A.N.: Ton Heukels is my face-claim for Darkstar. Talk about beautiful!
Valyrian Steel
44
Many Meetings
The men groaned, stretching their legs and sighing with relief as they kicked out cramps and massaged aching thighs. The snow continued to drift idly around them but within the walls of Winterfell it took on a dreamier nature: they were sheltered from the worst of its effects and could now enjoy the best as it sparkled around them in the sunlight that insisted on shining hotly. The Dornish squinted up at the sun, surprised that it shone: they had heard tales of the land of snow and endless night and had expected to travel in darkness. The sun shone bright and hot and the people working diligently around the yard smiled as they raised their faces to it. Everywhere they looked, smallfolk and lords alike were watching the Starks: pride, respect and admiration shone from their faces. They shared in the joy of the Stark siblings' reunion: they had been ripped asunder yet somehow found each other again.
They gave their people hope without even doing anything.
The King pelted across the yard, his sisters – all but Lady Stark, who lingered to speak with one of her vassal lords – keeping pace with his long-legged stride with ease, hurtling through the nearest doors.
"My lady Stark bids you welcome to Winterfell," said a booming voice, and a very tall man strode forward, giving them all a courteous half-bow. He wore a fur-trimmed cloak with open, billowing sleeves and a sigil of black iron studs on a bronze field, bordered with strange runes, stitched over the breast. Towering over most of them – except Sandor Clegane and the beautiful Dornishman, only half a head shorter – Bronze Yohn cast his eyes over them and found a familiar face. "Ser Davos. There is good food and strong stout to be shared over a story, if you'd but tell it. The King returns with a lost sister?"
"And the Lady Regent procured one of her own in Jon's absence!" Ser Davos said, his eyebrows bristling as he raised them over wide eyes. He had become so accustomed to the beautiful pale face of Arya Stark during their journey north that he knew exactly who the other young woman was without having to ask. But for the eyes, the other woman was an exquisitely feminine, more beautiful version of Jon – yet just as grim.
"The She-Wolf of Winterfell fought her way home," Bronze Yohn said stoutly, his booming voice filled with pride and awe, "with a broken brother in tow. Come, my lords. Warm yourselves by the hearth."
"My lord, we are but the first to arrive," spoke Lord Barahir, tugging his cowls down from over his face. "The rest of our party struggles through the snows."
"How many?" Bronze Yohn asked, his eyes turning shrewd.
"A dozen pyromancers, seven hundred criminals turned out from the Red Keep's dungeons, one hundred Unsullied," Obara Sand grunted, "and two hundred Dothraki screamers."
"And Daenerys Targaryen, with her escort," added Ser Davos offhandedly. A dwarf, a slaver, a translator and two girls to act as her cupbearers. Not much by way of a royal court, but they were as devoted to Daenerys Targaryen as most were their gods. Ser Davos had never been a man of religion: it unnerved him to see their blind zeal for the woman.
"So few?" Bronze Yohn sighed disappointedly.
"More will come. Jon didn't want to wait and risk being stuck at White Harbour because of storms. Daenerys Targaryen's Unsullied sail to White Harbour while the Dothraki hordes at her command ride north along the King's Road," Ser Davos said, but he didn't sound convinced. He was an experienced seaman: the storms had battered Stannis' fleet during the last lingering days of autumn. The seas had been dangerous enough when he and Jon had finally, safely, docked at White Harbour. He knew little of the Dothraki but had to wonder why Daenerys had not thought it prudent to ride with them to ensure they followed orders. They followed strength, and more and more during their journey, the kos had looked to Jon for leadership as they struggled through the snows. Jon shared his concerns: Dothraki followed strength and Daenerys was not with her Dothraki to remind them of hers – rather, her dragon's.
"We shall make do," Bronze Yohn said stoutly. "Let us speak no more of this until the King and his family return to us. Arrangements have been made for you all. You shall be lodged in comfort and warmth."
"I had imagined neither existed in the North," said the beautiful Dornishman, his vivid amethyst eyes glittering as he took in his surroundings. "Nor light."
"The days are shorter, it is true," said Lord Yohn, leading them through different yards – in some, livestock were being sunned, geese honking and bearded pigs grunting, new lambs shivering as they stumbled on shaky legs, while in others great barrels of obsidian were being transported to the forges and in the largest yard, dozens of men, women and children trained with simple and brutal gladius swords, obsidian-tipped spears and bows and arrows.
"The children do drills?"
"Daily," said Bronze Yohn. "By the King's order, all over the age of ten must train with sword, spear and bow. I would ask each of you to take a turn instructing groups. Skilled warriors are few and far between after so many battles, and the Knights of the Vale cannot stretch themselves so far."
"I will take the girls," said Obara Sand fiercely, nodding, as she watched a line of children drilling with spears, her angry eyes assessing them for technique.
"Will they fight?" asked Lord Barahir quietly, watching the children.
"If it can be helped, no," said Bronze Yohn. "But Larra insists they must learn for when we fall they may yet have to take up our swords." As he led them into the main castle, he frowned over his shoulder. "You have seen them?"
"The Army of the Dead?" asked Lord Barahir, nodding, and Obara Sand scowled, gripping her own spear tightly.
"Are their numbers as the King suspects?"
"Eighty-thousand, I would say – a hundred-thousand to be safe. All the once-living True North commanded by the Others," Lord Barahir remarked, and Bronze Yohn whistled low, shaking his head and rubbing a hand over his fierce beard. He led the way into the castle and Ser Davos sighed, feeling his body relaxing as the wondrous magic of Winterfell's heated walls swept over him, chasing away the cold that had gripped him. As they entered the Great Hall, Ser Davos saw the enormous fire roaring in the hearth and headed straight for it. Beside him, the beautiful Dornish knight let out a groan of longing as if desiring to throw himself amid the flames and murder the bone-deep cold clenching his body tight.
As in the yards, the castle teemed with life: everywhere they looked, people were busily working away. They heard laughter and song, and the windows were thrown wide open to entice the rare sunlight indoors; Northern ladies had found pools of sunlight and basked in them, working on their knitting and embroidery, while a great tapestry was being woven by other women, children playing about their feet. Settles, padded stools and large floor cushions had been tossed casually before the enormous hearth and room was made for them by the ladies, who sent maids rushing to find salt, bread and stew, cups of mulled wine doled out from a small cauldron in the embers.
"I thought you did not take wine, Ser," said Lord Barahir to the Dornish knight, whose beautiful lips twitched, his eyes glittering, as he accepted a steaming cup from a young lady.
"On this occasion, my lord, I shall gladly accept any warmth with thanks," said the Dornishman. Yohn Royce sent word with his squire to summon the other Knights of the Vale and Northern lords to the Great Hall, in anticipation of the King joining them.
It was a shame, Ser Davos thought, that Jon could not have more time to simply be with his siblings for the first time in years. The sisters he had thought dead had returned. Their family, as much as it could be, was made whole again.
