A.N.: I know I say it every chapter, but thank you for bearing with me! It's been an insane few months, so I haven't even had time to sit down and do any writing. Half-term has just ended, and I spent it decorating my house and writing +40 Word pages of notes for the future of this story!

I know there are two established Velaryon characters in the books by the time of the War of the Five Kings, but they're boring. After the HotD teaser, I was inspired, and decided to overwrite Monford and Monterys Velaryon and Aurane Waters in favour of my own characters, who will appear a little later on, inspired by Black Panther's M'Baku and Nakia, as well as Tia Pepa's family in Encanto, of all things!

I've also been delving into tinfoil theories about (f)Aegon, and one of them links with a character called Gerold Dayne, "Darkstar". Never heard of him before; I haven't read far enough in the books, apparently. Apart from having a very cool nickname, I am fascinated by the idea that he may in fact be the son of Rhaegar and Elia, smuggled out of KL by Ashara Dayne. Most people will say, No, he's way too old to be Aegon. To that I say: I do what I want! Gerold Dayne has silver hair with one black streak and violet eyes, and shares the name of two of the Kingsguard? I almost like the idea of (f)Aegon and Darkstar being part of a complicated switch that no-one knew about – Elia sent her son Aegon with Ashara to Dorne, and Varys switched the baby who had taken Aegon's place with another child without ever knowing about Elia and Ashara's switch. Darkstar could potentially be the true Aegon, while Varys believes Young Griff is the heir to the Iron Throne. Prince Doran calls the Darkstar the most dangerous man in Westeros (or Dorne, can't remember which) and all I can imagine is Darkstar fighting like Henry Cavill's Geralt in the Butcher of Blaviken scene in The Witcher. I even have the most perfect face-claim for Darkstar: Ton Heukels.

Valyrian Steel

36

The Ghosts of Grief

Lady Sansa blanched, caught off-guard. "I beg your pardon?"

Larra's expression did not change. Grim and unyielding. "She raped Jon."

"The Dragon Queen - ?" Larra's sister flicked her dark blue eyes to Gendry, suddenly flushing red, even though her spine straightened and her expression smoothed to stone - just like Larra. It was eerie, how similar they were, despite looking so different. Her sister flushed even more hotly than Gendry, who was suddenly very curious about the bottom of his cup. He flicked a glance at Larra as she cleared her throat delicately, and was…oddly charmed to see that even Larra's cheeks bloomed a delicate pink as she caught his eye.

"Is this conversation appropriate - ?"

"No, but it is necessary," Larra said, a stubborn bite to her tone. "Sansa. She promised Jon her armies then fucked him in spite of any protests - how could he protest, when he'd risk her withdrawing her support out of spite for wounding her pride?"

Lady Sansa sank down onto one of the chairs, meticulously removing her gloves as she gazed at the miniature Winterfell between them.

"Jon will be ashamed to think we know about this," Lady Sansa said hoarsely, a desperate sort of yearning on her face as she gazed at her sister.

"I told him it's not his place to feel shame," Gendry said quietly. "It's hers." Something warmed in Lady Sansa's eyes as she stared at him. He had travelled the Riverlands with Arya, and now spent a lot of time with Larra, but their elegant sister was a stranger - and she was every inch the highborn lady her sister Arya had once protested against being herself.

"Fuck this tea," Larra grumbled, setting her cup down, and disappeared for a moment behind Gendry. Larra returned with three small silver tankards full of foaming stout, which she passed first to her sister then to Gendry before sitting down beside him on the settle, so close their arms and thighs touched. Gendry glanced at her, and she held his gaze, sombre and expressive. She lifted her tankard to her lips and drank. He did the same, becoming more and more used to the full-bodied, almost sour tang of the malty dark drink. It was a strong and heady drink, a meal in itself and popular amongst the Northern smallfolk - and their lords - for that reason. It sustained them.

Lady Sansa did not seem to know what to do, how to react. Gendry frowned softly at her. "You seem surprised a man could suffer rape, m'lady."

"I know men can suffer the same abuse and humiliations as any woman," Lady Sansa said, her tone cold, but her eyes were brittle. "He was hurt and vulnerable. She abused her position over him."

"For the first and only time," Larra promised, her tone scathing. Lady Sansa sipped her stout, unable to hide a grimace at the taste, gazing cautiously at Larra.

After a long moment, she said tentativel, "We still need her armies."

Larra sighed heavily and grimaced. "Aye, I know… In times of hardship, our ancestors have always made decisions that leave a bitter taste in the mouth. We're no different… But I shan't let Jon suffer for the sake of a few spears."

As her voice became a soft, dangerous snarl, Gendry reached out, gently touching her knee; he could feel how wound-up and agitated she was, her body practically bristling. That searing intimacy, that calm that they had shared together, had disappeared with Lady Sansa's arrival. The Lady Regent of the North glanced briefly at Gendry's hand on her sister's knee, a curious glint in her eye. He did not remove his hand: Larra gentled.

"Of course not," Lady Sansa said, and Gendry caught the covert glance she gave him. "Larra…we must be cautious and think. How do get what we want without having to sacrifice something for it?"

"You don't," Larra said tiredly, staring into the fire. She groaned and scrubbed her hand over her face, looking absolutely exhausted. "She should've learned that a long time ago, when she burned her khal…but she didn't. She continues to act as though there will be no repercussions to her choices…" She scoffed angrily, her tone tart as she said, "When one has three dragons at one's disposal, I think it highly unlikely one ever has to suffer any."

"Highly unlikely," Lady Sansa agreed. "So what shall we do about this? This changes things. How do we keep Jon safe?"

