A.N.: The Cunning Plans ™ were coming thick and fast this weekend, let me tell you! Remember I said I wasn't ready for Arya to pop up just yet? I realised, I don't need both Larra and Arya in Winterfell to help Sansa deal with Littlefinger. What if Hot Pie hadn't come out of the kitchens at the Inn to tell Arya about the Battle of the Bastards?
The title of this chapter is a take on the ever-popular lamprey pie, which, ew. Have you seen them? They're parasites - fitting, for the Freys.
Valyrian Steel
21
LamFrey Pie
"I find it absurd that I must stand before you and dispel a rumour."
Brittle tension crackled from Larra as she frowned down the smoky hall. Night had come earlier due to a snowstorm, and on this rare occasion they had spared the candles for an important announcement to their bannermen that they had not realised they would be giving, not until the hour of the wolf last night, when a raven had arrived.
Behind Larra, an enormous log popped and snapped as the flames consumed it, the enormous hearth radiating heat and light to those sat behind the high table - Sansa, in her heavy fur-trimmed cloak and Brandon, in his clever chair, pale hands folded in his lap - and the light cast flickering shadows across their bannermen's faces. The little bear sat at the front, near as she could get to the high table: Her young face was stern and unyielding as ever, dark little eyes shrewd, watchful and expectant. On the other side of the hall sprawled the Blackfish, who had watched Larra with undisguised distrust until he had watched her long enough to take his own measure of her - not rely on what he knew of his niece Catelyn's hatred of her husband's bastards…
Lady Brienne's armour gleamed in the candlelight, and little Jon Umber sat with unusual patience beside Ragnar, who was eyeing the Magnar of the Thenns and Lord Cerwyn with equal scepticism. Clustered around the fearsome Mors Umber were his wildling grandsons - the enormous Bors and Umber - and his great-grandchildren, young warriors Larra's age, Ivar, Hvitserk, Freydis and Gudrun - tall as oak trees, all muscle, they were ferocious, with wicked senses of humour, fierce loyalty to each other, and a deep appreciation that their great-grandfather still lived to fight beside them against the Night King's hordes. If the Free Folk respected anything, it was a fierce old warrior. Spearwives Karsi, in her shellfish-armoured furs, and Morna, with her weirwood mask, leaned against the ancient walls, their children clustered around them whittling arrows, and Tormund rested with his elbows on his knees, staring unblinkingly at Larra as the Northern lords quieted, and Lord Royce scowled querulously at his own men to be silent.
For days, Larra had quietly endured being pestered.
One quiet, shy lord she had handled with dignity and kindness - for the both of them, as she sent him on his way, his shoulders drooping somewhat with disappointment and faint embarrassment.
The second, who caught her after supper in a busy corridor, insisted, taking her arm to confirm, eager to express his interest.
The third was a Valeman, chivalrous and kind, appreciative of her ferocity, her dedication to her family, and her cleverness - they had played cyvasse on occasion in the solar: He had been teaching Sansa, and admired the cyvasse sets Larra and her brothers had carved themselves. He had been keen to tell Larra of the wild beauty of his lands in the Vale, and to tell her how incomparably beautiful he found her.
The fourth had interrupted her sparring sessions. Along with the spearwives of the True North, Larra taught Northern girls how to wield a spear and a short knife with lethal precision. The fourth man to approach her had pestered her so much while she was trying to demonstrate accurate ways to hold a knife so as not to end up injuring oneself instead of the enemy, that the girls had become thoroughly confused - and Larra had lost her patience and scolded the man.
Each of them - and there had been more, three yesterday and four the day before that - seemed to be under the impression that the King in the North was going to marry Larra to one of his bannermen, or his allies - whichever impressed the King the most, whichever the King deemed worthy of his twin-sister.
Larra had wondered vaguely whether she would have to consider such a thing in the future - whether the change in Jon's status meant a certain constricting of the freedoms she had enjoyed as a bastard with two true-born sisters who would be married off for political and dynastic purposes… But she hadn't imagined she would have to address the issue quite so soon - in the midst of war preparations, no less.
"I have been approached by those who believe my brother is intent on marrying me off as reward for their part in the Battle of the Bastards," Larra said grimly, frowning. Forget the fact that Jon had not returned, and no raven had been sent to Dragonstone to inform him of her return… "Let me assure you now, that I am no prize to be won. Nor shall I suffer to be given away by my brother, who as yet does not know I am alive… Nor do I want you to believe that I - or my sister Sansa - are rewards for loyalty, which we consider to be the every base standard we expect of each of our bannermen."
Unflinching, she gazed around the hall, levelling her intimidating gaze on each and every face turned toward her. Her expression was not unkind, but it was stern and unyielding. And because she had addressed the issue bluntly, without calling out those individuals who had pestered her to distraction, they respected her for setting the score. She sighed grimly. "I believe I know where this rumour began, and I thank my lords for being direct in approaching me to confirm or deny the truth of the thing. If it comes to it, you can be sure I will choose the man I deem worthy to share my life with, for my own reasons."
She sighed, gazing around the room; Lady Mormont gazed at her with a sort of curious admiration. Ser Brynden was smirking, chuckling softly to himself; Lord Royce nodded.
