A.N.: Hi everyone, thank you so much for the amazing reviews! Don't worry, I'll be addressing some of the points you all brought up about the potential Jon/Alynore alliance (and don't worry, they're not my endgame). It's half-term holiday now so I'm planning to indulge in writing and not moving from my armchair, except to make myself cups of tea!
We never saw much of the gang's journey beyond the Wall, so I like to imagine that Larra and Meera's adventures were more like Rick and Daryl in The Walking Dead. Definitely Larra has some Dixonesque qualities - especially when fighting and outnumbered! And I'd love to insert a nod to Walking Dead: "How many wights have you killed? How many people have you killed? Why?" And Michonne's PTSD definitely inspired certain behaviours in Larra.
I was going to finish writing and upload this chapter yesterday, but got distracted by a theory that Daenerys is the daughter of Rhaegar and Lyanna, younger than Jon and possibly born prematurely, leading to Lyanna's death… I only wanted to figure out whether Jon was older than Robb! (I personally believe he is, due to the timings of the Battle of the Bells, when Ned married Catelyn and Jon Arryn married Lysa Tully to bring the Riverlands on side to fight in the Rebellion, Ned finding Lyanna in Dorne within a couple of weeks of the Sack of King's Landing, and Catelyn arriving at Winterfell after the war has ended with an infant Robb, to find Jon already installed in the nursery, and Jon constantly referencing that 'bastards grow up faster')… The article on A Forum of Ice and Fire is called 'Why I believe Dany is the daughter of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen' and makes an interesting read…
Valyrian Steel
23
Plucking Feathers
Meera appeared.
Unlike Larra, she had not shed her furs - she hadn't had her sister strip them from her and turn the furs over to be burned, the obsidian ring-mail vest turned into…something.
Pale-faced, Meera appeared in the courtyard, looking determined but upset. Larra frowned, lowering her hunting-knife - which she had been giving instruction on using, to a group of boys and girls determined to be legendary warriors like Lord Cregan and the Dragon Knight and Lady Brienne - to watch her approach.
She had been waiting for this for weeks. And she had been hoping it would not happen.
They had faced the Night King's soldiers together for years. Their journey together had made them sisters. And Larra knew her sister well. They could try and coax Meera to stay; but Winterfell was not her home. She still had family in the Neck, her father… They had sent ravens on their return to Winterfell, but the storms may have taken the birds, or else they could not find the floating crannog-castle, Greywater Watch. Jojen had possessed the greensight, but Lord Howland did not: he would not know that his daughter still lived.
And Meera wanted to go home. She wanted to go home to her family.
"It's time," Larra said softly, and Meera paused, then nodded. Larra searched her face, which was pinched. Meera gusted out a breath, and looked stricken with guilt for a heartbeat.
"I don't want to leave you -"
"You're the last person who owes explanations, Meera," Larra said softly. "You want to go home to your father. How could we ever deny you anything? Have you told Bran?"
Meera paused, and her gaze flitted to the entrance to the godswood, the heavy door ajar, soldiers guarding the walkway. Larra didn't have to see the weirwood to know Brandon sat beneath it in his clever wheeled chair. Meera had come from there; Larra remembered the hurt look on her face as she had entered the courtyard.
"Meera?"
"I… He knew," Meera said softly. "I - He… Jojen and Summer and Hodor all died…died for him and - "
Larra sighed heavily, frowning. Meera didn't have to finish her sentence; Larra knew. Bran was not there: Brandon sat in his chair beneath the weirwood. The winged-wolf. The Three-Eyed Raven.
"He was not grateful."
"I don't expect anything," Meera stammered, looking flushed and hot and upset. "All those years together… I just thought he would… I don't know… I didn't know whether I should tell you, perhaps you felt the same way."
Larra pressed her lips together, frowning - annoyed and a little ashamed of her brother's behaviour.
"I couldn't bear it if you had just left," Larra said softly. Bran had disappeared without warning, replaced by Brandon the Broken. For Meera to vanish…
Meera gave her a weak smile. "We had our adventures, didn't we, you and I?"
"There, and back again," Larra said softly, with a sad smile, an ember twinkling in the back of her mind, the spark of an idea, of a memory, Maester Luwin talking about titles for the stories she wrote for her siblings. "It sounds like the beginning of one of Old Nan's fairy-tales."
"Perhaps you could write it all down," Meera said quietly, and Larra chuckled softly, shaking her head at the idea.
"I am sorry that Brandon could not give you what you deserve," Larra said sombrely.
"I don't know what to say to you. How…how do we possibly say goodbye? When I know what I am leaving you to," Meera stammered softly, staring at Larra, whose chest ached. For years, they had been fighting side by side, and often back-to-back, to protect their brothers, had become as close as sisters, with a strange, unbreakable bond far stronger than blood…
Larra stared at Meera, with her wan face and tired, shrewd eyes.
After spending years together…how were they supposed to adjust to…to separation? To not having each other to fight back-to-back with, to bolster each other, to calm each other when the night-terrors were too much and make each other smile with memories of better times.
"Perhaps we don't," Larra said softly. "How about…one of us rides to the gate…and doesn't turn back. Even if our heart screams out for just one more look, even if it goes against everything that we are to turn our backs and not know we're safe… But I'll know that you not looking back means…that I will love you, always. And it's time for you to go home."
Warm tears pooled in her eyes; Meera sniffed, and nodded, and they embraced like the sisters they were, and for a moment neither of them could let go.
And then they did.
And Meera turned, and walked away. She climbed onto her horse, and rode to the gate.
She did not look back.
And Larra stared after her, long after Meera had disappeared from her sight.
A spear-wife took over her instructions: Larra wiped her eyes, frowned, and made her way into the godswood.
There he was. Sat in the wheeled chair beneath the weirwood. The pond was frozen now, a good foot of flawless ice concealed by fresh snow. The only evidence of movement in the godswood were the tracks made by Brandon's wheeled chair, to and fro, deep grooves compacting the snow from repeated journeys to the weirwood. Sentinels stood guard at the courtyard entrance to the godswood, and another stood with Brandon in his sight just in case.
Larra strode through the snow, frowning as she approached her brother. His eyes were not the milky-white she was so familiar with now: They were small and dark but still faraway, even as she reached out to grab the arms of Brandon's wheeled chair to turn him sharply away from the weirwood.
Upset by Meera's departure, knowing it was the last time they would ever see each other, Larra was even more annoyed by Meera's poor treatment by Brandon, after all they had endured together. She scowled down at the stranger who looked so like her little brother as he raised his bland face to hers, utterly disinterested as she wheeled him around and bent over to meet his eye.
"Now, you listen to me, little brother," she growled softly, warning, her fury building, ferocious and chilling. Because Meera's mistreatment was the last straw. "You're not so powerful now that I'll tolerate you being foul to those who've earned far better from you. The Bran I know would be ashamed to treat his friends so poorly. Is he still there? Or is Bran lost? Because we need Bran. Not Brandon the Broken, some gormless stranger staring into the hearth or the heart-tree, useless and blind to the very real danger bearing down upon us. Bran. Who cared so fiercely about others. Our bright, impish little brother who understood far too much and laughed like a squirrel and would be horrified that he sits back and watches while his family and his people are under threat… We need Bran to help us in this fight. You're no good to us if you don't care…and Bran always cared. Even when he was foul, he cared. Is he gone forever, like Robb and Rickon? Because if there is even a whisper of my little brother still in there, he had better start fighting like a starving direwolf for us - as I did for him!"
"Larra," said a soft, stern voice, and she realised how angry she was as she stepped back, her chest heaving. Sansa strode over to them, looking concerned, elegant as ever in her heavy gown, trapped inside her leather belts, fur-trimmed gloves and cloak, her hair vibrant as the weirwood. Sansa sighed, glancing at Larra. "Meera's left."
"Yes. And our brother couldn't bother himself to give her the goodbye she's earned," Larra said, glaring down at Brandon. She frowned, then her eyes widened, her jaw dropping. Her voice was sharp as the blade itself as she blurted, "Where did you get that?!"