"You mean, keep her from digging her claws in too deep?" Larra said, her tone ironic, but she exchanged a solemn glance with Gendry. He could see how upset she was, and he gently squeezed her knee. She gave him a sad smile, glancing at her sister. "Until Jon reaches us, we can do nothing."

"And once he is home?" Larra hid her face behind her tankard, but her eyes glinted viciously.

"When he returns, Jon will be accompanied by a strategic ally," Larra said pointedly.

"Not a welcome guest," Lady Sansa said, sighing softly. "I shall ensure her rooms are far removed from our own."

"And we shall limit her access about the castle," Larra said quietly, thoughtful, and she gradually softened against Gendry, relaxing the more she thought of how to handle the Dragon Queen's imminent arrival, and how best to protect her brother.

"I spent enough time with her to know she's used to getting her way in all things," Gendry warned.

"One way or another," Larra muttered, her eyes snapping like amethyst embers as she gazed into the fire. "I'll not indulge her."

Lady Sansa sighed, leaning back in her high-back chair, propped up by embroidered cushions. She looked superbly elegant - and highly disturbed. For a little while, they sat in silence. The crackling of the fire was lulling, especially when combined with the gentle pattering of fat snowflakes against the diamond-paned windows. The scent of Larra's hair whispered under his nose, her heat radiating from her body so close beside his, and the stout seemed to have an effect: his eyelids grew heavy, his muscles relaxing even though Larra sat so close they were touching.

Without realising it, Larra had rested her head against his shoulder, gazing at the fire and the miniature of Winterfell. He started when she spoke, and blinked dazedly. Had he fallen asleep? He glanced at Lady Sansa, who had her face hidden behind her tankard of stout, her eyes glinting in the low firelight. If she had been watching them, Gendry could not say - though he suspected she had.

"You have been working on binding obsidian to steel," Larra mused sleepily, peering up at him with owl-eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Gendry rubbed his face, his short beard, and nodded slowly. He had. It was one of the skills the Valyrians had mastered, and which Gendry had been curious to try since learning of it from Lord Tyrion on Dragonstone. He hadn't had the time or the resources to try it then, but Larra was all for letting him play about with it. If they could repurpose weapons already forged, it would cut their workload significantly - and put far less strain on Winterfell's resources. Almost everyone had access to steel, whether it was a simple dagger or a castle-forged sword, a hog-splitter, scythe, a Thenn's axe or a harpoon belonging to the whalers of the Frozen Shore.

"I have," he said, clearing his throat and trying to sit up properly without jostling Larra, who seemed to have curled into him while they dozed. He was far too comfortable with her curled up against him. Those vivid purple eyes searched his face, intense and awing.

"And how do you find it?" Larra asked. "Trickier than smelting pure obsidian or easier?"

Gendry cleared his throat. "In some ways it's much easier," he admitted, "but it depends on the quality of the steel that was originally used in the forging of the weapon. Something forged here in Winterfell's forges will always bond instantly to the obsidian."

"Purely for the quality of the steel?" Lady Sansa asked.

"Not only that; it's how the steel was tempered and forged. A smith in a hamlet far in the North won't have the knowledge or experience that an armourer in Winterfell has," Gendry said. "What they create will always be serviceable, but not of great quality. The time and attention that goes into things will never be the same as what an armourer from Qarth will give their creations. And that's the difference - the more intimately you work with something, the higher the quality, the more beautiful something will be. And especially if you are working with steel, the more you temper it, the stronger and purer it becomes. I think it all comes down to the fire."

"The fire?" Lady Sansa frowned.

"With obsidian, it's all about finding the right temperature. With steel it's how many times you temper it," Gendry said. "That's what makes binding obsidian to steel so tricky; the fire, and how hot it has to be so you don't ruin the steel but don't risk the obsidian setting brittle."

"The Valyrians did it," Lady Sansa said thoughtfully. Gendry shrugged.

"They had the benefit of thousands of years of knowledge and experience," he sighed. "All that has been lost. I've been experimenting with techniques Lord Tyrion Lannister read about in the library of Dragonstone."

Larra frowned, her expression shrewd. "Maybe not lost," she said softly.

"What do you mean?" Gendry asked. Larra glanced up at him, then frowned, shaking her head.

"Just a thought I had," she said, shrugging it off. "I wonder what Brandon might know about it…" Gendry frowned. Her younger-brother was bound to a wheeled chair and as far as Gendry knew, had been a boy when Larra dragged him beyond the Wall. He certainly had spent no time in any forge. "I would like you to continue to work with obsidian and steel. When the Unsullied army arrives, they will surrender their spears and blades to have them bound with obsidian." Lady Sansa sat up a little straighter, her eyes sharp on her sister. "We will move everyone else into the castle: the Unsullied shall have Winter's Town as their barracks until the Night King comes."

"What of the Dothraki?" Sansa asked, her eyes wide - eager.

Larra frowned. "The same. They shall stay in Winter's Town. Their horses we shall find room for in the barns."

Gendry glanced at Larra, smiling softly. "You're going to separate the Queen's armies from their weapons."

"And the Queen from her armies," Sansa said.

"The castle pushing capacity should stop her complaints, and will provide an excuse if she does," Larra said, her eyes glinting dangerously.

"And when she argues that her people are here to fight and deserve Winterfell's roof over their heads?"

"The Free Folk and the Valemen have fought with us and for us, demanding nothing in return," Larra said quietly. "They are our honoured allies and guests."

"You know this could be seen as making her a prisoner in our home," Lady Sansa said delicately, glancing at Gendry. Larra sighed, running her finger around and around the rim of her tankard, gazing in to the fire.

