A.N.: Interestingly, I received a notification from AO3 that someone had requested a password reset. Not sure what anyone could gain from usurping my account.
Oh, by the way Highgarden is inspired by a combination of the Chateau de Chambord and Versailles. I haven't seen The Great but the set-designs are gorgeous and Catherine and Aunt Elizabeth's rooms definitely inspired what I envision the interiors of Highgarden to look like. It's more a palace than a fortress, everything is about culture and elegance, so it fits!
Valyrian Steel
46
The Heart of Valour
Panting, he straightened up and gazed around. Everywhere he looked, crimson shone vividly against the shimmering white of the snow that had blanketed the Reach overnight. His armour, dented from a blow he had not been able to deflect or dodge in time, dug in at his shoulder and he grimaced as a war-chorus rose. Not the clamour of battle, but a dirge of death, the broken wails and gurgling chokes of dying men weeping for their mothers, their lovers, the Stranger and other gods who paid them no heed.
The battle had been swift and decisive – decisively in his favour. Though he commanded fewer men, he was battle-hardened, grim and determined.
Partway through the battle, he had taken the high-ground. That had been the end for his enemies. His force had suddenly become the defending force; his enemies, ambitious young bannermen formerly sworn to his House, had realised to soon that they had yielded their advantage and were now fighting to reclaim what they had stolen.
Behind him, a great moat glittered in the sunlight, frozen and seemingly useless against an attacking force, yet those who had fled his blade in the advance had found themselves plunging through the thin ice into freezing waters that pulled on their chainmail and armour. Beyond the moat loomed the great curtain-wall of Highgarden, glittering with frost, shimmering like a veil of mother-of-pearl, and beyond…encircling the hill upon which Highgarden was built and from which it took its name were the gardens: neatly groomed parterres and mazes; arbours heavy with roses and glittering glasshouses filled with precious exotic flowers nurtured by gardeners through all weathers; follies and manmade waterfalls and sweeping mosaic verandas with potted lilacs and trellises of trailing roses, jasmine and clematis hung with glass lanterns; orchards filled with beehives and wild, natural gardens where flowers tumbled over themselves and people found an ideal place to tumble with their lovers, making the foxgloves shiver and the dahlias dance. And encroaching on this abundance of natural beauty was a monument of manmade loveliness. Highgarden. Home. An immense central keep with four great bastion towers, the castle itself had solid foundations, almost plain. Above the foundations rose three storeys of glittering windows made of Myrish glass, some opening onto great sweeping balconies with Lysene sculptures and great Myrish urns overflowing with plants. Above them were open loggias and balconies, where they wandered about during the height of summer hoping to catch a breeze, and above the highest of the open rooftop gardens soared towers, cupolas, gables, lanterns, chimneys, all without symmetry, looking more like the spires of a great city than the points of a single rooftop.
Strange to see it now without their banners flickering in the breeze, to hear no silver trumpets calling him home in the dusk as the great castle glimmered like a pearl in the sunset. In spring and summer, they could smell the perfume of roses for miles around. Now, the stench of battle, of blood and steel, made him gag. The fog of a sharp winter dawn did nothing to stifle the odour. He breathed in sharply through his nose, throwing his head back and reached up to shove his hair from his face, hissing and wincing as the wound he had sustained to his face smarted and throbbed, blood dripping hotly into his mouth. It was his only wound: he thanked the Warrior. His heart thundering in his chest, the battle-lust that rushed through his veins cooling as the cries of the dying started to fade. He panted and lifted his face to the sun as its warmth caressed his skin. Ice and snow crunched underfoot as he turned, cleaning his blade before sheathing it. He mounted his horse and issued commands to his men, who were busy giving mercy to those who had fallen and for whom there was no hope.
He clicked his tongue and his horse responded immediately, cantering down the body-strewn Long Mile, through woodlands and great sweeping meadows, away from Highgarden. He could not step foot inside it without her. Their army was small, which had only helped their incursion against those who had sought to snatch Highgarden from them: they could move faster, at greater speed. His Redwyne cousins had given them the men he needed to encourage his family's former vassals to recommit their own to his cause, and he was glad he, at least, on a personal level, still had friends he could rely on.