Yet they were at war. Jon had brought people to aid in the siege preparations, to improve their strategy, more bodies to wield weapons against the dead. He had news to share from the south and he also had to prepare his sisters for the arrival of the ever-more spiteful Daenerys Targaryen.
Ser Davos wished he could have given Jon time with his sisters. He had earned it. He had earned the privilege of sitting down with his siblings in private, reuniting and rebuilding the bonds that had been fractured by time and distance, by war and hardship and every unimaginable thing the Starks had endured since Ned Stark was executed.
The Great Hall filled with people: Northern lords, Knights of the Vale, leaders of the Free Folk, Nymeria Sand in her fine silks and velvets and sleek furs, brothers of the Night's Watch. Bronze Yohn, who had been with Lady Sansa since the Battle of the Bastards, told them about Alarra Snow, the She-Wolf of Winterfell, who had carried her brother to the Land of Always-Winter and back, protecting him all the while, to return and guide the Lady Regent as she ruled the North in the King's stead. Alarra Snow – just Larra, as she insisted on being called, despite being sister to the King – was as ferocious and cunning as any direwolf, incredibly gentle unless provoked, nurturing and stern by turns. Every word out of Bronze Yohn's mouth spoke of his deep respect for Larra Snow – not just her viciousness but her thoughtfulness, her cunning nature and the way she built relationships with everyone in the castle, from the Knights of the Vale to the Free Folk to the brothers of the Night's Watch to the lowliest labourer and the last exhausted shepherd. Children flocked to her, men respected her and women hoped to raise daughters as fierce and strong as her, full of integrity with a fierce respect for her duty to others.
Ser Davos was not surprised, then, when Jon and his sisters arrived at the Great Hall, the three Stark women arm in arm, the eldest in the middle with Lady Sansa and Lady Arya on either side, cuddled close and smiling, Arya talking the eldest sister's ear off as they following Jon. The King pushed a wheeled chair in which a young man with the long, pale solemn Stark face sat, swathed in furs and heavy woollen robes like a maester's, deep navy blue and stitched with a strange sigil on his breast – a direwolf with great wings spread wide. The wings were stitched with real, tiny feathers, glossy and glimmering in the firelight, and everyone in Ser Davos' party blinked and stared as the young man was settled beside the hearth by the King himself, who fussed with the furs in his brother's lap and served him a cup of mulled wine, bending his head to kiss the young man's silky dark hair as he chatted amiably, his eyes – so deep a blue they appeared almost black until the firelight caught them – alight with joy as he gestured excitedly with pale, unblemished hands.
As the Starks settled before the hearth, Ser Davos jumped: all around him, applause echoed up to the hammer-beam ceiling. People were cheering the return of their King, yes, but also celebrating the reunion of the Stark siblings. After all they had endured, they had made it back to each other. Lady Sansa's face glowed: Arya Stark's strange grey eyes swept across the hall, taking everyone's measure, unnerved by the attention: and Larra Snow, a stranger to Ser Davos, smiled softly. The Lannister girls darted into the hall, bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, their golden hair rippling behind them as they beamed and raced toward the King, swathed in heavy cloaks and pretty headbands and mittens richly embroidered in the Northern fashion. Behind them strolled Lord Tyrion's companion, with her cheerful, tattooed face and intricately beaded skirts. Lady Sansa leaned in to Jon, murmuring in his ear, and he smiled, handing her a cup of mulled wine, before making the introductions.
"Sansa, may I present Lord Barahir of Val Hall," he said. "This is Lord Randyll Tarly and his son Dickon. Obara Sand has already found her sister, it seems. Ser Davos you well remember."
"I don't," said the King's twin-sister, her shocking purple eyes pinning him in place. Ser Davos stared back at the lady as she unfolded from her settle. She reached out, clasping her hands over his, and leaned in to give him a tender kiss on each cheek. "I am honoured to meet you, Ser."
"You're too kind, m'lady," Ser Davos said humbly. She squeezed his hands and smiled sadly.
"You fought for Jon when he could not fight for himself," Larra said, so quietly only he heard. It was common knowledge among the Night's Watch and even some of the Free Folk what had happened to Jon – the mutiny, his murder – yet it was not widely known throughout the Northerners. Ser Davos didn't know how they would react to knowing their King had been given new life by the Lord of Light even he, Ser Davos, distrusted at best and loathed at worst for the fate of Princess Shireen. Lady Larra tilted her head thoughtfully. "Why did you think of it?"
"It seemed like such a waste," Ser Davos said honestly. Jon Snow was one of the finest men he had ever had the privilege to meet: it was his honour to advise and guide him – yet as of late Jon Snow had needed little by way of guidance and much more of reassurance, after the fact, that his actions benefitted all.
Startling him, Lady Larra embraced him. She squeezed him tight then released him, leaving Ser Davos touched by the gesture. A little girl toddled up to them, reaching a tiny hand up to the lady, and Larra reached down, scooping up the golden child with corkscrew curls to settle her on her waist. She returned to her settle, tucking the child – one of the Lannister girls – in her lap.
Jon gave Ser Davos a smile, his grey eyes glinting, his lips twitching as if he sensed Ser Davos' wonderment at being embraced – as if by a daughter, he thought. Lady Larra had embraced him as she might her own father. Jon continued the introductions, ending with, "Ser Gerold Dayne, the Knight of High Hermitage."
Sansa blinked as if dazed and Larra raised her eyebrows as the most beautiful man in the world took a knee before them, kissing first Sansa's hand then Larra's, his fingertips curled under hers, lingering. Wind-tousled hair of palest gold fell to his shoulders, glittering in the firelight as snowflakes melted, a streak of midnight glowing like embers. He was clean-shaven, with exquisite high cheekbones perfectly balancing his strong jaw, and neat pale-gold eyebrows hovered over vivid indigo eyes outmatched in beauty only by Larra's. His nose was perfect and his lips were full and lush, too beautiful for a man yet balanced by his strong jaw and fierce cheekbones and the anger glittering in those vivid purple eyes.
"We grew up on tales of Ser Arthur Dayne," said Sansa, her expression sad. She glanced over at Larra Snow, who was watching Ser Gerold carefully, her fingers still resting delicately on his. "Father always spoke of him with the highest respect."
"A cousin," said Ser Gerold. "He was the Sword of the Morning."
"And do you now claim the title?" Sansa asked, and the knight's beautiful lips twitched.
He was older than Larra, she thought, but not by much. His skin was kissed by sunlight, his hair glimmering like a glacier of silver and palest gold. He had fine, dark lashes that cast his violet eyes in shadow, concealing the expression in them, but Larra watched his lips, how the corners tightened at the mention of Ser Arthur Dayne. Resentment, possibly. Larra knew how it felt to be always compared to another family member – growing up, all she had ever heard from the bannermen was how vividly she resembled Lyanna, to Father's great unease she was sure – so she wondered perhaps whether Ser Gerold resented people caring more about his dead cousin than himself, living, breathing, thriving before their eyes yet deemed lesser in comparison to the honoured dead.