"People will see what they wish to see. What they need to believe to sleep through the night," Larra said, her tone sad rather than grim. "But all will see that she is a threat - to the North, yes, but the Vale will not withstand dragonfire. The Eyrie was designed to defend against mudbound armies. And after the Lion Culling and the Ash Meadow, she is known across the Seven Kingdoms as a threat to the entirety of Westeros. She will find no supporters here. And this is our home."

"She can't frighten us," Lady Sansa murmured, almost dreamily, and Larra nodded.

"She will be treated just as any other lord or lady under our roof who has brought fighting men - but she is not the only one," Larra said firmly. She sighed and frowned at a small cyvasse board on a polished table. "Daenerys Targaryen is an ally with sizeable armies - but nothing more. No other friends, no true wealth or resources, no lands but a distant island she is using as a step-stone to the Iron Throne, no actual power or influence, just what she believes she has." Her eyes went to a cyvasse set on a polished table. "The belief more than any of her armies is what makes her dangerous."

"And her three dragons," Gendry reminded them, and Larra grunted softly. "She'll want to keep them near, especially since Viserion was injured." Larra sat up sharply, her eyes lancing to Gendry. He felt as if he had been struck by arrows, so fierce was her gaze.

"I'd forgotten that. How severely was he hurt?"

"When we were trapped on the ice-lake, the Night King threw a great spear of ice. He had others, I could see them even across the lake, as tall as a man. He had them ready…almost as if he was waiting to use them… If I hadn't bellowed his name, Viserion would've been struck down over the mountain," Gendry said, and Larra stared at him. She went deathly pale; even the shadows under her eyes lost all their colour.

"And would have risen as a wight," she breathed, looking as if she might be sick. Her eyes flicked over his face, searching. "But Viserion lived?"

"The spear lodged in his wing-joint," Gendry confirmed, indicating his own elbow, and this made Larra go paler still. He could see Larra's mind working behind those depthless purple eyes. "He was roaring something terrible, destroying outbuildings at Eastwatch, but we got the spear out…"

"Larra…you're dreadfully pale - what's wrong?" Lady Sansa asked concernedly.

"We can't risk her bringing Viserion north," she whispered, her eyes widening in sudden horror, and her Northern accent became much thicker as her voice became hoarse: "T'wasn't just a spear of ice hurled at Viserion. There's ancient magics bound to the Others' weapons. Dark magic that warps and twists… It's how the Others came into being in the first place."

"Magic?" Lady Sansa prompted. "Maester Luwin said it was embellishment."

"Only because magic has been fading from the world," Larra sighed heavily. "Maesters rely upon evidence: what they can see, smell, taste, touch with their own hands. They can see no evidence of magic, so it's easier to stop believing it ever existed. But millennia ago, during the war between the Children and the First Men, a man was taken captive by those who sing the songs of the earth… They intended to forge a weapon to protect themselves from Man. They plunged a dagger of pure obsidian into the man's heart. He became the Night King: the obsidian mutilated everything he had once been…he created the first White Walkers and commanded the legions of the dead… Their weapons don't just maim and kill: there is dark magic in them and it spreads through a wound like rot."

Larra licked her lips, her eyes shadowed - harrowed by something from her own past, Gendry thought. Her own experiences beyond the Wall, secret horrors she kept tucked away.

"How do you know?" Lady Sansa breathed.

"Uncle Benjen went beyond the Wall, scouting for the Watch. White Walkers found him; they stabbed him in the gut with their ice-weapons and left him to die and turn."

"Jon said Uncle Benjen was lost beyond the Wall years ago."

"Aye, he was… The Children found him, dying; to stop the Others' magic taking hold, they plunged a dagger of obsidian in his heart," Larra said glumly, and Gendry frowned. The Night King had been made with a dagger of obsidian to the heart: his magic was rendered neutral by the very thing that had created him. "But the magic that saved his life stops him from crossing the Wall. As long as it stands, no creature bound to the Night King may cross it."

"And if the Wall falls?" Lady Sansa prompted.

"When it falls…we'd best be ready. We must weigh our advantages and use them wisely; and no matter how powerful dragons are, Viserion especially is vulnerable. The Night King will use every advantage, and that is definitely an advantage."

"We cannot risk Viserion, then," Sansa said quietly. "But what of the others?"

"Dragons are intelligent - more intelligent than men…but they won't understand strategy," Larra sighed, wincing as she kneaded her brow. Her gaze flicked intently over the miniature of Winterfell before them. "In this war, we must use everything we have with deliberate purpose."

"Our plans have always been to defend," Lady Sansa said thoughtfully, glancing at Gendry. "We do not have the men to attack. So we use the dragons in the same way?"

"Yes. Defensive strategy only," Larra said softly, wincing subtly as she shifted on the settle. "If we use them at all."

"Larra - "

"She has no skill with strategy, and refuses to listen," Larra said firmly, glancing at her sister, and Gendry realised the two sisters had had this conversation before. "She must be made to listen if we're to use the dragons. This isn't about showing off, destroying armadas and frightening nobles; this war is not about her. We have to think very carefully about our advantages - and everything that can be turned into a weakness. Viserion's injury, and her inability to listen to anyone's advice…those are weaknesses that can have catastrophic consequences."

"Strange to think dragons haven't been used in war since the Dance of Dragons," Gendry sighed, and Larra sat back, leaning into his arm. "I think Jon's right…they were reborn into the world for more than the Queen's war. They were reborn to help in this war, but it's too much of a risk to wield them as weapons."

"The double-edged blade," Larra muttered miserably. He reached out and squeezed her knee gently. After that searing, intimate moment they had shared, touching her felt natural - it felt right, as if he had been born to do so.

