A.N.: So Larra's new armour/outfit is influenced heavily both by Boromir's outfit in The Fellowship of the Ring and by Lagertha's black armour on Vikings (pins saved to my board because I can't remember which season she wears it! - my name on Pinterest is mellowukgal and the board is 'Larra Snow - Valyrian Steel', sub-section 'Larra'). The armour had to be different from Arya's masculine outfit, showing that Larra is still feminine despite having to become a warrior to survive. And when I say she wears a split-skirt, I mean like they'd wear in Victorian times for cycling/horseback riding, so they're modest and feminine but you can move around in them.
Moshi, just stop. I'm tired of deleting your tirades. Don't ruin my anticipation of reading reviews when I update.
Valyrian Steel
24
He Never Liked It
The courtyard was eerily quiet. Since her return, she had not known the castle to be still, even during the Hour of the Wolf. And yet, today, as fat snowdrops whirled idly on a gentle breeze, the ominous silence chilled her to the bone.
Two guards led her, holding flickering torches aloft. It was not yet near sundown, and yet it was necessary to light the torches, especially within the halls of the castle; angry black clouds threatened to consume the fluffy white expanse that brought the snows, foretelling a worse storm. Light from torches held by more soldiers, and braziers in the courtyard and the gallery high above, gilded everything, from the soldiers' helmets to the ancestral rune-engraved armour of Yohn Royce, the ragged furs of a few curious smallfolk, and the banners of the Northmen. Lady Mormont's black sharp new leather armour gleamed; her scowl was heavy, and a few of the other bannermen shifted uneasily as Larra was led into the centre of the courtyard.
Before her, Sansa's red hair glowed a deep and vibrant copper in the firelight, which picked out the blue of her eyes and cast shadows across her beautiful face. The red direwolf that had toyed with Larra's boot in the makeshift hut beyond the Wall so many weeks ago rested beside Sansa, ears pricked, panting, and yawned widely, exposing her terrible white fangs. Beside her, Brandon sat in his chair, looking complacent and calm, his gloved hands folded in his lap.
The guards stopped. Larra tucked her chin down, glancing around, feeling the hostility emanating in waves from the Northmen and Valemen gathered in a U-shape around the courtyard, all facing Sansa and Brandon - penning her in. All of them - the Northmen who had already arrived at Winterfell to fight through the storm with them; the Valeman who had remained after the Battle of the Bastards out of dread of Littlefinger more than loyalty to Sansa, and a sense of honour to defeat the enemy Jon warned them of. A few of Jon's commanders among the Free Folk lingered, curious. They were all gathered - all silent, and solemn.
Another guard stepped forward. Careful of where he put his hands, he unbuckled the belts strapping her new dagger and the hunting-knife Robb had given her around her narrow waist. The Valyrian steel dagger, he gave to Sansa, the hunting-knife to Lady Brienne, who stood guard just behind Sansa, armoured and armed and grim.
Larra did not resist as she was relieved of Dark Sister, watching grimly as the ancient Valyrian sword was handed to Lord Royce.
She turned and sighed, gazing mournfully at Sansa. "You've made your choice, then."
"There was no choice," Sansa said, her voice crisp. She lowered her eyes demurely, but seemed to steel herself, and gazed at Larra. You owe it to them to look them in the eye… "Honour demands I must act to defend my family from those who would harm us. I must protect my people from those who would betray us."
"Nasty business," Larra said offhandedly, seemingly unconcerned that she was penned in, defenceless, friendless. She fixed Sansa with a sharp look. "Shall we get it over with?"
"Yes, I think so…" Sansa nodded, her breath pluming before her as she sighed, and cleared her throat uncomfortably. Her voice was clear, and cut through the silence like a Valyrian steel blade. "You stand accused of treason. You stand accused of murder. How do you answer these charges…Lord Baelish?"
The dark little man stood leaning indolently against a direwolf statue by one of the gates - which was closed, and guarded. And he looked utterly taken-aback to be addressed by Sansa, her hair shimmering like a long copper curtain as she turned to stare at him.
Larra followed her gaze, to find the man looking momentarily startled, confused.
The men and women gathered in the courtyard seemed to harden in that moment, as Littlefinger blinked in confusion, thinking quickly. Their gazes lingered on him, steel and venom. Lord Royce's scowl deepened; Lady Mormont's eyes narrowed. Lord Manderly and Crowsfood Umber both glowered, their hands twitching for the weapons strapped to them. Lady Karstark glanced from Littlefinger to Sansa, a faint frown on her face, before exchanging a look with Little Jon Umber, who stood scowling with his arms folded over his chest, muttering under his breath to Ragnar, who looked for a second murderous - and then relieved, his gaze flitting to Larra: He sagged with relief, and smiled softly at her.
A shadow moved, and the tremendous direwolf Last Shadow padded through the crowds, taller than any pony, enormous, vicious, and bumped gently against Larra, radiating heat, before licking her bare palm, exposing her fangs at Littlefinger in silent warning as her eyes glittered in the firelight.
"My sister has addressed you, my lord," Larra said softly, absently running her fingers through Shadow's thick pelt.
Littlefinger frowned, his eyes turning shrewd, calculating - but he looked off-kilter, as if he had suddenly found himself on uncertain footing, and had no idea how it had happened.
"Lady Sansa, forgive me…" he lisped. He never called her Lady Stark, never acknowledged that she, and not Brandon in his wheeled chair, was the only true heir to Winterfell. "I'm a bit confused."
"It is rather a lot to contemplate, I know. So many plots and betrayals, it must be a constant struggle to keep track of them all," Sansa said, her voice cool. "I'll make it simple for you. You murdered my aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the Moon-Door at the Eyrie and watched her fall to her death, do you deny it?"
