A.N.: This one's a rollercoaster.
So apparently I'm not receiving notifications when you've left reviews! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, I really appreciate them – I hope you continue to enjoy the story!
Valyrian Steel
40
A Winter Rose
Pink-cheeked and breathless, Larra smiled as she strode through the castle, the chill of snow clinging to her, the girls racing ahead, blonde hair rippling behind them, the sound of their giggles and chatter echoing off the walls. The day had dawned bright and unusually hot, the sun pale gold and fierce, and had made everything seem to come alive. Larra had insisted they take opportunity to go for a ride while it was still fine – the kos who guarded their little lionesses had whooped and hollered with delight as they galloped across the moors, exercising their horses. Their boldness was aweing. Larra had lifted Leona into her lap, and had been surprised when Qhaero returned to them, the tiny silver bells in his braid chiming and singing, his severe, handsome face split into a grin revealing straight white teeth, and offered Calanthe his hand. Effortlessly, he had lifted her up and into his lap. Larra had thought that Dothraki never shared their mounts, and the other kos had looked surprised to see him lift Calanthe into the saddle. Calanthe had grinned, and Qhaero dug in his heels, spurring his stallion on. Larra had watched, laughing softly, as Calanthe's shouts and hollers of delight echoed across the snowy moors.
The other girls had had a gentler lesson, learning to sit confidently in the saddle and becoming accustomed to their mounts. Without a bond with their horse, they would always struggle to ride. The little ones – Rosamund, Neva and Altheda – all rode gentle ponies, while Narcisa, Crisantha and Delphine, all fair riders in side-saddles, had to relearn how to sit astride their horses. They were soothed somewhat by the appearance of Larra as well as Zharanni in their riding leathers, sitting boldly in their saddles. Larra kept Leona in her lap, the little girl tucked inside the folds of a heavy new wool cloak trimmed with fur, and her tiny pearly teeth flashed as she smiled, her eyes bright, as Larra galloped with her across the moors, joining the Dothraki kos and Calanthe, who was pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, laughing and chatting to Qhaero, wearing her new breeches and very much enjoying herself.
The girls had all been outfitted with breeches and tunics for their riding lessons, but Calanthe would have to be cut free from hers soon enough: She refused to wear anything else now, to Narcisa's enduring horror. Calanthe looked smaller, somehow, without the billowing skirts about her legs; she was skinny and quick, and much younger than Larra often remembered she was. She bounded about like a gazelle, unencumbered by her skirts, boisterous and excited, filled with joy. She was delighted…to be free.
For the entirety of the morning, Larra remained outside, in the saddle, exercising Black Alys. After they had enjoyed some time in the saddle, the kos returned to their charges and started giving surprisingly gentle instruction to the girls. Larra and Zharanni remained close, observing the lessons and encouraging the girls; Aqo, Leona's guardian, was lean and quick and young, and spoke more Common Tongue than the rest, and Larra spent a good deal of time discussing with him and Zharanni, and through them the other kos, the progress of the girls' riding lessons. Qhaero insisted Zharanni tell Larra that she rode almost as well as any kos, which made her smile. He also asked whether she would stud her fierce mare – Black Alys snorted, as if she could hear them discussing her, and gave one of the kos' stallions a fierce nip when he wandered too close. Considering the wisdom of breeding on Black Alys now, Larra examined the kos' mounts – they were all powerful stallions bred for strength, endurance and ferocity in battle, incredibly handsome creatures full of fire. Alys' offspring by any one of them would be incredibly strong, full of fire and powerful and gorgeous to look upon.
They discussed horse-breeding, and Larra explained the Westerosi term cavalry to the kos, who were curious about the Knights of the Vale and admiring of their fierce, armoured coursers, destriers and chargers. The Dothraki measured a person's social standing by either the pure breeding of their mount or the number of horses they owned. Black Alys was an incredibly fine mare and Larra a gifted rider. The kos didn't need to know she was sister to the King or castellan in all but name of Winterfell: they saw her astride Black Alys and knew she was as close to a khaleesi by their standards.
As they trotted back to the castle, she heard Qhaero praising Calanthe, his rich voice warm with pride as he murmured to her, and she caught the word, "Khalakki."
"I know khaleesi," Larra said to Zharanni. "What is a khalakki?"
"It is…the daughter of a khal," Zharanni said, her beautiful face pinching slightly. Larra watched Qhaero and Calanthe, smiling softly to herself. Zharanni watched them too, and murmured, "He takes pride in her. He thinks…he tells her thinks she shall be a bloodrider."
"I didn't know girls were allowed to be bloodriders," Larra said.
"In the Great Grass Sea, no," Zharanni said. "But in Rhaesh Andahli, perhaps she is allowed."
"Rhaesh Andahli?"
"The Land of the Andals," Zharanni said uncertainly. Larra scoffed.
"You'll find few of those here," she muttered, and Zharanni frowned bemusedly at her. "The North is home to the First Men. Andals came to Westeros thousands of years after, but here in the North we fought them and defeated them. Their descendants live in the south."
"You are not an Andal?"
"Certainly not," Larra said crisply, her spine straightening. She had always been very proud to be of stern Northern stock, a descendant of the First Men. The only Andal she had ever met was Lady Catelyn, and that hadn't put the rest in good stead with her. "My ancestors were the First Men."
And Valyrians, she thought offhandedly. A child of ice and fire…
She brushed Alys down and was satisfied to see the kos teaching the girls how to do the same. When she had given Alys some oats as a treat, she guided the girls back inside, all of them pink-cheeked and chilled but happy. She watched them dart down the corridor and smiled to herself. It had been a lovely morning.
Larra eyed the maid shrewdly as she approached, giving Larra an apologetic glance as she dipped a curtsy. "Beggin' your pardon, m'lady. Lord Brandon wishes to see you in the solar."
"Does he, indeed?" Larra replied, nodding, and the maid curtsied again before bustling off. Larra's thighs ached as she strode upstairs, both from riding this morning, and from riding Gendry last night until they were both hoarse. She smiled softly to herself as she strode through the castle, the delicious ache between her thighs teasing her memories, and she blushed when the guard opened the door to the solar, to find Gendry stood there.
"I was just thinking of you," she said warmly, and Gendry's fierce look faded, replaced by something softer, warmer. He held out a hand to her and she went into his arms; he sighed and kissed her temple, his enormous arms banding heavily about her, keeping her close for a lingering embrace that said much about how tired he was. "Did Brandon summon you here?"
"Yes. I thought perhaps he'd like to discuss the steel," Gendry said, his frown thoughtful. "You?"
"Brandon asked me here," Larra said, glancing around the solar. The fire was lit in the hearth, candles flickering on the great working desk, but there was no Brandon in sight, and no Sansa. "Where can he be?"
"I am here," Brandon said, and a guard wheeled him into the chamber. Beside him, holding his hand, walked a little girl buried in layers of rough-spun clothing, a knitted bonnet of undyed yarn neatly tied under her stubborn little chin. Bran glanced over his shoulder, politely telling his guard, "This will do, thank you. You may go and take some rest."
Larra glanced at the girl, her lips parting with sudden recognition. Beside her, Gendry tensed, a soft gasp escaping him.
Despite her grubbiness and poor clothing, the girl was undeniably a beauty. She was fair-skinned and freckled, with a pretty button nose and rosy-pink lips so plump and full they looked bee-stung. Raven-black braids fell from under her bonnet. When she glanced up, her fierce eyes were a scalding blue.