Her eyes glowed vividly as they searched his face, and Gendry stared back, captivated. He could see her mind working beyond those fathomless purple eyes, see the cunning, even as her face was still - a perfect mask, seemingly emotionless. But her body relaxed, and Gendry felt it; the tension between her shoulders loosened beneath his palm, and as she sat up, his hand slid down to her waist. It occurred to him, as she leaned back, that his arm was draped around her, and she subtly leaned her body into his.

"The Dance of Dragons…tens of thousands of smallfolk stormed the Dragonpit and managed to kill all of the Targaryen dragons penned there," Larra said softly, her tone almost sorrowful. Her features hardened with something close to true terror. "An army of the undead would make short work even of a dragon if it was downed on the moors. Any precautions we have in place will be for nought."

"So we must devise new strategy," Lady Sansa sighed, sounding exhausted. She winced as she gazed at the miniature of Winterfell.

"Oh, many of them," Larra said grimly, and Lady Sansa frowned. "Nothing ever goes to plan - especially war. Too many variables. They're the unknowable pieces on the cyvasse board… Things that cannot be accounted for… And when it comes to it, what we plan amongst ourselves must change in the moment. We must rely on experienced commanders to assess and advise and lead."

"Experienced commanders?" Lady Sansa said softly, her eyes glittering. Her pretty lips pursed tartly. "We'd have better luck finding dragon-eggs in the crypts."

Larra's smile was grim. Gendry frowned. He asked the lady, "What do you mean?"

"There's a myth amongst the smallfolk that the hot-springs that keep Winterfell warm are heated by the breath of subterranean dragons," Larra chuckled softly. "They say that dragons have long lived beneath the castle, and is perhaps why Bran the Builder chose this location to raise his castle. Some say that when Queen Alysanne came North, her dragon laid a clutch of eggs here. Others say it was Prince Jacaerys Velaryon's dragon, Vermax, who laid the eggs when he came North to gain support from Lord Cregan Stark during the Dance of Dragons. Either way, they believe dragonfire keeps us warm through the winter."

"What do you believe?" Gendry asked. Larra's lips twitched with faint amusement.

"I believe that there must be life-giving heat beneath the earth," she said softly, her eyes turning thoughtful. "The Fourteen Flames brought forth flame from deep into the earth and destroyed the Freehold with it. They say the sea boiled with the heat of it. There must be some source of heat beneath the earth – in the True North, there are hot-springs as there are here at Winterfell."

"You don't believe there are dragon-eggs beneath Winterfell?"

"She spent enough of our childhood searching for them to know there are none," Lady Sansa said, her eyes glittering with amusement as she gazed at her sister. Larra's smile slowly faded.

"Aye, I did," she sighed heavily. She did not say more. Lady Sansa bit her lip, wincing slightly, almost guiltily, as she gazed at her sister.

"When we were children, Larra used to play tricks on us. She liked to try to frighten us," Lady Sansa said, glancing at Gendry. "Old Nan would tell us stories of ice-spiders and dragons beneath Winterfell, and Larra would lie in wait in the crypts with a flaming torch, screeching something terrible."

"I got Robb a half-dozen times once," Larra said, her eyes briefly lighting up. She chuckled softly, sadly. "'Til the last time, when he caught me with an elbow by chance and gave me a bloody nose."

"We all thought he'd slain the dragon."

"I remember… Arya and Bran wept. They would not forgive him," Larra said, her eyes glittering, and her smile faltered, trembling.

"They forgave you even less, for making them believe," Lady Sansa said warmly. Larra did not smile, her gaze lingering on the fire crackling in the hearth. Thinking perhaps of her brother, the Young Wolf? Gendry glanced at the mantel, where Robb Stark gazed back, sombre and far too young. How many months before he marched off to war had the King in the North been playing tricks on his siblings in the crypts? Since he had been playing with his brothers and sisters, all of them still children?

Gazing at Robb Stark's picture, Gendry tensed; and Larra noticed it, draped against him, her warmth searing him. Clearing his throat, he set the tankard down and made to stand; Larra straightened and let him, and he was suddenly filled with regret. He gave his best attempts at a bow to Lady Sansa and nodded awkwardly at Larra before telling them, "Excuse me, my ladies… I'm to be in the forge early tomorrow morn."

"We shall not keep you," Lady Sansa said, her voice rich, polite and generous. Her eyes – Robb Stark's vivid blue eyes – seemed far warmer now than they had been when she first entered the solar and found him in an embrace with her sister.

Gendry left the chamber, and Larra exhaled slowly, already missing his intense warmth and gentleness and the sense of calm, of safety, that seemed to envelop her whenever she was near him.

"Do you think speaking of the dragons unnerved him?" Sansa asked, glancing at Larra, who stared hard into the flames crackling in the hearth. She was at once annoyed at Sansa's interruption and ashamed to think such a thing of her sister. And she was deeply aware of the fact that she already yearned for Gendry's presence. To spend all day working beside him, but for her meetings with the maesters, had been a rare and coveted treat. Watching him work was aweing. Her mouth watered with every strike of his hammer as his muscles rippled across his arms and his enormous back. The firelight made his eyes smoulder like burning sapphires. And she had found every excuse to touch where she might otherwise have spoken, just to feel his intense heat thawing her chilled hands. His heat never felt overwhelming, the way that fire did. She could let it envelop her without ever burning, without ever losing herself. It was all too tempting. And those enormous scarred hands of his, so sure and powerful, so capable and creative, had been so utterly gentle with her.

They had been intimate in a way Larra had never been – not with anyone. But something about Gendry…it was the gentle, respectful way he handled everything, meticulous and thoughtful – made her unafraid for him to see beyond the icy, implacable façade she put up.