Littlefinger gazed at Sansa, thinking quickly. His voice was soft, as he said, "I did it to protect you."
"You did it to take power in the Vale from my cousin and his true protectors," Sansa said sharply, and the Valemen stirred. "Before that, you conspired to assassinate King Joffrey, using the Strangler, smuggled into the royal wedding on a necklace you planted on me. Years ago, you conspired with Lysa to poison her husband, the Hand of the King Jon Arryn, when he had discovered the truth about Cersei Lannister's children, bastards conceived of incest with her twin-brother Ser Jaime Lannister. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison Jon Arryn, do you deny it?"
Another hesitation, thinking. "Whatever your aunt might have told you, she was a troubled woman."
"She was utterly in thrall to you, as you well knew. She poisoned Jon Arryn for you, because you told her to, tempting her with the promise of marriage if she were free of him. Something she had wanted since she was a girl, and of which you had long taken advantage of," Sansa said coldly. "You had her write a letter to my mother, telling her it was the Lannisters who had conspired to kill her husband, when really it was you. The conflict between the Starks and Lannisters, it was you who started it as part of your ambitious plan to claim the Iron Throne for yourself, do you deny it?"
"I know of no such letter."
"Convenient that Lysa wrote to her sister to burn it, lest it fall into the wrong hands and her head - and that of her child - end up on spikes before the Red Keep," Sansa said, glaring at Littlefinger. "But it was my father's head that ended up there, after you helped him discover Robert Baratheon's bastards as evidence against the Queen's treason. You let the Lord Hand learn just enough to be dangerous - and you conspired with Cersei Lannister and her bastard son Joffrey to betray Lord Stark before the truth could come to light. Thanks to your treachery, Lord Eddard Stark was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason, do you deny it?"
"I deny it!" Littlefinger called, striding into the centre of the courtyard, the wings of his coat flaring as he turned, attempting to find a friendly face, an ally to vouch for him. None presented themselves. He was met by a wall of ice. "None of you were there to see what happened! None of you knows the truth."
"You held a knife to his throat," said a soft voice, silky and ancient with a hint of vulnerability. Bran's eyes glittered in the torchlight like the eyes of a raven. "You said…'I did warn you not to trust me'."
Littlefinger stared back at Bran, unable to show just how unnerved he was.
It was not the first time the Three-Eyed Raven had frightened the mockingbird.
Last Shadow started to growl, low and soft and spine-tingling in the silence. Larra stroked her ears, and they twitched; Shadow fidgeted, then chuffed indignantly, glancing up at her. She settled, and the red wolf by Sansa cocked her head, emulating her leader.
"When my mother journeyed to King's Landing, following the attack on her son's life with this blade, you told her it belonged to Tyrion Lannister," Sansa said, holding aloft the Valyrian steel blade so that the dragonbone hilt was clearly visible, the cruel smoke-over-silver blade gleaming. "Another lie. It is a Targaryen relic, one among many in the royal armoury… It was the Queen's bastard Joffrey who paid a cutthroat to kill Bran… But you knew exactly what my mother wanted to hear, after having Lysa send that letter, to plant doubt and suspicion about the Lannisters…"
Littlefinger surged toward Sansa: The red direwolf growled, low and lethal, exposing her fangs. She was smaller and younger than Shadow but no less dangerous. Lady Brienne stepped forward, hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper, her expression cold and dangerous. Littlefinger stopped, eyeing her warily. He beseeched Sansa, "Lady Sansa, I've known you since you were a girl. I've protected you -"
"Protected me? By selling me to the Boltons?" Sansa snapped, and the red wolf snapped her jaws, causing Littlefinger to jump back.
He flinched. "If we could speak alone… I can explain everything…"
Sansa's face became cold and perfect as carved marble. Her dainty lips flicked up in the corners, her smile lethal, ironic, and did nothing to soften the ice in her hard blue eyes. She stepped forward, around Lady Brienne, the folds of her heavy cloak whispering against the snow on the ground, the firelight gleaming against the leather she used to strap herself into her gowns and protect herself from any kind of contact. Littlefinger closed his eyes as she started to speak, as he realised…he had overplayed his hand - underestimated his apprentice: "Sometimes, when I'm trying to understand a person's motives, I play a little game… I assume the worst… What's the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister? That's what you do, isn't it? What you've always done. Turn family against family, turn sister against sister. That's what you did to my mother and Aunt Lysa, that's what you tried to do us."
Sansa finally looked at Larra, who fell into place, close enough to Lord Baelish to see the growing panic bubbling up behind his intelligent eyes.
Had he been less exultant that the pieces were falling into place exactly as he had planned, again, and paid more attention to the details, he might have noticed. Might have been forewarned.
Larra wore new clothing.
A split-skirt of thick dark wool, the hems falling neatly above her ankles, fine leather boots and a long undershirt of brownish-black linen beneath a fine leather tunic to her elbows. Over the leather tunic, a thick, high-necked garnet-red tunic of silk over wool with wide sleeves to just above the elbows, the sleeves embroidered intricately with snow-bitten weirwood leaves, the high neck sewn with two direwolf heads meeting nose-to-nose, worn beneath an armoured leather bodice fitted almost like a corset, the leather dyed closer to a warm black than brown in colour, sewn like a brigandine with small panels of steel concealed beneath the intricately embossed leather, the centre panel, with a V neckline to accommodate for dressing, shimmered curiously in the torchlight as the fire reflected off thousands of tiny obsidian rings, embroidered with steel-wire and leather cord into the shape of two rearing direwolves, nose to nose, not snarling aggressively but rather nuzzling each other lovingly, protectively. The firelight turned the direwolves onyx, or gleaming copper, or bright, hot white by turns. The shoulders shimmered, too, like liquid obsidian dripping over the garnet-red sleeves of the tunic, hundreds more rings of obsidian stitched together, protecting her shoulders and upper-arms. Steel-reinforced leather gauntlets finely embossed with weirwood trees protected her lower-arms, and her belts had been studded with small direwolf-heads.