They were Gendry's eyes. Robert's eyes.
Larra knew instantly who she was, though she had never met the child, didn't even know the name her mother had given her, had never thought about either of them since Maisie was married off to a widowed farmer all those years ago. Another of her ghosts returned to haunt her. Maisie had left little of herself in her child, though Larra could see her childhood friend in the girl's pretty nose and her freckles. Her hair, though, those fierce eyes glaring from her pale face, those were the King's. Ours is the fury, she thought, gazing at the King's youngest surviving bastard.
"Briar, this is my older sister, Larra, who made the little lamb," Bran said, his voice ever so gentle. He gave the girl a coaxing smile, perhaps remembering how it felt to be small and terrified by strangers much bigger than you. Larra noticed that she clutched one of the little knitted animals she had been making for the children – a lamb, as Bran had said, with a sweet face and a little blue dress, hose and a hooded cape – and her fingertips were white. "And beside her is the man I told you about."
The little girl gave Bran a sidelong look, obviously remembering the name. She flicked a glance at Gendry, a tiny frown on her face, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully, scowling at Gendry warily. Shrewd and careful, just like her brother, Larra thought.
"Gendry," the little girl said, a bite in her tone, but Larra focused on her tiny fingers as she clutched the toy lamb. Sceptically, her voice fierce, she asked, "Are you my brother?"
So accustomed to Gendry's southern way of speaking was Larra that she blinked, fighting back a smile at the thick Northern accent that came tumbling out of the girl's mouth, rough and pretty all at once, lively and stern.
"Am I her brother?" Gendry asked Bran dazedly, his eyes wide. Bran nodded silently, fiddling with something in his lap – a small suede pouch Larra recognised with a sinking feeling in her stomach. She remembered Maisie's lips – so like her daughter's – quivering as she wept and handed Larra the treasures she had been gifted by the King.
"Aye, he's your brother, lass," Larra said gently, watching the girl grimly. She sighed and smiled coaxingly, sitting down on the settle. Gendry sank down, weak-kneed, staring at the girl. She held out her hand and smiled coaxingly, and Briar glanced at Bran. He smiled warmly at her, and she stepped closer. "I made lots of other animals. Did you choose the lamb yourself?"
"Aye," Briar nodded, and Larra noticed her wide blue eyes darting to Gendry and back to her, her fingers trembling as she clutched the toy.
"Daddy's a shepherd, isn't he?" she prompted, for it was she who had arranged Maisie's marriage. All the others had gone – Father south to King's Landing, Lady Catelyn following him, Robb busy ruling the North in their stead. It had fallen to her to protect her friend and provide for her and the babe the King had left her with when he forgot about the fancy he'd taken to her. Larra had married Maisie off to a hard-working, kind older widow with a farm just miles from Winterfell, and had forgotten all about her the moment responsibility of her brothers had fallen to her.
Briar's eyes gleamed and her lips became tiny, her freckles stark against her pale skin, and she looked away, her face fierce, almost hard. But her fingers clutched at the lamb and Larra sighed heavily. "Oh, I see." She glanced at Bran, who gave her a sombre look; he didn't need to say anything to confirm that the winter had already taken Briar's father, as it had so many other older people. "Did he teach you all about lambing?" A nod. "You know, I should doubt Gendry's ever seen a lamb before in his life. He's from King's Landing, you know."
"Perhaps you could tell me all about it," Gendry suggested, his voice softer than Larra was used to, trying not to frighten the girl. She shot him a fierce look, twisting the arm of the toy. She glanced again at Bran, who gave her a coaxing smile.
"I believe there are ewes in the barn ready for lambing," he said softly. "Perhaps, Briar, you could show Gendry and Larra. You're so good at it." Briar scowled fiercely at Bran, still clutching the toy lamb, but Larra could see her mind working behind those stern blue eyes.
"Alright," she finally agreed, flicking Gendry a look out of the corner of her eye.
As they passed, Bran handed Larra the small suede pouch he had been fiddling with. Silently, she opened it and sighed, frowning. She pulled the strings tight and tied them to her belt.
Briar didn't reach for their hands, as the Lannisters or Neva would have; she watched them carefully as Larra led the way through the corridors and halls and covered passages, until they reached one of the barns. The smell greeted them first, fierce and nauseating, like a wall. During the winter, they had to keep their livestock indoors overnight and during storms, or else all but the hardiest – muskox, highland cows, Northern bearded pigs, Northern Blacknose sheep – would freeze to death. But life still went on despite the storms and the turn in the weather. Husbandry was an important part of the duties of the Castellan of Winterfell: too many lives depended on fresh meat when the summer's grain supplies dwindled. They would have fresh lamb, pork and veal throughout the winter but only if they kept up a rigid breeding cycle.
Animal husbandry, like the forges, was one of the areas that fell to Larra to manage; it was alien to Sansa, whose meat was presented to her on a plate, roasted and covered with herbs and rich gravy. She had never thought where the meat came from and had blushed the first time one of the farmers asked to discuss his prized bulls ready to breed. Larra, who had always adored flowers and growing things, spent time in the forges and soaked up as much education as Maester Luwin could give her, had always been fond of animals, not just horses and orphaned direwolves.
"Which is your favourite animal, Briar?" Larra asked, as they watched her, up to her knees in hay, diligently examining a ewe. Around the animals, she relaxed, her eyes brighter, the tightness of her mouth softening.
"Branda was our sow," Briar said, glancing at Larra. "She always talked to me."
"Pigs are very clever," Larra said. "Cleverer than dogs, some say."
"Wolves are cleverer than them all," Briar said, with a sly look at Larra.
"Aye, that's true," Larra agreed. "People often speak ill of wolves. But wolves are gentle creatures. They're great nurturers – they take care of one another. If they're not hungry or threatened, they're the gentlest creatures. They're very loving."
Briar gave Larra another of her shrewd looks. "You have a direwolf."
"Oh, no. Last Shadow comes to visit now and then, but she's a wild creature," Larra smiled. "She roams the Wolfswood with her pack…when she was a pup, though, she lived in my garden, with my other animals."
That caught the little girl's interest. "What animals?" she asked curiously.
"Well, Father gifted me a garden to grow crops and flowers," Larra said, smiling sadly. Maester Luwin had taught her patience through gardening. "I hatched quail and chickens to keep the crops free from slugs and insects. The quail were all named after wildflowers and the chickens were named after she-wolves of Winterfell. One of Father's bannermen gifted me a goat on my tenth name-day. I named her Visenya, owing to her feisty nature. I even had honeybees, though they'll be hibernating in their hive through the winter."
"Didn't your direwolf eat any of the other animals?" Briar asked.
"No. Wolves only hunt when they're hungry," Larra said. "I used to take Shadow hunting for deer in the Wolfswood."
Gendry watched Briar carefully as she went about the chores assigned to her by one of the older farmers. They could always use an extra pair of eyes during lambing season, and an extra pair of hands, and Briar had been taught spectacularly by her father. As she went about her work, confident and focused, Gendry glanced at Larra.
"Feel like explaining?" he asked quietly.
"Her mother and I grew up together in this castle," Larra said, sighing heavily. "She was the same age as me; we were playmates, then she worked as a scullery-maid… She was always very pretty, with strawberry-blonde hair and those lips." She nodded at Briar, who had inherited her mother's freckles and lips, if nothing else. "All the boys loved her. I loved her. She was always smiling. When the King and all his court came to Winterfell, he noticed her."