"No," said Ser Gerold, his eyes glimmering like violet embers. "Men call me Darkstar, and I am of the night."
Larra pursed her lips to keep from smirking. At least he does not call himself Darkstar, she thought. Darkstar, the Hound, the Young Wolf, Bloodraven – she had never known anyone who declared themselves by a trailing nickname – except one. Though she herself was known as the She-Wolf of Winterfell, and though she was now the King in the North's eldest sister and all seemed to think this meant she was now either a Princess or a Lady (none could decide which), she continued to introduce herself as Larra Snow. She was Larra Snow. "Red Vipers, Sandsnakes, Swords of the Morning… The Dornish do adore fanciful nicknames."
"Lady, we cannot all be the She-Wolf of Winterfell," retorted Ser Gerold, his eyes glittering as he gazed at Larra. Arya noticed that his gaze had returned to her again and again, awed and almost greedy, as if he was lost in the desert and Larra was a paradise of life-giving water. Arya noticed how they leaned in toward each other, as if drawn to each other, and how Ser Gerold's hand still held Larra's. His voice was a deep rumble, his exotic accent husky and rich when he teased, "By the way Lord Royce spoke of you, I expected fangs."
Larra's smile widened, revealing her perfectly straight white teeth. Her eyes glittered as they rested on Darkstar's face and she practically purred, matching the soft teasing tone of the Dornish knight, "I had them filed down: they frightened the men too much." Darkstar grinned in response, his eyes glowing like violet flames. They were teasing each other, flirting, playing off of each other. "Welcome to Winterfell, Darkstar."
Hours after the sun had set, smearing blood-red across the clouds and enticing thousands of stars to glitter in the velvety purple sky as the snows disappeared and ice crept into their lungs and darkness enveloped them, the last of the Unsullied marched prisoners through the gates of Winterfell. Behind them surged Daenerys and her tiny court, encircled by Dothraki who had never yearned for high stone walls more than they did now, after nearly four hundred miles of endless snows that fought back against their mounts every step of the way. They had never known nature to not yield to them. Yet they learned more quickly than their Khaleesi that the North was unlike anything they knew or had ever heard of – and it was wiser to heed the strange pale man with no braid but a fierce command over everyone he met.
Daenerys glared through the furs trimming her heavy hood and, unbidden, her lips parted as Winterfell unfurled before her eyes. Thousands of tiny pinpricks of golden light glimmered brighter than the stars, a constellation of them, and though it was dark the sheer number of lights gave the impression of size and scale.
"Winterfell is ageless," said Ser Jorah, riding beside her, their exhausted horses struggling to keep up with the Dothraki kos' stallions. "It is the largest castle in all of Westeros. During winter, the entirety of the North gathers here – similarly to the hordes all returning to Vaes Dothrak. Except, here, they gather to ensure their survival, when the snowdrifts tower over twenty feet high, burying entire villages."
Stunned and disheartened by the merest hint of the castle's size – a hint of the King in the North's strength and power – and unwilling to let Ser Jorah know it, Daenerys remained silent. She twitched her furs and cloaks tighter around her and dug her heels in, spurring on her exhausted mare. The entirety of the North, she thought. People from all over the North had poured into Winterfell, living under the protection of their new King for the duration of the winter. Furious though she was to be shown up at every opportunity by Jon Snow, Daenerys had to admit to herself that he knew how to lead, to look after people. There was a reason she admired him so much, why she respected him – and why his rejection of her felt like a festering wound slowly spreading its poison through her veins, sapping her strength and leaving her bewildered and furious and devastated and tearful by turns.
"They have the most admirable selection of stouts and port in their cellars, if I recall," mused Lord Tyrion lightly. He had insisted on riding, rather than being jolted about for hundreds of miles in a wagon – for which Daenerys respected him, reminded only too vividly of the snickers and snide comments as Viserys reclined in a cart – and the saddle he had designed for himself had proven itself worthy of the journey. He sat in his saddle, his legs undoubtedly aching yet he was smiling in the torchlight as several kos rode either side of him, guiding their horses through the snow and avoiding the siege fortifications looming out of the darkness – a seemingly endless chasm dug around the entirety of the castle's curtain wall. "And heavy fruit cake glistening with plum jam."
"I often forget that you journeyed here, my lord," Ser Jorah said.
"Twice – once as part of King Robert's court," said Lord Tyrion, "the second time, with a black brother of the Night's Watch. We shared the road from Castle Black together."
"Tell me more about this Night's Watch," Daenerys said, frowning. She knew Jon Snow had been voted Lord Commander yet knew little of the history or function of the order – besides the fact that it was a sworn brotherhood.
"Legend claims that it was a Stark who founded it," said Lord Tyrion, the most well-read man anyone had ever met, including most maesters. "When Brandon the Builder raised the Wall to ward away the Others and those they commanded, the Watch was created to man the Wall. There were thirteen castles along the Wall, yet most now have fallen into disrepair."
"Why?"
"Because people forgot what they should be frightened of," Ser Jorah said quietly.
"History became legend. Legend became myth," said Lord Tyrion dreamily. "For thousands of years, the Night's Watch has manned the Wall and for just as long, the Starks have supported them. Over time, people stopped believing in the Others as anything more than myth, and the enemy became the wildlings. When a King-Beyond-the-Wall threatened invasion, the Starks called their banners and beat the wildlings back."
"Until now."
"Yes. Jon Snow opened the Wall to the Free Folk," said Ser Jorah.
"Why? They are his enemies."
"The Others are our enemies," said Ser Jorah firmly. "The Free Folk were unfortunate enough to be stuck on the wrong side of the Wall when the Others awoke. They have been fighting them ever since, without aid – until Jon Snow allied with them."
"Wasn't your father Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?" Daenerys asked, and Ser Jorah sighed.
"He was. After my father's murder, Jon Snow took my father's place," he said softly. Jon Snow had taken Lord Jeor Mormont's place as Lord Commander – he had become the Old Bear's heir, when Ser Jorah had proven himself unworthy. Ser Jorah looked at Jon and saw the man he should have been, the son his father had deserved. Pride in Jon Snow swelled inside Ser Jorah, for being all that his father had deserved in a son and heir, the very best legacy he had earned for himself. "Jon Snow avenged my father. He fought the wildlings back when they attacked Castle Black. His brothers named him their leader. He allied with the Free Folk to strengthen our position against the Others."
"Would your father have allied with the wildlings, Ser Jorah?"
"If he had a notion what was coming, yes," Ser Jorah answered stoutly. "My father was a man of integrity. He upheld his oath to defend the realms of men. The realms; that includes those innocents who lingered outside the protection of any lord, stuck beyond the Wall."
"And you, Lord Tyrion? What would your father have done?"