Some might look at Larra's new armoured bodice and obsidian ring-mail, and assume the black was for her brother, sworn to the Night's Watch, or for her direwolf, night-black and swift as shadows, that the garnet-red was a nod to the weirwood under which she had dwelled in safety for so long, and with which her brother was inextricably linked, or for the blood that had been spilled in her dedication to protecting her family. All would be true.
Sansa had chosen the deep, earthy jewel-red, and a rich treacle brown so dark it was near-black, to honour all of those things: But she had also chosen the colours to honour Rhaegar.
The sigil of her mother's House, the House of the man who had raised and protected her, and the colours of her father's House. Allowing Larra to embrace both facets of her true identity, the daughter of Stark and Targaryen, of ice and fire.
Sansa had created every piece with meticulous attention to even the smallest detail.
She had embroidered the tunic herself, adding a snarling direwolf head over the breast, only visible when the armoured bodice was removed. Obsidian rings, to protect her sister's heart from a White Walker's blade of ice.
Sansa had poured her love for her sister into every stitch.
Had sent Lady Brienne to Larra with the clothing mere hours ago, stitched by her own sister's hands, bequeathing her the sigil so long denied her. Declaring Larra's heritage, and Sansa's love, for all to see, if they but looked.
Littlefinger hadn't paid attention. Should have recognised the stitching on the sleeves of Larra's tunic, should have thought long and hard about why Sansa would have spent so many hours meticulously stitching clothing for the sister she was about to betray.
He should have realised, the moment Larra stepped into the courtyard, that Sansa, with her direwolf-clasped shadowcat-fur cloak and the two snarling direwolves - one snow-white and one of obsidian - racing across the black velvet over her breasts, and Larra, with two direwolves nuzzling lovingly on her armoured bodice, and Brandon, the clasps of his fur-trimmed gown each a direwolf-head, were a family united.
He should have realised the trap had been baited, not for Larra…but for him.
Wolves surrounding their prey, ready for the kill.
Larra tilted her head to observe the mockingbird panicking in the snow.
"We are not gaping trout to be hooked on a line, Lord Baelish," she said calmly, and the slender man winced, glancing quickly away from her, as if suddenly frightened of her gentleness. "We are she-wolves of Winterfell. To return home, we have defeated far worse than you."
"Sansa, please…"
"I'm a slow learner, it's true," Sansa sighed. "But I learn."
"Give me a chance to defend myself," Littlefinger begged. "I deserve that."
Sansa said nothing, only gazed unerringly at the trapped bird unable to take wing, his long sleeves billowed as he whirled toward Lord Royce, still propping Dark Sister up in the snow, resting his clasped hands on the ruby-inlaid hilt. He glowered at Littlefinger, who was puffing up, fluffing his feathers, aware he was under threat, doing his utmost to appear bigger, more powerful.
"I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie."
"I think not."
Littlefinger deflated, blinking dazedly. He turned to Sansa, beseeching.
"Sansa, please - I loved your mother since the time I was a boy," he implored.
"And yet you betrayed her."
"I loved you…more than anyone," he whimpered.
"And yet, you betrayed me…" Sansa said sadly, her gaze steady as she stared down Littlefinger. Her breath plumed in front of her, catching in the firelight, as she sighed. "When you brought me back to Winterfell to sell me to the Boltons to be brutalised, you told me there is no justice in the world, not unless we make it," she said, and again, Littlefinger flinched; others murmured, a soft hiss carried on the winds, and, from somewhere beyond the castle walls…direwolves started howling to the moon. Their howls were blood-curdling, to those who did not know the beauty of wolves singing to one another. Littlefinger jumped, and others gazed warily around them, eyeing the gates, as if unnerved, thinking that perhaps the wolves of winter would snarl and snap and leap into the courtyard to join their sisters at a summons from the she-wolves of Winterfell.
"I thank you for your tutelage, Lord Baelish. I shall never forget your lessons."
Littlefinger gaped, his eyes widening, as Sansa drew herself up. The firelight gleamed off her hair, off the twin wolves glimmering across her breasts, off the dragonbone hilt of the silver-and-smoke Valyrian steel dagger that had created such tragedy for their family.
"In the name of Jon Snow, King in the North, I, Sansa Stark, Castellan of Winterfell and Lady Regent of the North, find you guilty of conspiracy, of treason, of murder and regicide," Sansa said, her voice clear and strong. "In the name of House Stark and of my King, I sentence you to die."
Littlefinger's eyes popped, his lips parted, and he stood gaping, like the trout he had tickled and manipulated and battered against the rocks so easily.
Larra's glare was ice-cold and fierce: Littlefinger blinked quickly, wincing and shrinking away from her, though she stood quite still. Power, menace radiated from her, but when she spoke, Larra was deceptively calm, polite. He closed his eyes, realising his mistake, when she said, "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives."
She strode to Lord Royce, who bowed solemnly, and offered the sheath of Dark Sister: Larra gripped the hilt, and unsheathed the lethal blade. The rippled silver-and-smoke blade gleamed in the torchlight, eerily entrancing, and she turned back to Littlefinger, who eyed the blade with true panic settling in.
"You should have realised, Petyr," she said softly, and he cringed regretfully as she said, "we would rather die than betray one another…" She nodded to two guards, who strode forward, taking hold of his arms, guiding him to his knees. A block was placed before him, to lean over. His breath plumed before him, thick and fast as he started to hyperventilate in his fear.
Larra paused, and took a knee before him, to look into his face. "Do you have any last words?"
