, piles of clothing neatly folded in preparation for them, terrycloth towels draped over a rack to warm.
"Gifts, from Lord Manderly," Sansa said, her smile brightening as she glanced at Larra, who was slowly lowering herself into the warm water, wincing ever so slightly at the unfamiliarity, the bite of the hot water against her abused skin. Sansa plaited her hair over her shoulder, then pinned it in place like a crown around her head to prevent it getting wet, and sank into the water with Larra, sighing as she ducked under the water to her neck. "He sent them after we had reclaimed Winterfell. Cosmetics, fabric and fine trinkets for me, barrels of citrus from Dorne and a high harp from Lys; for Jon, leather and furs, barrels of snow-crab, cod, Arbour wine, cheese from the Reach and word that the Stark fleet had been completed, ready to set sail… I wonder what he'll send for you; you were always his favourite."
"Well, he always had exquisite taste," Larra teased, and Sansa smirked.
"You're right. He knew your worth, even if nobody else cared to see past your birth," Sansa said, knowing that she was guilty of it, too. "How long has it been since you unwound your hair?"
"You mean how long since I washed and combed it?" Larra smirked, her eyes glittering.
Larra wore her hair completely up, braided and threaded with knotted leather cords to keep everything in place. Some of the coils of the braids resembled the links of a chain. And because it was all braided up, there was no telling how long it was. Remembering how patient and gentle Larra had always been with Arya and Rickon, Sansa worked tirelessly with gentle fingers, unknotting the leather cords, using her fingers to comb out the braids.
It took a long time, and Sansa couldn't help but laugh at the sight of Larra's wild mane of kinky, bizarre hair, some of it finger-combed, sticking out at odd angles after being wound up so long. She went in with a large-toothed comb to gentle tease out the worst of any tangles; and then the first dunk of Larra's head under water to soak through her hair. With a large bottle of vinegar infused with lavender, lemon verbena, rosemary and parsley to cleanse the dirt and build-up, and a finer-toothed comb, Sansa treated Larra's scalp and hair, running the comb from root to tip until there was not a single tangle. Then, because Shae always had, Sansa picked up the tiny pair of Qartheen snips - delicate, horrifyingly sharp embroidery scissors - and trimmed an inch off the ends of Larra's hair, no more and no less, so the ends were healthy.
Sansa had always enjoyed having her hair washed by Shae, the way she would massage Sansa's scalp with her fingertips and use just the right amount of pressure, and once the vinegar rinse had cleaned the worst from Larra's hair, it was Sansa's turn to treat Larra. She opened one of the jars she hadn't been able to bear the idea of using, the perfumed cream-coloured balm evoking memories that, until Larra's reappearance, were too painful to bear. The same perfumer that shipped his wares to White Harbour had an aterlier in King's Landing, highly favoured by the court: All the time Sansa had been at court, she had been provided with soaps, hair-balms, rinses, cosmetics, solid perfumes and scents from him. One word from Lord Manderly and the same orange-blossom scent Sansa always wore was shipped to White Harbour for her, along with others to tempt her - she was sister to the King in the North, the Lady of Winterfell, after all. She was an opportunity to expand his business.
The soft, buttery soap was heavily scented - and reminded Sansa of Larra: The scent of the winter sun melting snow and warming wild heather.
The soap was perfumed, according to the note handwritten by the perfumer himself that had come with the jar, with heather, hellebores - the hardy Northern rose that was Larra's favourite - blackcurrant, oakmoss, patchouli, vanilla, camellia and the wild Northern meadow orchid. It was a scent made for Larra. It had broken Sansa's heart, the first time she smelled it; and Jon's face had turned grim when she had offered him the jar - he remembered, too, the way Larra had always smelled of melting snow and wildflowers glittering with frost, of tempting steamed puddings, hot drinks and dried herbs. She had smelled of warmth and wildness.
Sansa treated Larra's hair with lashings of the balm, massaging her scalp until Larra was leaning back into Sansa in the warm water, the closest Sansa had yet seen her to being relaxed. She used a jug to rinse the balm from her hair, the suds and cloudy water carried away by the clever piping, and Sansa swept the fine-toothed comb through Larra's wet hair one last time… Her hair fell to her bottom, now, longer than Sansa's, dark as raven-wings, and springy, riotous curls were already starting to form as Sansa combed through it.