With him, she felt…

She felt safe.

But their conversations in the solar had ripped open some old wounds.

Larra did not sleep that night. She awoke, breathless with terror, thrashing and clawing the air, whimpering with dread, shocked and shuddering and slick with cold sweat as she fought to catch her breath, the dead pouring over each other, slashing and snarling, to tear her to shreds as the gentlest of giants held the door…

Gendry was stunned, firstly, by the presence of Larra in the forges long before dawn the next morning. Then he noticed some of the whitebeards and apprentices glancing over their shoulders at her as she hammered with a tireless intensity, her expression brittle and faraway, her gaze unseeing but her eyes bright with something Gendry explicitly remembered experiencing himself at Harrenhall. Sheer terror had transformed itself into remembered horror that was harrowing to experience. She looked deathly pale, the bruises beneath her eyes dark. She was hollow-eyed, cheeks wan, almost deathly pale.

"How long's she been here?" Gendry asked one of the others. They shrugged.

"Since before I got here," they grunted in response, and Gendry watched, frowning concernedly. Larra did not stop. He could see she wore her grey woollen dress again, but it was darker now – made darker by her sweat, as she tirelessly beat her hammer against the anvil. Sweat beaded on her brow but she did not blink as it dripped into her eyes; Gendry knew how much that stung.

From the moment he had left her in the solar last night, he regretted it. The loss of her warmth, the intimacy he had shared with her, the softness of her skin – even the silkiness of her raised scars against his palm as he caressed her throat – the scent of her and the feel of her body pressed against his, the contradiction of her voice – soft, rich wisdom mingled with the bite of ice and sting of sharp steel.

Now, as he watched her hammering away seemingly without thought to her own actions, he was concerned. What had happened since he left the solar last night? What had she and Lady Sansa spoken of that had left Larra in such a state?

"She's been at the anvil for hours," one of the whitebeards croaked, his wizened face creasing with concern.

"Has no-one stopped her?" Gendry frowned. The men exchanged looks. None dared, he realised. She may be one of them within the forge, but outside of it she was still the King's sister, castellan of Winterfell in all but name.

Gendry sighed heavily and frowned, striding across the forge to Larra. The closer he got, the more concerned he was by the expression on her face. She wasn't just harrowed; she was utterly lost.

"Larra," he murmured, approaching her as he might a wounded wolf. Slowly, cautiously, and always in her eyesight. She kept hammering. Her eyes were unseeing; her arms were shaking – but her knuckles were white where she held on so tightly. As if she daren't let go for anything. She looked…haggard, Gendry thought. Something was tearing her apart. He sidled up close beside her and instead of trying to take the hammer and tongs from her, he rested a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her whole body trembling beneath his palm, felt her shallow pants as she struggled for breath, the exhaustion racking her entire body as she pushed herself to continue hammering. His hand on her shoulder, she did not shrug it away, did not freeze or react in any way: he reached out and placed the other between her shoulder-blades. The wool beneath his fingers was damp with her sweat; he gently rubbed his palm in soothing circles as he stood close behind her, until he could feel her warmth and smell the perfume of her hair mingling with her sweat, see the hair at the nape of her neck, loose from her braided circlet around her head, coiling tightly, watch the droplets of sweat trickle down her neck enticingly. His body stirred but he ignored it, letting his hands gently rub circles up and down her back, stroking her arm, until she was enveloped in his arms, his hands smoothing the way down her arms, until he had his chin perched on her shoulder, his hands wrapped around hers as she continued to clench the hammer and tongs. He could feel the muscles in her arms spasming, heard the short, painful, sharp pants of her breath like a wounded, trapped animal, felt her heart thundering against his chest, felt the tension and despair coiling her body like a trap ready to break from the pressure.

His entire body wrapped around hers, he realised just how slender she was. Little more than a wraith. Pure muscle – power driven by purpose. And he feared whatever had driven her for so long had caught up to her.

He rubbed his cheek against hers, nuzzling and communicating with touch, and stroked his thumbs against the backs of her hands, soothing and gentling her.

"Larra, it's time to let them go," he murmured, nuzzling her ear, and Larra finally blinked. Sucked in a shuddering breath. Her lashes fluttered as she glanced at him, and he felt her weight shift, leaning against him – letting him support her. She blinked several times, the confused haze slowly disappearing from her eyes, tears dripping down her cheeks unnoticed.

"Time to let them go?" she repeated hoarsely, and Gendry nodded, continuing to stroke her hands with his thumbs until she gradually started to relax against him.

"Yes," he muttered, nuzzling his jaw against her neck, giving her body a gentle squeeze as he tenderly freed her hands from the tools. "It's time to let them go."

He carefully released the obsidian into the fire then set the hammer and tongs down on the workbench in front of them, never moving from her. He took her hands in his, carefully unfurling her fingers, and hissed as he grimaced at the sight of her palms; blistering and smeared with blood from four deep crescent-shaped gouges. Her heart still hammered against his chest; her breath came in frantic pants. He sighed heavily, wincing at the pain she was enduring.

He felt it when something changed, when she let herself lean on him, be supported by him. When whatever harrowing dread that had been choking her released its hold and she stumbled back, into his waiting embrace. None saw her stumble; he was there, his entire body waiting for her. But he felt her weight shift against him, and she slowly looked over her shoulder.

Her grief was horrifying.

"I had a bad night," she whispered hoarsely, and he sighed grimly as he watched her lower-lip tremble violently, her eyes stark, obsidian consuming vivid violet fire. She looked bereft. Bewildered.