Littlefinger sniffed, his eyes glittering, as he glanced across the courtyard, where Sansa stared stonily back at him, unmoved by his terror.
"I played well," Lord Petyr Baelish muttered, and Larra nodded, almost to herself.
She gave him a sharp and dangerous look, her tone quiet but deeply threatening, as she warned him, "Now die well."
For her sake, Larra thought, casting one last glance at her sister, before she sighed deeply, eyed Littlefinger's exposed neck…and swung Dark Sister through the darkness.
A swish that was delicate, almost imperceptible. A gruesome squelch and a decisive thud.
A sudden silence, as the direwolves fell silent.
Blood oozed sluggishly from her blade, already starting to freeze in the cold, as the snow stopped falling, and the sky darkened near-black, the clouds threatening thunder, heavy with hail.
"Burn his body," she said quietly, and everyone in the courtyard heard her, though she spoke barely above a murmur. "Scatter his ashes beyond the sept."
She did not wait to see the orders carried out, or the body parts gathered up and carried away. Larra turned and carried Dark Sister to one of the wooden gates into the godswood, trudged through the snow, and sank down beneath the weirwood, as she had seen Father do so many times.
Feeding the tree, she thought, as Littlefinger's blood dripped onto the snow, a jarring contrast. She used handfuls of snow to wash the blood away, then pulled out an oiled suede cloth to polish the blade to a high shine. The moon had already risen, a half-crescent, but shy tonight, hiding behind the sea of sinister clouds. The soft crunch of snow compacting underfoot alerted her to Sansa's approach: no-one else would dare disturb her under the heart-tree.
"How many times did we find Father sitting there, cleansing Ice?" Sansa said sadly, tucking her heavy cloak around her as she sat down beside Larra on one of the ancient, gnarled roots. "I found Jon here, after the Battle of the Bastards… I came here, after the hounds… I never truly knew what it meant, why Father came here…"
Larra finished polishing the blade, and carefully sheathed it, propping it beside her. "How do you feel?"
"It's a strange thing, to take a man's life," Sansa murmured, hugging her knees. "You gave him a clean death."
"For your sake, I'm glad he died well," Larra said quietly. She leaned over, and kissed Sansa's cheek, stroking a hand over her long, soft hair. "You did well."
"I did my duty…but I hated it," Sansa confessed on a whisper, her eyes shining as she glanced at Larra.
"Good."
"Father never liked it… Hm."
"What?"
"You remember I told you about Sandor Clegane, the night of the Blackwater? He was covered in gore, and I was frightened of him. He knew it. 'Your father was a killer', he told me 'Your brother is a killer. Your sons will be killers someday. The world is built by killers. So you'd better get used to looking at them'… He was right, of course…but how could he have known about my sisters then? About me? Two men have died directly at my word, if not my sword."
"Two men who did far worse to you," Larra reminded her gently, not that Sansa would ever need reminding. She may wear Ghost upon her breast, but Sansa was still strapped in her leather gear, protecting herself from the slightest touch, even affectionate. She was warming to Larra, in the privacy of the solar, but it would take years before she would be comfortably being physically affectionate again. She had simply endured too much hurt. "I have killed countless wights, and one White Walker… I have killed twelve men, including the three Ironborn who would have raped and mutilated me… I remember every single kill. I also know that if I hadn't, I would not be alive now. Bran would not be alive… There was some truth in what Littlefinger intimated about Rickon. That my choice led to his death."
"You cannot listen to anything Littlefinger said."
"He was right, Sansa, that's why it made such a dangerous weapon against me," Larra murmured, sniffing. "I chose Bran. And that fills me with shame. I chose one brother over the other."
"You chose one to save both," Sansa said, her voice gentle, reasonable. "Rickon would never have survived the True North - not the little boy I remember. You would have failed, trying to gentle his nature, and it would have cost you your lives. You couldn't have saved both. Just like you could never have reclaimed this castle from the Ironborn, not without risking the lives of the smallfolk - and you would never have allowed them to die for nothing. I've read your cyvasse campaign strategies."
"It's one thing to play at cyvasse and another to implement strategy in real life…" Larra said dazedly. "There's no accounting for how emotion outweighs pragmatism."
"If you could go back…and you knew what was going to happen…what would you do?" Sansa asked curiously.
"What would you do?" Larra asked.
"Tell Robb not to raise the banners; Father was as good as dead the moment that boar gored King Robert. I would risk everything to tell Robb to declare independence - and fiercely guard it from anyone who tried to take it from the North again, and to never think of his sisters," Sansa said, fierce and wise. "To be as ruthless and cold as our ancestors had to be."
Larra sighed, and watched Last Shadow and the red wolf approaching quietly, curling up together at the base of a tree.
"If I could go back…and knew what was to happen… I wouldn't change a single thing," Larra said, holding Sansa's eye sombrely. "That's the horrifying truth. Father…Robb…Rickon… I know what came after. I know what's still to come. And where we are is where we were always meant to be." She sighed, gazing up; in the dwindling twilight, the blood-red weirwood leaves were eerily vibrant. She thought of Lord Bloodraven, of the Children… "There's a reason…we were always meant to be here. To fight. Perhaps to live. And that is an encouraging thought."
More footsteps; the direwolves glanced up, but lolled back against the snow, yawning carelessly.
Lord Royce's armour gleamed in the light of torches held by knights of the Vale. He bowed low to Larra, and Sansa, and told them, "The thing was done well, my ladies."
"It was a thing we took no pleasure in," Sansa said.
"No indeed, but your Father would have been proud nonetheless," Lord Royce said. "The Northmen live by the old ways, as he always said. You got the better of a dangerous man who would have done his utmost to harm you, as he already has…" His gaze lingered briefly on Sansa, who remained on weirwood root even as Larra stood, too accustomed to rising in the presence of her betters. "I speak for all the Lords of the Vale, and the Lord Protectors of House Arryn and the Eyrie, when I say the Vale owes House Stark a great debt. You have avenged Lord Arryn, a man we respected and followed through wartime and together enjoyed peace. You avenged his wife. For that, we are utterly grateful."