"How do you feel?" Sansa asked, smiling, as she dropped the comb in the basket, digging among the small flannels, loofahs and bars of soap.
"Deliciously clean," Larra hummed. She already looked happier for her clean hair, soft from the hot water and perhaps from Sansa's treatment. She was being taken care of - she was allowing Sansa to take care of her.
"When your hair has dried, there are some oils to help keep its shine," Sansa said, smiling, pleased by the soft, warm look on Larra's face. "But I suppose you'll braid it up again."
"Not tonight," Larra said softly, smiling lazily.
"I…can tend your nails, if you'd like?" Sansa said dubiously, eyeing Larra's scarred but elegant hands. Her sister chuckled low in her throat.
"Thank you, no," she said softly, her eyes glittering. One of her fingernails was black with bruising; scars cobwebbed the backs of her palms, and Sansa remembered the time Larra had almost lost a finger, the scar from Maester Luwin's stitches far older than any of the others. Larra had always used her hands - for gardening, carpentry, swordplay, archery, hunting… She had never been vain of her hands, which Sansa thought were beautiful, because she had never been praised for her beauty - or anything else. Praise was reserved for Ned Stark's true-born daughters, not his bastard.
"Shall we go into another pool?"
"I think so; I haven't swum in ages," Larra smiled, and they stepped out of the small bath, the steam and sultriness embracing their bodies before they dipped into the largest, steaming pool where once they had all played and splashed and made a lot of noise and mess, the little siblings sitting on Robb's and Jon's shoulders to wrestle each other into the water, giggles echoing deliciously off the carved walls.
Larra was a stronger swimmer than Sansa, even after years without practise; Sansa paddled, while Larra sluiced through the water.
"Were there any hot-springs beyond the Wall?" Sansa asked curiously.
"A few, I imagine," Larra said softly. "There were rivers even the Land of Always-Winter could not freeze…but we didn't have the time or inclination to follow them to their source. Most of the hot-springs fed networks of rivers through subterranean caves… Perhaps that's where Brandon the Builder got the idea for Winterfell's walls in the first place… He and his people would have certainly known how to find the hot-spring caves…"
Sansa paddled over to the side of the pool to rest - she was sedentary by nature and design, not like the active and fiercely strong Larra, who swam lengths of the pool like a fish, her long hair a dark shadow behind her - and the glitter of black beetles caught her eye. She reached out of the pool for the tunic Larra had shed, and up close, Sansa realised it wasn't beetles, but thousands of tiny discs made of a strange, shining black stone that refracted firelight eerily. She picked up the tunic, which was heavier than it looked, and examined it closely.
"How did you make this?" she asked, and Larra glanced over her shoulder, before swimming closer.
"It's bearskin," she sighed, gazing at the vest without affection. "The threads were Summer's shed hairs… The Children taught me how to smelt obsidian to make the rings."
Sansa blinked, her lips parting. "You made every single one?"
"I had a lot of time," Larra said grimly.
"So…this is what Jon has risked his life for?" Sansa mused, passing her fingertips over the smooth, strange rings.
"Obsidian," Larra sighed, nodding.
"Dragonglass. Is it true, does it kill White Walkers?"
"It does," Larra said, her eyes like violet flames as she gazed unerringly at Sansa's face. "And it blocks their weapons when they try to skewer you."
Sansa didn't like the implication. She asked anxiously, "Is it worth it?"
"You know Jon would be here if it wasn't," Larra said gloomily.
"I don't like the way the bannermen are grumbling about him leaving."
"Even though you agree."
"They're annoyed their king left: I'm terrified he won't return," Sansa confessed. "I want him home."
"Let them grumble; it's the ones who don't air their grievances in the Great Hall that I'm keeping an eye on," Larra said, showing her wisdom, the voices of both Ned Stark and Maester Luwin echoing in her words. "The worse the storms get, the fewer grain deliveries that arrive, the looming threat of an army they can't possibly begin to comprehend…they're frightened. Knights and lords…they're like children, really… All children want to be reassured that they're safe, loved - and valued."