A dagger. Eerily exquisite, vicious and spine-tingling to look at - intricately beautiful and lethal. A dragon-bone hilt inlaid with obsidian, gilded steel and a fat ruby, with a wicked, curved blade of Valyrian steel.
The blade that had been intended to slit Bran's throat so many years ago.
It had cut Lady Catelyn's fingers to the bone as she fought off the cutthroat, slain by Summer.
That dagger had taken Lady Catelyn to King's Landing, to enquire after its owner as proof the Lannisters had conspired to kill Bran, somehow linked to the alleged murder the former Hand of the King, Jon Arryn. Lady Catelyn meeting Lord Tyrion Lannister on the King's Road back to Winterfell had triggered the War of the Five Kings. It all came down to that dagger.
Larra stared, raising wide eyes to meet Sansa's, as she glided over to peer into Brandon's lap, where the dagger rested.
"Your mother took that to King's Landing," Larra said quietly, filled with dread.
Sansa blinked, understanding blossoming on her face. "The catspaw. After your fall, the cutthroat who attacked you in your bed… This was his dagger?"
"It's far too fine for a common cutthroat," Larra said quietly, frowning. "Lady Catelyn suspected one of the Lannisters."
"It was Joffrey," Brandon murmured disinterestedly, his eyes following the edges of the blade as his gloved fingertip stroked the steel. "He hoped to impress the man he believed was his father…"
"Joffrey?" Larra blurted, but Sansa did not look surprised.
"He had overheard Robert saying that the life of a cripple was no life at all…that it would be a kindness for the broken boy to die before ever he could wake…" Brandon sighed. "Joffrey took the blade from the royal armoury, gave it to the cutthroat with a bag of silver stags… Littlefinger gave it to me."
"Littlefinger gave it to you?"
"He is not a generous man; he wouldn't give you anything if he didn't think he was getting something in return," Sansa warned, and Larra ignored the twitch of her fingers to wrap around the hilt of Dark Sister and run it through Lord Petyr Baelish. There was no-one in the North more dangerous to their family than him.
"It matters not why he offered it… It is Valyrian steel," Brandon said softly, sheathing the blade. He offered it to Larra. "A relic of your family."
"You're my family."
"Aegon I Targaryen commissioned it as a bride-gift for his favourite sister…his favourite wife. Aegon told her to give a sweet kiss of steel to anyone who ever tried to harm her. Rhaenys nicknamed it Sweet Sister… Dark and Sweet are reunited at long last," Brandon said, his eyes twinkling as they rested briefly on Dark Sister, belted around Larra's narrow waist. Larra flitted a glance at Sansa. Brandon raised his eyes to her face. "You know the truth…"
Sansa sighed heavily. "About Jon and Larra? Yes."
"I am glad Larra told you," Brandon murmured. He raised his fathomless dark eyes from Sansa to Larra. "While I fight my way back, you must trust your own instincts, embrace all you have learned…prepare… We must be ready… It will soon be time, Larra."
"What does he mean?" Sansa murmured, as Larra frowned at Brandon. He did not mean the Wall, she knew it in her gut… He referenced what Larra had survived the True North to do - what she had learned, the skills taught her by the Children…why she had been called beneath the weirwood, though she had not known until she left it that her training and time with the Children had been just as crucial as Bran's with Lord Bloodraven.
But she couldn't. Not yet. She could not go down there, where Father and Robb and Rickon…where her mother waited for her.
Since her return, Larra could not bear to enter the crypt.
And yet, she knew she must.
Not today.
"Where are you going?" Sansa called.
"To pluck a mockingbird!"
Littlefinger wasn't difficult to find: He was always skulking about wherever Sansa happened to be. Never overtly spying, but close enough to fall into place at the exact moment he saw her vulnerable - when she was flustered, or deep in thought. Anything to startle her into confiding in him, so he could worm his way in, twist Sansa around until she could not tell up from down.
He was dangerous because he was subtle. He kept to the shadows, seemingly benign and endlessly courteous in public, conniving and worm-tongued in private, whispering titbits and veiled threats, poisoning wherever he went.
Lord Petyr Baelish was more a venomous snake than a mockingbird.
She confronted him in the courtyard, talking herself up to being seen to be angry - she was already heightened from Meera's departure and her shame and annoyance over Brandon's behaviour - and to allow Littlefinger to verbally best her. He liked to find the words that would cut the deepest, to leave people unnerved and upset - all the better to guide them toward making a mistake.
"You mean to mock my brother by giving him this dagger?"
He looked startled, seeing her bear down upon him - as he should; she was lethal. Dark Sister heavy at her side, Sweet Sister buckled at her belt with Robb's hunting-knife at her lower-back, she glowered viciously at the snake.
"A gift, my lady," Littlefinger demurred. "The blade was meant to take his life."
"I remember," Larra snapped. "The cutthroat almost succeeded. He wounded Bran's mother, cut her fingers to the bone as she fought him off."
"Your brother couldn't defend himself then… I gave him the blade intended to kill him, that he may now defend himself."
"He doesn't need to defend himself, he has me to protect him!" Larra said fiercely.
"As you protected his younger brother?"
Larra let the breath catch in her throat, clenching her jaw.
"A difficult choice, my lady, I know…" Littlefinger murmured, looking obsequious, though his eyes glimmered with subtle malice, enjoying her reaction. Because, though she had anticipated he had an arsenal of vicious words with which to cut her…she wasn't fully prepared to hear them. To feel them slice through her heart. The first person to say aloud what she had known to be true since she learned Rickon's fate: She had sent him to his death, and Osha too. Nobody ever mentioned Osha…but Larra could never forget her. The only mother-figure she had ever known… "Ultimately, you made the wrong one. You trusted your brother's life to your bannermen."
"They broke their oaths and murdered my brother," Larra said softly, then shook her head, frowning. "They got what they deserved."
"And you?" Littlefinger purred, knowing how much pain he was causing. "You chose the cripple over the boy that was whole…"
"I did," Larra gulped.
"You won't always be there to protect him. On that day, he will have to protect himself. He'll be needing that dagger," Littlefinger said, and Larra just stopped herself from narrowing her eyes. There it was. A subtle double entendre - wise and practical advice concealing a veiled threat. Littlefinger's dark eyes glided past her, and his thin lips twitched to a deferential smile as he bobbed her a courteous bow - not nearly as low as it would be for Sansa, but then, Sansa was legitimate heiress of Winterfell and the North, and he coveted her: Larra would always be a bastard, and Littlefinger did not forget it. "I meant no offence, my lady, in giving Lord Stark that dagger. A gift. The pledge of House Baelish, to support him, as I did his mother… I see so much of her in your sister. She had no time for you, though, did she?"
"No, she didn't."
"It must have been difficult, to return to Winterfell, only to find your sister in your place. Were you not trained from a young age by the maester, joining your brothers at their lessons, that you could rule the North in the stead of Lord Robb?"
"For the King in the North," Larra corrected him coldly.
"Of course… Lady Catelyn did her daughters no favours in denying them an education."
"She raised her daughters as noblewomen raise their daughters all over the world. To dance and embroider, to sing and to please, to anticipate their wedding, and hope for strong sons and beautiful daughters," Larra said stoutly. Defending Lady Catelyn now?!
"But you…the bastard daughter of her husband… She took no interest in your upbringing."
"I was raised by Father and Maester Luwin," Larra said, frowning at Littlefinger. If he hoped to provoke a reaction out of her by bringing up Lady Catelyn's absolute hatred for her and Jon, he had chosen the thing least likely to get under her skin: she had lived with that all her life. Lady Catelyn was dead: The twins she despised and wished dead had protected her children and reclaimed their ancestral home and inheritance for them.
"You had an extraordinary education."
"Only my gender made my education extraordinary."
Littlefinger pursed his lips at her interruption. His eyes narrowed, "All those years, that devotion to your studies…all wasted, while your sister takes the only position ever afforded you."
Larra narrowed her eyes, and gave the mockingbird a weapon for his arsenal to use against her - and Sansa. "If I thought Sansa unworthy of the task, I would take it from her."