"She was your age," Gendry said, frowning deeply, and Larra nodded.
"Aye, sixteen, when the King arrived at Winterfell," Larra sighed. She glanced at Gendry. "Father went to King's Landing, Lady Catelyn followed him and…and Maisie came to me and told me the King had got her pregnant. The number of times he had her, I'm not surprised… I arranged her marriage to a widowed farmer. Then Father was killed and Robb went to war and…that was the last I thought of her – of them."
And she was ashamed. She had forgotten one of the people she had promised to protect. She had forfeited them for Bran, as she had ever other person living in the North. She had abandoned her duties to them so that she could protect Bran. A small part of her still insisted that protected Bran meant they could one day return to protect the rest, but it was a very small voice, and she knew in her heart she hadn't thought about the hundreds of thousands of people in the North who relied on House Stark for protection. She had failed them.
"What was in the pouch your brother gave you?" Gendry asked quietly.
Larra frowned, watching Briar work. She sighed, shaking her head, "The King gave her jewels, gold and silver rings set with cut stones. Over a dozen of them. They're Briar's inheritance."
"A dozen jewelled rings," Gendry said, his voice simmering with anger. He scowled fiercely as he watched his sister, looking so like her with that ferocious glint in his sapphire eyes that Larra's lips twitched in spite of their discussion. "A trinket for every tumble."
She reached out and stroked his back gently. His trimmed beard twitched as he clenched his jaw, and his voice sounded angry and incredibly vulnerable when he said, "How could he do this? Fuck a young girl and get a babe on her, only to abandon her and never think of her again. How could he do it, over and over again?" They watched Briar coaxing and cooing to one of the ewes.
Quietly, Larra told Gendry, "Robert was not an evil man. He wasn't even a bad one, not really."
"What was he, then?" Gendry grunted softly, looking despondent.
"I remember him at Winterfell. Fat and drunk," Larra said, pulling a face that coaxed a smile from Gendry. King Robert had been…a disappointment, after all Father's stories about him. "He put so much effort into being the one to drink the most, bed the prettiest maids, laugh the loudest… I remember thinking that I'd never seen anyone so unhappy in my life. He was. He was unhappy."
"He was the king."
"Robert was forged for war. Father always told us, Robert loved nothing so much as battle. It was where he was truly alive…" Larra clicked her tongue, shaking her head. She sighed heavily, "After the Rebellion ended, all the Targaryens were dead, and they gave Robert the crown. They might as well have just had his head then and been done with it. They denied him who he was."
"What do you mean?" Gendry frowned softly.
"If I was to say to you that you could have all you've ever desired, even in secret, lands and wealth beyond imagining, influence and the respect of everyone around you, women desiring you and men desiring to be you…but you could never set foot in a forge again or lift a hammer…what would you choose?"
Gendry's answer was instant: "The hammer."
She chuckled softly. "Robert would have chosen the hammer, too. He would have chosen to be a warrior," she said. Thoughtfully, she said, "I wonder if he could have done it all over again, knowing what would happen, whether he would have let Rhaegar deal a killing blow instead… Robert was made for war; peace killed him, slowly but surely. Time wore bits and pieces of him away."
"A rusting weapon," Gendry muttered, and Larra nodded.
"Your father wasn't an evil man. A careless one, perhaps, and unhappy – and he was careless because he was unhappy…but certainly not the worst," Larra said.
"All those women, all those babies," Gendry gasped softly, grief flickering across his face, darkening his eyes. "We're the only ones left – me, and Briar. Cersei had all the others murdered. He couldn't bother himself to protect us…" He turned and looked Larra straight in the eye, and she could see real vulnerability, desperation and anger simmering there. "I'm ashamed of him."
She nodded gently, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I'd be more concerned if you weren't."
He tucked her into his arms, watching Briar praise a ewe as she licked her newborn lamb clean. "What do I do with her now?"
"She doesn't need to know she's the King's bastard. We don't know what her father told her. All she needs to know is you're her brother. Let her know she's safe and wanted," she said, thinking of her own childhood, desperate to be accepted, aching for love, dreading Lady Catelyn's approach and infuriated whenever Jon shrank away from her. "The rest will follow. She'll warm to you. How could she not? You're wonderful."
Gendry gave her a subdued smile but sighed into her kiss when she leaned up to press her lips against his. She caressed his cheek and sucked sweetly on his tongue until he groaned. A loud baaaa close by startled them, and Gendry's cheeks flushed as they broke apart, smiling at each other as Briar clambered past in the hay, cheering on a wobbly lamb as it tottered about. Briar, her face alight, beaming, scooped up the lamb and carried it to its mother, ordering it to suckle. She turned and caught their gaze and smiled at them.
The next ewe she tended to, Briar had Gendry in the paddock with her, squatted down beside her as she explained what to do and what to look for and how to help if the ewe needed it. When Larra told them it was nearly time to wash for their evening meal, Briar washed her hands in a barrel of water and flicked them dry, then reached for the knitted lamb Gendry had kept safe and clean in his hand the entire afternoon. She replaced with her hand without ceremony, and brother and sister walked through the castle together.
Wistfully, Larra watched the two of them. She wished it was so easy for one of her own long-lost siblings to reappear into her life. The mutinous glint in Briar's eye had reminded her of Rickon all afternoon, though Briar gentled considerably around the animals.
Larra was there when Gendry introduced Briar to Neva and Cade, who rumpled Briar's hair affectionately, shrugging and instantly accepting of the new member of their family. Neva's eyes sparkled but her natural shyness held her back. All the while the children interacted, Gendry watched them; he coaxed Neva to say hello, and Cade, who had had a growth spurt and seemed as wobbly on his long legs as the lamb in the barn, turned to Gendry with a bewildered look.
"You said you'd never been North before," he accused.
"I hadn't."
"So how've you got a daughter at Winterfell?"
"Briar's not my daughter," Gendry said, as Larra smirked, realising that indeed, Gendry was actually old enough to have fathered Briar. "She's my sister."
"And you, born in King's Landing?" Cade frowned. "Your father spread his seed far."
"You've no idea," Gendry said darkly, and Cade heard enough in his voice not to press the issue.
Larra watched the two little girls, complete opposites in their natures – one bold, the other gentle – comparing the knitted animals they had chosen as companions. Briar's was a lamb, and Neva always now slept with a snow-white bunny with black splotches, wearing a pale lavender dress and hooded cape. The bunny was named Elbereth – a High Valyrian word meaning Star Queen. The two girls settled down in front of the hearth and discussed what Briar could name her lamb, Briar's eyes sparkling with delight as Neva shyly suggested beautiful High Valyria names for wildflowers. Larra was reminded, strangely, of Princess Myrcella, gathering wildflowers in the godswood; Larra had pressed them for her and taught her the High Valyrian names as well as the colloquial Northern names for them. She had made the princess a little book modelled after one Larra had compiled throughout her own childhood, and made a note to dig it out later.
The Lannisters entered the nursery in that moment, Calanthe leading the charge, and she bounded over to the hearth, still proudly flaunting her new breeches.
"Who's this then?" she asked giddily, and Larra watched the other girls.
"I need to find her a new frock," Gendry muttered to Larra, wincing slightly, as the Lannisters clustered around Neva and Briar. Though Larra had replaced the girls' expensive silks with thick, warm woollen dresses, and had taken pains to ensure there was little difference between Neva's clothing and the other girls', the quality of their clothing was noticeably fine. Beside them, Briar looked out of place. Desperately drab and very grubby. Larra reached out, rubbing Gendry's arm.