And utterly young, in a way he had never seen her. She looked…young. She looked, startlingly, her age. He was startled to realise that Larra was in fact a young woman. She was barely a year or two older than Gendry himself, yet she always radiated such command, such authority and sureness, her beauty and her youth were forgotten.

"Come with me," he murmured coaxingly, and Larra let him guide her outside into the bright white light that had dawned after the storm thrashed itself out. The courtyard was still and quiet this time of the morning, but already there were signs that the castle was waking, and enthusiastic to get outside after being castle-bound for so long. By the time they reached the gate to the godswood, Larra walked beside him, but her hand was safely wrapped in his. They entered the quiet and calm of the godswood, Larra's shuddering having little to do with the cold and everything to do with her "bad night."

Fat snowflakes whirled idly around them as they walked; Gendry didn't know where to lead her but Larra didn't need to be led in this place. This was a sacred place, where thousands of generations of Starks – and Snows – had come to seek the quiet, enduring wisdom of their strange gods. Larra walked through the fresh snow unerringly toward the heart of the godswood, to the most ancient and enduring of all of the trees. The heart-tree. A towering weirwood with a canopy of blood-red leaves that would have enveloped the entirety of the Street of Steel in King's Landing; the leaves were frozen solid, glittering and shimmering like the finest rubies in the bright, surprisingly hot sunlight that pierced billowing silver-white clouds.

They stopped by the enormous trunk of the tree, its strange bone-white roots tangling everywhere, a ruby face weeping frozen sap.

He released her hand, to tenderly cradle Larra's face, and brushed away the tears drying on her cheeks, clinging to her eyelashes. She looked wan, exhausted. Whatever had held her in the forges seemed to be loosening its grasp. She softened, miserably staring up at him as he carefully attended to each tear, almost reluctant to stop touching her.

"Have you ever betrayed someone you loved?" she asked hoarsely, and Gendry stared down at her.

"Yes," he answered honestly. "Your sister. I never should have left her."

"Why did you?" she asked, tears welling in her eyes. He didn't think they were for Arya, though: her gaze went faraway again, ever so briefly he might have imagined it.

"I wanted to join the Brotherhood," Gendry admitted. And how he regretted it. Yet, if not for that choice, he would never have met Cade, nor Neva; he would never have joined Jon Snow at Dragonstone for their venture beyond the Wall.

"You wanted to serve a purpose greater than your own," Larra said, warmth slowly trickling back into her hollow voice.

Gendry nodded, glancing up into the boughs of the great weirwood as several birds started to sing, trilling prettily. Here and there, he thought he caught flickers of movement, but he saw no birds. "And what they did to me betrayed everything they claimed to stand for…"

"People make awful choices when they're desperate," Larra said hollowly, her eyes going faraway, misty. "Things they never thought themselves capable of."

Gendry watched her carefully, remembering all he knew about Larra Snow, the She-Wolf of Winterfell. The woman who had yielded Winterfell to protect her brother; who had carried her brother beyond the Wall to the True North and back again. He had seen her training in the yard, and had a faint idea of what she may have done to protect her brother, but he couldn't know everything. Who could? Only Larra herself; and she was being punished by her memories. He sighed heavily, his breath pluming in front of him despite the warmth of the sun above them. "And sometimes the choice is taken from them…" Larra stared despondently at the pond steaming beside them, its waters unfrozen despite the cold. "I don't know how you did it but you kept your brother alive in the harshest place known to man, against all odds, through every danger. You couldn't have done such a thing without making hard choices. It's a good thing you're haunted by them."

Larra raised those purple eyes to his. "How's that?"

"You care," Gendry said quietly. "Life hasn't ruined you."

A long while later, Larra asked hoarsely, "How do you know?"

"Because it still hurts," Gendry said, watching her carefully. "You're not afraid to let it hurt."

"Am I not?" Her lips twitched toward a miserable smile.

"If you were, you'd never set foot in the nursery," Gendry said. "You've bonded with those children – you've opened yourself up to joy but you've also left yourself vulnerable to more pain."

Larra gave a great shuddering sigh, as if she was letting loose everything that had been punishing her, releasing it. She wiped her face with the cuffs of her dress, and stifled a yawn. She had to be exhausted. Her eyes lowered, resting on clumps of lush green plants clustered here and there amongst the roots of the weirwood. Gendry had noticed them as they walked through the godswood, and had been startled to see them flowering. Lush leaves, tall slender stalks and heavy, nodding flowers in a range of hues from snow-white to lavender and lilac and velvety violet to indigo and blackish-purple.

"What are they?" Gendry asked curiously. The plants seemed to shiver in the cold but they held their heads up, withstanding the winter.

"The winter rose," Larra said softly, glancing at him. Gendry glanced from her to the flowers. He knew a story about winter-roses; everyone knew a story about winter-roses. He had always thought they looked just like the rambling roses that flowered all over the gardens of the manses in King's Landing, embroidered all over Tyrell gowns and velvet armour. He should have realised the Northern winter-rose would be far more unassuming, and far more beautiful because of its strength.

"No rain, no flowers," Larra murmured, and Gendry knew she was referring to leaving herself open to pain by embracing love. Flowers could not survive without rain: it was as simple as that. "You cannot experience tremendous love without also suffering unfathomable grief…" She sighed and glanced at Gendry, her lips twitching; she looked far calmer now. "You're far too observant."

"I can't seem to keep my eyes off you," Gendry admitted, then realised what he had said. Flushing, knowing he could not take his words back, he admitted, "I wouldn't even if I could… When people show me who they are, I believe them." Somehow, the gap between them had closed. Larra gazed up at him with those eyes of violet fire, and he caressed her face. "I see you, She-Wolf of Winterfell."