Sansa sighed, flinching internally - at the just accusation against her own mother's mistreatment of Larra and Jon. "And how do I reassure them?"
"Keep them busy," Larra said, her smile gentle. "During the day, they're all focused on their tasks, fortifying the castle…it's at night when they're all cooped up that's going to prove the problem, especially when the snowbanks rise so high we won't be able to get out of doors for days on end…"
"You sound as if you're used to it."
"Gardening taught me the first lessons in patience when I was a girl; enduring beneath the tree with the Three-Eyed Raven made me a master of it," Larra said heavily. "I watched countless sunrises and snowstorms from the cave entrance, waiting, learning how not to lash out in frustration, boredom, inertia and despair as the world passed me by…"
"How did you endure it?"
"I trained…and I sang."
"You've been so quiet since your return," Sansa said; Larra used to be the most vocal, the most vibrant of them all. "I've hardly heard you speak, let alone sing."
"I know."
"If I asked it of you, could you arrange something…an entertainment?" Sansa asked curiously. It wasn't that Larra was keeping to herself, because she wasn't; but it was evident she was more comfortable with the wildlings than the lords and ladies of the North. She wasn't settled, yet. "You're quite right; we can't just allow our bannermen to fester in their malcontent when the day's work is done."
"We need to give them hope," Larra advised her gentle. "Something to look forward to, even if it is only a dance at the end of the day."
Sansa sighed, setting the heavy obsidian-encrusted tunic down on the age-worn stone floor, but before she turned back to the water, the firelight caught on something tucked among Larra's discarded furs.
"What's this?" Sansa blurted, her voice bright with curiosity, almost stunned. A small locket. Her tone teasing, she asked, "Another treasure from Lord Bloodraven?"
She glanced at Larra as she picked up the locket, and saw the way Larra could not conceal a sharp flinch, or the way her eyes locked onto the jewel in Sansa's hand. To describe the look on Larra's face, Sansa would say she was filled with dread.
It was very clear to Sansa that Larra had not intended for her to find the jewel.
One of those secrets even Meera Reed did not know about.
Cheeks pale and drawn, Larra finally raised her gaze to Sansa, brittle and grief-stricken, wide-eyed and panicky for the first time since her return.
Something about the jewel upset Larra.
That made Sansa even more curious, and it seemed to burn in her palm, larger than a gold dragon but heavier and much more exquisitely detailed. The candlelight made love to the intricate gold-work and the exquisite hues of enamel that made the lavender-grey hellebore rose on one side of the locket seem as if it had been encased in glass, rather than formed from platinum and enamel.
Larra's voice was devoid of emotion as she said, "Uncle Benjen had it."
Sansa started, staring at her sister, then glanced down at the locket in her hand. The sinuous chain was made of fine strands of platinum-silver and delicate pale-gold interwoven in an intricate love-knot. The locket itself was made of that same delicate pale-gold and shining platinum.
The hellebore rose - the Northern winter rose - rested in the centre of the round locket; around it circled a dainty silver-platinum dragon with its gold-chased wings tucked close, tiny rubies inlaid as its eyes, its jaws clamped around the heels of a silver direwolf, its eyes specks of obsidian, its jaws fastened onto the end of the dragon's tail.
An ouroboros, without ending or beginning, sinuous and sensual.
The dragon and the direwolf were both raised from the surface of the locket, tactile and exquisitely detailed.
"It's more exquisite than any jewel I ever saw at court," Sansa breathed. More beautiful than any jewel Cersei had ever worn. Sansa stared at Larra, who looked ill, watching her with it. "Why would Uncle Benjen have it?"
A Ranger of the Night's Watch, in possession of a priceless jewel?
Larra raised her eyes to Sansa, and something changed in her face. She calmed down, her eyes turning thoughtful, shrewd - resigned. She sighed softly, her breath cooling the water droplets lingering on Sansa's skin.
"So it couldn't fall into the wrong hands," she said sadly. "So he always had Lyanna close to his heart."
Sansa frowned, and was about to ask, when Larra reached forward and opened the locket.