She didn't: Larra wouldn't.
Sansa honoured the she-wolves that had come before them, ruling Winterfell fairly and wisely in times of winter and of war.
"I know she will do her best…but when the snows melt, and the North must face the wrath of the Iron Throne… She was so conflicted, when her father was arrested. Loyalty to him; loyalty to the crown… Do you know…it was Lady Sansa who alerted the Queen to her father's betrayal? Before he could take her from the city, from her betrothed…"
Larra stared coldly.
"Not at all what she had intended, of course, your father's arrest - she was so young…so naïve… She could have had no idea that the King would take your father's head… She begged so sweetly for mercy, realising what she had done," Littlefinger sighed wistfully. "I still remember her on her knees before the Iron Throne…"
Larra stopped herself from shuddering. She felt unclean. As if she would have to scrape layers of slime from her body.
She'd bet he liked to remember Sansa on her knees.
"…how pleased she was, to earn the King's forgiveness, and sit by his side, his future Queen…" Littlefinger's gaze strayed to Sansa as she glided around the courtyard, never looking at them but definitely marking them. "It suited her. Lady Sansa was born to be a queen." He gave Larra another small bow that somehow managed to be disrespectful, his lips twitching. "My lady…"
He turned and walked away, seeking Sansa. Always seeking Sansa.
Leaving Larra furious, her hand twitching for a blade.
A sweet kiss of steel indeed, Larra thought, the obsidian-and-dragonbone handle of the Valyrian steel dagger knocking against her forearm where it was belted at her waist.
She hated him. Hated that he so easily used people's pain against them. And hated that he lusted after Sansa, thought himself entitled to her…
Hours later, she scowled as she entered the solar - just in case. To keep up the illusion. A clear voice said, "He's not here," as the door shut behind her, and she sighed, relaxing. She slumped onto the settle beside her sister; Sansa was sewing, an embroidery hoop in her lap, firelight glimmering off the pearlescent black silk thread, her needle winking silver with each pass through the fabric. Brandon sat in his wheeled chair before the hearth, tucked up in his furs, gazing into the fire. A new circular table had been brought in, set before the hearth, large and low, a replica of Winterfell taking shape as the carpenters finished each piece - every building, recreated as if for miniature dolls to live in. The better to plan fortifications for the war: They had to devise strategies to safeguard the castle if the walls and wards were breached…to manipulate the armies of the dead, instead of being overwhelmed by them… Larra's weirwood cyvasse piece, with its exquisite scarlet silk leaves, already stood in the godswood.
It had been reclaimed from Sansa's dressing-table, where she kept it safe, idols to pray to, alongside the personalised cyvasse pieces carved by their brothers.
The broken tower was missing: Larra spied it in Brandon's pale hands.
"Where have you been?"
"Training, with Lady Brienne. I'm still getting used to the weight of Dark Sister… No-one has yet started fortifying the glasshouses, so I put together a team of apprentices to help the carpenters… I asked the stonemasons about rebuilding the Broken Tower for Bran, to accommodate for his wheelchair. We should rebuild it, even if it's only a temporary structure - it was the highest watchtower, but it's still the northernmost. It must be fortified," Larra sighed heavily, resting her head back, her eyes closed. "And Maester Wolkan took off Ragnar's arm-cast. He celebrated by teaming up with Little Jon, Karsi's daughters and a couple of young Thenns to hunt down some of the Ice River children and try and scalp them."
"Oh," Sansa said, laughing softly. "You missed supper in the hall. Beef and barley stew. There's some in the pot on the hearth for you."
"Thank you," Larra grumbled, exhausted. Dealing with people created a different kind of exhaustion than trudging through the snows of the True North. And she was starting to anticipate meals again, as a balm for the everyday strain of being a leader to tens of thousands of fraught, frightened people - none of whom liked or trusted each other very much.
There was a soft chuckle from Sansa, the scrape of cast-iron, and soft hands touched Larra's where she had fallen into a doze on the settle: Sansa handed her a glazed earthenware bowl ladled full of rich, hearty stew, and a spoon. Only when she had finished the last mouthful, using her finger to wipe up the last of the rich gravy, did Sansa prompt her.
"Well?" she asked, as she dipped her slender fingers into another, smaller glazed earthenware bowl. The sound of dozens of tiny rings of obsidian sliding and clicking together was mesmerising, oddly calming.
"He made reference to you on your knees, at which point I just prevented myself from gutting him there and then," Larra grumbled. Sansa wrinkled her nose.
"Tell me everything," she said softly, so Larra did, from the moment she had sought out Littlefinger, to his threat.
"If Littlefinger gets his way, Bran won't long outlive me," Larra told Sansa. "He's clever with his words, as if it was meant as a warning of Bran's vulnerability…but it was a threat. Bran's the last true-born son of Ned Stark. The only one who could contest you inheriting the North."
"Jon's already ensured that I am his legal heir, should anything happen to him. Littlefinger probably squealed with delight when he learned of it. One less thing he has to do," Sansa said softly, sewing away. "The only reason Littlefinger could have to get rid of you and Bran is to leave me without family, to isolate me - as I was before. Friendless, grief-stricken - easier to dominate me that way, make himself the only one I can turn to for counsel…"
"How much longer must we endure him?" Larra asked darkly. "He lusts after you."
"And I know it," Sansa said, with a bite to her words. She sewed away. "Not very much longer. We must let him believe he is creating discord between us, that everything is going exactly as he has predicted it would."
"He'll make certain he's prepared if it doesn't," Larra reminded Sansa, who nodded.
"I imagine when you're hunting, you don't allow your prey to realise they're marked for death - if you want to be quick and efficient, not allow their instincts to warn them of the danger and flee," Sansa mused, and Larra nodded. "That is exactly what we are doing with Littlefinger."
"Snaring him in a direwolf-trap," Larra mused, her lips twitching with irony. "What would you like me to do next?"
"What else did Littlefinger tell you?" Larra recounted exactly what Littlefinger had said, about Sansa's conflicted loyalties, how she had begged for Father's life when she had realised how naïve she had been…
Sansa was ashamed. It was true, all of it, from a certain perspective: Littlefinger had made Sansa sound a traitor, not a frightened girl.
"You were utterly at their mercy the moment Father learned the truth about Cersei's bastards," Larra sighed, and it turned into a yawn she had to stifle, her eyes smarting. It had been a long day. Scolding Little Jon and Ragnar - and the other children - had reminded her so vividly of scolding Rickon and Bran - before his fall - when they were still allowed to be little boys getting into mischief, trying to emulate their older-brothers, almost losing eyes and fingers as they played with one of Theon's stolen hunting-knives, and given one of Larra's Northern Long-Haired Snow-Cats a haircut.
"But the truth remains that I did tell Cersei that Father intended to return to Winterfell with us," Sansa sighed.
"It doesn't matter," said Brandon softly, staring into the fire. "Many plans were in motion the moment Father arrived in King's Landing, seeking the truth of Jon Arryn's death. If they had not snatched Father then, Cersei would have invented any of a dozen other falsehoods to charge against him."
"I know what we do next," Larra said, sitting up a little straighter, frowning.
"What?"
"Littlefinger wants me to believe you're a traitor," Larra said, glancing at Sansa. In the firelight, her blue eyes glowed, her hands pale and elegant as she deftly sewed. "I must unearth evidence of your treachery."
"You wish to fabricate something?" Sansa frowned.
"I don't need to."
Sansa looked unnerved, her eyes widening. Larra smiled softly, though her eyes were grim and sad. "Everything comes down to context, doesn't it?"
"I don't understand."
"Good. I want you worried, so your reaction is genuine when I attack you."
"Larra."
"He knows you too well. He'll be able to tell if you're putting it on," Larra reminded Sansa.
"Very well," Sansa relented, frowning at Larra, as if trying to figure out just what hideousness Larra could unearth that would incriminate her.
There was a soft knock on the door to the solar. "Maester Wolkan, my ladies, my lord."
"Oh, am I a lady now?"