"Oh, my father would have allied with the Free Folk – for reasons far less altruistic than Lord Commander Mormont's and Jon Snow's," Lord Tyrion said. "During the War of the Five Kings, my father armed the mountain-men of the Vale. He promised them fine steel if they fought for him; any who survived the vanguard returned to wreak havoc on the Vale with the Lannister's courtesies."
"The Vale did not engage in the War of the Five Kings," frowned Daenerys.
"More's the pity," Lord Tyrion sighed. "The Reach may muster five times as many men as the Eyrie yet any one of the the Knights of the Vale can outride them. In valour they are second to none."
"But they did not fight?"
"The Knights of the Vale may have intervened: Ned Stark was ward to Jon Arryn and grew up in the Vale among them," Ser Jorah said, and Lord Tyrion nodded.
"They were overruled by Lady Arryn, a madwoman," Lord Tyrion sighed, remembering his time at the Eyrie. Daenerys bristled inside her cloaks. Madwoman… Mad King… "I knew Lysa Arryn from court. Years of miscarriages took their toll on her state of mind: she coddled her surviving child, a spoiled and sickly boy whose mind has never been nurtured."
"They lack a strong leader," Daenerys said thoughtfully.
"No surprise then that they turn to Jon Snow," said Lord Tyrion, to Daenerys' annoyance. She grimaced and held her breath until a wave of nausea and dizziness subsided – she had been feeling them on and off throughout their journey, exhausted and made ill by the cold and the discomfort. She slept deeply yet woke fitful and achy. At least she was no longer vomiting, she thought: the voyage from King's Landing had been especially awful, sea-sickness leaving her weak and shaking and bedridden, Qezza and Zafiyah tending to her dutifully while Missandei took the air on deck to combat her own sea-sickness, she said – but Daenerys knew she wished to stay close to Grey Worm. She had been strange ever since Daenerys defeated the Lannister armies in the West. "Ser Davos mentioned the Knights of the Vale remain in Winterfell. They have spent months building relations with the King in the North and his regent."
"From what you say, they respected a woman's command," Daenerys said. "Which means they are just as likely to follow me as him. I will force this boy to yield the Vale to me and the rest shall kneel before me." The two men remained quiet, and she noticed.
"One thing at a time," said Lord Tyrion. "First we must defeat the Army of the Dead."
"And then the real war begins," Daenerys said, sitting straighter in her saddle as the warm golden glow of a great archway beckoned her into a sprawling, busy courtyard.
Ser Jorah and Lord Tyrion exchanged a look. The real war was this war, Tyrion thought, looking around the courtyard, spotting things Daenerys did not notice as she commanded someone nearby to take her horse's reins. The siege-weapons tucked out of the way yet ready to set into place at a moment's notice: the barrels of obsidian: people sparring in another yard despite the darkness, their blades flickering in the torchlight.
Nothing else mattered but this war. This fight for life.
That Daenerys could not see that…it worried him. He glanced at Ser Jorah, whose face was obscured behind cowls. Yet Tyrion saw the deep furrows in his brow and knew the man shared his concerns. They all did. Behind him, he heard the soft whimpers of Qezza Galare and Zafiyah, the Queen's handmaids. They were utterly exhausted and frightened – both by the Dothraki bloodriders surging around them and the darkness pressing in from all sides carrying the howls of wolves on the wind.
"Is this how these Northerners would greet their Queen?" Daenerys hissed impatiently, slinging her leg over her saddle to dismount. A stable-lad hurried to bring a step to Lord Tyrion and Ser Jorah groaned, in agony, as he climbed off his horse.
"You are not queen here," Lord Tyrion reminded Daenerys sharply, and the girl glowered, her eyes turning vicious. Unfazed, Tyrion pressed on: "The King in the North has returned safely and brought the lost Stark sister home with him; all are likely celebrating this within the warmth of those towering walls. No-one was to know we would not make camp overnight so that we might reach Winterfell in decent light."
Daenerys had forced them to keep riding. If her Unsullied could still march, they would ride.
Ser Jorah offered his hand firstly to Qezza Galare, her slanting exotic dark eyes swimming with tears snatched by the wind, her high cheekbones touched pink from the cold, helping her climb off her horse; Zafiyah was openly weeping, her arms shaking as she struggled to climb out of the saddle, her legs unresponsive. She was the weaker rider, Jorah knew, spending no time on horseback before their journey to Westeros, and though she had rich amber skin, heavily-lashed eyes and dark auburn hair, Jorah was reminded of Daenerys, freshly wed to Khal Drogo, her soft body punished by the brutal daily rides of the khalasaar. Back then, Daenerys had had handmaids to tend to her, slaves purchased as gifts by Illyrio Mopatis: it was now the handmaids who were suffering, and Daenerys who stood, unfazed, glaring around her as people hurried past, intent on their tasks. Knowing how dutifully Qezza and Zafiyah had tended to Daenerys ever since Meereen – taken as hostages from noble families as a deterrent against provoking Daenerys' wrath, and now taken across the world – Ser Jorah offered Zafiyah his arm. Her lower lip trembled and she gratefully leaned on his arm, hobbling beside him as he set a gentle pace through the yard. Lord Tyrion massaged his legs and murmured something about port before calling a stable-boy to him, exchanging a few words, and a tall knight in battle-scarred armour appeared.
He led them through the busy courtyards and into the castle, through dark corridors with heated walls echoing with chatter, laughter and song, illuminated by flickering torches under which people gathered – or away from which couples hid, the better to grope in private during a stolen moment. The North had turned Winterfell into a thriving city, the wide corridors its streets, the halls its taverns and ballrooms, markets and guildhalls. Ser Jorah remembered few winters in his lifetime but he had been a boy the last time he and his family had left Bear Isle to overwinter at Winterfell. He had forgotten what it felt like – alive. Despite the snow and the cold, within the walls of Winterfell, it was vibrant, full of life, song dancing off the ancient, warm walls and laughter echoing through the corridors, children racing about underfoot while women chatted, babies at their breasts, keeping their fingers warm by knitting and crocheting and embroidering, and men played ancient games that had not changed in millennia.
The Great Hall was just as he remembered it. A soaring hammer-beam ceiling, high diamond-paned windows cracked open for fresh air as the stifling heat of packed bodies and the enormous hearth made people lightheaded. Women worked tirelessly on a great tapestry, their voices raised in song, while children played and danced to a band led by Yaskier playing energetically on a lute. Ser Jorah saw shimmering golden curls and glanced at Lord Tyrion, waddling beside Qezza, realising it was the Lannister girls who were dancing with Northern lads. They wore traditional embroidered collars and the cut of their fine woollen gowns was more Northern but he recognised their faces, stunned to see them beaming with delight and laughing as they danced, or teased their younger cousin sat in a young woman's lap. The hall did not fall silent at Daenerys' arrival, as she was accustomed to, nor did anyone show her deference or part to let her through, or even noticed her at all. But she saw them.