Two exquisite miniatures were revealed, painted in the vibrant, hyper-realistic Myrish style onto ivory, glazed to protect the portraits forever. Sansa glanced down at the twin paintings, her jaw dropping, then at Larra, who was waiting for her reaction.
On the left was Rhaegar. It had to be him. His violet eyes, his long, wavy platinum-silver hair neatly pulled from his face highlighting his strong, masculine features, dressed in simple black leather armour.
The other portrait was of Larra. No - not Larra, Sansa realised. Not Larra, and not Arya, who so closely resembled Larra.
It was Lyanna.
The direwolf of silver-platinum, the hellebore rose… Lyanna's winter roses…
Lyanna was beautiful, and so like Larra they appeared almost twins. Almost. Except for the eyes. Larra's eyes…were the exact shape and hue of Rhaegar's, Sansa realised, gaping at the portraits. Even in the candlelight, Sansa could tell that - because the candlelight illuminated Larra's amethyst eyes - and though they did not look particularly alike, Rhaegar's solemn expression reminded Sansa vividly of Jon. Lyanna's smile poured from her eyes, beautiful and joyful - the same way Jon's dark grey eyes betrayed his amusement, even if his face seemed carved from stone.
Around Lyanna's dainty portrait were words, etched into the pale-gold frame. Sansa couldn't understand them; they were High Valyrian, she recognised.
"What does it mean?" she asked, glancing up at Larra, whose expression was sorrowful as she gazed at the locket.
"It's from an ancient High Valyrian ode…a poem from a dragon-rider to his lover…" she said softly. "'The curves of your lips shall rewrite history'… In the epic saga, their love forged empires that lasted millennia."
Sansa stared at Larra.
Uncle Benjen had been in possession of this locket, a locket containing portraits that showed just how vividly Larra resembled Lyanna…and how Jon bore similar features to Rhaegar.
"Your mother…" Sansa breathed, comprehension dawning, the mystery, the secret Father had kept all their lives. The twins' mother. "The only woman in the world who could make Eddard Stark forfeit his honour."
"Lyanna," Larra acknowledged unhappily. She sighed, taking the locket from Sansa, delicately shutting the clasp, and enfolding it in her furs once again. She turned back to Sansa, saying softly, "We've never been bastards."
Sansa stared at Larra. "You…and Jon…"
"Doesn't matter now," Larra said. "Except that Father was a greater man than even we knew him to be. He never once broke his promise to her… To protect us." She let out a short sigh, a touch of anger between her eyebrows as they drew together in a frown that darkened her eyes. "Lyanna knew Robert would kill us for being Rhaegar's children, no matter that we were hers, too…"
"But Rhaegar kidnapped and - "
"He didn't," Larra interrupted, her voice sad, resigned. Miserable. "They ran away together. Rhaegar wanted Rickard Stark's support to enforce a regency over his father's rule; ending his marriage to Elia Martell, retiring her to Dorne for her health, marrying Lyanna to ensure an alliance - and because they were in love with each another… It was foolish to do it in secret - probably Rhaegar's only dishonourable act, not sitting down with our grandfather to ask for his alliance and his blessing, man to man, and a mortal error… Like Robb's marriage… It doesn't matter anyway. Not now."
Sansa frowned, still grappling with the truth - and the look of pure misery on Larra's face. All their lives, the twins had yearned to know their mother's name. Father had kept it from them, the only two people in the world who deserved to know his secret. Their secret. "If it doesn't matter, why are you telling me?"
"Because I can't talk to Bran about it, when he remembers so much else. It's not important to him. And when Jon returns…especially with Samwell at the Citadel - he'll need someone to talk to," Larra said quietly. She didn't look up at Sansa as she said thickly, "She's been dead the whole time. It's almost worse than her being alive and exiled from our lives… And because he is King in the North now. It may be become important politically."
Sansa stared at her sister, slowly analysing the implications. Larra and Jon had never been bastards. They were the legitimate children of Rhaegar and Lyanna…
"Aunt Lyanna was your mother…and Rhaegar was your father," she murmured. Saying it out loud, it was almost absurd - and yet…and yet it wasn't. Because it made so much more sense than Ned Stark fathering bastards.