"Leave it to me," she said, leaning up to kiss his cheek. She clapped her hands and the girls glanced over their shoulders, bright-eyed and happy from a lovely day. When she told them, "We shall have baths tonight," they beamed, delighted. They all adored going to the baths. Every seventh night, Larra would take the girls down to the baths so that they could have a splash and she could wash their hair properly; in between, they helped each other wash.
Bath-night was a treat for everyone, as much for Narcisa as it was for Neva. They carried their thick nightdresses and quilted robes and fleece-lined leggings downstairs with combs and perfumed soaps and for a few hours, they luxuriated in the sultry, humid heat of the baths. Tonight, they were accompanied in the baths by Lady Nym and Zharanni, who luxuriated in the smaller, hotter pools and talked, sipping fine wines brought by Lady Nym, while Lady Tisseia helped corral and care for the girls, massaging soap into their long golden hair and patiently unknotting tangles with large-toothed combs. Neva always made Larra smile, and she teased the little girl.
"Are you a water-nymph?" she asked. "Or a dolphin?" Neva and Cadeon were both water-babies: Neva had grown up swimming the waters around her mother's pillow-house in Lys, while Cade had been raised on-board pirate ships. He was a fiercely strong swimmer and loved to be in the water as much as his sister.
Briar took one look at the steaming pools and stopped dead in her tracks. Her cheeks flushed in the heat, wrapped up in her layers of rough-spun, and it took Larra a long time to coax her out of her clothing, and even longer to get her to splash in the shallowest part of the smallest pool. She watched Neva, her silver hair glimmering in the firelight as she swam underwater, holding her breath, from end to end of the largest pool, doing somersaults, twisting and turning and having a lovely time.
Eventually, and with much coaxing from bold Calanthe, Briar entered into the pool and played with Rosamund and Altheda. Watching Lady Tisseia wash the other girls' hair with a suspicious frown, Briar eventually turned to Larra and let her empty a jug of warm water over her head, massaging soap into her hair.
When all the girls had had their hair washed and combed free of tangles, they were wrapped up in great sheets of terrycloth and set before the roaring hearth with their dolls, chatting to each other while they dried their hair and warmed themselves. Larra sighed and relaxed into the smallest, hottest pool, her own hair heavy and nourished by thick balm she had rinsed out, and Lady Nymeria lolled sensuously beside her, her arms spread either side of her along the lip of the pool, dark nipples proudly bared, and she sighed contentedly, her lustrous eyes glinting in the firelight as she watched Larra dip into the water.
"How pleasant it is to be warm," she sighed, giving Larra a warm smile, her full lips curving seductively, stained with wine. Larra wasn't used to blatant sexuality; Nym was exceedingly confident in her own body, her beauty – she used it as a weapon as much as the blades she concealed beneath her silks. "I thank you for the invitation, cousin."
Cousin. She had given Larra an ironic smile, her eyes laughing, when she had first greeted Larra. She was a Sand: Larra was a Snow. In Lady Nym's mind, she had thousands of brothers and sisters – other Sands – and Flowers, Stones, Waters, Hills, Rivers and Snows were all her cousins. They were all bound by the same circumstances, though she had given Larra a queer look and laughed sultrily, "Most bastards have no father. You, Larra Snow, are unique in having no mother."
"I'm glad to extend it," Larra said honestly. She had never met a Dornishwoman before, knew of them only by reputation alone, and had been honestly surprised by how much she enjoyed Nym. Where Northerners were stern, the Dornish were sensuous. At opposite ends of Westeros, one kingdom icy, the other fiery, their cultures were surprisingly alike in many ways – they both revered loyalty, justice and honour, and acknowledged that those without swords died upon them. Like Larra, Nym had been raised with a weapon in her hand, both their fathers determined that they should know how to defend themselves, haunted by the ghosts of their tragic sisters.
It had occurred to Larra on more than one occasion that their families were very alike, in that they had suffered similarly. Prince Oberyn and Ned had both lost brothers and sisters because of the Rebellion. At their cores, House Martell and House Stark were not so very different.
Nym was graceful, dressing elegantly, and highly educated, and she admitted she found herself as delighted by Larra's intelligence as Larra was with hers. It was unexpected; neither of them knew enough about the other's culture to truly appreciate it, but they were learning. Larra had spent many long hours with Lady Nym, leaning over a cyvasse board. Nym drank mulled wine; Larra, strong cider. Nym wore silks and heavy velvets to chase away the cold; Larra sat in her wool dresses, uncomfortable too near the fire. They both wore their long dark hair in a simple braid, though Nym's was wrapped with red-gold wire and Larra kept hers pinned out of the way. They shared many interests, not least of which was cyvasse. It was almost obsessional in Nym, who had learned it from her Volantene mother, where the game had been given birth, and Larra had finally found a worthy opponent who appreciated the game as much as she did. They were either the eldest or one of the oldest siblings with younger brothers or sisters who adored them. They were both highly educated, and spent many long hours discussing philosophy, economics, High Valyrian poetry, debating politics and religion, inheritance and weaponry. On occasion, they trained together with knives and daggers. Learning that Nym's mother was a noblewoman of the oldest blood of Volantis, Larra had once, tentatively, asked whether Nymeria knew the name Maegyr. Nym's lustrous black eyes – eyes she claimed she and all her sisters had inherited from their father – had watched her carefully before answering that she had heard the name Maegyr, that it belonged to the old blood and that one of the triarchs, a tiger, bore the name Maegyr. Larra hadn't pressed for more; she had never met her brother's wife, after all, and knowing what she did of Talisa's fate, Larra didn't wish to hurt herself by learning more about the woman who should have been her sister. Nym had told her instead of the city of Volantis, of the politics and elephants and sugar-beet soups and tiger-skins worn with silk soft as butterfly wings.
Nym had had someone set up their cyvasse boards, and when they climbed out of the pool, they wrapped themselves in blankets and let their hair dry a they played. Larra smiled, turning happily to the game while the girls warmed themselves by the fire. While she and Nym played, Larra talked with Zharanni – in Dothraki, so that Larra could practise – while keeping an ear out for the conversation between Nymeria and Tisseia. The bastard daughter of one of the oldest blood of Volantis and a freed slave, her face still marked with her profession, discussed the growing discontent in Volantis. Larra knew enough about Volantene politics to know that the elephants were those who favoured peace while the tigers thirsted for war: the tigers had snatched control in the last election, yet Tisseia warned that the breaking of chains and the roar of dragons had been heard in Volantis, and the slaves outnumbered free men five to one.
"Does your mother still live inside the Black Walls?" Larra asked.
"She does, though Uncle extended an invitation to join us at the Water Gardens," Nymeria admitted, her accented voice rich as velvet, dripping from her lips like honey. "I think she will not come."
"The city's about to turn on itself," Tisseia said, giving Larra a look. "The Red Priests warn that the city will burn if the triarchs take up arms against Daenerys Targaryen; yet all the talk is of the gold and slaves that will flood Volantis once she is dead."
"People will always act in their own self-interests," Larra said, and Nymeria let out an indignant gasp, her lustrous eyes narrowing on the cyvasse board, as Larra claimed her king. It said a lot that Daenerys Targaryen, who had made a name for herself by freeing the slaves of Slavers' Bay, had ignored the plight of Volantene slaves on her journey to claim the Iron Throne.