Her gaze was always drawn to Jon Snow. There he was, reclined on a high-backed settle with quilts and furs, one hand around a drinking-horn and the other…the other loosely clasping the hand of a beautiful young woman with eyes the colour of sapphires, pale skin and fire-red hair drawn away from her face in twists and braids coiled at the nape of her neck in a bun as the rest of her hair tumbled over her shoulders, glimmering like fire. She was dressed finely in feminine leather armour and wool, all in dark sombre hues, and at her throat glinted a silver clasp. Daenerys stood, jostled by people as they passed to refill cups and talk with each other, largely ignored, and stared, her heart sinking. Jon Snow sat holding the hand of this young woman, relaxed by her side, his face open, his grey eyes sparkling with delight as he hung on the every word of a younger man reclined in a wheeled chair. Jon Snow laughed with that wretched sister of his, Arya, as they listened to the young man's story, gesturing at another young woman whose striking beauty took Daenerys' breath away. Vivid amethyst eyes, pale skin and dark hair that coiled in rampant curls about her face, tumbling free from a simple braid, glinting lustrously with copper and gold and mahogany, she had high cheekbones, a beautiful rosebud mouth and expressive dark brows. The young man in the wheeled chair said something that startled a deep laugh from Jon Snow. The redhead woman and Arya Stark laughed while the striking beauty with dark hair rolled her amethyst eyes, her lips quirking with amusement; Jon Snow leaned over and gave her a kiss on her cheek, making her smile.
All around them, a crowd surged and swelled, greeting their King, congratulating him and his family – his family – on their reunion.
Daenerys stood still, staring at Jon Snow. This was the Jon people were drawn to. Charismatic and stern, compassionate, amiable, with a rare, handsome laugh and deep bonds with people with whom he shared mutual respect and love.
He held the redhead's hand as if unconscious of it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to sit at the hearth with the lady while his people came forward to greet him or thank him or wish him well.
They respected him. They admired and adored him.
They ignored her.
The dark-haired woman with the braid and the entrancing amethyst eyes lifted her gaze only once, and Daenerys' lips parted, stepping forward – only for the woman to look away, laughing at something the redhead had said, planting a kiss on the cheek of a young boy who raced past yet who stopped short to throw his arms around her neck in a brief embrace before darting off, chasing a taller boy who grabbed a golden-haired girl's hand to dance, his taunting laugh rippling through the general noise of the hall.
The dark-haired woman had not seen Daenerys, she told herself. Perhaps the light from the hearth did not spread far enough for her to see Daenerys clearly – or she would have risen and curtseyed and invited her to join them at the hearth.
Lord Tyrion sniffed out the nearest cauldron of mulled wine and Ser Jorah looked at one of the polished wooden benches with a grimace, desiring nothing less than to sit down after so long in the saddle. He would stand, stretching his aching legs. They heard loud laughter and he saw Tormund Giantsbane enthralling a group of children and young people with one of his magnificent tall tales, and off to the side, away from the fire but within eyesight of the hearth, Sandor Clegane gnawed on bones. Obara Sand, angry as ever, spoke with some fierce women who could only be wildlings, dressed in furs, while her elegant sister reclined on a cushion by the hearth, speaking with her own sister, the sensuous Lady Nymeria, Lady Tisseia and an absurdly beautiful man with hair almost as fair as the Queen's.
Lord Tyrin's gaze was drawn to the hearth, for more than one reason: the mulled wine was kept warm in cauldrons nestled in embers, and around the hearth, seated on one of the settles was his estranged young wife.
She had become a woman since he last saw her, as fierce now as she had always been beautiful. She sat on the settle, cosy beside the King, both of them holding small drinking horns, their free hands intertwined between them as they laughed and listened, enraptured, as a handsome young man spoke energetically – Lord Tyrion stopped and stared, blinking as if struck dumb. It could not be! He looked into his wine cup and back up again, tripping forward into the blanket of light that spread from the hearth. It was, he realised, stunned. The young boy he had last seen carried into this very hall, limp as a ragdoll, sat in a clever wheeled chair, his hair gleaming like raven's wings and his eyes sharp and clever. It was the same face, a young man's face now. Brandon Stark, the boy who was broken. Tyrion's breath gusted from his lungs as he tripped forward, agape. Golden corkscrew curls drew his gaze, shining in the firelight, and he saw the youngest of his Lannister cousins cuddled contentedly in the lap of a strikingly beautiful young woman with eyes more vibrant than amethysts, her immaculate face pale and perfect. The last time he had seen her, she had waved him and Yoren off at the gate, wildflowers in her hair, her hand firmly clamped around that of her youngest, wildest brother to prevent him from dashing off across the moors with his savage direwolf.
Tyrion had left his copy of I Túrin i Cormaron at Winterfell for Larra to enjoy – she was the person at Winterfell whose company he had enjoyed most, and had actively sought out. Charming, vibrant, a little wild, she was beautiful and he had recognised her integrity and her cunning even then. She had been beautiful then, her cheeks pink from the sun and the wind on the snow-speckled moors. Now, she was strikingly beautiful, pale and amethyst-eyed, stern and charismatic and enthralling.
A guard appeared, dressed in Stark colours – a boiled leather surcoat over chainmail – and nodded his head to her.
"Lady Targaryen," he said politely. "I'm bid to escort you to your chambers."
"My chambers?" Daenerys blinked.
"So that you may rest in privacy, Lady," said the guard, his voice steely and stern. She glanced past the guard to the gathering in front of the hearth – where the Starks sat, where they reunited in public because they were not given the luxury of a private reunion when all the living North was invested in their family's joy – and still, not one of them looked her way. No-one in the hall acknowledged her, but for this lowly guard.
"Very well," she said quietly, bewildered, but she drifted after the guard, who picked up a torch in the corridor and led her through the sprawling castle, until the raucous noise of the halls was muffled by great stone walls that were warm to the touch and she panted, exhausted and slightly dizzy, as she climbed another staircase. The guard led her down another corridor and finally stopped to light the torches either side of a heavy door of Northern oak.
"My ladies Stark wish you a restful night, Lady Targaryen," the guard said, opening the door for her. Lady Targaryen… That was the second time he had called her such. Lady Targaryen. Did he not know she was a queen? My ladies Stark… He had been told by the Lady Regent of the North to show her here, to this chamber, to greet her as Lady Targaryen. Nettled, Daenerys entered the chamber. It wasn't a single room, as she had thought: a suite of rooms, with panelled walls for comfort, wide window-ledges beneath small diamond-paned windows decorated with earthen vases of dried, fragrant herbs, a hearth before which were small, carved chairs, padded stools and large cushions – all in grey, embroidered with direwolves and Northern wildflowers. There was a large round table with a fine mirror, a washbasin and jug but no trinkets, and several doors led off to small chambers for her maids while a larger room contained a heavy, carved four-poster bed piled with soft linens, woollen blankets, quilts and fine furs. The blankets and quilts were all beautifully hand-stitched with Northern wildflowers and, lest she forget where she was, the direwolf sigil of House Stark.