The one woman in the world Ned would sacrifice his honour for - his own sister.
"Killed at the Trident before we were born, with her name on his dying breath," Larra said dully. "And she died begging Father to promise her…that her children would be protected."
"Father kept it secret ever since Dorne. He never even told Mother. Part of her always hated him on account of you and Jon…and you were Targaryens all along," Sansa breathed, thunderstruck. An even greater implication struck her, then, and Sansa gaped. "You were - are - royalty, the only legitimate heirs to the Iron Throne."
Larra scoffed, her tiny smile drenched in irony. "The Kingdoms rose in open rebellion against the Targaryen dynasty before we were even born, we're not heirs to anything but a legacy of tragedy and horror."
"Fire and blood," Sansa said.
"Fire and Blood," Larra agreed, her nose crinkling delicately to show her distaste.
"Jon is a Targaryen," Sansa marvelled. And then her heart sank. "You are…niece and nephew to this Dragon Queen."
Larra saw the change in her expression, and her eyes narrowed. "What is it?"
"When Jon left, I told him… I told him to do what he must, to get what he needed and to return home. I told him to ride the dragon if that's what it took," Sansa fretted, guilt suddenly consuming her, shame. The realisation that, "He'll never forgive me."
"How could you have known?" Larra tutted, shaking her head. Her drying curls the colour of treacle bounced delicately around her shoulders, tickling her bare breasts, whispering against her scarred arms. "And you're assuming Jon cannot control his lust."
"They say she's very beautiful," Sansa moaned desperately.
Again, Larra scoffed; she even rolled her eyes. "Women in positions of power usually are - even when they're not."
"'A pretty face does not mean a pretty heart'," Sansa recited, and Larra's lips twitched, her eyes glowing with wry amusement.
"You do remember the things I told you," she said fondly.
"Yes, your voice was always in my head - some days I just begged you to shut up," Sansa said enthusiastically, smiling, and Larra chuckled softly. Sansa sighed, gazing warmly at Larra. "I know Jon still hears your voice, too. It's why he didn't strip the lands and castles from the Umbers and Karstarks."
"You disapprove of his compassion," Larra said, reading her face so easily.
"I worry it made him seem weak," Sansa clarified.
"It doesn't. It was the wisest choice he could ever make, not just the kindness. For generations to come, Umbers and Karstarks will be raised on stories of the King's mercy. Jon's not shown weakness; he's assured his future strength. They will never forget…" Larra sighed, smiling fondly, proud of Jon's wisdom and forethought. Wherever she had been, Sansa was sure Larra had always been proud of Jon. It made Sansa's heart flutter to think that, perhaps, Larra thought as well of Sansa's own survival. "And, practically speaking, it was wiser not to strip those lands and castles; we need every man here, focused on the war, not scrabbling to secure their new lands, squabbling amongst themselves over who deserves the lands more, the politics of it all."
"When you put it that way…"
"Jon has powerful instincts," Larra said quietly. There was subtle warning in her expression when she said, "Don't underestimate him."
"I don't. But I do worry for him," Sansa said honestly. "Stark men do not fare well when they go south."
"True," Larra said, her smile humourless. "But Jon's not a Stark."
"He is to me," Sansa said earnestly. "So are you." She cleared her throat as Larra smiled, gentle and fond, and raised her hands to her face. "My fingers have quite pruned. Are you ready to get out of the water?"
"Yes," Larra smiled, and it finally reached her eyes. They waded to the stone steps and traipsed out of the water, dripping, enrobed by the sultry moisture in the air as Larra led the way to the hearth, and she handed Sansa a terrycloth towel before drying herself off with another. She sat naked on one of the stuffed floor-cushions laid out before the fire, and tucked her long hair over one shoulder, the better to dry it by the heat of the flames, squeezing the water from her long tresses, tenderly threading a comb through them before the curls could dry.
It was with a sense of déjà vu that Sansa sat beside her sister, and watched Larra's shining treacle hair shrink in length from past her bottom to her lower-back as her hair dried and coiled into mutinous curls, thick and bouncy, lustrous and wild, flirtatious and unruly as Larra herself had once been. Sansa remembered her old envy of Larra's beautiful curls, and smiled to herself. Larra had found a small basket on the hearth, with small seed-cakes folded inside a linen napkin, and a small skillet pot resting in the coals. Carefully lifting the lid, Larra's eyes glowed as a smile turned up the corners of her lips.