"Not sprawled like that, you're not," Sansa chided, and Larra smirked, sitting up straighter, though her leather-clad legs were still stretched out before her, ankles crossed. "Come in!" The tall and rather timid maester appeared, bowing his head so that his great chain of office clinked and shone in the firelight.
"A raven, my lady," Maester Wolkan said, addressing Sansa but nodding respectfully to Larra, whose position was still ambiguous, and to Brandon. "Highgarden has been sacked. The only Tyrells to survive were those who had journeyed to Dragonstone, guests of Queen Daenerys Targaryen."
"Lady Olenna?"
"One among the survivors. With the new Lady Tyrell, a young woman named Alynore…and, it is reported, five girls under the age of thirteen," Maester Wolkan said grimly.
"Growing strong…" Larra said softly, shaking her head and sighing. "I'll give it to Cersei; she is brutally efficient. First the Sept of Baelor…now the breadbasket of Westeros. She's rid King's Landing of the Faith Militant's chokehold, and seized control of the Reach to feed the masses who suffered under the Sparrows. One wonders how she'll use Daenerys' invasion to solidify the people's love for her."
"She's spent twenty years learning how best to play this game," Sansa said grimly. "This Dragon Queen from Essos will not have faced anything like Cersei before."
"No, she hasn't," Larra agreed, with a heavy sigh.
"Thank you, Maester Wolkan," Sansa murmured.
Larra glanced up. "Maester Wolkan…might I accompany you back to the Maester's Tower? I'm in need of your assistance," Larra said.
"Of course, my lady," Maester Wolkan bowed his head deferentially, though he sounded surprised. Groaning, Larra unfolded from the settle, her bones aching, and stretched luxuriously, rubbing her face. She dipped to kiss Sansa's cheek, and rumple Brandon's hair as she passed, and the maester bowed to Sansa before retreating after Larra. It was cooler, outside of the solar - which Sansa preferred to keep warm - much more comfortable for Larra, who found herself more animated away from the lulling fire.
She had not returned to the Maester's Tower - Maester Luwin's tower - since her return. It was less terrifying than heading into the crypt, but not by much: Maester Luwin haunted the tower, and she felt his presence as she climbed the staircase. Some of her earliest memories were struggling with the hems of her dresses as she climbed the spiral staircase, and the crinkled face of Maester Luwin, creased into a smile of warmth and indulgence as she managed to reach the topmost stair, spilling over the threshold in a tangle of limbs and long braids and hated hems. He always heard her climbing the stairs, even when she had been older. And he had always met her with a warm smile full of love and affection lighting up his lined face. Always.
A fissure appeared in her heart - what little remained of it that was still unblemished through all she had endured - as she paused on the threshold, then pushed the door open. At the hearth was a familiar chair, high-backed, engraved with direwolves…and beside it, a small rocking-chair with an embroidered cushion and a little padded footstool. Larra's. Maester Luwin had had them made: Larra had spent so much time in the Tower, often she had curled up on the stones in front of the hearth and dozed, cuddling one of her snow-cats or dolls, soothed by the scratching of Maester Luwin's quill. Sometimes she would feed the ravens for Maester Luwin; sometimes she would read through the raven-scrolls and sort them; other times, especially as a child, she had climbed into Maester Luwin's lap, and he would let her read to him. He gave her the rarest of things - cuddles, and praise. Undiluted affection, love. He had cherished their time together, taken great pride in her every accomplishment, nurtured her curiosity, taught her the skills to indulge her interests, and sometimes…sometimes they had sat before a small fire, and he had held her hand and let her sniffle and cry over the unfairness of it all.
And there…there on the mantelpiece…a small, octagonal walnut box, the lid inlaid, the sides beautifully engraved. It had belonged to Maester Luwin's mother: And in it, he had always kept biscuits. Some of them dimpled with jam; others iced; some sprinkled with spices; some studded with exotic nuts. His one indulgence, Father had always said: Maester Luwin had earned every morsel. As a little girl, the worst of Larra's wounds could be healed by time spent in front of the hearth, with Maester Luwin listening to even the most trivial of her hurts, and he would hold her hand, give her a reassuring smile, brush her curls away from her face, and let her choose a little biscuit from the precious box. The biscuits were a treat: But it was the maester's attention and love that Larra always came back for.
She could imagine the Maester's heartbroken delight at her return, with Bran safe and sound…and that made it hurt all the more - because he should be here. Like Rickon, like Hodor, like Osha, and so many others…
Larra sniffed and cleared her throat, her fingers twitching to feel the engravings carved into the back of the rocking-chair, to reach for the biscuit-box, aching to hear the soft voice say, "Larra," softly, sighing, and the gentle smile of encouragement to pour it all out to him, all her worries and woes.
"Will you be wanting the chests, my lady?" Maester Wolkan asked, and Larra glanced at him, startled.
"Chests?"
"Yes, my lady…in storage," Maester Wolkan said. "When first I took up residence in the Tower I discovered one of the storage-rooms filled with chests…it was there I found the previous maester's progresses, written to document your education."
Larra blinked. Stared at the maester. He seemed unsettled by her unwavering focus - far too afraid to be noticed, after years at the Dreadfort.
"I… That's not… Please show me," she said softly. And the maester guided her to one of the storage-rooms high in the tower, furniture draped with dust-sheets, and great trunks neatly arranged on top of each other, neat stacks of them. There were other things, too, propped against the trunks and the walls, draped with a cloth. Just in front of her, the dust-cloth not quite in place over it, was another trunk, this one smaller than any of the others, and Larra fell to her knees in front of it, tearing away the dust-cloth, her heart seizing, feeling as if she may vomit as sudden dizziness washed over her, grief so thick she could taste it in her mouth. The trunk was of a rich, dark-gold wood, polished to a high shine, plain, except for the twin direwolves carved on each panel, and the hinged lid, which had been upholstered with silk, the dove-grey fabric embroidered prettily with her name, and her favourite flowers and animals - even a beautiful bronze-and-jade dragon from her dreams Larra now knew to be Rhaegal. It was intricate, and the incredibly beautiful fabric and the silk embroidery threads had come all the way from Qarth - a name-day gift from Lord Manderly.
She dove to her knees before her trunk, snatching the lid open. She lifted a heavy, soft, pale-grey blanket scattered with dried lavender from the top, and her eyes burned, and she sighed, "Oh, Maester Luwin…"
Inside were her passion-projects. The wooden toys and puzzle-mazes and spinning-tops she had carved and created; the dolls she had stuffed and stitched and made miniature frocks for, toy animals she had knitted; the toys she had created with Maester Luwin's help to coax Rickon to learn his letters and numbers; envelopes full of seeds she had gathered at the end of summer; her favourite earthenware mug she had thrown on the potter's wheel and glazed herself; a skein of yarn she had dyed herself and never had the time to knit with; and the intricate shawl she had knitted, fine and delicately patterned, slate-grey and white and dove-grey; her inkstone set, and her paint-box and the brushes Maester Luwin had taught her how to make; the crude dagger Mikken had tutored her to make, after much wheedling to let her into the forge; and a neat pile of books Maester Luwin had helped her bind together after she had completed each illustration and instalment of one of her stories or histories or biographies. A dozen of them, each book-cover bound in dyed leather that she had learned to emboss herself, each thick page preserving her vibrant watercolour illustrations, and the stories she had dreamed up to entertain her siblings. There were charcoal sketches, too…and, tucked into a neat pile and bound together by a length of deep purple silk-velvet ribbon…
Larra's hand shook as she reached for them, picked them up, rested the small but heavy pile in her lap. Portraits. She had mixed the oil-paints herself, from pigments gifted her by Lord Manderly - and Father, when Maester Luwin had advised him that Larra be taught to paint to exorcise the subjects of her queer dreams. She had spent meticulous hours painting layer after layer, waiting for each to dry before adding and removing, altering… Portraits of those she loved…and even one of the woman who had loathed her…
All of them.