"I trust we can all get back to our work," Larra said, sighing. She exchanged a glance with Sansa, who nodded. They had decided to do it this way - Larra dispelling the rumours, admonishing the lords, before delivering them news as a balm to wounded pride. "On to other news of greater importance. A raven-scroll arrived late last night from the Riverlands. Sansa, would you care to do the honours?"
Sansa gazed around the darkened hall, her eyes flitting for only a heartbeat on Lord Baelish, who stood by the wall with narrowed eyes fixed on Larra, dislike drifting from him. "No, I think you and Brandon can give a clearer telling of what's happened."
"The raven-scroll was sealed with a direwolf sigil," Larra said, holding up a crinkled raven-scroll. It had arrived damp, and they had had to decipher the writing - luckily the hand that wrote it was not elegant, rather more like chicken-scratches, and the uneven lettering remained legible in spite of the bleeding of the ink. "It read simply, 'The North remembers. Winter came for House Frey'."
Low talk turned to louder conversation as the lords of the North and of the Vale debated what the raven-scroll referred to. Winter came… Stark words. The Freys - oathbreakers, violators of guest-right, murderers…
Brandon spoke, his voice gentle but eerie… For a moment, Larra looked at him and saw Old Nan, frightening them with terrifying stories of the Nightfort - the Seventy-Nine Sentinels; the thing that came in the night; Mad Axe; King Sherrit's Curse; and Brave Danny Flint - his voice lulling and spine-tingling at the same time. The hall fell silent to listen, as it always did when Brandon spoke.
Very quickly, the Northmen and the Valemen had learned to respect Brandon's voice. Brandon raised his dark eyes from his lap, and in his quiet, unnerving voice, he told a story: "A young serving-girl murdered Black Walder and Lothar and baked them into a pie, serving it to Lord Walder Frey… 'Damn fine pie,' he told her, asking for another slice… She called it 'LamFrey pie'. It was then he found the first finger, the curl of an ear among the bacon… As he recoiled in horror, the serving-girl slit his throat to the bone. 'The last thing you're going to see is a Stark smiling down at you,' she told him. The serving-girl took his face to wear for herself, and became the new Lord of the Riverlands. Every Frey was called to the Twins to feast their triumph… Arbour wine was poured, and gulped down greedily as the man they thought was Walder Frey toasted them… The wine was bittersweet with poison, they realised too late. 'Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe,' said the serving-girl wearing Walder Frey's face. Only one was spared, the Late Walder Frey's new young bride. The serving girl who had become the Lord of the Riverlands removed Walder Frey's face, finally revealing her own. She turned, and in a voice soft as falling snow, told Lady Frey, 'When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North remembers. Tell them winter came for House Frey.' Arya Stark walked out of the Twins, leaving no-one alive to stop her."
Larra turned sharply to stare at Brandon. Sansa sat up even straighter, her blue eyes fixed on Brandon, whose smile was bland but oddly taunting.
"Arya?" Sansa blurted, sharing a shocked glance with Larra. Brandon had failed to mention that last night, when he recounted to them in detail what had happened at the Twins.
Instead of answering them directly, Brandon murmured, "Now she guides her horse from the Inn at the Crossroads, heading toward King's Landing before a siege can choke the city."
Larra stared at Brandon.
Sansa had told Larra that Lady Brienne herself had last seen Arya, in the Vale - headed away from the Bloody Gate after learning of Lady Arryn's death. Sansa had wondered aloud by how many miles they had missed each other as she left the Eyrie with Lord Baelish to come north, following Littlefinger's assassination of the deranged Lady Lysa.
So they knew that, at least until about two years ago, Arya had still been alive - against all reason.
Arya had been accompanied, of all the people in Westeros, by the Sandor Clegane, unexpected and begrudging protector of the younger Stark sister, after offering to be the elder's sworn sword.
Perhaps the Hound had an affinity for direwolves.
Either way, that had been a long while ago: and Lady Brienne still seemed drenched in shame that she had defeated the Hound in single-combat yet lost Arya Stark, to whom she was pledged to protect by a blood-oath sworn to Lady Catelyn.
While all around the hall voices broke out, grumbles of confusion at Brandon's story, cheers, even laughter, Larra frowned at Brandon.
He had not mentioned that it was Arya who had eradicated House Frey…
That she had murdered children.
Every man, woman and child bearing the name of Frey…even those denied it by the nature of their birth… Bastards and true-borns alike, the Freys met their end when winter came…
When Brandon had told them, last night in the solar, he had quoted the Freys' killer word-for-word: "You didn't slaughter every one of the Starks…no, no. That was your mistake. You should have ripped them all out root and stem. Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe."
Had Arya killed the Freys?
Had she killed innocent children?
Wasn't that the point of what she had told the Freys as they choked on their own blood and bile? Their mistake was in leaving Arya alive to come back and seek vengeance: She had returned, to eradicate every last trace, every last Frey... She had avenged the Red Wedding. Avenged the assassination of the King in the North; the murder of his Queen, and Robb's baby growing in her belly; avenged the savaged Lady Catelyn; and the entire Northern army, butchered…
She had sent a message throughout Westeros, loud and clear for all to hear.
Winter is coming.
And nothing could stop it.
Was it Arya?
Larra knew Brandon did not lie; he saw through every disguise.