"Cauliflower and chestnut soup," she said warmly, and using a ladle tucked into the basket, doled out portions for them both into large, glazed earthenware cups. It was such a deceptively simple meal, yet it was thick, creamy and decadent, and Sansa knew the days of an indulgent soup served with dainty seed-cakes would be treasured memories when the winter had lingered too long.
For a little while, they sat before the fire, drinking their soup, enjoying the small, dainty seed-cakes, listening to the fire crackle and snap, lulled by the heat and the dancing flames, quiet, after such intimate talk… Sansa had a lot to think about. The implications… To distract herself, Sansa returned to the basket, carrying it over to the fire; she pulled out the dainty little bottles of fragrant oils and balms Shae had once used to keep Sansa's hair shining, healthy and sweet-scented. Warming some balm in her fingers and palms, she finger-combed it through Larra's already-tangled curls, helping them set, giving them a healthful shine; then she finished with a tiny bit of fragranced oil. It was strange, to be home, with Larra. They were adults now, grown women, and it was strange to think they should be here - two girls - when their brothers had been trained for war and violence since childhood. Their brothers were gone, but here they were… They had both survived the extraordinary.
If they survived this looming war, Sansa wondered whether they would not be remembered as two of the greatest She-Wolves in the history of the North.
Larra laughed grimly at the idea, her eyes sad and regretful. She sighed, shaking her head at something. She sighed, "There and back again… I had always imagined that my adventures would be worth writing down."
"They are," Sansa said coaxingly, her smile gentle. "They are."
"No; they'd make for dull reading," Larra disagreed. "Years trudging through the snow, idling beneath an ancient tree."
"You lived among the Children of the Forest," Sansa said, quietly awed. "You fought wights and killed White Walkers and learned the songs of the Children of the Forest, you immersed yourself in the cultures of the Free Folk and had tutelage from the last of the great Greenseers… Perhaps the day-to-day was interminable, but the knowledge and experiences you gained are worth documenting."
"Much like yours," Larra said.
"Nobody gives two shits what happens to a highborn hostage in her gilded cage," Sansa said, and Larra's lips twitched, her eyebrows rising at Sansa's vulgar language, "but I do acknowledge they'd be rather curious how that hostage escaped from the Red Keep right under the Lannisters' noses without so much as a whisper, only to reappear and liberate the North with an army of wildlings led by her brother, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and her allies the Knights of the Vale."
"Her allies?" Larra said shrewdly, giving Sansa a discerning look. "I'd wager Lord Baelish counts them as his."
"Oh, he manipulated the Knights to do his bidding," Sansa acknowledged, "but they are as distrustful of him as any men can be. He got them here; but they stayed for us. For me and Jon. Jon is…the kind of man the Knights of the Vale wish led them."
"And you the Lady of the Vale they wish they'd had after Jon Arryn died, I'd wager," Larra said, eyeing Sansa carefully, and Sansa nodded sombrely. "Lord Royce stays close to you."
"As I said, he distrusts Lord Baelish."
"It's more than that; he dislikes the man."
"Can you like someone if you don't trust them?" Sansa asked, even as her mind went to Lord Tyrion. No, she had not trusted her first husband - should have, she knew, reflecting on her experiences with him - but she had grown to like him. His humour, his wit, his…compassion. She had not let him be kind to her when she had learned the horrifying truth of her family being butchered.
"What makes you smile?" Larra asked.
"You've…guessed much of what has happened to me… But there are some things I should have shared with you that I haven't, yet… I haven't told you about my protectors."
"I truly did not think you had any."
"I did… There were two. And they were exceptional."
"How so?"