Her hand paused as she reached to pull on the ribbon. But she couldn't do it. Instead, she tucked the pile back into the trunk, turning to the things propped against the other trunks, the walls… She removed the dust-clothes, and knew… Her paintings. All of them. Stored here by Maester Luwin. She couldn't bear to look through them: It was enough to know they were here. That they had not been burned, protected by their presence in the Maester's Tower - though they had lived in her chamber. She had thought all that remained of her presence in the castle was the mobile by her window, displaying odd trinkets she had accumulated, and which had kept Rickon absorbed as he sat in her lap, listening to her read.
She tucked everything back inside the trunk. She had made everything, including the trunk itself. Maester Luwin had preserved it - preserved everything she had ever made…as if it was precious.
"Thank you for showing me these, Maester Wolkan," Larra said, and even to herself, her voice sounded hollow, exhausted - devoid of emotion. "In the morning, would you see to it that these trunks are removed to my chamber?"
"Of course, my lady," Maester Wolkan nodded.
"As to the matter I wished to ask for your help with," Larra said, sighing, her back burning as if the trunks glared at her, refusing to be ignored. "I seek a raven-scroll."
"Maester Luwin kept meticulous files, my lady; everything organised by point of origin and date of receipt," Maester Wolkan informed her.
"I seek a scroll written by my sister," Larra told him, and Maester Wolkan faltered. "You shall know which scroll I mean, for if you are the man I believe you are, you will be anxious about what I intend to do with it. It was addressed to my brother Robb."
It didn't take the maester long to find the scroll, and he did look agitated when he returned to Larra, offering the scroll she remembered so well.
The next day, she was out-of-doors but for mealtimes: When she went to wash her face and hands before dinner in the great hall, she found the trunks from the Maester's Tower neatly stacked inside her chamber, with the smallest - the one with the padded, upholstered lid with her name embroidered on it, tucked by her rocking-chair under the window. Perhaps Maester Wolkan was more observant than Larra realised: the biscuit-box rested on a small occasional table beside the rocking-chair, and across the hearth was the rocking-chair of her youth, with its embroidered cushion and tiny footstool.
She had kept the scroll on her all day, tucked safely away. Now she went to her trunk, and removed the pile of small portraits, unfastening the knotted ribbon. She did not look at the portraits themselves, her heart stuttering, but rather sought one in particular. The woman who had loathed her: Larra had not had the time to finish the painting before her sisters had left for King's Landing. It was supposed to be a gift, to take with them…
Before heading down to the great hall, she entered the Lord's chamber - set aside by Jon for Sansa: The candles were not lit, nor was the fire, though fresh wood rested, ready to be kindled for a fire should the lady desire it… There was a dressing-table, littered with fine porcelain pots and glass bottles, hair-pins and combs and a fine horsehair brush. Sansa's nightgown was already laid out across the end of the large bed, newly made, the headboard engraved with direwolves, and laden with soft knitted blankets in grey and white, a patchwork quilt, linens trimmed with crochet, glistening silver furs.
Larra frowned at the portrait. It was small, but detailed. She had had to use her imagination, and think how it might have been to have Lady Catelyn smile at her with love pouring from her eyes, her hard, thin, sour mouth turned up at the corners in a gentle, coaxing smile full of encouragement and pride… She had painted Lady Catelyn for her daughters, as her daughters had known her. Otherwise, Larra would never have deigned to immortalise the malicious cunt who had wanted them dead since she arrived at Winterfell to find them in the nursery…
In her heart, Larra knew she would have slit Lady Catelyn's throat herself if it meant saving Robb's life, or Sansa's, or Arya's, or Bran or Rickon. But she had been their mother. No matter how she had treated Larra and Jon, she had loved her children with a ferocity that might have broken Larra to be deprived of, had Lady Catelyn's malice not cured Larra of any yearning for her approval, had Larra grown up to have any respect for the woman. She hadn't; Larra had no respect even for the memory of Lady Catelyn. But Larra loved her sisters. For Sansa, for Arya, she had painted their mother, to take with them to King's Landing… Now, she nestled the small painting on Sansa's dressing-table, propped against the looking-glass.
Sansa would find it, and no doubt be distraught by its presence, and her memories…but it was Larra's apology, for picking this fight with her tonight. For saying horrendous things to provoke her, and let Littlefinger believe they were turning on each other.
Who, better than sisters, knew how to truly hurt each other?
The great hall was packed with people, the heat smothering, the scent of supper rich and heady, and Larra hated the heat as she took her seat beside Sansa at the high table, the hearth roaring with a great blaze at their backs.
She reached for an earthenware jug and poured herself a healthy mug of dark stout, as a maid set a woven basket full of small bread rolls still warm from the ovens and covered by a fine linen napkin in front of her; a tureen of stew already rested, steaming, in front of Sansa, the ladle propped inside to serve herself, while serving-girls made the rounds, doling portions of stew to everyone else. It was a symbol of their status, the tureen left with the ladle, to serve themselves more if they so chose. Larra reached and ladled herself some stew, and finished half of it before reaching out and setting the raven-scroll on the polished oak table between them. She was acutely aware that Littlefinger sat on Sansa's other side, beyond Lord Royce, who had been invited to dine at the high table.
"What's that?"
"You're sitting exactly where Robb was when he first read that scroll…his traitorous sister, summoning him to King's Landing - to his death."
Sansa blinked, taken aback. Her eyes flitted to the scroll, and she frowned delicately before reaching for the scroll. Her face fell, her chest rising and falling quickly, as she read the scroll.
"I was forced to write - "
"Did they hold a sword over your neck? Threaten you with torture? No… The worst thing they ever did to you was marry you to the Imp… You knew what would happen when Robb received that scroll. Our fierce, honourable brother. He would come to King's Landing and swear fealty to King Joffrey to protect you, to save Father," Larra said coldly, and she saw Sansa gulp. It had to be real, they had decided. "Only he didn't. He learned his lesson from our grandfather: Never go south on the summons of a king - not without an army."
"He started a war," Sansa said curtly. "Joffrey punished me for it; he could have killed me whenever he wished."
"He didn't… And now he is dead. And Cersei sits upon the Iron Throne… A curious thing. All those years with Cersei, her little pet, her little dove…" Larra emulated every look Lady Catelyn had ever given her as she sneered at Sansa. "Her children are dead, she sits upon the Iron Throne…and you sit beside the King in the North. A bastard who took your blood-right, your legitimate inheritance, your place as heir to the North."
"Jon earned his crown."
"Did he? He abandoned his post at the Wall; that makes him an oath-breaker… He won a battle. Does that make him a king? And you let him go south to be snared in the clutches of the Dragon Queen's talons… What better way to get Jon out of the way than allow someone else to do it for you?" Larra said, hostile, her eyes narrowed. "The same way you were spirited away when Joffrey was assassinated. I wonder…whether you and Cersei conspired together to kill him, to place her on the Iron Throne…whether she has chosen her successor, her protégé, her little dove, the only one capable of bringing the North back under the control of the Iron Throne. Take the North…and one day, take the Iron Throne."
"That's absurd."
"Cersei ordered her Master of Coin to spirit you away from King's Landing… And here he remains, advising you…the Queen's ambassador, your mentor… It all began with this letter, I suppose… It determined the fate of our House, tore the ragged remains of our family asunder…left us vulnerable, an open wound… All so you would be queen."
"You're…you're confused, paranoid. Jealous," Sansa said, looking flustered. "That I reclaimed Winterfell, and united the North with Jon. Not you. Me."
"After you betrayed it. Betrayed your House, betrayed the North. You betrayed your family, led them to their deaths," Larra said harshly, and Sansa blanched.
"I did what I had to do to survive."
"Worked well, didn't it," Larra said tartly. "Everyone else is dead, and yet here you are, sitting pretty ruling the North, sowing dissent among Jon's bannermen while he risks his life to secure weapons and allies."
"You're ridiculous."
"Am I? All you've ever wanted was to be a queen. Perhaps you did murder Joffrey after all. Convenient they pinned it on your husband, Queen Cersei's own despised brother. She turned on him…" Larra said softly, dangerous. "You tried to lure Robb south to his death. What a grand conspiracy. Both of you walked away with your hands clean… How long before you convince the Northmen that you are the only legitimate choice as Northern sovereign."