"I wonder why Daenerys Targaryen docked in Volantis yet allowed slavery to endure in the city," Larra said, glancing at Nymeria, who was always careful, her words dripping with double-entendre whenever they flirted with delicate topics.
"Surely the Dragon Queen could have made short work of Valyria's daughter," Nymeria sighed, emptying her wine-glass and giving Larra a sidelong look that spoke volumes. They had debated Daenerys' goodness, both too intrigued by cyvasse to see Daenerys' actions as anything but, at worst, completely self-serving or, at best, a happy by-product of her ultimate goal. Nymeria tilted her head thoughtfully at Tisseia, her gaze lingering on the teardrop tattoo beneath her eye. "How is it you became free, my lady?"
"Lord Tyrion Lannister paid for my freedom," Tisseia said stoutly, her chin rising.
"But you stayed with him?" Nym prompted delicately.
"What am I to do with freedom if I cannot feed myself?" Tisseia asked. "Lord Tyrion and I look after each other."
"Everyone I meet seems to come to adore this Tyrion Lannister," Nymeria said, glancing at Larra.
"Don't look to me for contraction. When Bran broke his back, Tyrion designed him a saddle so that he might still ride," Larra smiled fondly.
"I do not understand this fondness for Lannisters," Nymeria frowned.
"For one Lannister," Larra assured her.
"My father died for him."
"Your father died trying to avenge his sister," Larra corrected delicately, and Nymeria glanced sharply at her. Larra raised an eyebrow and said sternly to her, "Look me in the eye and tell me you would not do the same to avenge yours."
Nymeria sighed heavily, her long eyelashes casting her dark eyes into shadow. She rolled her neck and gave Larra a rueful smile. "I cannot." Her eyes dipped to the scars clearly visible on Larra's body. "Nor can you."
"I've almost died nearly a dozen times protecting my brother – that is the difference. My sisters would rage at the idea of me dying for their sake," Larra said. Sansa would, at least; she would weep furious, bitter tears at the idea of Larra wasting her life, this second chance the gods had somehow granted them.
"Lady Sansa does not wish you to avenge her?"
"She revenged herself," Larra said quietly. "Against all odds, we're still here. I should be ashamed to be wasteful of it."
"My father wishes me to avenge him, I know this," Nymeria said firmly.
"There are many ways to get revenge. The best I've found is to live in spite of the one who's wronged you," Larra said, shrugging delicately. And that went for Lady Catelyn who despised her as much as it did the White Walkers who had hunted her.
"And what of the Twins?" Nymeria asked, her eyes narrowing. "Winter came for House Frey, they say."
"House Frey violated guest-right. The gods punish," Larra said, aware that she was smiling. A many-faced god named Death, she thought. Death, who wears my sister's face. Nymeria chuckled and leaned closer, her eyes sultry as she settled close beside Larra.
"I enjoy our time together," Nymeria admitted, her voice sounding candid, as if she was surprised. Larra smiled.
"So do I. It's rare up here to find someone who shares my passion for cyvasse and philosophy and economics," she said, and Nym smiled.
"Another pup has found its way to the wolf's den," she murmured, her eyes on Briar, whose hair had dried into a sheet of shimmering obsidian, sucking her thumb as she played with Neva and Altheda in front of the heart with their dolls and toys. "Not a Lannister."
"No," Larra agreed.
"She looks as if your lover fathered her," Nymeria observed, and Larra glanced at her. It hadn't been acknowledged that she and Gendry were – well, lovers. That he slept in her bed and that they were intimate in the way they acted and spoke to each other.
"She's his sister," Larra said, giving Nymeria a sidelong look. Nymeria raised her eyebrows, watching the children.
"You remind me of my father," she said softly, her smile turning sad.
"How so?" Larra laughed; she had heard of the Red Viper and didn't quite think their reputations matched up. Though, they were both known as incredibly dangerous…
"Father collected his bastards and raised us together," Nymeria said softly. "Obara, Tyene, Sarella, my sisters by my father's paramour Ellaria… We are a family, though we were strangers. I get the same feeling when I watch those children together. You have brought them together, have crafted for them a family."
"It's what every child deserves," Larra shrugged. "A place they're safe and loved."
"The way you were not."
"My father loved me," Larra replied.
"But not your father's wife," Nymeria sighed. "I am lucky, I know. I had two mothers. The one who gave me life, and the one who raised me as her own blood." She sighed heavily, for the first time looking almost glum. "Father should have married her."
"Ellaria Sand?"
"Mm… One day, you shall meet her. You have the same…maternal nature. My uncle, he will delight to play cyvasse with you," Nymeria smiled.
"Am I to come to Dorne, then?" Larra asked, smiling.
"After the war," Nymeria nodded, and Larra laughed softly. "You will like the Water Gardens; it is cooler there, and the air is heavy with the perfume of flowers. We shall find you a sand-steed worthy of you, and silks that show off your eyes."
"And what excuse shall bring me to Dorne?" Larra asked, smiling. She had no intention of leaving Winterfell – if indeed they survived the coming war, but it was fun to play with Nymeria.
"The King will need an emissary in the southern court, yes?" Nymeria smiled playfully. "One who is cunning as a wolf and can appreciate our ways. You will love the Dornish court; the women fight as fiercely as they fuck. And the men worship them for it. You can bring your blacksmith – my sisters would adore his weapons."
"And other things, I'm sure."
"As sure as I am that you will fight them all to keep them away from him," Nymeria said, teasing. "You can bring your babies, too. My Princess will enjoy her cousins at court."
Larra sighed heavily, gazing over at the girls. "They're not my babies."
Nymeria laughed softly, and told her, "They are yours. Just as I know that I am Ellaria's, I know that those are Larra's girls."
Nymeria's words echoed in Larra's mind for a good long while. The girls were wards of the North, of Jon, who had tasked Sansa with raising and protecting them – yet Sansa was self-aware enough to know she was too close to it. Too close to the suffering she had endured under Cersei. She could not separate herself from it, to treat the girls as they deserved to be treated, as Cersei should have treated her. It fell to Larra, who often worried she was overstepping.
Larra's girls…
More and more, they became her girls, though, in spite of her concerns. They turned to her for comfort, for praise – and to celebrate things.
They raced to Larra the moment they learned a Northern Longhaired cat owned by one of the Northern ladies had given birth to a litter of kittens. Altheda ran to fetch Larra, excitement making her beam as she tugged Larra through the halls. The lady gave Larra an apologetic grimace, sliding out of the way of the girls who were all clustered about the Longhaired cat and her kittens, cooing and gasping excitedly.
"Please may we keep one?!" Altheda asked, her eyes wide.
"Please, Mummy - " Rosamund blinked as Calanthe nudged her, and Larra swallowed. She glanced at Narcisa, who had been pale and wan for days, listless and distracted during their reading lessons: she sat contentedly with a kitten. Beside her was Crisantha, who was still mute, yet who was sat on the floor with a kitten in her lap. The kitten had silver-gold fur and its amber eyes were almost exactly the same colour as Crisantha's. She stroked the kitten and Larra could hear its deep purrs.
She watched Crisantha's face as she stroked the kitten, her amber eyes more focused and aware than Larra had ever seen them. She thought of Shadow, and the simple joy and calm that spread through her body whenever the direwolf was near, the companionship she had enjoyed with the wolf for years.