"You will tell my cousin the truth of things?" Sansa asked hesitantly. "He had great love for Lord Baelish."
"The boy will come to learn the truth, my lady, but not for a while yet," Lord Royce said. "We have discussed it amongst ourselves: In light of everything, the Lords Protector of the Vale hope to forge a lasting alliance between the Eyrie and House Stark. It began with the Battle of the Bastards; it shall not end before the battle through the Long Night."
"You will stay and fight?" Larra asked breathlessly, something fluttering in her chest. It had always been one of the risks they had calculated, her and Sansa, that without Littlefinger pulling strings, the Valemen would return to their mountain-halls.
"I grew up with your father," Lord Royce said stoutly. "I know full well, observing him these months, that Ned Stark's quality has passed to his son. I have known too many soldiers to believe your brother is either a liar or a madman. The Vale will stand beside the Northmen against the White Walkers, as our ancestors the First Men did so many ages ago. We should be ashamed to turn tail and flee back to the mountains and still call ourselves knights of the realm."
"Thank you, Lord Royce," Larra said earnestly, and Sansa gave him a serene, beautiful smile.
He gave them a deep bow: Both women responded with an elegant curtsy.
"There is one last thing, my ladies… The first shipment of obsidian has arrived from Dragonstone. The blacksmiths are rather at a loss what to do with it."
Belting her sword around her waist, Larra's solemn face melted into a smile, her eyes vibrant in the torchlight.
"Finally!" she smiled. "You can finally put me to good use."
"Pardon?" Sansa blurted, her eyelashes fluttering.
"Dancing wasn't the only lesson the Children gave me."
"You're certain this is what you want?" he asked, his voice sounding too loud in the empty chamber. A fire crackled in the hearth, shedding warm golden light over everything. "I don't want you to regret it."
"There are many things I know I'll regret for the rest of my life," Alynore said softly, her smile desperately sad. It gentled, became soft, and her eyes seemed to radiate their own inner-light as she gazed up at Jon. "You will not be one of them… Every fibre of my being tells me that I can trust you. Not just…to treat me with kindness and respect… You're a man of honour: You could never be forced or coerced into doing anything that might risk your child's life, even if no-one knows the chid is yours… And you're too cautious, and have no political ambition beyond protecting your people; you would not use the child - our child - as leverage… You're grim, and honourable, and unselfish. And for all those reasons, I wanted it to be you."
He was humbled by what she had said.
"Why ask me, to give you a child?" Jon asked, something that had been on his mind ever since she had proposed the idea to him. "Why not just climb into my bed?"
"And have you find out after the fact that that is why I slept with you, for your seed alone? I couldn't do that to you," Alynore said, and warmth coloured her cheeks delicate pink, her eyelashes fluttering, her expression turning bashful. "And I… I never have before." In her nightgown and robe, she looked ethereally lovely, and Jon admitted it, he was entranced by her loveliness. There was a strength and a vulnerability to her that was as heartening as it was refreshing.
There was nothing shy about her going up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips against his. He moaned softly, surprised, but found himself relaxing into the kiss as Alynore teased and dominated… He panted as they broke apart, gently squeezing her waist, surprised. She dimpled sweetly, shyly asking, "Did you think I'd never been kissed?"
"I'd hoped not, for your sake."
She smiled, and Jon cradled her slender throat in his hand, leaning down to snare her lips, kissing her slowly, fiercely, consuming her, until she was panting in his arms, her knees weak, her hands tugging at his undershirt. Hand tangled in her hair, she gasped softly as he first delicately kissed and then teased his tongue against her lower-lip, and held her close against him, consuming each other, embers sparking to an inferno in his blood, desire warring with desperation for contact, for intimacy…
She broke away, tugging his undershirt over his head, leaving him in his boots and breeches.
She gasped, her eyes widening in horror, hand fluttering to her mouth, one to his chest, just barely catching herself from tracing the deep, wicked scars slashing his flesh.
Jon froze.
He had forgotten them. They gave him no pain.
But he clenched his jaw and felt a flush of something…something like humiliation - because there they were, irrefutable signs that he had been utterly betrayed by those he led. The reminder that those he had trusted to do what was right, no matter their personal feelings, had used his few weaknesses - Benjen's fate - against him in a conspiracy to assassinate him.
He gulped down a breath, forced a grim smile onto his face. "You see…there's nothing you can show me that you should ever feel embarrassed about."
She had been so shy when he arrived, her hands shaking, breaths coming quick, even though he could tell by looking at her that she had spent a long time preparing for his visit, her nightgown and robe simple, her hair brushed out and gleaming. She had never had a man before, he had already guessed that much; she had just confirmed it.
And she had been embarrassed about taking her clothes off in front of him, the first man to ever see her naked.
"There are so many," she whispered, her eyes still wide. Finally she reached out, her eyelashes flickering gold in the candlelight, as she traced the curved scar… "They twisted the blade…"
"Aye," Jon murmured, and Alynore leaned forward, pressing her lips to the tough, puckered skin. One by one, each scar was caressed by the lightest of kisses from her soft lips, down his chest. He inhaled sharply, finding himself swaying, and gripped the bed-post, as she pressed a gentle kiss over his hip, where the skin was unblemished but incredibly sensitive…
He curled a finger under her chin, drawing her back up, and claimed her lips with an intense kiss that left them both breathless and lightheaded.