"I will do my duty to the North. To Winterfell."
"To House Stark. And we both know Jon's not a Stark."
She finished her stew. Did not make her apologies or excuses as she pushed away from the table, and strode away. Didn't have to look back to feel Littlefinger's smug little smile as Sansa stared, and Lord Royce lowered his eyes to his stew, delicately ignoring the vicious argument between sisters.
It wasn't his place to make judgements…from what he had seen of Lady Sansa, she was a capable and devoted leader. The bastard sister was ferocious, but playful, wise and kind too, inspiring smiles and loyalty - and lust - wherever she went, unafraid to talk to anyone, or give her time freely to those who desired it. Lord Royce wondered whether Littlefinger wasn't behind this spat: The sisters had been seen together, and though Lady Stark was elegant and aloof, and the bastard was wild, vibrant and chilling, they seemed to warm each other.
In that moment, Lord Royce was the more discerning of the two men: He had grown up with Ned Stark, after all, at the Eyrie, fostered with Jon Arryn. He had warred bedside Ned Stark, who had fought like a direwolf possessed to avenge his father and brother, to rescue his younger sister… Lord Royce knew that nothing came between Stark siblings. Even if one was denied the name.
"Where on earth did she find it?"
"You're asking the wrong question," Littlefinger murmured, sliding a cunning glance at Sansa. "Not where…why? She's your sister. Half-sister. You know her far better than I ever could." He was silent for a moment, as Sansa frowned, pressing her fingers to her brow. "What do you think she wants?"
Sansa stared at him, as if uncertain, confused. He gave her a soft look, as if he sympathised with her struggle to understand the finer points of political intrigue. Softly, he told her the secret that had made him Littlefinger: "Sometimes, when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do? Then I ask myself, how well does that reason explain what they say, and what they do? So, tell me…what's the worst thing she could want?"
"She could want me dead…because she thinks I betrayed my family, and caused their deaths, conspired with our enemies, because she thinks…I'm a threat to Jon…"
"Could she murder her own sister?"
"Half-sister. If it came down to it, me or Jon… She would not hesitate to protect Jon."
"Why did she unearth the letter Cersei made you write?"
"To provide proof of my betrayals… To provide justification after she murders me."
"And…after she murders you…what does she become?"
"Lady of Winterfell. Jon's heir… Heir to Winterfell… Queen in the North. Everything my mother always feared… And she was right to!" Sansa gasped, her eyes widening.
"She said something interesting to me, that day in the courtyard, when I gifted Lord Stark that priceless Valyrian steel dagger…that if she thought for a moment you were unequal to the task of ruling the North…she would take it from you."
Sansa's lips parted, seemingly stunned.
"She would not be so bold."
"She has been beyond the Wall for years. Those savages live by no laws made by men," Littlefinger muttered. "She has forgotten her true place in the world. Her brother may have been named King…but he can be unnamed…and regardless, she remains what she has always been. A bastard girl from the North with ideas beyond her station, too foolish not to accept offers of marriage to provide herself with comfort and wealth that would otherwise be denied her. She has her sights set on a greater prize."
She slumped slightly in her carved chair.
"Winterfell. Ruling the North, with Jon," Sansa murmured, her eyelashes fluttering as her gaze darted about the hall, long shadows stretching to the high, hammer-beam ceiling. "She would…would take Winterfell as the home my mother always denied them, cast me out or murder me as my mother wished to do to them… This is her revenge, for my mother's mistreatment…for my disdain toward them… Larra never forgot anything."
"What you next have to ask yourself…what must I do, to anticipate their treachery, and evade blame while they sabotage themselves in their desperation to ruin me?" Littlefinger murmured, and Sansa stared at him, her lips parted.
"I…I must act quickly - before…before Jon returns. Before she can gain a hold over the bannermen," Sansa stammered, licking her lips daintily. "She always held them captivated. They adored her."
"They lust after her," Littlefinger corrected. "She is a very beautiful woman. And she has denied them." His eyes glowed, as he murmured, "There is nothing so exquisite, so attractive, as what has been denied you. And to finally claim it…that is excruciating ecstasy."
Sansa shivered, glancing at the man. His eyes were dark, glittering in the firelight, and she knew what he was inferring. That claiming her would be an exquisite agony.
"What do you think I should do?" she breathed, leaning toward him, her expression conflicted.
"Make it public," he advised silkily. "Make it irrefutable. You are the daughter of Ned Stark. Call upon your honour as a daughter of the North, the eldest, only surviving true-born daughter of their beloved liege-lord… Make it just…and inescapable."
"What about Jon?"
"The King has had to make many hard decisions on his journey back to Winterfell, which he only fought to reclaim because of you… I imagine there is little he would not do for you," Littlefinger said. "He loves you. To see his twin maddened by all that happened to her beyond the Wall, threatening you, a danger to all the North is rebuilding… He would not blame you, for protecting yourself in his absence…"
"Then…I know what I must do," Sansa breathed, her hands shaking.
"Good," Littlefinger said, and he smiled softly. "But you needn't do it tonight. Rest. You must make arrangements. But your half-sister is dangerous; if I were you, I would take precaution not to be alone in her presence. It may be wise to confine her, for your protection."
"She would know…she would know I distrust her," Sansa said, her eyes widening. "She escaped Winterfell once, and none knows how... She survived the True North with a cripple, when it would seem to be impossible…"
"That's interesting…"
"What is?"
"The twin-sister of the bastard who has claimed the North as his own survived, beyond the Wall, with a cripple and a simpleton, while even the fiercest wildlings have fled?" Littlefinger mused, sliding her a calculating look. "More likely, Jon was indeed protecting them…and now that he has claimed the North for himself, there are only two who could take it from him…"
"Brandon…and me," Sansa breathed.
"If I were you, I would probe a little deeper into where your brother was, beyond the Wall," Littlefinger suggested. "Is he as you remember?"
"No, he is…he is altered."
"As you were altered during your captivity…"
"You think Larra kept Bran captive?"
"The last true-born son of Ned Stark - and a cripple, least likely to grow to wield a sword against them," Littlefinger said, shrugging slightly. "Being utterly vulnerable to her for so many years, his fear of her would explain his silence…his yearning to sit beneath the weirwood, in the open space and fresh air…a welcome reprieve from captivity."
"But why would Jon leave me at Winterfell…? Because he knew Larra was on her journey home," Sansa murmured, and Littlefinger nodded slightly.
"And if you and your brother were to die tragically, for example…during a siege…"
"You think Jon has been conspiring with Larra this whole time?"
"I think the timing is suspect. And I think Jon Snow is taking his time on Dragonstone, not for obsidian… They say the Dragon Queen is very beautiful."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Daenerys Targaryen is young and unmarried. Jon Snow is young and unmarried. A political alliance between them would make them a formidable pair…would grant Jon certain protections…"
"Jon would not surrender the Northern crown to a Targaryen invader!" Sansa breathed, eyes widening.
"There are many different ways to yield, without surrendering anything," Littlefinger said. "One thing at a time. For now…the sister is a danger to you."
"I cannot let her know that I have discovered her intentions," Sansa said softly.
"Then…I would not prolong the inevitable," Littlefinger sighed, as if saddened by the whole thing. "The risk you pose yourself by letting her roam unfettered around this castle…"
"I will be clever about it," Sansa said determinedly, "so that she does not know she is in a trap until it is too late."
"You're learning."
The Tyrell rooms were warm, and cosy, as if they had brought the warmth and elegance of Highgarden with them. Jon couldn't imagine Queen Selyse paying much attention to soft furnishings intended to give comfort; she had lacked taste. But the Tyrell rooms had been decorated, fit for Ladies of the Reach, and Lady Olenna's chamber was elegant, definitely expensive, but far simpler than Jon would have expected. A dressing-table, a chaise, and the great four-poster bed in which Lady Olenna rested, propped up by pillows and cushions.
She wore a nightgown and a heavy jacquard robe, and Jon was startled to see her without her crespine or wimple, her iron-grey hair braided over her shoulder. Her small, pale eyes lanced to Jon as he entered the chamber, and a maid bobbed a curtsy, setting an exquisite Qartheen tea-service on a little table by the bed, while a servant carried a chair to her bedside.