Larra remembered that snowy summer's day when the rider had arrived at Winterfell, and Bran had accompanied them for the first time to witness the execution of a Night's Watch deserter. Little had they known, then… She wondered about the direwolf, as she had a thousand times, dead with a stag's antlers deep in its throat and pups born of its dead body whimpering for milk. Six pups, for six Stark children.
She frowned at the litter of kittens, counting swiftly. If they were short, none of the girls would have one, for the sake of fairness. Twelve, she counted. One for each of the girls, and then some.
"Is she ready to part with them?" Larra asked the lady, who nodded.
"Yes, my lady," she said softly. "If it please you, you may have your pick of the litter."
The girls turned beseeching eyes on her – celery-green, amber, vivid sapphire, palest lavender – and she had renewed respect for Father's limitless patience and goodness.
Sternly, and bewildered by how similar she sounded to Father, she told the girls, "You'll train them yourselves, you'll feed them yourselves and if they die, you'll build their pyre yourselves."
"You mean it? We may keep one?" Calanthe grinned, her eyes glowing as she lifted the kitten in her hands, its fur golden and glowing. It swiped its tiny claws at her, and she laughed delightedly. Each of the girls claimed their new pet, Neva's pearly silver one peeking a grey eye open before curling up against her chest, sleeping soundly, while Briar's attempted to climb her sleeve, tiny claws digging into the wool of one of Larra's childhood dresses now proudly worn by Briar. Narcisa had claimed the green-eyed kitten daintily washing its paws and Delphine smiled as she took a blue-eyed kitten with gold dappled markings on its pale-golden back. Ensuring each of the girls had their pick – surprised there was absolutely no squabbling as they fought over which got to have any particular kitten – Larra thanked the lady. She let out a soft noise and rocked on her toes, just catching herself from tripping over a kitten that had dashed away from its brothers and sisters and was now rubbing itself against her ankle, purring loudly. Beside it, uncertain on its tiny feet, was a second kitten, mewling softly, its tail flicking.
She remembered Cinder, her beloved childhood cat – a querulous old woman, grumpy and scornful if disturbed – and squatted down, lifting the two tiny kittens. One had dark grey fur and a sooty face from which vivid blue eyes glowed – she was unaccountably reminded of Grey Wind and of Robb's blue eyes. The second kitten was a beauty, with pale grey fur, white socks and delicate white markings around its teal-green eyes. The pale kitten mewled and the dark one swiped a tiny claw, but both settled as she lifted them onto her chest, where they perched, supported by her hands, and started to purr, mewling delicately at each other.
It had been a long time since she'd had a pet. Looking at the kittens, she experienced a sudden, deep longing for the companionship she'd enjoyed with Cinder, the fearsome old lady.
She glanced at the lady. "May I?"
"Of course, my lady," the lady smiled. "You're doing me a favour, taking them off my hands." Larra smiled, lifting one of the kittens, and gave it a kiss.
The girls were in raptures as they rushed back to the nursery with their new treasures. Calanthe wondered aloud, "Shall we ask Maester Atten how to care for them? He knows ever such a lot about animals!"
"I think that would be wise," Larra agreed.
"What are you going to name yours, Dells?" Calanthe asked her cousin. They chatted happily, and brought out little toys for the kittens to explore in the nursery. Larra gave instruction to the maids to seek out a basket-weaver, asking them to create enough little beds for the kittens to share, while Larra remained in the nursery with the girls, teaching Leona how to gently stroke her own kitten and hold it so that she didn't hurt it, the other little girls watching carefully. Calanthe was delighted, her kitten – named Tigress for the stripes on its back – already perched on her shoulder, claws dug in to the leather gorget Calanthe wore over her tunics, and she chatted away, telling them all about the pet cat she'd had at Casterly Rock. She became quiet, wondering how it fared on its own, for she had been forbidden from taking the cat with her to King's Landing.
When the girls were settled, and their kittens also, Larra sighed and retreated to her chamber. She set her kittens down on the flagstones to explore their new home, smiling contentedly, and sat down at her table. She had worked hard all morning and now she ached to do something for herself. New kittens, the girls happy, Briar settling in, loved fiercely by Gendry morning and night, everyone content in the castle, siege preparations well under way…she felt the best she had in ages. Every night, Gendry told her about his day; every day, he managed to increase the number of folds he created with Valrian steel. His confidence with the steel was growing, as quickly as his confidence in bed, and she smiled to herself, already anticipating the night to come.
Every night as she drifted to sleep tucked tight against Gendry's hard body, she thought of Aella Targaryen and Aeris the Armourer, and she ached to know more about their lives, to add Aella to the History she had compiled.
She was still musing over the updated entry for Rhaegar, uncertain about committing certain things to paper lest anyone read it who oughtn't. But Aella? Her image was seared into Larra's mind, the first wielder of Dark Sister, who had given the blade its name and brought dragons to House Targaryen. Straight-backed, unflappable and sensual – with Larra's violet eyes.
Larra glanced at her great working table and reached for her art supplies, including a box about ten inches squared, made of reinforced paper covered with delicate Qartheen silk. She removed the lid and smiled at the five smaller boxes nestled neatly within, each of them fashioned from pale balsa wood, the lids decorated with intricate pyrogravure, as the Qartheen called it, patterns of exotic birds and flowers burned into the wood – and reveaing vibrant watercolour paints. For parchment or canvas, she would never use them; but with thick Myrish cotton paper or even more delicate yet durable Lyseni mulberry paper, they were perfect. She still had sheets of it, a gift from Lord Manderly for the last nameday she had celebrated at Winterfell. She had always been too precious about using them, afraid to do them a disservice with her burgeoning techniques.
Now, she reached for her art supplies and smiled as she got stuck in. One of the kittens – the paler one with delightful white marking around its eyes – mewled softly at her foot. She leaned down, picked it up, and nestled it in her lap. One hand stroking the kitten, the other busy with pencils, she didn't notice the door opening hours later, engrossed in her artistry. She lifted her paintbrush and someone leaned in, murmuring low, "That's very beautiful."
She smiled and sighed as Gendry kissed her neck. "Thank you. You're finished already?"
"You missed supper," he said, and Larra's mouth watered, her stomach grumbling, as he produced a steaming earthenware bowl of stew, a spoon ladled in it. In his other hand, he held a seeded roll.
"You're an exceptionally handsome and talented man, did I ever tell you that?" Larra asked, raising her hands to take the bowl, and he chuckled softly, relinquishing it. He peered at her lap, where her two kittens were snuggled up, purring deeply.
"You haven't, but it's good to know you think so," he smiled easily. "I see you've had a busy day."
"They beseeched me," Larra grimaced, and Gendry chuckled sat down on the bed, tugging at his boots. "All their darling little faces gazing up at me… I felt so sorry for Father. Direwolf pups…everyone thought him mad. At least they're kittens, not lion-cubs."
"They've been telling me all about it," Gendry smiled.
"Even Briar?"
"She was the first to show me her kitten," Gendry said, his eyes glittering warmly, and Larra smiled, relieved. "She was beaming with pride. She climbed into my lap and introduced me."
"That's wonderful," Larra smiled softly, and Gendry nodded. It was slow going with Briar, a stubborn, suspicious, prickly little thing, but day by day she and Gendry were building a bond. Larra ate her stew and watched Gendry relax; he unfastened the buttons of his breeches and tugged his tunics free, stretching his toes, and laid back against the mattress, groaning as he stretched out his back. She loved watching him do this – relaxing after a long day. It was no longer just her chamber. She wasn't sure when, but it had become theirs. She set the kittens down in their new basket and tidied her things away, then slipped off her boots.