It was silent upstairs, except for the whisper of the wind and the crackle of the fire in the hearth. A maid entered the chamber from the corridor, bearing a wooden tray, and curtseyed at the sight of Daenerys lingering uncertainly in the centre of the room.
"Good evening, m'lady," she smiled amiably, setting the tray down on a low table beside the hearth. "I've brought ye somethin' to eat. While you sup I shall put hot embers in your bed to warm your sheets for you."
"I shall have a bath."
"There's water in the cauldron to wash yourself with," the maid said plainly, smiling as she gestured to the cauldron hanging over the fire. "It'll be lovely and warm by now. Lady Stark sent some perfumed soap for you as a gift but said you'll likely have your own finery. Is it true, you've been to Qarth?"
Daenerys stared at her. She…wanted to converse with her, as if they were equals?
"Yes, I have been to Qarth."
"They say it's the finest city in the world, after the Doom laid Valyria low," said the maid, her open face shining with curiosity. "My brother took to the seas on-board Lord Manderly's merchant fleet but he's not yet been so far as Qarth. Do they really ride about on elephants? I've never seen an elephant – I'd've liked for the mammoths to come south but the wildlings said they're likely all dead, along with the giants."
"I am tired," Daenerys said coldly.
"Ach, I'll leave you to eat," said the maid, smiling, unfazed by Daenerys' rising anger. "The Ladies Stark sent up bread and salt for you, m'lady, as is your guest-right."
"What is this guest-right people speak of so fervently in the North?" Daenerys scowled. The maid stilled, staring at her.
"You mean, for all you've seen elephants and flown on dragons, you don't know guest-right?" she gaped, and Daenerys felt…incredibly stupid. "Salt and bread, m'lady. It means while you're a guest under the Starks' roof, you're under their protection."
Daenerys thought inexplicably of Arya Stark and snatched the bread and salt from the tray on the low table, stuffing the bread into her mouth and chewing furiously.
"What happens when I leave Winterfell?"
"Well, then, you'll be given a guest-gift," said the maid, shrugging. "That means your safety's no longer guaranteed. I'm shocked you've never heard o' guest-right. All decent folk live by it."
"And the not-so-decent folk?"
"The gods punish them. Winter came for the Freys after they violated guest-right."
"How so?"
"You've not heard of the Red Wedding?" the maid blinked, and Daenerys fought a blush as the girl gaped at her. "There was a wedding at the Twins and the Freys turned upon their guests and butchered them. The North remembers."
"And why should one family's murder matter so much to the North?" Daenerys asked imperiously. The maid blinked.
"T'was the King in the North who was murdered. The Young Wolf, not the White," the girl said, staring at Daenerys. "The King and his foreign wife and the babe in her belly. The King's mother, too. It was awful. They cut the King's head off and sewed it to his direwolf; they slit his mother's throat to the bone and threw her body in the river. No-one knows what happened to the Queen. I would've liked to see her; I've never seen anybody from Essos. They say she was a beauty from Volantis."
"I didn't know about the Red Wedding," she said quietly.
"I'm surprised at that," said the maid, frowning. Daenerys had heard the pretender Robb Stark had been killed during the War of the Five Kings. She had rejoiced at the death of he who would have stolen one of her kingdoms from under her. With difficulty, she swallowed the bread and sank onto one of the carved chairs before the hearth. The maid dipped politely and withdrew from the chamber, leaving Daenerys in solitude. It was comfortable, she thought, and the stew was good and rich – lamb, with bacon and lots of vegetables, potatoes, carrots and tiny pearl onions in a thick, rich gravy.
She scooped up the last mouthful with her spoon and sighed, reclining in the chair, aching to sit closer to the fire. Dozing, she started to pant in discomfort. Dizzy, she gripped her belly, leaned over and emptied the contents of her stomach on the rushes strewn over the floor. Gasping, she wiped her mouth, shuddering and shivering with a sudden chill. She rinsed her mouth out with herb tea and staggered, shivering, to the bedchamber. She sank onto the bed, her back aching, and her shivering subsided as she relaxed, her fingers still trembling as she unfastened her beautiful fur surcoat and slipped off her boots, tucking herself under the heavy bedding.
As Tyrion tripped into the light spreading from the hearth, the Starks glanced over. Larra smiled softly: Sansa sat up straighter, her sapphire eyes glowing. She wore dark clothing now, Tyrion noted, fine leather armour over thick wool, direwolf clasps at her throat. She was finally mourning her family, he understood instantly. Yet she had been smiling freely in a way Tyrion had seen perhaps but once, when they plotted to sheep-shift the beds of those who had laughed at their wedded bliss.
"Lord Lannister," Larra said softly, her eyes dancing with delight the same way they had when they had discussed ancient Valyrian odes and argued about cyvasse strategies. The man with the shimmering pale-gold hair looked up sharply from Lady Nymeria, with whom he was playing a game of cyvasse. Larra lifted the child from her lap, tucking them on the settle under heavy blankets, and she went to her knees to wrap her strong, slender arms around Tyrion. Startled, Tyrion embraced her, and saw Sansa's blue eyes glowing as she watched them. Larra hugged him tightly, and watching Sansa's reaction, Tyrion knew in that moment that Larra knew it all. Sansa had told her everything. From the moment of his arrival at King's Landing to that glorious royal wedding and all that had occurred in between, for the brief time they had been bound as man and wife. By Larra's reaction, Sansa's account of their life together, brief as it had been, must have been fairer than he would have expected, given all Sansa had endured at the hands of his family.
As she hugged him tightly, Larra whispered in his ear, "Thank you for looking after her." She gave him one final squeeze then released him. She raked her eyes unabashedly over his face – she never had been shy or retiring, as one would expect of a bastard, not like her twin-brother – and her pretty lips twitched. "Your books have not been kind, my lord." Her eyes glittered with irony.
"The snows have," Tyrion said, staring back at her. She was a woman now, her beauty fierce and striking, those strange violet eyes dancing in the firelight. "All thought you to be dead."
"There's a certain safety in death, is there not?" Larra mused, her eyes twinkling. "Have you returned to Winterfell to claim your wife, my lord?" She was teasing, and Tyrion found himself laughing softly. Larra glanced over her shoulder at her sister, her expression teasing. "What say you, Sansa? Shall we keep him?"
"That would make things…complicated," Sansa said warmly, her eyes glowing. She looked…relaxed, Tyrion thought, watching the way her body was leaned in towards Jon Snow, the way their hands were loosely clasped between them, how Jon Snow leaned back against the settle, obviously exhausted but relaxed by her presence. That is interesting, Tyrion thought, shrewdly observing how intimate the two were. He had never seen Jon Snow relaxed in his life, wondered if the poor boy knew what it meant to be at peace. Lady Sansa gently freed her hand from Jon Snow's and asked Tyrion, "Do you still drink wine?"
The very thing he had asked her on their wedding-night. He smiled warmly at her.