But Larra…dreaded to think that their Arya, as a child so fiercely devoted to justice, kind and charming, who made friends easily with deep bonds, had become so ruthless, so warped by all they had yet to learn had happened to her, that she would kill innocents.
Brutal efficacy over mercy.
It made her no better than the Freys and Lannisters she had sworn vengeance upon.
Slowly, realisation settled in among the Northmen. Shouts of jubilation and raucous cheers echoed off the stone walls as the relatives of those butchered at the Red Wedding started to celebrate.
Some of them turned to the high table, against which Larra was perched on her bottom, and behind which Sansa rested quietly in her high-backed, direwolf-engraved chair and Brandon gazed vacantly at his pale hands in his lap. They sought repetition of what they had all heard; that the Red Wedding had truly, finally, brutally, been avenged. "The Freys are dead?"
"Every man, woman and child bearing that name, and that of Rivers with the blood of Walder Frey flowing through their veins," Larra clarified quietly, and the hall quietened as Brandon stirred in his long fur-trimmed robe, raising his pale solemn face, illuminated by candlelight to make his eyes glitter with ancient knowledge.
"The Late Walder Frey broke guest-right…and the gods paid him his due, as they did the Rat Cook of the Nightfort," he murmured, and a shudder seemed to pass through the hall as the Northmen remembered the harrowing nursery tales. His smile faraway but fond, Bran raised his face to Larra and sighed, "Arya always was fond of that story."
"The Freys are dead!"
"Winter came for them indeed!" A raucous laugh rippled through the hall, a few cheers echoed, but Larra reached for a piece of parchment on the table beside her, and a few men craned their necks to get a good look, anticipation written on their usually grim faces.
"There's more we haven't yet told you," she said quietly, and the hall fell silent again. She gave a tiny smile, still troubled by the worry that their Arya had truly murdered babies. "After the Freys were killed, the dungeons were emptied… There were survivors of the Red Wedding, after all, and now they make their way north." She cleared her throat, lifting the parchment, and cast her gaze across the hall. "I shall read out their names, provided by Brandon… I know some of you will be hoping to hear a name fall from my lips, and if my words could breathe life into the dead and return them to you…" She paused, frowning slightly: She knew the power to resurrect the dead existed in this world, but she would never dare wield it… She had experienced the very worst it was capable of. "We are only sorry that we cannot return all your loved ones to you…
"The names…" She cleared her throat, and her voice was clear as crystal over the breathless silence that seemed to grip the hall. There were over a dozen names, but they were too few. She read through them all carefully, and saw tears shimmering on ancient windswept faces, or young men turning pale with relief, and grim resilience as a hoped-for name never came. The last names, she smiled as she read, because she remembered those who belonged to them vividly, and had been glad to know they had survived: "Maege Mormont. Lyra Mormont. Jorelle Mormont, known as Jory. And lastly, the Greatjon."
The little bear shot to her feet, though it made little difference when she sat beside the tallest of the Thenns and Ice River clansmen, and her own sworn warriors who were tall as oaks even sitting down. She looked Larra directly in the eye, forcefully repeating, "My mother is alive?"
"Aye…but she will be altered," Larra said gently, maintaining eye-contact with Lyanna. She had a soft spot for the fierce young girl, who never failed to arrive early for her training sessions with the other youths. "They all will, after such long captivity. We have sent ravens to Greywater Watch and Moat Cailin, to redirect these men to Winterfell."
"What does this mean for the Riverlands?" someone called from the back. "Could they send aid?"
"Lord Edmure Tully was one of those released from the dungeons; he has returned to claim Riverrun, with his wife Lady Roslin, and their daughter," Larra said delicately, aware that Ser Brynden Tully sat staring grimly at her. "But he is in no position to call the banners and send men north… The men accompanying Ser Brynden are welcome, and much appreciated."
"Edmure's home, is he? Bloody useless, that boy is," the Blackfish grunted. He sighed heavily, "I suppose if I survive this war, I'll have to head back south and show him how the thing is done."
"I am sure Lord Tully would appreciate your wisdom and experience, Uncle, as I have," said Sansa with unhurried elegance; the Blackfish snorted, but his eyes glittered fondly as he gazed at his great-niece, far more beautiful than her mother ever had been, but every inch her mother's daughter.
"Well, you have good sense," Ser Brynden told Sansa. "Wish I could say the same for that puffed-up popinjay."
"Uncle…"
"Alright, alright…" Ser Brynden capitulated, his lips still twitching in an ironic smile. "I'm off to give the young ones their shooting lessons. Milady, if you'd lead the way."
"Thank you, Ser Brynden," said the little bear, and she turned and strode the length of the hall, the candlelight turning her shadow into that of a giant.
"If you can shoot straight with all that's going on in your head, you'll be unshakeable on the battlefield," Ser Brynden said, as he disappeared out of the great hall, reaching out to muss Lady Lyanna's braids - the same way Uncle Benjen used to tousle Larra's, the same way Jon used to muss Arya's…
"Leave off!" the little bear grumbled, dodging away, for a heartbeat just a young girl being teased, and Ser Brynden's amiable chuckle lingered richly on the smoky air. Larra couldn't help think that little Lady Mormont was unstoppable anyway.
"Tormund," said Brandon gently, and the redheaded wildling grunted expressively, pushing to his feet to stride up to the high table, leaning against it with curled fists.