"Gendry…" she sighed gently, softening. "It is our honour and privilege to have you here at Winterfell. For Jon's life…I'm not sure how I can ever repay you."

Gendry examined her face, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, memorising every detail – the curve of her eyebrows, the fineness of her eyelashes, the dainty constellation of birth-marks across her face, the kisses tucked at the corners of her succulent lips. "Perhaps there's a way."

Those immaculate lips twitched. She bit down on her lower-lip as her eyes sparked. Almost breathlessly – or perhaps he hoped she was breathless – she asked, "And what might that be?"

He cleared his throat gently, "Teach me how to read?"

Larra's smile was slow to come, but like a cinder it blossomed into something rich and warm, full of light. He had never seen her smile like this, open and delighted and free, flashing those pretty teeth, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her dainty nose crinkling slightly, her cheeks blossoming with warmth, and she gazed up at him, her expression filled with affection, fondness, amusement and something else, something he didn't dare name.

"I can do that," she promised. She didn't laugh at his request, didn't sneer or turn him down. She did, however, turn to the steaming pond and crouched beside it, lowering her hands – blood, blistering and sore – into the water. Carefully, she scrubbed the dried blood and sweat and oozing blisters clean. She gave his hands a covert glance and Gendry examined them; they were smeared with her blood, so he stooped beside her to splash surprisingly warm water over his hands, flicking the water away and drying them on his tunic before straightening up. He heard the birdsong again, and frowned up at the boughs of the weirwood, wondering if the Northern gods had sent the birds to taunt him.

"Weirbirds," Larra said, a touch of amusement colouring her voice. She glanced over her shoulder at the weirwood. "They're camouflaged against the leaves; you'll never see them. But their songs are beautiful. Birds always sing after a storm, no matter how bad it was."

"Perhaps Men should learn to do the same," Gendry mused, and they gazed up at the ruby-red leaves that clinked and chimed against each other, slowly starting to drip and patter against the snowy ground as the sun melted the ice.

"We could learn a lot from nature, if we'd but see," Larra sighed, shaking her head gently. "Everything is in perfect balance."

Gendry frowned, the snow on the ground around them reminding him only too clearly of snow-white hair. "We've been so long without them, makes you wonder how things will be upset, now that dragons have returned…"

"I dreamed of dragons as a girl," Larra said, gazing up at the weirwood leaves. She seemed brighter already, lighter somehow, and her face lit up with faint amusement as they caught a flicker of movement amongst the leaves, a short, sharp burst of beautiful birdsong piercing the air. "I used to gallop across the moors around Winterfell as fast as my horse could carry me, the closest I could ever come to flying… It is a great tragedy that dragons have been reborn into the world."

"A tragedy? Most believe it is a miracle," Gendry said.

"They were born already yoked to someone, enslaved to their whims… Instead of being protected as the wonders they are, they are used as weapons," Larra said, her expression turning thoughtful and sad.

"If they were yours, how would you use them?" Gendry asked curiously.

"I wouldn't," Larra blinked, looking aghast. "Wild creatures are meant to be free."

"Like you," Gendry said, and Larra frowned softly. "You miss it. Being up there."

"As I said – you're too observant," Larra said, and Gendry smiled.

"If you had to keep them close to protect them, what would you do with them?" Gendry pushed. He was very curious to know what Larra, highly educated and experienced with ruling over people, would do with a dragon.

She sighed heavily. "You live by your hammer. Its power has no equal: it can be used as a weapon to destroy and as a tool to build. No other tool or weapon in the world can do the same – except for dragons. The Valyrians built tremendous cities with dragons, the finest civilisation that fostered the most brilliant minds; but they also drowned whole civilisations in fire and blood trying to conquer the world… If I was bonded to a dragon, and they allowed it…I would use my education and experience and its strength to build something worthy of it."

"I think any who have ever known you know you need no dragons to do such things," Gendry said, and Larra's smile was tinged with sadness. He thought of Lommy, and all his brothers of the Watch. He thought of Yoren, and was filled with a sense of bewilderment that a stranger had defended him, grief at the way the man had been slain, and worry that he had not lived up to Yoren's sacrifice. "But if you don't…I think I'd be angry at the waste."

Larra glanced sharply at him, and Gendry gazed back at her. He sighed, and shook his head, reflecting on his own life, his own secrets and hardships and regrets. "It's okay that you survived, Larra."

"It's not that I survived," Larra said softly, a frown pulling her dark eyebrows together. "It's that I turned my back on them, knowing they wouldn't."

"You could never have saved everyone," Gendry said quietly, and Larra turned her gaze to the base of the weirwood trunk, where winter-roses nodded amongst gnarled bone-white roots.

"I know. That doesn't mean I'll ever stop wishing I could have," she said, almost desperately. Her lips twitched, and she sniffed sharply as she glanced away from the weirwood tree.

"You've an awful lot of ghosts, Larra," Gendry said quietly, and he was startled by her sudden laugh, ringing around the godswood. It seemed to chime off the frozen weirwood leaves, echoing off the steaming pond, dancing among the fat snowflakes drifting lazily about them.

"Yes," she agreed. She sighed, the sound almost content. "I do."

He wondered what was funny. Larra didn't explain and he didn't ask. Instead, they reached for each other's hands and slowly made their way back to the castle, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to walk hand-in-hand through the snow, content and calm in each other's presence.

"If…you were to dine in the nursery again tonight, we can start your lessons this evening," Larra said softly, and Gendry blinked dazedly.

"Tonight?"

"Aye."

"You've so many demands on your time–" Gendry blurted, suddenly feeling anxious. Larra glanced up at him, and her smile was gentle but knowing.