"One was Sandor Clegane," Sansa said, something fluttering in her stomach at the memory of the coarse voice rumbling, "Little bird," in her ear, the way he towered over her, intimidating - and how tenderly he had pressed a scrap of fabric to her bleeding lip after Ser Meryn had struck her. He was the only one to protect her modesty, draping his grubby white Kingsguard cloak over her when she had been stripped and beaten at court. She remembered how ruthlessly he had cut down the men intending to rape her, and had carried her through King's Landing, bloodying anyone who attempted to harm her. How he had sought her out during the Battle of the Blackwater, drunk and upset by the fire that had consumed the bay, asking her, "Do you want to go home? I could take you with me. I'll keep you safe…"
How bitterly she regretted not going with Sandor that night.
She could not remember when it was he had become Sandor in her mind, not the Hound.
"I was…utterly alone in King's Landing. I couldn't trust anyone, even - especially the people I thought were being kind to me," Sansa said, sighing heavily. "The first was Sandor Clegane… Whenever he could, however he could…he protected me. When Stannis attacked King's Landing, and he abandoned Joffrey, he came to me…he offered to bring me home…"
Perhaps it was because Larra had bared her scars without shame; or because she had shared the terrible truth about her parentage. But Sansa started to tell her about King's Landing, her gilded imprisonment at court. Joffrey's torment, Cersei's passive-aggressive bullying and snide comments, being used as a pawn, dragged across the cyvasse board by her skirts, powerless, friendless, hopeless, beaten, belittled, preyed upon…
"The unlikeliest champion," Larra smiled knowingly. Sansa had dreamed of perfect shining knights - who had Jaime Lannister's looks and Father's honour. Sandor Clegane certainly was not a perfect knight - but he was a good man, beneath it all. "You said he was the first. I'm surprised to hear there were others."
"One other, who truly did his best by me… My husband," Sansa said gently. It didn't taste sour on her tongue to call Tyrion that. Looking back, piercing the murky veil of her grief and her veiled terror and anguish, she recognised the truth: that Tyrion Lannister was one man in a million.
"What husband?" Larra blinked.
"They wed me to the Imp."
"What?" Genuine amusement lit up Larra's face; Sansa remembered the King's visit to Winterfell, how she had often, in the days before Bran's fall, seen Larra and Tyrion deep in discussion - and their cups - playing games and exchanging books. "You were married to Tyrion?"
"On our wedding night, he pretended to be blistered from drink after he threatened Joffrey. He was insisting on a bedding ceremony; Tyrion threatened to castrate him," Sansa said fondly. Larra stared, as she continued, "And when we retired to our chamber, Tyrion stopped me from undressing, and told me he would never share my bed unless I invited him... I think he was desperate to tell me about the Red Wedding, but - Joffrey found me first… After, Tyrion…worried about me, he…did his utmost to try to look after me… I didn't trust him - how could I? - but I respected his kindness…though I never showed it. Sometimes he would talk about you, and Jon. It was clear he was fond of you. And that you liked him. He respected my mother, and felt shame for his family's part in Robb's murder… I didn't hear about his arrest until later, and there was nothing I could do…"
"At least you know he's safe," Larra said, reading Sansa's troubled expression.
"He's serving a Targaryen," Sansa said grimly, then realised who she was speaking to, after the revelation… Larra's lips twitched with dark irony. "I suppose he's survived far worse. Tyrion Lannister made an art-form of outwitting violent tyrants."
"All while astonishingly drunk, no doubt."
"You knew his worth from the beginning, didn't you?"
"Do you know…he took the time, on his journey back from the Wall, to design a saddle for Bran," Larra said warmly. "So he could ride."
"He did?" Sansa asked; Tyrion had never mentioned that.
"The morning they finished his saddle, and we took Bran to the woods to ride…it was the first time I saw Bran light up with joy since his fall…" For a moment, Larra's face lit up with warmth, joy. "I have that memory; and Tyrion Lannister gave it to me." Her cunning eyes rested on Sansa's face. "There's much more I am grateful to the Imp for."
"He hates that name."
"I know. 'Never forget what you are,' he once told Jon. 'Wear it like armour, and it can never be used against you'," Larra sighed, her smile fond. "Tyrion Lannister is worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock."
"He'd be overwhelmed to hear anyone think so well of him," Sansa said.
"Oh, I know," Larra smiled sadly. "He's like your imperfect knight. And your bastard half-sister. Few care to look beyond the surface to see the treasure beneath."