The first time they had met, Tormund had stared at Larra, then laughed deeply and out of nowhere, startling people. He had laughed until the corners of his pale-blue eyes crinkled, flashing his fierce white teeth, and had clapped a hand on Larra's shoulder. "Never thought I'd meet anyone prettier than Jon Snow," he'd laughed, and Free Folk and Night's Watchmen alike had laughed.
Because Jon was pretty: and Larra was more beautiful still.
She couldn't help but think there would have been fewer men approaching her over the last few weeks, had she not shed her furs for the clothing Sansa had had the Northern ladies sew for her. Suddenly she seemed respectable again; 'proper' clothing and her hair combed and braided had made her desirable.
And Lord Baelish had used that to his advantage, his first move on the cyvasse board, a game he was now playing against her.
Larra ignored Littlefinger, still leaning with seeming disinterest, looking almost benign, against the wall: She focused on Tormund, who approached, his eyes fixed on Bran. The Free Folk held a certain wary reverence for him, more accustomed to greenseers and wargs than their counterparts who lived south of the Wall, more readily accepting of Brandon's wisdom, and respectful of his awesome powers with an unyielding faith even Larra found troublesome to emulate. She yearned for her brother Bran to return; the Free Folk had never known him. They revered the Three-Eyed Raven of their ancient songs.
They loved nothing more than to hear Brandon's stories of the Age of Heroes, before the Wall, when they had been one united clan… They loved nothing better than to hear Larra singing in the Old Tongue, songs taught her by the Children, which time had otherwise taken from the world…
"It's time," Brandon told Tormund softly. The wild man frowned. "Time for you to leave Winterfell. I shall choose men to accompany you; you must go to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Return to Castle Black, make your journey atop the wall as far east as the sea. There you shall wait. The Brotherhood Without Banners makes its way to the Wall, seeking to go beyond it, to a mountain in the shape of an arrowhead…"
Larra frowned, watching Brandon… The mountain shaped like an arrowhead. He had mentioned that mountain to Larra before, when they still resided beneath the tree, when the Three-Eyed Raven, Lord Bloodraven, had still lingered in this life to mentor him.
The mountain shaped like an arrowhead had once been home to a stone henge sacred to the Children on its heather-carpeted slopes…and a spiral grove of weirwoods, each of them carved with its own unique face ruby-red with sap… It was there, bound to the largest, most ancient weirwood with a truly harrowing face, that the Children had plunged a dagger of obsidian into the heart of a man, their captive, their enemy.
One of the First men. The first White Walker. The Night King.
Seeing what he had become, his brother…his brother had united the First Men…had allied with the Children to stop the genocide of Man and Children alike…had fathered Brandon the Builder, born during the Long Night. Brandon, who had finally beat back the winter…and built a great keep where he had finally subdued the Night King, every stone of the endless spiral crypts spreading beneath the castle steeped in ancient blood-magic to protect every generation of Starks that followed, to give them a safe place to wait, and from which to wage war again when the time came…
Until now, the Starks of Winterfell had forgotten… Now Brandon knew; and because he knew, and because Larra had the blood of the First Men and the blood of Valyria rushing through her veins, the magic alive and as strong as any Brandon the Builder had ever wielded to enchant the stones of the crypts of the Kings of Winter…they had the same chance Brandon the First had had. Because the Children had taught her the same song they had taught Brandon's father, and Brandon, and Brandon's children, the song lost over the millennia during which the White Walkers became legends, and then myths, and then nothing more than fairy-tales…
Larra turned to Brandon, frowning.
"How would they know to go to the arrowhead mountain?" she murmured darkly.
"Visions in the flame," Brandon answered, his mouth twisting into a queer smile, and Larra frowned at him.
Brandon raised his dark, glittering eyes to Tormund. "Detain the men who seek the mountain, but do them no harm. You will need them. You must leave tonight, as soon as the storm lifts. You will meet a herd of elk three days' ride from here; one will suffice to feed your men until you reach Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The Night's Watch left boats: A bob of Skagosi seals chases shoals of ice-cod, and they will fight a blessing of narwhals for them. Once you see the narwhals' great horns breach the ice at the shore, take to the water to fish all you can; for a pod of weirwhales chase the narwhal, and will attack your boats as prey."
"You want us to man to the Wall for you," Tormund said, staring at Brandon, and nodded. Tormund grinned tauntingly at Mors Umber, who had approached the high table. "Looks like we're the Night's Watch now."
"Hvitserk shall go with you, with Karsi and Hali. Asa and Sigurd of the Thenn. Yaskier also, Long Tom, Kenner and Greef of the Watch," Brandon said quietly, and those Free Folk he had named exchanged a sombre look before nodding to themselves, while the Night's Watchmen frowned in consternation that the wildlings so easily accepted orders from a southerner. But they did not understand: the Free Folk were raised with a fearful reverence of greenseers and an appreciation for wargs.
As Mors Umber leaned in to speak with Sansa about his nephew the Greatjon's release from the Twins' dungeons, Larra asked Brandon, "Why them?"
"I don't know, yet," Brandon said mildly.
"You didn't mention that it was Arya who wiped out the Freys," Larra murmured.