"Take off your clothes and roll onto your front," she told him gently, and he did so, relaxing once again as she straddled his backside. He hummed gently, sighing, as she reached out and started to knead his muscles, loosening the knots. In no time at all, he was fast asleep, and she smiled, slipping off her clothing, checked on the kittens sleeping in their basket, and climbed into bed beside Gendry. His gentle snores were soothing to her, after so long in the cave with Hodor's thunderous rumblings. She cuddled up close and smiled. It had been a lovely day, and she felt lovely as she drifted of beside Gendry.
The door banged open and Larra jerked upright, hand fisted around the hilt of Sweet Sister, her heart in her throat, eyes wide, snarling lethally. A torch flickered wildly and she caught a glimmer of gold.
"Narcisa's dying!" screamed a panicked Calanthe, and Larra gaped as Gendry grunted, jerking awake. Larra climbed from the bed, taking the torch from Calanthe's shaking hand, and lit the sconces on the walls. Dark golden light brought Calanthe into relief, and beside her, a very pale Narcisa, visibly distraught.
"What's going on?" Gendry rumbled softly, blinking owlishly in the light.
"Look! Someone's stabbed her!" wailed Calanthe, as Narcisa's lip quivered. Calanthe jerked at the hem of Narcisa's nightdress. Her eyes adjusting to the dark and the flickering amber light, Larra relaxed as she realised what had happened. Blood was smeared on Narcisa's thighs. Her paleness and despondency, her irritability, all made sense, and Larra realised she had not noticed the signs of what was to come.
She had to fight the urge to laugh, at the ferocity mingled with terror on Calanthe's face. Always the first to start an argument with Narcisa, it was heartening to see how much Calanthe truly cared about her cousin. Larra told her gently, "Calanthe, your cousin is not dying. No-one has stabbed her."
"How do you know?" Calanthe breathed.
"Firstly, they would have to get past your bloodriders," Larra said. She said kindly, "Narcisa has had her first blood." Calanthe frowned bemusedly at Narcisa, whose watery gaze lifted from the floor to Larra's face, her lips parting.
"Blood?" Calanthe frowned.
"Yes. It means her body is beginning to prepare to bear children."
"Now?" Calanthe yelped indignantly.
"No, not now," Larra reassured her.
"Do you mean…she's flowered?" Calanthe asked, frowning deeply, thinking hard.
Larra stopped herself from rolling her eyes. That was the term the septas had used to prepare Sansa. "Yes."
Calanthe exploded, her indignation palpable. "There's not a single flower involved! Who thought up such a stupid name?! Call it what it is – a bloody mess! A red terror!" Sudden realisation seemed to dawn on Calanthe, demanding, "Will this happen to me, too?"
Larra couldn't help it; the horror-struck look on Calanthe's face was too much. "Not for a little while yet," she chuckled softly. "But yes, one day, the red terror will come to you." Calanthe looked absolutely disgusted.
"Mother didn't tell me everything," Narcisa whispered, her green eyes wide. Larra had never seen her so…young, so vulnerable.
"Sometimes it is better not to know too much," Larra said. She glanced over her shoulder and sighed, watching Gendry tuck his legs into his breeches and carefully pull them up under cover of the shadows. "Gendry, could you please take Calanthe back to her chamber? Narcisa and I need to have a little talk."
Calanthe's eyes snapped to the bed. Her fair eyebrows rose. "Why is Gendry in your bed?"
"He's keeping it warm," Larra quipped. "To bed, Lady Lioness."
Calanthe protested, as Gendry approached her, rubbing a hand through his curls and yawning widely, "I want to know more – can you tell me more?"
Gendry grunted softly, steering her gently out of the chamber, "I'm afraid not."
Larra heard Calanthe muse, "Perhaps we should go to the library." The door shut behind them, and Larra turned to Narcisa.
"How do you feel?" she asked gently. Narcisa's lips quivered, tears trickling silently down her cheeks. The shock was the worst thing, Larra realised. Narcisa had not been prepared – and Larra hadn't thought she needed to be the one to prepare her. "Do you have pain? What about – do you feel thick, bloated?"
Narcisa's lip quivered and her hands shook as she grasped her sleeves. "I can't sleep and my head aches. My…my breasts are sore. And I feel sick."
"Herbal teas help with the nausea, and with sleep. And sleep will help those headaches," Larra said softly. "And the pain…the pain can be helped with a warming-brick to relax the muscles. I shall teach you how to protect your clothes and keep yourself clean."
"How long does it last?" Narcisa asked hoarsely.
"It depends on the lady, I'm afraid. If your mother bled heavily for longer, you may also; before…I had three heavy days where it felt my insides were at war with each other, and a gentler day either side," Larra said. That was before. Before she had lost half her body-weight; she was only just returning to a healthy size – at least, she was no longer flirting with death if she missed a meal.
"I don't know how my mother bled – she never told me," Narcisa said tremulously, her eyes shining. "She never talked about such things."
"Well, we're talking now," Larra said gently, guiding her to the settle. She prepared a pot of hot water and rummaged around for the root Osha had taught her how to find, to create a tea to melt away pain. Until she could boil it and make a tea, herbs would have to suffice.
"Did Lady Stark teach you?" Narcisa asked quietly, when Larra had handed her a small cup of stewed tea.
Larra's answer was blunt. "No."
"Then who did?"
"A maid."
"Are you going to marry me off?" Narcisa asked, and Larra turned to stare at her.
"Why would you ask that?" she asked, thrown.
Narcisa's lip quivered. "Because I can bear children."
Larra frowned at her, asking gently, "Why do you sound so frightened at the very thought of them?"
"Why – why would I ever have children when she's just going to burn them?" Narcisa burst into tears. Larra stared, stunned. She gathered Narcisa up into her arms, holding her and stroking her hair until she calmed down. She helped clean Narcisa up, taught her how to protect her clothing, and escorted her back to the girls' chamber with a hot stone wrapped in flannel to hug to her belly.
The next day, Larra let Narcisa stay in bed, clutching a hot stone wrapped in flannel to her belly as she tried to sleep through her pains. The other girls wondered why Narcisa was allowed to stay in bed – and why she had been moved to the cot in which Leona slept alone. Larra was surprised that Calanthe had not told her cousins. Instead, she pestered Larra for information.
"Do I have to go back to wearing dresses?" she complained. "I only just started wearing breeches!"
"Of course you don't. If you'd like to wear a dress, wear one; if you'd prefer to wear breeches, by all means put them on," Larra said, glancing at the younger girl, who should have been in the schoolroom with her cousins. Yet Larra knew it was important – she had failed to prepare Narcisa and knew she couldn't fail the other girls.
Calanthe frowned at her. "You wear both."
"Yes."
"But Lady Sansa only wears gowns," she said, and Larra nodded.
"Because that is the sort of woman Sansa wishes to be," Larra said. "Look at Lady Brienne – a warrior in armour is the woman she wishes to be. Just like Lady Mormont."
"Narcisa would never wear breeches," Calanthe mused.
"No," Larra agreed. "But that is the sort of girl Narcisa is."
"It seems like a nuisance," Calanthe scowled.
"It is."