She gazed up at him, lightly panting, lips swollen, cheeks flushed delicately, her eyes heated with desire. Her eyes dipped to his breeches. Jon smiled, and leaned in to kiss her gently, sensing her nervousness; her palms were soft, warm, as they rested on his waist, and shook only slightly as they went for the laces of his breeches. She only got as far as loosening the laces, before her nerve failed her; Jon just hugged her closer, deepening the kiss, until she was all but collapsed against him, her hand tangled in his hair, her fingertips biting into his bare shoulder, and he reached for the delicate clasp closing her robe, pushing the silk from her shoulders, so that it fell heavily to the floor at their feet.
"Climb onto the bed," he told her hoarsely, and Alynore nodded, swallowing, and climbed onto the bed, the quilts and furs already turned down. She knelt on the mattress, watching him, the firelight glowing through the thin muslin and highlighting every tempting curve, as he tugged off his boots with a groan, and climbed onto the bed, kneeling before her. She was still nervous; he wouldn't take off his breeches until she was ready. Her breath feathered across his face as she gazed up at him, eyes wide, lips swollen, and he cradled her face in his hands, mesmerised by her strength and daintiness, by the desire glowing in her eyes and the faint tremor in her fingers as she reached out to trace her fingertips over his arms, his shoulders, over his chest.
He ran his hands heavily, from her shoulders to her knees, the first caress through the muslin; then reached for the hem of the nightgown, and lifted it over her head, leaving her naked. The room was hot; but her dainty apricot-pink nipples hardened under his gaze, begging to be sucked. He groaned softly, unable to stop himself, and leaned in to capture Alynore with a deep, probing kiss as he raised his hands to cup and gently knead her pretty little breasts. She gasped against his lips, shivering, and gripped the waist of his breeches, meeting his fierce kiss.
Not yet, he thought, as she tugged insistently, leaning away to gaze fiercely into his eyes, telling him without words what she wanted. He guided her to her back, relaxing against the pillows, and moaned softly as he nestled between her thighs, to trace kisses on the tip of her nose, along her jaw, down her throat, to suck on her collarbones, and finally, to lick and suckle her breasts, until she was gasping and grinning and moaning as she writhed, holding his head captive to her chest, her fingers tangled in his hair, and he tenderly touched the tiny rosebud between her thighs.
Shocked, she gasped; her first touch from a man, perhaps at all. Slow, and soft, Jon continued to suckle and tease her nipples with his tongue and his teeth, cupping her breasts with his free hand, leaning up to give her long, slow kisses in time with each pass of his fingertip.
"Jon!" she gasped, blinking dazedly, and he grinned, and placed a delicate line of kisses from nose to navel, and, lowering himself until he rested between her thighs, she gasped and flushed hotly and writhed away, trying to clamp her thighs together - he arched an eyebrow, spreading his calloused palms on her soft thighs, and lowered his mouth to her.
"Oh!" she gasped in surprise, moaning, and she sighed, her legs sprawled wantonly, her body relaxing utterly. And Jon was relentless, using his tongue and his teeth and his fingers, coaxing her to an inferno, until her thighs were shaking and her back was arched and Alynore had forgotten her shyness, lost to everything but the sensation of Jon between her thighs - and then, not even him: Just the onslaught of feeling he created in her, seizing her, overwhelming her, freeing her of everything but an exquisite agony that brought utter peace and contentment, even if only for a few unending moments as she lay, flushed with pleasure, a slow smile curling her lips.
She was utterly lovely to behold.
He wiped his mouth on his arm, and sighed, satisfied, disentangling himself from her legs, to stretch out beside her. She radiated heat, her skin silky soft and delicately fragrant, tiny beads of sweat shimmering in the firelight, her hair glowing… Lovely, he thought, startled that for a moment her hair seemed almost red.
After a moment, Alynore smiled richly, coming back to herself, and sighed, turning her head to him, her smile deeply affectionate, and he chuckled softly to himself, glad.
"I didn't know men did that."
"It's my favourite thing to do," Jon told her, and Alynore giggled softly, biting her lip.
"Then I shall let you treat yourself whenever you choose," she said, and Jon laughed in surprise at her brazenness. He reached out, to cup her face, and tenderly draw his thumb over her nose, her lips. He leaned in, giving her a gentle kiss, and she rolled onto her side, pressing close against him, her hand going to his breeches, and he groaned as she slipped her hand inside, hesitant at first, then seeking, and finally, her eyes alight with curiosity and anticipation, started to stroke him, hard and hot and insistent against her soft palm.
"Wait…" Jon murmured, and Alynore stilled. He gave her a coaxing smile, to show she hadn't done something wrong. "Careful," he warned her, giving her a gentle kiss, and guided them back to the pillows, reaching down to tug his breeches off, flinging them off the bed, as Alynore rolled to her back, and he stretched out above her, pressing their hips flush together, gently rocking for a moment, and he leaned down to kiss her as her thighs tensed, and uncertainty flickered across her face at the heat and hardness of him, so unfamiliarly close to her. Panting lightly, he gazed down into her eyes, and told her, "We don't have to… Say the word, and I'll leave…"
Alynore gazed up at him. She licked her lips, and subtly shook her head, her eyes locked on his. "I don't want you to leave," she breathed, arching up to kiss him, sucking on his lower-lip, as she reached to stroke him again. He inhaled sharply, and buried his head against her neck; and she stroked him, until they were both rocking their hips, her heels digging into the mattress, and Jon reached to grasp her wrist, and pull her hand away. Levering himself over her, she wrapped her hands around his strong arms, her chest heaving as he leaned down to kiss her tenderly, catching the sharp moan and her wince as he settled himself between her thighs and thrust into her with agonising slowness. Slick though she was, he felt her tense, and gentled every movement. He reached between them, using his fingertip, and she moaned in surprise, startled, and sighed… He gentled her pain with pleasure she had never known before.