"In abundance," Tyrion told her passionately, grinning, and Sansa smiled richly, moving to the hearth to refill his cup. He accepted it thankfully, glad of the heat sluicing through his body, though he missed the tang of citrus in the wine – considered a heresy in the North, he remembered. A funny match they had made but Tyrion could not deny he had not grown fond of the girl. Strange to think of her as his wife yet he had protected her as any husband would, even before he had been forced to wed her. Only he – and perhaps Clegane – had cared a whit about the Stark girl, yet after Clegane had fled the burning Blackwater it had fallen to Tyrion to keep her safe. She hadn't truly needed it. Powerless, yes, but Sansa Stark had not been without weapons: her courtesies had kept her alive. Sansa Stark had outlasted them all, with no help from anyone. He raised his filled cup to her. "Lady Stark. I always knew you would survive us."
"Did you?" Sansa asked gently.
"Oh, yes. The night of the Blackwater when you told me you would pray for me…as you prayed for the King," Tyrion said, his lips twitching, eyes dancing merrily. "I knew in that moment, you were cleverer than you desired anyone to know. But I knew: I let you keep your secret. Everyone who underestimated you is now dead."
"Yes," Sansa agreed, her smile fading. Tyrion watched Larra, who was sipping her own wine and stroking the golden curls of the child in her lap – a child he recognised. He stared, watching the girl cuddle with Larra, her cheek resting against Larra's neck as she sucked her thumb, content, safe. Larra glanced down at the golden curls and smiled at Tyrion.
"When you are settled, perhaps you would care to join your cousins in the schoolroom while they take their lessons," Larra suggested, her voice gentle as the child's eyelids drooped. "You may judge how they are progressing."
"The girls… I had all but forgotten them," Tyrion admitted, with a guilty grimace. He glanced from the one curled in Larra's lap to those playing dolls with a silver-haired girl and another with violent blue eyes, and those golden-haired girls dancing energetically with some Northern boys. "They seem happy."
"Today is a good day," Larra said. Her brow furrowed and her amethyst gaze drifted past Tyrion, into the shadows of the hall, broken up by clusters of candles on the long polished tables where people met and ate and talked. "Did you ride ahead, my lord?"
"No," Tyrion said quietly, glancing over his shoulder. Qezza had left him, to stand before the hearth warming herself, an arm around Zafiyah, whose face was tearstained and whose body still shuddered with pain from their brutal ride. Ser Jorah was nowhere in sight, but he imagined wherever the surly knight was, the Queen could not be far from him. He also noticed with no small degree of concern that there were no Unsullied gathered in the hall, and no Dothraki but those kos assigned to guard his young cousins, who were dancing with their wards or sharing a horn of ale and playing knife games with some of the wildlings.
"Are you looking for someone, Lord Tyrion?" Sansa asked delicately, and he stilled, noticing the glitter in her eye, the stern set to her petty lips. He noticed the way Larra Snow's eyes simmered with suppressed anger, how her face turned hard, yet there was a flicker of irony in the corners of her lips.
Cautiously, Tyrion asked, "Where is Daenerys?"
"The Lady of Dragonstone has been escorted to her rooms," Larra said lightly, playing idly with the doll belonging to the girl cuddled in her lap – the girl orphaned by Daenerys, Tyrion recalled vividly.
"We thought she would be more comfortable resting in private," Lady Sansa said, shaking her long sheet of copper hair over her shoulder, settling back with Jon and reaching for his hand. Jon Snow hid his face behind a horn, apparently drinking deeply of the mulled wine.
The Lady of Dragonstone, he thought, eyeing both sisters. Arya Stark watched them, too, he realised, and with some satisfaction the youngest Stark sister relaxed somewhat, her eyes glowing in the firelight. Tyrion watched the sisters and knew this was not a lady's courtesy, providing Daenerys with warmth and comfort: they had not greeted her personally, had actively ensured she would not be welcomed into the Great Hall. She had not been invited to join in the celebration of the King's return nor the Stark family's reunion: she was not wanted at either.
He knew what had been going on – at least, that Daenerys had been pining for Jon Snow, had even sought him out at White Harbour, and been rejected, humiliated, by Arya Stark, who followed her brother like a lethal shadow. Jon Snow had taken every opportunity to avoid and actively ignore Daenerys, barely leashing his fury when he was forced to interact with her, and Tyrion was still trying to work out why. He needed to confer with Ser Jorah. Whatever had happened between the two had occurred in the North and were it to continue he dreaded to think how the future would unfold.
Daenerys…truth be told, Tyrion likened Daenerys to a bitch in heat around Jon Snow, panting after him, desperate to be mounted, bewildered when rejected, having no idea what to do with herself after, drowning in her own lusts.
His mouth twitching, even as his heart sank, Tyrion chided, "She has been sent to her chamber without supper?"
"Of course not," Larra said, her expression serene. "We're not savages. She shall have every comfort we offer our other guests."
Except guest-right, Tyrion thought, eyes widening, and Larra noticed.
"There is bread and salt enough for her in this castle," Larra said, though her voice took on a low, menacing growl, the she-wolf showing hints of her fangs. Tyrion gulped. He glanced from Sansa to Larra and, seeing the way Sansa was leaning in to Jon, how their hands were loosely clasped between them, and chose to approach Larra instead. He climbed up onto the settle, smiling when vivid blue eyes glittered back at him, a beautiful little face caressed by the firelight tucked against Larra's chest. The child sucked her thumb, cradling her doll contentedly, utterly relaxed in Larra's embrace. There was a reason Tyrion had sent his cousins north but he could never have imagined it would be Larra who would care for them. He remembered his first visit to Winterfell, how Larra had become beloved by his niece and younger nephew: children had been drawn to her like moths to flame.
Reaching out, he teased one of the glorious curls wound tightly near the child's ear and tickled her chin, noticing even as he did so that the child lingered in Larra's lap, nestled around the hilt of a dagger, a very familiar dagger.
Wishing to enquire after the Unsullied and Dothraki, he was temporarily diverted. He blurted, "The catspaw's dagger."
Larra reached down and unsheathed the wicked blade. Her eyes were uncannily purple in the firelight as she glanced from the blade that had started it all to Tyrion, who had been one of the many victims of a plot to rupture the Seven Kingdoms. "Funny how these things come full circle. Valyrian steel. A relic of the Targaryen dynasty. Sweet Sister, she is called."
"A most well-travelled sibling," Tyrion said, eyeing the blade. Larra sheathed it again. "How did you come to carry her?"
"Lord Baelish gifted her to Bran," Larra said, glancing across the hearth at her brother in his clever wheeled chair. "One of his few blunders but a mortal one."
"Where is Littlefinger?" Tyrion asked. The last he had heard, Littlefinger had been courting Lysa Arryn.
"Oh, usually he would be sniffing about my sister," Larra sniffed, her eyes dangerous, "however I took the liberty of relieving his shoulders the burden of his head."
Tyrion blinked. "He is dead?"