"What good could possibly come from it all? 'Cisa told me – I kept bothering her, too – and she said I'd have pains and headaches and nausea and awful shits and my mood would change in a heartbeat and I'll be crying all over the place," Calanthe said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Name one good thing that could possibly come from this?"
Larra glanced at Calanthe, and the gentleness in her voice seemed to startle the girl when she said, "I'll name seven. Let's see, there is…Leona and Crisantha, Rosamund and Altheda, our glorious Narcisa, of course, Delphine…and the other one, you know, the brave, righteous, clever one who loves her family fiercely and will fight to defend them. What's her name?"
The little lioness gazed back at her. "Calanthe."
"Calanthe," Larra nodded, with a sad smile, marvelling for the hundredth time that she was lucky enough to be raising these girls, and devastated by the thought. "It is a bloody mess. But sometimes wondrous things are born out of chaos."
"Grandfather always said I am chaos," Calanthe said, her face brightening.
"He wasn't wrong."
"He said I was worth the trouble," Calanthe sighed contentedly. "My uncles said that women are weak because we bleed. That's why we can't fight."
"Why do you think men are afraid of us bearing arms?" Larra clicked her tongue, and Calanthe grinned. "Shedding our own blood, enduring pain and discomfort, and wielding a weapon? We'd be far too dangerous. We'd have them on their knees within a fortnight and none would dare take for granted the life we give by declaring wars and murdering each other. Men are particularly messy."
"Aunt Genna would have liked you," Calanthe said, grinning.
"Would she?"
"She didn't suffer fools either."
"And what would she have said about all this with Narcisa?"
"Like any war: What's coming will come and we'll meet it when it does," Calanthe said stoutly, and Larra laughed. Calanthe sighed, wincing uncomfortably. "Will it really happen to me, too?"
"Yes, dearest," Larra smiled softly. "But it is so worth it."
"How? Besides the babies, I mean."
"Well, the rage helps with your training," Larra said, reflecting. "Come on. I've got to go and find Delphine and Crisantha – gods…Crisantha…" Crisantha was barely present. What would happen if she started to bleed, and had no idea what was happening? How could Larra be sure Crisantha heard her, to be prepared?
"She's doing better, I think," Calanthe said thoughtfully, her eyes bright. She blinked and jumped when Larra leaned down, wrapping her arms around her. "What's this – are you attacking me – oh…oh, it's a hug. What's this for?"
Larra sighed, squeezing the lioness. She murmured, "I am glad to know you, Calanthe Lannister."
"Oh, then…" Calanthe sighed, and leaned into the embrace. After a moment, she murmured against Larra's shoulder, "Do you want to know a secret, Larra?"
"If you'd care to share it," Larra said, leaning back, and Calanthe stared up at her, her beautiful face deeply earnest.
"I miss my family…but I love being here with you."
Deeply affected by Calanthe's words, Larra drifted into the forge. She sought out Gendry, aching to be near him as her emotions overwhelmed her.
"You look upset," he said softly when he spied her drifting closer, frowning fiercely at the idea of her being upset. She gave a shaky sigh and shook her head. "What's got you so quiet?"
"It's a secret."
Gendry sighed heavily. "You look tired."
"I'm exhausted," Larra said honestly. She had had some lovely days but she was also more tired than she had been in ages. "Someone's keeping me up all night."
Gendry pulled a face and suggested, "Perhaps he should leave you be."
"Well, I didn't say that," Larra said quickly, and he flashed a grin.
"Go and get some fresh air," he told her. "You've not been outside for days, I know."
"Come with me for a walk in the godswood?" Larra asked, and Gendry gave her a sidelong look, setting down his hammer and tongs.
"Why not? The steel must temper for a while," he said, and Larra grinned.
It was true, she hadn't been outside in a few days, and the tension was building in the base of her skull where headaches started to blossom if she hadn't breathed fresh air. To keep themselves warm, Gendry lifted her up against a tree, taking her slowly as gentle snowflakes drifted around them.
Pink-cheeked, relaxed and grinning, they wandered back to the castle hand-in-hand.
The lingering ecstasy shattered as they heard screaming. Not just a single voice – hundreds. Larra gave Gendry a stricken look, and they ran. Not away – toward the screams.
They burst through the gate, into the courtyard, as people screamed and scrambled away, shoving each other to get inside, fleeing.
Larra's breath escaped her in a gust.
Perched idly on the ramparts was an enormous green-and-bronze dragon.
Rhaegal rustled their tremendous wings and snapped their jaws, rows of lethal teeth glistening in the meagre sunlight shining stubbornly despite the snow, but did nothing except watch people running for safety. No screaming, no roars; Rhaegal calmly observed everything.
Larra sheathed Dark Sister, belted as always around her waist. Never breaking her gaze, Larra drifted forward, compelled by some strange instinct, staring in absolute awe. She had seen Rhaegal before, yes, in Bran's visions.
She gasped, and wondered if it was the sound that drew Rhaegal's attention to her. The great green-and-bronze dragon rustled its neck and…and cooed, singing, as it lowered its enormous head, craning its neck lower, until the dragon was balanced precariously on the battlements, leaning in to come face-to-face with her.
Rhaegal was now so large that Larra could walk into their open mouth; they sang and crooned and exhaled a breath of hot air that dried the snow melting in her hair.
"Rhaegal," she breathed, stunned. A dragon. A real, live dragon – fire made flesh. Here. Stood before her – real. Not a dream from Lord Bloodraven but a real dragon, massive and sinuous and divine, their tough leathery hide shimmering like emerald velvet – like the moors outside Winterfell shivering in a summer breeze, gilded by sunlight. Rhaegal's movements were slow, careful, and Larra smiled, her eyes stinging, as she held out her palm. She felt something soaring within her, swelling, as Rhaegal delicately poked their immense muzzle against her palm. She gasped softly at the unfamiliar heat stinging her skin as much as the feeling of something deep and ancient and exhilarating, pure and natural, unfurling itself rapturously around her, a sinuous strand of something binding them together, ancient and unknowable and right. Rhaegal blinked their enormous bronze eyes and cooed. Larra stroked her hand along their face, telling them, "I dreamed of you…for years – green and bronze. Like the eyes of those who sing the songs of the earth."
Rhaegal purred deeply and nuzzled her entire body, as Last Shadow would, and Larra smiled. "Perhaps you dreamed of me, too?" she whispered.
Rhaegal purred and cooed, serenading her with their song, and Larra smiled, gazing up at them as they straightened their neck, flapping their enormous wings with a sound like thunder. The courtyard was silent around them; people had fled in fear at the sight of Rhaegal, yet now stood enraptured, watching Larra murmur to the dragon. Rhaegal shook their great head, flapped their wings for balance, then dipped one of them low. Larra glanced from the dipped wing to Rhaegal's face, and Gendry watching carefully, saw it, ever so briefly: emotion warred across her face as she gazed at the dragon.
Then her inner dispute seemed to settle, her smile became breathless, her eyes sparkling, and Gendry noticed her hands shaking as she climbed.
Larra mounted the dragon, who let her settle along their spine before flapping their great wings, and Gendry could have sworn Rhaegal was speaking to him when he purred and snapped his rows of vicious fangs, his eyes on Gendry as he cooed and warbled a sound that could only be described as beautiful. Almost proud.
Gendry could just see Larra, in her plain grey wool dress and heavy cloak, strapped with weapons, her braids bound like an obsidian crown around her head.
Gendry saw Larra bend low, saw her lips move, but could not hear – and Rhaegal shot into the air.
A.N.: Yes!