"Well, I've learned to," Sansa said softly, and Larra's gentle smile was coaxing and proud.
When they were warm, and dry, and fed, and Larra's curls shone like a frothy dark halo around her, Sansa knew it was time to go. Time to return to Winterfell, to face the castle and their responsibilities head on…at least, in a few hours, after they had indulged in a good night's sleep. She turned to the chairs, on which clothing had been laid out, ready.
"I made Jon a cloak, like the one Father used to wear - as near as I could remember - with a direwolf embellished on the leather straps," Sansa said, almost hesitantly, as she turned to the chair on which was draped a heavy silk gown of deep aubergine purple. The purple gown was deceptively plain, except for the cuffs, which were split and only slightly flared to accommodate for the black fur trim, and the hem of the skirt, which had been richly embroidered with hellebores in hues of amethyst, aubergine, tarnished gold and onyx in silk threads and the tiniest beads Lord Manderly could send from White Harbour. The hellebores rose almost to the knees, and among them danced direwolves in glittering black, tarnished gold, delicate amber, silver-white, soft brown and fawn - Last Shadow, Summer and Shaggydog, Grey Wind, Nymeria, Lady and Ghost.
Sansa had always worn her heart on her sleeve, sometimes dangerously so: She had sewn Larra's heart onto her sleeves. Bran and Rickon. Shaggydog and Summer, chasing after Last Shadow, who snarled protectively at Larra's wrists.
The hellebores were Larra's favourite; the direwolves were each member of their family.
It was a gown fit for the sister of a King.
It was fit for her sister. Sansa had designed and sewn it herself, aided by the ladies of the North who had kept the secret, thrilled to be making something for their King's sister who had been thought lost.
"You two have always been Starks; it was my mother's wounded pride that kept Father from giving you his name. Our name," Sansa said, staring at Larra. She gave Larra an ironic little smile. "Perhaps it is a little redundant now, given what you've learned."
Larra had risen to her feet, her eyes flitting from the clothes Sansa had folded neatly on the other chair when she had climbed out of them earlier, to the gown draped beautifully over the other chair, the beading and embroidery shimmering in the firelight, the aubergine silk gleaming. She glanced up from the dress to Sansa.
"You made this for me?" she breathed.
"You should always have worn the direwolf; you do it proud," Sansa said stoutly. Larra's lips parted, her eyes wide as they drank in the details of the gown, from the three little direwolves running one after the other from elbow to wrist, to the intricate hellebores and direwolves at the hem.
"Thank you, Sansa," Larra breathed wondrously. She had the same stunned look on her face that Jon had, when Sansa had given him the cloak, the first garment Jon had ever worn with Father's sigil on it. His sigil. Their family's sigil.
"You're welcome," Sansa smiled sweetly, pleased by the nonplussed look on Larra's face, even by the way her eyes glittered as she bent to examine the intricate direwolves embroidered on the sleeves, on the skirt. Sansa pretended not to notice Larra swiping the heel of her palm over her eyes as she stood up, her curls concealing her face. "And don't worry; I don't intend to strip you of your protection. The head armourer has taken your measure; he's already working on something for you. With your approval, I shall have the obsidian rings sent to him to complete your armour."
"Please, no plate metal," Larra grimaced, still holding onto the sleeve of the dress, rubbing her thumbs over the embroidered Shaggydog.
"Don't worry; he's seen you sparring in the training yard," Sansa smiled brightly. "He told me he would never restrict your movements by putting you in plate armour."
They helped each other dress, Larra's fingers as nimble and gentle as Sansa remembered, and Larra smoothed the front of her new gown as Sansa laced it tight.
It was the finest gown Larra had ever worn.
Sansa stared, when Larra turned to her, giving her a full view of the gown, the silk gleaming in the firelight, the embroidery shimmering and sparkling with every tiny movement. She looked every inch a lady.
No, Sansa thought: "You look like royalty."
A.N.: Damn, there was a lot going on in this chapter! The gown was, of course, inspired in part by the intricate embroidery on Sansa's coronation gown in S8. Imagine hellebores and direwolves embroidered the way the weirwood leaves were embroidered on Sansa's gown…