"You sound disappointed."
"Only I rather enjoyed outwitting him. His indignation was delicious," Tyrion grinned. "You took his head?"
"Those who pass the sentence should swing the sword."
"Ah, I had almost forgotten you Northerners live by the old ways," Tyrion nodded, watching a few men of the Night's Watch playing dice with a Dothraki ko and a fiercely bearded redhead who whipped out a bone-handled dagger at the first sign of cheating. His anger quickly forgotten, the wild-man roared with laughter. Dothraki, Free Folk, Night's Watch, Knights of the Vale, Northmen…even a Lannister had been welcomed by the Stark's hearth. Everyone was welcome…except for Daenerys Targaryen.
He watched the Dornish knight who had been glaring at him for long moments as he hissed long and low with Lady Nym over a cyvasse board. Then he glanced at Larra. "Lady Larra… I am missing a piece," he said, his voice low and almost desperate and deeply earnest. "I cannot help if I cannot see. Help me to see."
Larra regarded him coolly, her expressions masked. That was a change from the vibrant girl he remembered, her fury and her jubilation written in every line of her beautiful face. She murmured offhandedly, "I am sure your lady's version of events will differ."
"I am asking you."
"You should ask Jon."
"I think not," Tyrion said sombrely. Larra watched him carefully.
"Because he will not tell you? Or because you dread having to look him in the eye after he does?" Larra asked succinctly, and Tyrion sighed heavily, gazing back at her, those mesmerising amethyst eyes. "Your faith in her is shaken since the Lion Culling." Tyrion glanced around, hiding his face behind his wine-cup. Larra smiled and rested her cheek against the child's head. "What better place for us to speak freely? There are so many voices competing…" She sighed and said softly, "You don't ask me for information; you want me to confirm what you already suspect."
"Something happened between them in the North."
"Yes."
"She… She has done something to turn his mistrust to rage," Tyrion said, his mouth dry.
"What do you think might have done that?" Larra prompted. Without telling him anything, she had given him the answer he had been searching for. Jon Snow was a man of integrity.
"Many things," Tyrion answered.
"Name one. Name the worst you can think of." Tyrion could think of it, clear as day, yet… As if she could read the trail of his thoughts in his face, Larra gave him an almost sympathetic smile.
"She abused him." Jon Snow, a man of great integrity, who felt the shame of his birth so deeply.
"She committed her armies and thought it her due to ride him as her prized new mount," Larra said. Her voice was calm but laced with such viciousness, Tyrion shivered. A she-wolf indeed. Gentle unless provoked – and woe betide anything who threatened a direwolf's pack. Her gulped and fought not to glance over his shoulder where the King reclined, his expression so utterly soft as he watched Sansa Stark chatting animatedly with her long-lost sister.
"I had forgotten how forthright you are," Lord Tyrion managed to say, his voice low. There was no humour in it.
"If you wish to play the game, speak with Sansa," Larra said bluntly. "If we survive the Others, I'll worry about court politics." She glanced at Tyrion and seemed to gentle somewhat at the sight of him, his brow furrowed, his mind spinning.
The Ash Meadow, the Lion Culling… She had pressured men to marry her before, yes, and they had taken full advantage of the match. This was different. This was… He knew what it was, of course. Rape. Not only was she a murderer, she was a rapist too. With murder, the victim suffered but once. Rape, Tyrion understood, left the victim suffering the rest of their lives. Daenerys had leveraged her armies and taken what she wanted from the King – what she had desired since the first moment he resisted her. His strength of character was deeply attractive to her. Even as he had scolded her for the Ash Meadow, she had been as much titillated by it as shamed.
"May I now ask you something, my lord?" Larra said quietly, and Tyrion gazed up at her as if desperate to disrupt his chaotic thoughts.
"Of course," he answered softly.
Larra sighed and gazed past Tyrion, to her brother Bran and the enormous hearth-fire roaring beyond him. "Had Daenerys done all she did in Essos using wildfire, would she still have been admired and hailed as a saviour?"
He had forgotten how well-educated Larra Snow was, how cunning. Truth be told he had not thought of the She-Wolf in years. Now, he reflected on their games of cyvasse, their conversations about ancient Valyrian poetry, politics and economics, her perspectives on history.
Tyrion recalled she had been a stout supporter of Princess Rhaenyra's right to inherit during the Dance of Dragons. Not only because Rhaenyra had been raised to be Queen, but because Alicent Hightower had put the ambitions of herself and her children before the needs of the realm. Alicent and her children had shown their quality through their actions: they valued their own status and ambition over the good of the people they had sworn to serve and protect.
Sighing heavily, Tyrion recalled the Ash Meadow, the Lion Culling…Daenerys had burned those she had sworn she had come to Westeros to protect, while in Dragons' Bay she had abandoned those she had sworn to build a better world for.
Had Daenerys done all she did in Essos using wildfire, would she still have been admired and hailed as a saviour?
"No," Tyrion answered Larra Snow grimly, barely meeting her eye. They all knew what she would have been called. Daenerys Targaryen, the warlord. Daenerys Targaryen…the Mad Queen. He glanced at Larra as she gathered up the tiny child in her arms and rose from the settle. Quietly, he warned her, "Be careful."
"Oh, always. Cautious and cunning," Larra said, her eyes glittering. Tyrion gave her a half-hearted smile, remembering their cyvasse games – how often she had trounced him, leaving him flummoxed. He had adored playing against her because she was unpredictable. She was a woman of integrity, like her brother Jon, yet on the cyvasse board at least, upholding her values meant making curious choices.
She knows what her values are, Tyrion thought, watching Larra Snow as she gathered up the two girls playing dolls by the fire and his cousins, dancing energetically with Northern boys. Not he brightest, or bravest, or most talented, Ned Stark had done one thing extremely well, Tyrion thought: he had raised his children to become extraordinary.
Larra moaned softly and breathed deeply as she flung open the diamond-paned window in her chamber. Just a breath of it, she thought, gulping down the fresh, cold air. She felt smothered in the Great Hall, dizzy in the heat of so many bodies packed inside, the hearth roaring, and had been as desperate to get away from it as she was anxious to stay, to be near Jon and Arya. Jon and Arya!
They had thought Arya was in King's Landing. Sly creature, Bran hadn't said a word. But what a wonderful surprise!
She sank down in her rocking-chair, exhausted from the day, turning her face to the icy air drifting into the chamber.
Gendry found Larra fast-asleep in her rocking-chair, the window pushed open. He pulled it shut again, shivering, and carefully gathered Larra up in his arms. Carefully undressing her, he tucked her into bed and pulled off his boots and clothing, cuddling up beside her as she slept soundly. As he drifted, he realised that was a first – Larra always woke at the slightest disturbance. Perhaps she was finally becoming accustomed to the safety of the castle, he thought, tucking her close and kissing her neck before nuzzling her hair and drifting off to sleep.
A.N.: Fifty points to House Stark for putting Daenerys in her place!