"You are unhappy," Brandon said, his eyes glittering even as people dispersed, taking the news of the LamFrey Pie with them to spread throughout the castle and Winter's Town, and the candles were snuffed out rather than left to burn themselves to stubs. Every inch of candlelight was precious.
"Was it Arya?"
"It was," Brandon confirmed quietly. Something flickered in his eyes, and for a moment, the candles beside him threw his face into relief and a young man shone through those dark eyes, wincing with discomfort as he leaned toward Larra. "Arya has endured much… She is altered now, even more ferocious than she was as a girl, and her heart burns with a feral vengefulness that yours will never know."
Larra frowned. "You think I do not know vengeance?"
Bran lifted his pale hand, to curl his long, slender, warm fingers against her scarred ones, and the little boy she remembered gazed beseechingly from his dark eyes. "Larra, you enduringly hope. Arya has learned to hate. It consumes her, has kept her warm, kept her sharp and swift all these years." Bran eyes were agonised. "Our sister never needed a knight; she has become a sword. She eradicated our enemy…and made sure to remind every House in Westeros that House Stark endures for a reason, just as Sansa reminded them at the Battle of the Bastards. In Arya's mind, it was necessary: In her mind, they did far worse to us. Instead of dealing the direwolf a swift and brutal death, they left it wounded and in agony to endure horror. In her mind she was merciful… Arya has forgotten warmth, and tenderness, and what it feels like to be all those things, and content. She will not be satisfied until every last name is struck from her list."
Larra did not ask what list Bran meant.
It was a little too much to hear that their Arya had become a murderer without remorse. Little Arya Underfoot, Arya Horseface, who had come to the twins anguished that she, herself, was Ned Stark's bastard, so closely resembling them, no hint of the Tully auburn hair or blue eyes in her… Their champion, their playmate, their dearest love, their little sister…
Murdering an entire House as vengeance for the pain they had caused her.
"These men…who seek the arrowhead mountain… Do they know why they seek it?" Larra asked Bran instead.
"The dead march upon it. They gather from all corners of the True North…"
"The King is ready to make his war."
"Yes," Brandon whispered, and his eyes glazed over, staring into the distance. Larra sighed, glancing past him, to one of the servants, who slowly wheeled Brandon around to face the hearth, close to the warmth.
The hall was still rumbling with noise as people mingled, ladies entering with their knitting and embroidery and their children, servants moving the enormous loom from beside the hearth in front of the fire for Sansa to see it: A group of noblewomen were working together on a grand tapestry to replace the one that used to hang in the Great Hall, burned by Ironborn.
Their first design had been unravelled the night Larra had returned with Brandon: Now, the lowest boughs of a weirwood were starting to show their vibrant scarlet leaves in the top-left corner of the tapestry, while a shimmering icy Wall carved diagonally from the lower-left corner to a third of the way along the top of the tapestry, slashing diagonally upwards, a blazing fire and an advancing army of Free Folk on one side with Baratheon cavalry in the distance, and on the other side of the Wall, Castle Black's great switchback staircase intricately woven above the small stronghold under attack by wildlings. Winterfell dominated the lower-right corner of the tapestry, and Jon fought a battle on the misty moors that took up most of the tapestry. He was identifiable by the Stark sigil inverse on his leather brigandine - a white direwolf on grey, instead of the grey-on-white granted to true-born sons - and Ghost at his side, the Free Folk guarding him and a giant protecting him. At the top-right corner, the Knights of the Vale rode in, and Sansa's horse had begun to be woven, the deep navy velvet of her gown draped elegantly, the ends of her vibrant braid just begun, mirroring the vibrant red of the other side of the tapestry. Amid the chaos of the great battle, the enemy had no features, no sigils, just like the carved settle in the solar. It was the Battle of the Bastards, but no-one would remember the name of the first House that had fallen to the winter Snows when they came down from the Wall.
The first time Larra picked up a sketching pencil since she had fled Winterfell was to draw the design for the tapestry. It was no good telling the ladies what they would never be able to imagine; she knew she had to show them. So she had sat down and sketched, one afternoon in the solar, as Sansa played cyvasse with her Knight of the Vale. She had been very specific with the detail and accuracy with which she wanted the Bloodraven woven into the tapestry, Leif and the last of the Children of the Forest, sweet Hodor, Summer, Meera, and even Larra herself. She had brought out her colours, providing intricate studies and sketches and small paintings to the dyers. They were a motley ensemble, beneath the tree, but that made their presence in the tapestry a point of curiosity for the viewer to remark upon.
She had sketched the day Lord Bloodraven had given her Dark Sister.
The day he had given her a name.
It was more important to her than she had realised until she set pencil to paper, for the North to accurately commemorate the legitimised bastard of King Aegon IV, Lord Brynden Targaryen - the Bloodraven, her great-great-great-great-great uncle - and Hodor, and Summer, and the last of the Children of the Forest.
Now the ladies of the North worked happily, most nights singing as they wove the great tapestry in front of the enormous hearth, tonight celebrating that winter had come for House Frey, the Red Wedding avenged. A weight off everyone's lungs, it felt like. Delight seemed to surge around Larra wherever she went in the castle that night.