They were both panting heavily when finally, Jon pressed his forehead against her neck, and spilled deep inside of her, relief sweeping through him. He kissed her gently, and withdrew, rolling onto his side, curling her against him, his heart thundering in his ears, her pale-green gaze wide and a little bewildered, and curled an arm around her, tucking her against his side. He kissed the top of her head, stroking her long hair, and sighed, the day's exhaustion, utterly relaxed, sweeping over him, and he sighed, his eyes heavy, Alynore soft and sweet beside him.
They dozed, Alynore's head resting on his chest, and Jon started, a little while later, suddenly forgetting where he was, and who he was with, and why. He sighed, remembering, and relaxed against the soft mattress, stroking Alynore's arm, her back. She turned her face to him, propping her chin against his chest.
"How do you feel?" he asked softly. The fire had burned itself out; the only source of light was the moon, its rays silvering everything they landed on.
"Sore, and strange," Alynore answered honestly.
"Can you not sleep?"
"Thinking too much."
"Mm," he grunted softly.
"You sleep lightly."
"You learn to," Jon told her, exhausted but too engaged by the soft heat and delicate perfume of Alynore's skin to sleep. He sighed, stretching luxuriously, and Alynore smiled softly when he asked, "What can I do, to help you gentle your mind?"
"I don't now… Talk to me," Alynore said, and Jon found it such a strange request, given everything, that he smiled in the darkness.
"About what?"
A soft sigh. "Have you ever been in love?" Jon's eyes opened, staring at the canopy above them.
"Yes," he said, and sighed grimly.
"What was she like?"
"She was fierce, and kissed by fire…and I betrayed her," Jon said quietly. He glanced at Alynore; her face was faintly silvered by the moonlight, soft and gentle. And because they were here, and because he had never spoken of her, not to anyone, not since he had burned her body in the grove of weirwoods beyond he Wall, and because Alynore had trusted him…he told her.
He told her about Ygritte. About the Watch, the Great Ranging, Qhorin Halfhand and Mance, and climbing the Wall, his ultimate betrayal. Reaching the garrison shot through with arrows she had aimed at him - yet never struck true, in spite of her awing aim. The Battle for Castle Black. Her dying in his arms, her heart pierced by an arrow. You remember that cave…
Tenderly, Alynore leaned forward and kissed Jon's chest. It was such an intimate gesture, not romantic but something deeper. "If she truly loved you for all that you are, she would have known, deep down in her heart, that you could never truly lose yourself, not even for her."
"I was hers, and she was mine…and we lived…" Jon said, his voice agonised and unfamiliar to his own ears. "I'd never felt so alive as when I was with her. She fought by my side…teased and taunted me…she made me laugh. She was ferocious and sharp and flirtatious… And she died for nothing."
"You saved her people."
"Not nearly enough of them," Jon said, with quiet ferocity. Not nearly enough of them. Alynore sighed, propping herself up on her elbow. She traced her fingertips down his chest, pausing at every scar.
"You wondered why it was you I asked to father a child…" she said quietly. "One of the reasons…if my child inherits even half your grit and goodness, I know I shall truly have reason to be proud of them…" Jon sighed grimly, and captured her face tenderly in his hands. He flitted his gaze over her face, sleepy and relaxed, and leaned in to kiss her; he rolled them over, and tasted Alynore's gasp on his lips as she felt him. "Again?"
"My lady, I've a job to do," he said, and Alynore laughed, biting her lip.
"And you always do your duty," she said, with mock sombreness, and Jon leaned down to nip at her lower-lip.
"If you're too sore…"
"I'm not," she murmured against his lips. It was gentle and slow and savouring, with ardent gazes broken by tender kisses. After, Alynore curled up against Jon again, tracing his scars with her fingertip, and she asked sleepily, "All the horror you have seen...would you do it all again?"
"There was a time I thought not… When I learned Robb had called the banners… After I betrayed the wildlings, I heard what happened at the Red Wedding," Jon told her, his eyes closed, heavy, his body relaxed. Strange that he could talk about Ygritte, and Robb, without his body locking with tension, without simmering, icy rage or utter despondence consuming him. "I knew if I'd gone after him…deserted the Night's Watch…I never would have been there when the wight attacked, when Lord Commander Mormont led the Great Ranging… I never would have seen… I hate it with every fibre of who I am…but I'm still here. And there's a reason. There has to be."
"You're grim and sensible… I don't think you'd have the imagination to create White Walkers and wights just to play a political game to distract everyone from a southern war, when the North has already declared independence," Alynore murmured.
"You believe me?"
"I do."
"We're all going to die because of this invasion."
"We all die. Why do you keep fighting?"
"Because otherwise…it's the end of all things."
"Perhaps you need to show people why they should be frightened," Alynore murmured, yawning, and curled against Jon, her body becoming heavier, her breaths deeper, as she fell into a deep and restful sleep.
Jon's eyes popped open, and he stared long and hard at the canopy.
Show, don't tell, Maester Luwin reminded them, as they planned their campaigns. He had always meant, ensure your words match your actions. Never let anyone question the honour of your intentions. Set the precedent: Show your word is your bond.
But maybe… Show them, stop trying to tell them, Jon thought. Show the two Queens why their war was petty, and ultimately irrelevant. Why they needed to stop fighting, and commit their armies to fighting the Night King's hordes.
"There is news, my lady," Maester Wolkan said, glancing from Sansa to Larra, who had collapsed, groaning, into the settle moments earlier, hands aching, in desperate need of a bath to rinse the sweat from her body - the forge was horrifically hot to her now, though she remembered it as warm and inviting. She was too used to the cold now, to linger by the fire without feeling the heat like a trap. "Two thousand Unsullied soldiers took Casterly Rock, unchallenged. The Lannisters have been summoned to the capital by Queen Cersei. The larders and treasuries had been emptied. When the Ironborn returned to their ships…they were set upon by Ironborn."