"There's no use trying to get out of it now," she warned him, a delicate smile starting to brighten her eyes once more.

"Tonight, then," Gendry agreed, and Larra beamed at him.

After the children were tucked into bed, Gendry returned to the nursery to find Larra lifting things out of a trunk. An enormous tome rested on the polished table, clasps glinting dully; its black leather cover was decorated with a silver tree without leaves or blossom, seven stars above it, all gleaming in the firelight. Larra glanced over her shoulder, smiling, and a kettle started to sing. She rose to her feet, carrying a large, polished wooden box, which she set on the table, then went to the hearth, pouring the hot water into a pot to make herb tea.

"Are you ready?" she asked, smiling, her eyes like live violet flames as she sat beside him on the settle, rather than the rocking-chair. She heaved the enormous book into her lap and unclasped it. At the sight of the writing, Gendry's heart plummeted. She saw the look on his face and gave him a gentle smile.

"I'd like to read you something before we begin," she explained softly, and he cleared his throat, nodding, and relaxed. She showed him the intricate lettering, black ink on ancient parchment. "It reads I Túrin i Cormaron. It is High Valyrian: it translates to 'The Lord of the Rings'."

"Who wrote it?"

"A Valyrian scholar of exceptional creativity. This copy was translated from High Valyrian to the Common Tongue centuries before the Doom," Larra said, gazing wistfully at the enormous tome.

"Why do you want to read it to me?"

"Because it's beautiful. Because one day you'll be able to read it for yourself but it will take work. I want to give you something to work for. And you appreciate working for something even more than you appreciate its beauty," Larra said softly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "You don't labour in the forges because it's your living; you enjoy every part of being an armourer. The creativity, the craftsmanship, the attention to detail, the devotion and patience and focus, the strain and effort and frustration. You are passionate about the work… It is easier to destroy things than create them; you are consumed by the joy of creation. I see it every day in the forge. No task is ever beneath you; or too ambitious for you… I see you too, Gendry."

Gendry flushed hotly, glancing at Larra, and asked hoarsely, "How does it begin?"

"It starts in High Valyrian… 'I amar prestart aen… Han Matho ne nen. Han mathon ned cae. A han noston ned gwilith… The world has changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air… Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it'… What a devastating beginning," Larra sighed dreamily, her eyes alight. She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes to the page once more. "'It began with the forging of the Great Rings'…"

Gendry listened as Larra read, and as she read, she seemed to weave a tapestry in his mind, pictures unfolding in his head, places he had never been, faces he had never set eyes upon. She read with passion and true enjoyment, mimicking different voices, her timing and delivery impeccable for jokes, bringing the characters to life, and her eyes danced as she explored the story she cherished. She read just enough to ensnare him, thrilled by what had already occurred and eager to know what happened next, before slipping a marker between the pages and shutting the book.

"You should read it to the children," he said, almost breathlessly, itching to open the pages – eager to start his lessons to know how to decipher the marks himself, which he knew was the point.

"I don't think so," Larra smiled warmly. "It's not all second breakfasts and party-trees. It becomes far too violent. And Calanthe would become entirely too inspired by one of the female characters. We'd never hear the end of it." Gendry grinned, and Larra reached for a neat, polished box in which were kept thick parchment cards the size of his palm, exquisitely painted and decorated. Each card showed a single letter, or a couple of them, joined together to create sounds. To help him – or anyone who had previously used them to learn how to read – there were images of familiar things painted around the letters, clues to associate the letter with the sound.

Larra went through every single card, laying them out on the table before them, explaining the letter and the sound it made. Gendry frowned and reached forward, picking up a handful of cards, and went through them carefully.

"So all letters are just sounds," he said, frowning. "Someone's just made a picture of what they think the sound looks like."

"Yes," Larra said, and Gendry frowned.

"Oh. I always thought it was more complicated than that."

"There's a reason for that," Larra said, her tone rather dark, and Gendry frowned at her, then realised what she meant.

"It sets those who can read apart from the rest," he said, and Larra nodded.

"My brothers never gave their education a second thought," Larra said. "But I had to fight tenaciously for mine. I worked harder for it, was hungrier for it, more curious, more focused. I could fight for it, because I'm a bastard; my sisters were raised by their mother to be what the South thinks ladies ought to be. Their heads were filled with songs and prayers and other nonsense… A fine education is one of the greatest advantages anyone can have, no matter what they were born. Let's begin."

Gendry glanced at the enormous tome Larra had set beside her, and then at Larra herself.

Never once had she scoffed at the idea that he wanted to learn to read, never inferred that he couldn't because he was an armourer, or shouldn't, because as an armourer he had no need.

Instead, and without question, she had committed her time and effort to teaching him.

If he thought she was meticulous, calm and painstaking in her attention to detail in the forge, in the schoolroom she was warm, coaxing, gentle and encouraging.

He understood, during that first lesson, why it was the children had all fallen in love with her.

She made them feel as if they had it in them to do anything, become anyone they wished – so long as they worked for it. And she would always be there to support them to do so.

Unlike the children, however, Gendry flew through his letters.

"You'll outstrip Neva soon," Larra said, with a coy look, and Gendry breathed a sigh of relief, nodding. As long as he could stay one step ahead of Neva, to help her in her own lessons, that would be enough.

Realising that learning to read quickly meant fewer lessons with Larra, and less time with her in the cosy warmth of the nursery, had Gendry considering feigning a struggle.

No, he thought, smiling back at Larra as she beamed at him, tucking away the painted cards. She'd see right through it.

Not that it wasn't tempting to see if she'd play along.

A.N.: I had to include LotR, mostly because I've been watching it on repeat recently, also because it heavily inspired GRRM to begin with!