For a few moments, Sansa and Larra paused, quietly watching the women weave Sansa's likeness into the tapestry, stern and beautiful, her hair vibrant - tonight, she wore her hair the same way she had worn it for the Battle of the Bastards, and the ladies immortalised it in the weft - even the intricate details of the direwolf embellishing the bosom of her velvet gown, the fine colouring of the furs draped around her shoulders… Larra's eyes drifted to the left side of the tapestry, for some reason drawn to Hodor's likeness. Brutally strong, with the smile of purest innocence, easily frightened, gentle and kind… Larra missed cuddling up to him to sleep, his unwavering patience and contentedness, even in the wastes of the frozen Land of Always Winter. It had hurt her stomach to see his likeness taking form in the weft, but now she was grateful for it. His gentle smile was how she would remember him, not…
She let out a sigh, turning to Sansa finally. "Well?"
The chatter of the ladies masked their voices, impossible to hear their quiet murmuring, as one of the Night's Watchmen, Yaskier, lent his handsome voice in an attempt to woo the daughters of the North. He was composing again, Larra thought, her eyes on the lanky and perpetually-cheerful Yaskier, who had been forced to join the Watch after "hiding his sausage in the wrong pantry" once too often, or with the wrong lady, Larra wasn't entirely sure which.
"He's slinked off," Sansa told her, sipping her herb tea as she watched the women weaving.
"For a first attempt, I must admit I am underwhelmed by the effort," Larra admitted, frowning. "Well, I suppose, why should he use his best efforts on a bastard? What next, do you think?"
She eyed Sansa shrewdly. Larra often gave Sansa lessons in cyvasse in the solar - where Larra also privately tutored Sansa in how to wield the knife Jon insisted Sansa wore always on her person - and wanted to know her sister's opinion. Larra had her own.
Littlefinger was angling to isolate Sansa. It didn't take a greenseer to know it. According to Sansa, Littlefinger had always desired the Iron Throne: Now, he desired to make Sansa his queen and get his heirs on her. With her came the North - if he could get rid of Jon without being tied to the King's demise.
Then Larra had shown up, dragging Brandon with her. Ned Stark's only surviving trueborn son. The King's ferocious twin-sister; and the legitimate heir to Winterfell.
Littlefinger was too clever, too forward-thinking to let their reappearance spoil his plans: He would simply adjust them.
Larra knew all too well that there were only two ways in which any obstacle could ever be approached: One could grit your teeth and force one's way through, or one could assess the situation, move around the obstacle, and adjust.
Now Lord Baelish had to account for the removal not only of Jon, but of Larra and of Bran, too. And at every instance, appear to have had nothing to do with each tragedy that struck Lady Stark's family as she was left with fewer family members but the enduring presence and kindness of Lord Baelish.
His first attempt: Using the Northern bannermen and Knights of the Vale to whisk Larra away, physically removing her from Winterfell. Then, in Jon's absence, and without his great protector…what could a crippled young man do against trained assassins? One had already made an attempt on his life, before he had been forced from his home: Who was to say whoever had sent the first would not take opportunity to send others? What if they succeeded? Lady Sansa would be undisputed heiress of the Northern kingdom.
"He likes to remind me that you are my bastard half-sister," Sansa sniffed delicately, watching the weavers work and sing, their children playing at their feet. "I may have begun to slip little details about how Mother and I treated you in the past into our conversations. Conversations about your place at Winterfell…if things had gone another way for our family."
"We think alike. He'll use childhood enmities against you, reminding you just how much you disdained me as the reminder to your mother of Father dishonouring his wedding vows…" Larra sighed, and Sansa frowned. She hadn't yet brought up the subject of Larra's true parentage since that day in the baths, but Larra knew she had been thinking on it, often. She always got the same look on her face. "And me, he'll taunt about my loss of status as castellan of Winterfell, all I was raised to ever be. Now I am nothing, because you've taken it from me; and by right as the eldest and Jon's twin, it should be mine."
"Exactly," Sansa sighed heavily, sipping her herb tea, her expression grim. She narrowed her eyes at a gaggle of young ladies clustered around a tall, attractive young man all in black, and exchanged a look with Larra, who smirked. She caught sight of one of the mothers, her fingers deftly weaving bobbins, her eyes shrewd on the young man, and she raised an eyebrow at the young man. He grinned widely, reassuring one of the girls who seemed particularly smitten with him, to stride over to them, his clear blue eyes sparkling.
"Yaskier - leave her alone," Larra warned. The perpetually cheerful young man bounded over, gushing.
"I'm in love."
"Oh, for goodness' sake - again?"
"This time is entirely different."
"It always is," Larra chided. "Yaskier, if I get one more dirty look from the ladies, I shall string you up to the pillory and do unseemly things with you." She sidled up to him, very close, her eyes alight and her lips twitching with delicious irony that made Yaskier's eyes focus on her mouth, leaning into her, shuddering with suppressed desire.
"Don't tempt him," Sansa warned, rolling her eyes in faint amusement.
"Wicked woman," Yaskier pouted at Larra, his eyes glittering with mirth. They enjoyed this game. "You know I'm vulnerable."
"To what?" Larra scoffed.
"Fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman," he purred. Larra rolled her eyes, levelling a grim smirk at him.
"A blade to the balls may yet cure you."
"You are wise, fair one."
"Shameless strumpet," Larra smirked.