"Do forgive me, Your Grace… You must allow for age and infirmity, or I should curtsy before you," said the Queen of Thorns.
"I would not expect it of you, my lady," Jon said, sighing softly, and he strode over to the old lady's bedside. As he sat, he frowned, eyeing the Queen of Thorns shrewdly; she winced, as she adjusted her position against the mound of cushions. She looked pale, but healthier than the last time he had seen her - certainly more animated. There was an ironic glint in her eyes that spoke of her continued recovery: Only when the Queen of Thorns ran out of barbs would they truly be worried. "I hope you're not putting yourself in discomfort on my account."
"Hmph," Lady Olenna scoffed, smirking. "I'm an old woman, Your Grace. Discomfort comes with the territory."
"The maester is doing all he can to ease your symptoms?"
"Oh, he pressed milk-of-the-poppy. If I could get through multiple childbirths and the massacre of my House without resorting to its numbing effects, a slight heart-ache will not do it," Lady Olenna said brusquely. "I feel much better."
"I'm glad to hear that," Jon said earnestly. "The girls have been telling me that you're getting stronger, terrorising the servants with renewed vigour."
"'Terrorising servants with renewed vigour' - that was Cassia, wasn't it?" Lady Olenna guessed, her lips twitching with amusement, and Jon smiled.
"She's fond of words," he said; every morning, he saw the little girls walking - unchaperoned - to Rhaegar's Garden, as they had renamed it. He could hear their squeals of delight, their laughter, and was glad of it.
"There is nothing quite as cutting - and amusing - as a child's candour," Lady Olenna smiled. "You'll always get an honest answer from them, no matter how terrible it is."
"I remember," Jon nodded, thinking of Arya. "My little sister had to be taught to soften absolute honesty with kindness. She was a fierce advocate of truth."
"No matter how terrible," Lady Olenna said, chuckling softly, but the smile faded as she gazed at Jon. "Lady Sansa once mentioned to Margaery her wild little sister. Arya. That was her name. Lady Sansa said she had always wished to have sisters and cousins like Margaery's - little ladies who loved dancing and embroidery… How she must have ached for her fierce sister, surrounded by my dainty little granddaughters… One never truly appreciates the value of a thing, until it is ripped away."
Jon didn't know what to say: He remained silent. His father had never said much, and yet people had somehow always been eager to confide in him. They had trusted him.
"Will you have some tea, Your Grace?" Lady Olenna asked. "If you would be so kind, I dislike a strong brew; pour mine first."
"Of course, my lady," Jon said softly, thinking back to preparing the Lord Commander's hot spiced wine at the Wall. Quiet and amenable, but watchful, learning. He had learned how to be a leader through Lord Commander Mormont's example - exactly as the Lord Commander had intended. He reached for a delicate, painted porcelain teapot and a rose-filigree-handled tea-strainer, pouring a cup of amber liquid for Lady Olenna. The earthy scent of black tea mingled with a delicate hint of citrus teased Jon's nose, invigorating and bright. He passed the lady her teacup and painted saucer, and poured himself a cup.
"That's very delicate," he said thoughtfully, his stomach aching, feeling decidedly morose, as he thought of Sansa, and of Larra - who had hated southern teas because they were so heavy with bergamot. He sipped the tea; it was delicate, and comforting. "Sansa would adore that."
"She was fond of citrus, I recall," Lady Olenna said. "Not many citrus trees at Winterfell."
"Not many."
"But a very grand godswood, allegedly. Ten-thousand years untouched by Man," Lady Olenna said, and Jon glanced at her, nodding. "My granddaughters have spoken of nothing but their time in the garden with the King. You've quite ensnared their darling little hearts."
"They're sweet girls," Jon said fondly.
"You are a grim warrior, and even more introverted king. It is easy to forget, given your nature, that you were once a young boy in the schoolroom with your siblings," Lady Olenna said thoughtfully, eyeing Jon shrewdly. "That you are an older-brother to sisters. I was reminded of it in your kindness toward my granddaughters. It is easy to be cruel; but to be gentle, and patient, and compassionate…that takes some doing. I imagine your sisters found you the gentlest and most thoughtful of their brothers."
"They remind me of my sisters, as they were…"
"Not many like the girls in the North."
"No. The girls of the North are made of a tougher stuff," Jon said carefully, and Lady Olenna smirked.
"They're hard bitches," she said, and Jon grinned.
"You should've married a Northman," he said, and Lady Olenna chuckled. "You would have been well-suited. And the lords would have been well-matched… You remind me of one of my bannermen."
"Do I?"
"Aye. Lady Mormont. She's not yet a woman, but after we reclaimed Winterfell and the banners had been called, she stood in front of my lords and shamed them," Jon said fondly, and Lady Olenna chuckled again. "She named me King in the North… You'd like the little bear."
"One day, when I am stronger, perhaps I shall journey to the Northern court to meet this Kingmaker."
"You would be very welcome, my lady," Jon said earnestly.
"And the Lady Tyrell?" Lady Olenna prompted, and Jon looked up sharply over the rim of his teacup, which he lowered slowly. The Queen of Thorns was smirking knowingly.
He frowned. "Lady Tyrell's request is why you invited me here."
"Of course," Lady Olenna said, smiling serenely. She knew? "You didn't think my granddaughter would be emboldened to make such a request of you without knowing she had my support?"
"And she does?"
"I must admit, I did not expect it from her," Lady Olenna said softly. "It is rather startling to be taken by surprise by one's own kin. I suppose that is my own fault; I never paid enough attention to her, or the others… I underestimated my granddaughter. She is proving herself more than worthy a successor."
"And…you would want such a life for your granddaughter?"
"This is the life she is choosing for herself; how many of us have such a luxury?" Lady Olenna sighed.
"Even if it's the wrong path?" Jon prompted.
"And why should it be wrong?"
"She's choosing a life of solitude," Jon said. "She doesn't deserve that."
"She's buying herself time, that she make the wiser choices to benefit all," Lady Olenna said, her eyes shrewd as she gazed at Jon. Her gaze turned almost fond. "You care for her."
"I don't know how anyone couldn't," Jon said, clearing his throat. "She's calm and graceful and clever."
"Not to mention a beauty."
"Aye, not to mention that," Jon said wryly.
"When my granddaughter proposed the idea, I laughed, I'll admit. She startled me. But it is cunning, and expedient. And to ask you…"
"Why did she ask me?"
"Because you are a man of honour. Least likely to jump into her bed purely because she asked you to," Lady Olenna smirked. "Who would ever suspect you of fathering a child by her? As inconceivable - if you'll pardon the pun - as Ned Stark returning from war with bastards of his own. Unaccountable of him, to go off to war, and return from Dorne with twin babies. When all he sought was his dear sister. Strange…" Her smile was almost mocking. "The honourable Ned Stark goes in search of Lyanna…and returns to Winterfell with twin babes, and a pile of bones that were his sister's."
Dread curdled the tea in his stomach. He stared at Lady Olenna, who smiled sadly, almost apologetic.
"He never told you her name, did he? Your mother's," Lady Olenna said.
"He never even told his wife who she was," Jon said, swallowing the dread that always churned in his stomach whenever he thought of Lady Catelyn.
"I imagine that must have made your childhood rather traumatic," Lady Olenna mused. "Still…safer for you, for Lord Stark to remain silent…allow the world to think the worst of him…so they never guessed at the truth."
Jon sat, reeling.
It couldn't be. The Queen of Thorns was just trying to wound him…but why would she, he thought, when her granddaughter has asked this favour of me?
"You imply I was never my father's son," he said, aware his voice had the cold bite of steel he often used when speaking with Queen Daenerys.
"Oh, you are his, absolutely," Lady Olenna chuckled, unperturbed by his tone - possibly, she enjoyed it. There were few strong men in Lady Olenna's life - even fewer, now. "You are Ned Stark's son…though if he laid with your mother, I will eat my corset." Jon blinked, and the old lady chuckled. She sighed, shaking her head. "Lyanna Stark disappeared with Rhaegar Targaryen…she died, they say in Ned Stark's arms…and he returned to Winterfell with infant twins."