"Ironborn?" Sansa murmured breathlessly.
"Led by Euron Greyjoy, who has styled himself King of the Iron Islands and allied with Queen Cersei," Maester Wolkan said apologetically. "The Ironborn destroyed the ships flying Daenerys Targaryen's colours; for days, mutilated and drowned Unsullied have been washed ashore at Lannisport."
"Oh, dear," Larra sighed heavily, glancing at Brandon, whose face turned sad and grim, his eyes gleaming but fading out of focus as he remembered… "Maester Wolkan…may I request that in future, when you deliver any bad news, you also give a hint of hope. Doesn't matter how small."
"The winter crops are flourishing, my lady."
Larra winked at the maester, her smile sardonic, teasing. "That'll do."
"Any word from Dragonstone?" Sansa asked. "From Jon?"
"None, my lady, since confirmation that the King has been granted access to mine obsidian from the Dragonmont," Maester Wolkan said apologetically. They had just received the first shipment; that raven had been weeks ago.
"Euron Greyjoy would be a fool indeed if he didn't turn the Iron Fleet toward Dragonstone soon," Larra murmured. "Daenerys Targaryen cannot conquer the mainland with her armies if her armies cannot reach the mainland…though that does pose the greater threat, will she unleash her dragons so soon, to take Westeros?"
"I suppose the benefit of the Targaryen invasion is that Cersei cannot unleash the Greyjoys on our fleet," Sansa said.
"At least as long as we all overwinter at Winterfell, our people will be safe from Ironborn attacks," Larra said. "If we have to reclaim coastal castles when the snows melt, the krakens shall learn how sharp a direwolf's bite is."
"I'd rather not lose the ships, all the same," Sansa said.
"Nor I. I know what they cost the Northern treasury… The Ironborn fleet is made of wood, I imagine."
"Yes."
"The Targaryen queen is an arrogant, impulsive girl with three dragons. I think we can safely surmise that Daenerys Targaryen will target the Ironborn fleet in retaliation for her humiliation at the Rock, as vengeance for her butchered soldiers," Larra said. "In this quarrel between queens, Cersei has drawn first blood using the Ironborn fleet. The Queen's dragons may yet deal with the Ironborn for us… If Tywin Lannister taught Westeros anything during the War of the Five Kings, it's that it is someties expedient to allow others to slaughter your enemies on your behalf."
Sansa cast a sharp look at Larra, frowning slightly; it was true, though. Tywin Lannister had redefined warfare by conspiring with the Freys to arrange the Red Wedding - everyone knew Lord Tywin had made assurances to the cowardly Lord Frey. Nobody dared accuse the Lannisters outright, because the Freys had been seen to take all the risk. They had taken all of the credit. And the blame.
"How do you know the Targaryen queen is arrogant and impulsive?" Sansa asked, when Maester Wolkan had bowed himself out of the solar. Larra yawned, nodding her chin toward Brandon. He turned his pale face to hers, holding her gaze, and Larra woke up a little, sitting up straighter. She frowned at the question in Brandon's eyes.
Slowly, she nodded.
Sansa knew Cersei. It was important she know Daenerys, too, the other side of the same coin.
"Show her."
She helped wheel Brandon's chair next to the settle, close to Sansa. Larra arranged the cushions, knowing all too well the stiffness Sansa would return to after Brandon had showed her everything she needed to see. Sansa was wide-eyed, and eyed Bran's hand sceptically as he offered it.
"It's alright," Larra told her gently. "You're safe."
Sansa swallowed and eyed Brandon's hand before resting her palm in his.
It was strange to watch Brandon whisk Sansa away with him into his memories, the way her eyes turned milky-white and her body relaxed against the settle. Larra sighed, and tucked a blanket and a fur over Sansa to keep her warm. Then she realised she sat alone in the solar, and cast about for something to do; she still did not sleep well. Her bed was far too soft.
She found some knitting, and eyed the ledgers and letters on the great desk, and settled herself in the carved chair, peering down at Sansa's work. While Sansa learned, Larra would work, sharing the load. Alternating between writing - she had spent weeks acclimatising her fingers to holding a stylus and scribing, practising her handwriting - and knitting, Larra went through the pile of paperwork, answered scrolls, read the most recent accounts, and annotated several documents, making notes for their preparations for the castle - repairing the Broken Tower; fortifying the glasshouses; preparing as much pitch as could be made; the cost of cheap, plentiful grains from Essos to cover the poor wheat yield, or finding alternative ways to prepare what they had.
While Larra worked, Brandon took Sansa on a journey, watching a timid girl in Pentos become a conqueror and a killer.
"Larra…" The voice was soft; she glanced up, letters swimming in her vision. She saw Brandon staring back at her; beside him, Sansa's eyes were still milky, her hand loosely draped in his. "Something has happened in the West. You must see…"
Larra set down the stylus, and tucked herself on the flagstones in front of Brandon's wheeled chair, reaching her hand up. He took it, and Larra blinked.
The sun was shining hotly down upon them, great monuments of ancient red stone jutting up from wide open plains toward the sky, lazy rivers winding around them, lined by dense shrubs with prickly boughs and dying flowers.
Everything else was burning.
A.N.: Okay, so I wrote 23 chapters without a hint of smut. It was time!
Next, the Field of Fire… I actually love those scenes, not just for the Dothraki bloodriders hopping up on their saddles to shoot arrows (which was awesome), but because it shows how honourable Jaime Lannister truly was, a fierce military leader and deeply principled man. The old joke is that he became a 99.8% better person the moment he dropped Cersei! I truly think Brienne is his (potentially platonic) soulmate: She brings out the very best in him, which he was always afraid for others to see - because of the attitudes of his father and sister.