"Strumpet? Perhaps," Yaskier grinned unabashedly. "Adoring supplicant? Eternally yours."
"Go," Larra laughed, smiling, and gently pushed Yaskier away, her hands on his stomach. "You should be sparring."
"I thought we were," Yaskier grinned easily. "Shall we sing tonight?"
"Ah, using me to impress one of your heart's desires?"
"It is my last night at Winterfell," Yaskier said, making his eyes large and tragic. "I go to the Wall, who knows what awaits me."
"Death, most likely," Sansa remarked.
"I shall need consolation - and the courage to meet my fate with my head held high," Yaskier said.
"And practically skipping, I'd wager," Larra smirked.
"Off you go," Sansa chided, smiling. "Cease bothering my ladies."
"My ladies…" Yaskier bowed to them each in turn, with a flourish.
"You enjoyed that," Sansa murmured, leaning into Larra, her lips twitching, her expression slightly smug. "Flirting."
"I blame you entirely. No-one looked twice at me," Larra said defensively. "Then you bathed me, prettied me up and put me in fine clothes. You civilised me."
"Well, not entirely," Sansa smirked. "A direwolf can only be gentled and befriended, after all, never truly tamed."
"Do you think he's afraid of a nip?" Larra mused, as they watched Yaskier, already distracted by another pretty girl sashaying past him.
"No, and I think that's why he ended up at the Wall in the first place," Sansa said, and Larra grinned in agreement. "I should go, seek out Lord Baelish. He'll be itching to pour poison in my ear about you addressing the rumour he started, and so boldly."
"Bold?" Larra scoffed, raising her eyebrows. "Northwomen are often accused for being straightforward to the point of bluntness."
"He has only to look at Lady Mormont to know that is true."
"I like her," Larra said warmly.
"She doesn't much like me."
"She doesn't have to," Larra said, shrugging. "She does respect you."
"He'll twist them against Jon."
"Oh, of course he will."
"He'll want us at each other's throats… He'll want me fearful of you, paranoid - jealous," Sansa said, turning sombre. "Try to turn us against each other."
"This is going to be exhausting," Larra sighed, already feeling tired at the prospect of what they had ahead of them. Politics. "I am no actress."
"You put on plenty of puppet-plays for us when we were little."
"That was writing…it was play…" Larra said, surprised. "I thought you'd forgotten those. You were so insistent, you were a lady; you had no need to spend time in the nursery with the little ones, playing with dolls."
Sansa grew quiet, watching the women weaving, without really seeing them. She was far away. Softly, she said, "Father gave me a doll, after he killed Lady. I was so ungrateful, still angry at him… I told him I hadn't played with dolls since I was eight… I slept with it every night in King's Landing…every night… Father gave me the doll the day Arya and I argued at supper, and Arya dented the table she kept stabbing it with her knife. She said she was practicing to kill the prince… Father tried to warn us to be kind to each other. I didn't listen."
"You were little girls," Larra said gently. She had been sixteen. It seemed absurd now, how young she had been, ruling the entire North for Robb as he rode to war, little more than a boy…
"I was older than Lady Mormont is now," Sansa said quietly.
"You've had a different life than she has."
"She's had a different life than I had because of our family," Sansa said. "Nothing we do happens on its own."
"Hm."
"What?"
"The Bloodraven… He told me that what I do in this life will echo through eternity," Larra said softly. She had always admired those words. They had such gravitas. "It means the same thing: Our choices touch others. There's no escaping that, only minimising the damage."
"Minimum-loss strategy," Sansa said, gazing at her, and Larra frowned. She knew that phrase, had coined it while planning her campaigns against their brothers in the old schoolroom. But Sansa had enjoyed dancing and embroidery with Septa Mordane, would never have cared to listen to her discussions with their brothers about war, strategy and economics. "Your progresses."
"My what?" Sansa looked surprised.
"Maester Luwin. He wrote down every lesson; every observation regarding your education," Sansa explained, and Larra stared at her. She looked almost apologetic, even abashed. "They're fascinating to read. I'll have them sent to your chamber, along with the other things Maester Wolkan unearthed in the Maester's tower… Your lessons have taught me how to be a true warden of the North… Before that, I learned to become an actress. To pretend. To be what they wanted me to be, so I could survive."
"It must have been exhausting."
"It was."
"And yet you'd happily endure it again, to snare a mockingbird," Larra sighed.
"It shan't take too long," Sansa said, her tone sensible. "The strength of the Vale is behind us; I have had Lord Royce's loyalty ever since I intimated Lord Baelish is responsible for Lord Arryn's death… We just have to play the game long enough to spring the trap and let Littlefinger tumble in, without realising he's been snared until it is quite too late."
"And you trust that he will."
"He's too arrogant in his own cleverness," Sansa said grimly. "The day you arrived, just before the guard came to call me to the gate…Littlefinger told me something I shan't ever forget: 'Don't fight in the North, or the South. Fight every battle, everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way, and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before'."
"He doesn't know everything."
"No," Sansa said curtly. "And he has underestimated an enemy before."
"Everyone who's ever underestimated you is dead now."
"Most of them."
"Well…do your worst, little sister," Larra sighed, her smile twinkling and sad. Sisters had a unique viciousness when provoked. Only they had the weapons to truly torment each other. "And I will endeavour to do my very best to fill my role."