Jon stared at her.
She winced. "If I were an honourable man, who loved his sister fiercely, and would do whatever it took to protect her…protect her virtue, protect her children…"
In his mind, he was stood in the ravenry, feeding the birds for a blind, kind and shrewd old maester. A Targaryen, hidden in the snows of the far North, safe from the sharp blades of Robert Baratheon and his famous wrath. "What is honour compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms . . . or the memory of a brother's smile?"
Lady Olenna gave him a strange look. "I would not have taken you for a philosopher, Your Grace."
"I'm not. Something Maester Aemon told me at Castle Black, when I learned Robb had called the banners and marched to war to free Father…" Jon sighed, gazing at Lady Olenna. "You believe Lady Lyanna was my mother?"
"What wouldn't he have sacrificed, for his family?" Lady Olenna said softly. "Lord Varys tells me that Lord Stark was prepared to die, until they threatened your sister's life… He confessed to treason to protect her. His daughter. What would you do for your sister?"
Cold rage gripped Jon, shooting ice through his veins; the thought of Littlefinger, sniffing around Sansa, obsequious and foul and avaricious, lusting after her…his fingers twitched, aching to wrap themselves around his sword, or Littlefinger's throat once more… The thought of leaving her there, with him…was intolerable. The idea that he might hurt her…that he had hurt her, selling her to their enemies, that he was a cause of Sansa's torture…
Lady Olenna nodded understandingly. "It is my belief that Lord Stark sacrificed his honour for his sister's virtue. To protect you."
If Lyanna Stark is my mother…then…Rhaegar Targaryen was my father…
"To protect the child forced on his sister?"
Lady Olenna's smile was sad and almost pitying. "Jon… Until direwolves learn to write, the hunter will always be victorious… Rhaegar died; Robert took the crown. Do you imagine, had Rhaegar and Lyanna lived, that the tales would have had Rhaegar kidnapping and raping the girl? I knew the Last Dragon: It would have gone against everything that he stood for, to abuse and dishonour Lyanna Stark. After what he witnessed his mother endure all those years… Rhaegar…was a romantic. A grim warrior with the heart of a poet - he believed…in love. When the histories are written by the winning side, it is always best to take them with a handful of salt."
Jon gulped, stared at the old lady. "I do not know what you think you could get out of sharing this…this theory with me. To make me question my father's honour?"
"No, no… Certainly not," Lady Olenna said, her tone gentle, appeasing. She gave him another sorrowful, compassionate look. "Merely to prove that…sometimes it is not so clear, what the honourable thing is."
"From a young age I have always dreaded that I may father a bastard," Jon said, frowning. "I know what its life would be. I promised myself I never would inflict that life on an innocent."
"Your child by Alynore would not be a bastard; they would be heir to Highgarden," Lady Olenna said stoutly. "More to the point, the child would be passed off as my grandson Willas'. Or would you risk the child's life by blabbing the truth?"
"I would not. But who's to say Lord Varys won't get wind of the truth and tell anyone who'd love to rip the rose-garden from the Reach for good?" Jon asked, frowning.
"Oh, the Spider. Do you really think he would tell? Under House Tyrell, the Reach has become peaceful and prosperous, a hub of culture and arts, theatre and music unknown to the rest of the continent," Lady Olenna said, waving a hand. "To preserve that prosperity…do you think the Spider would risk such information getting abroad?"
"He could still tell the Queen." Lady Olenna narrowed her eyes, her expression almost dismissive. "I'm not deaf to rumour, or blind to what I see before my eyes: I know the Queen desires me as a lover. How do you think she would react, to know that I reject her, and yet bed one of her ladies?"
"Lord Varys possesses that unique quality…of tact," Lady Olenna mused. "What benefit could there be in telling the Queen, when the inevitable backlash would have lasting consequences on any potential alliances… I know that the Spider often seeks you out. In the weeks since you have been on Dragonstone, how would you describe the changes in his attitudes toward the Queen?"
"I'd describe him as disillusioned," Jon said honestly, and Lady Olenna nodded.
"Very astute. Never meet one's heroes, Your Grace," Lady Olenna advised, and Jon thought inexplicably of the Halfhand. "From half a world away, pretty songs reached the Spider…and he was lulled by them, to be sure, drawn out of his web… Only to be met with the reality of a spoiled, arrogant girl with no traces of diplomatic agility, an overzealous opportunist who became little more than a warlord who has convinced herself she is a liberator, a creature who thinks herself closer to a god than a girl, and beholden to now laws but those of her own making… She fancies herself rightful sovereign of Westeros, based on her name, the power of her dragons, and a failed experiment in a city-state she overturned in an afternoon, and which she abandoned in economic crisis and civil war when she lost interest in the arduous everyday of ruling…"
"It's dangerous for you to speak so candidly. Why tell me this?"
"I thought an alliance worth it to see Cersei dragged from the Throne Room to be butchered," Lady Olenna said sharply. She sighed, settling back against her pillows. "For being so unwise as to pursue vengeance, I paid the price with what remained of my family… I will not deny, I need allies still to reclaim Highgarden. House Redwyne itself will not suffice, and I have made offers of friendship with Dornish lords bordering the Reach - the lands owned by the bannermen who betrayed us… But, like dear Lord Varys, I worry for the future of Westeros. The Queen is rigid in her belief that everything she thinks and feels and does is right, and good…even as she commits acts reminiscent of her father's unyielding sadism… Her messianic belief in her own mythology is perhaps even stronger than the fanaticism exhibited by her followers. To believe that she alone is right…to be so unwise that she will not compromise… To deny you aid without payment, all while claiming that she has come to Westeros to save its people... It speaks to her true intent, no matter how many pretty speeches she gives about freedom…"
"She's always gotten exactly what she's wished," Jon said quietly. "I'm afraid that Westeros will be no different. The moment she realises she's neither wanted nor adored…when someone intimates that she is wrong to invade Westeros…that there was just cause for overthrowing her father… With her dragons, and her temper…"
"Yes," Lady Olenna agreed, not needing Jon to spell it out for her.
"She'll burn what does not bend to her will," Jon muttered, and Lady Olenna nodded.
Hadn't she done so, in the past, all throughout Slavers' Bay? Her followers delighted in telling the stories of how she had overthrown their cities, and crucified and burned the nobles, liberating the slaves. Crucified and burned…because they would not yield to her.
To Jon, she did not sound a liberator.
She was a warlord, leaving unthinking destruction in her wake, as terrible as any highborn of Westeros leading their men to battle for their own vanity.
And the arrogant way she had told her Council that she would use Meereen as experience of ruling, before she turned her gaze westward to conquer the Seven Kingdoms…
The more Jon learned of Daenerys Targaryen, the less respect he had for her.
"Until then… I will do what I must to protect the few rosebuds that remain," Lady Olenna sighed, looking suddenly tired.
Jon smiled sadly, thinking of home. "There are some hardy roses that bloom even in the heart of winter," he said softly, and Lady Olenna smiled almost wistfully. "Maester Luwin used to say that 'the flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all'. He used to say it of my sister Larra…now I know it describes Sansa, too… Lady Alynore has it in her to flourish in spite of everything."
"I am glad that you were so quick to appreciate her worth," Lady Olenna sighed. "I let her down."
"You didn't."
"I did. And I will continue to do so, while I lie here slowly dying, frail and useless."
"You're not useless, and you certainly do not seem frail," Jon said, and Lady Olenna's lips twitch. "I know I'm not your king, Lady Olenna…but I forbid you to die."
"Give me a great-grandchild to look forward to, and I just may yet obey you, Your Grace."
A.N.: I LOVE OLENNA.
Sorry this chapter's so long. I got rather carried away with Larra's/Littlefinger's conspiracy theories.
Also, I hadn't intended for Lady Olenna to drop the bombshell on Jon about Lyanna…but she's shrewd and knows how to shock people just to prove a point. And it gets Jon thinking about it.