"Believe me…Littlefinger will make it easy for you…" Sansa warned her, looking unhappy at the prospect of what they must dredge up to ensnare the mockingbird. "What Brandon said earlier…you are uncomfortable at the idea that it was perhaps Arya who murdered the Freys."
"Can our sister have changed so much that she'd murder innocents?"
"To protect our family, what wouldn't you do?" Sansa asked, after a moment's thoughtful silence. She sighed, glancing sidelong at Larra. She asked hesitantly, "How must it be done? I know Father took you with our brothers, but I… I would do the thing properly, the Northern way. But Father never taught me…"
Father never taught his daughters how ugly the world was. He had protected their innocence - for perhaps too long, as it turned out.
Larra sighed heavily, remembering the scent of frost-bitten heather, wildflowers and fresh blood…
"The blood of the First Men flows through our veins, and for thousands of years we've upheld the belief that those who pass the sentence should swing the sword," Larra said grimly. "The first time Father took us to witness a man being executed, he warned us not to look away… He told us that if we were to take a man's life, we owed it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. That if we couldn't bear to do that, then perhaps the man doesn't deserve to die after all… He said those who hid behind paid executioners quickly forgot what death is."
"I do not know how to hold a sword, let alone wield one," Sansa said, her eyes widening slightly.
Larra's smile was grim. "It needn't be so literal. We've made this decision together. We both have condemned him. But as the Stark in Winterfell, it is you who must pass the sentence."
Sansa frowned. After a long moment, she wondered aloud, "If I asked it of you, would you swing the sword?"
Larra stared back at her little sister, every inch a stern Northern ruler. An elegant lady; a perpetually troubled leader. She reached up to tenderly pinch Sansa's chin, murmuring, "What wouldn't I do for you?" What hadn't she done, to protect their brothers? What wouldn't she do, to protect her sister? To do what she could not, last time, and protect their people? Their home, their freedom. "You look uneasy. That's good. Father was always troubled by it."
Sansa gazed off into the distance, the same way Brandon did when he went somewhere else. To herself, she murmured, "It was his duty…"
"One of them," Larra said. "To protect his people from those who would do them harm. It should never be easy. It should always give you troubled dreams."
"In his progresses…Maester Luwin mentioned your dreams," Sansa said, turning curious eyes on Larra. "He described them in detail."
"I haven't had them since I entered the caves beneath the great weirwood," Larra admitted, and glad of it. "I think they were the Bloodraven's way of reaching out…connecting me with Bran until I had brought us both North where we were always meant to be."
Larra knew what she had to do. A task only she could perform. She was just afraid to do it. To go down there, where Father and Robb and Rickon all waited for her to remind her of her failure.
She leaned in to tenderly kiss Sansa's forehead, and made her way out of the warmth and light of the hall, where the women sang and the tapestry continued to blossom before her eyes like a strange flower.
They were playing a little game, now. Just a little one, the cyvasse board small - but the dangers significant, if they did not do the thing with caution and sensitivity toward their allies - and their enemy.
The castle felt differently than it had before she and Brandon had shared the news of the Twins. As if the castle could breathe deeply into its lungs for the first time in an age. The Red Wedding was avenged, truly, finally. Almost all those involved in the Red Wedding were dead: The Freys, the Boltons, Tywin Lannister…
Things were changing. The old players were being wiped off the board.
It was interesting to wander the castle that night. They did not empty more barrels of ale or stout or cider; they did not feast in the hall and the courtyard. They did nothing out of the ordinary, except that the few musicians that had found their way this far north brought out their instruments, and anyone with a fine voice raised it to the skies as the snows gentled to nothingness, the clouds dissolving to reveal a flawless velvet sky studded with stars that seemed to glitter knowingly.
The music soared to the diamond-studded skies, and Yaskier sang, and Larra entertained a gaggle of children eager to hear of her adventures beyond the Wall, enthralled as she wove a tale - and had Last Shadow frighten the life out of them, appearing out of nowhere to growl in their ears and lick the backs of their necks.
She laughed, digging her fingers through Shadow's thick pelt, and watched Yaskier disappearing with a pretty serving-girl - shortly before the horses were saddled, and those Brandon had called upon said their goodbyes, and headed out into the night, guided by a gentle moon. Larra raised her face to it, relishing the luminous silver light.
As children, Father used to say Sansa and Arya were as unlike each other as the sun and the moon - yet to Larra, they had both always radiated light.
How different were they, now, she wondered. Sansa wanted to do everything in her power to make a man's execution just: Arya had allegedly wiped out a sprawling family, down to the last child, out of vengeance.
Larra still didn't know what to make of it, Arya's part in the eradication of House Frey. But she trusted that Brandon had no use for lies and deceptions. It had been Arya. And she had killed innocents.
And it broke Larra's heart to think what Arya must have endured, to turn her into a cold-hearted killer.
It sat heavy on her heart both what Arya had become, and what Sansa had asked her to do.
No, not that Sansa had asked her: That she had agreed.
What wouldn't she do for her family?
A.N.: So, a theme that runs throughout this story, and what I'm going to put the characters through, is different characters' ideas of what mercy and justice are, and mercy versus justice.
I've been re-watching The Witcher: I make no apologies for including my own adorably chaotic Yaskier.