Daenerys Targaryen had done her utmost to destroy the Lannisters yet the same actions that had destroyed the leadership in the Westerlands had made it almost too easy to reunite the Reach.
It had been Alynore who did it, truly. She had looked their vassals in the eye and told them that they would die if they did not unite against an even greater enemy who threatened everything they held precious.
Because Daenerys Targaryen would. She had proven that at the Lion Culling. Innocent babies, pregnant women and wizened old men had been burned to ash for no crime but that of sharing blood with a woman who had had the nerve to outwit her.
He freely admitted he was impressed with Alynore and felt shame he had overlooked her until now – until there were none others left.
Had he been at Highgarden… It did no good to dwell on it.
Garlan had not been at Highgarden when the Lannisters routed it: he had been in the Arbour at his brother's request, strengthening bonds with their Redwyne cousins, before intending to sail to Sunspear to meet with Prince Doran. Despite the injury to his leg, Willas had always maintained a friendship with the Red Viper, and through that – and the shared grief of losing those they loved to Lannisters – he had hoped that Dorne and the Reach could finally form a true and abiding alliance.
Willas was gone. Loras and Margaery too. Leonette had burned with all the rest and it was only now that relief assuaged his grief – relief that his wife had escaped a worse fate: those who had survived the Sept had been slaughtered in the very gardens where once they had danced and kissed and flirted and lived peacefully and happily. His hands gripped the reins hard and he clenched his jaw, his eyes burning. They were gone.
He was all that was left of the Tyrell men. Him. Second-born, less clever than his older brother, less ambitious than his younger brother, far less beguiling than his sly sister. He was left to lead House Tyrell: an ailing old woman, little girls, and a young woman growing heavier with child.
Never as clever as Willas, he was still clever enough that Grandmother hadn't bothered to try and convince him the child was Willas' by a secret, hasty marriage between cousins after the tragedy of Baelor's Sept. Among their cousins' prized vines, withering in the winter chill, Grandmother and Alynore had told him the truth: that they had believed Alynore the future of their House and that, through a child all believed to be fathered by Willas, she could retain any power they managed to snatch back. Alynore… A younger cousin who seemed to have aged ten years overnight – or at least, since the last time he had seen her, riding off to war in support of Renly Baratheon's claim to the Iron Throne. Alynore: gentle and clever and resilient, her nature as beautiful as her face. And sadly overlooked.
It was to her he rode as fast as his battle-exhausted horse could carry him, and he found her in his tent, her hands busy with embroidery as she paced restlessly, while Grandmother slept under heavy furs. It felt jarring to see Grandmother in such a state: he had never in his life seen her…vulnerable. Yet now she actually seemed her age in a way he had never imagined her. He was more shocked and unsettled by his grandmother's absurd new frailty than the bloodshed of battle.
Alynore turned sharply as he burst through the flaps of the tent and gasped hollowly at the sight of his bloodied face. She started forward but he jerked his head, once, indicating his armour and clothing still smeared with blood and gristle.
She paused, staring expectantly at him.
"It is over," he said grimly. "We may go home."
Alynore blinked. "So soon?" she breathed.
"The battle was short," he told her grimly. "Those who took up arms against us did not last long." Those who had sought to snatch Highgarden had been young, ambitious lords who lacked basic skill with strategy – they were summer lads who had never seen battle yet fancied themselves famed warriors. He had cut them down with tragic ease.
Alynore let out a tiny sob of relief, dabbing her eyes with the fabric draped from her embroidery-hoop. He ached to go to her, to comfort her; she reached down and grimaced, rubbing her swollen belly. She was getting larger with every passing week. He had to admit that pregnancy looked good on her: she had all the sweetness, innocence and purity of the Maiden in her looks and the Mother's compassion, wisdom and nurturing nature. He had watched her with their younger cousins, watched her raise them while they moved about the Reach rallying their bannermen, settling squabbles, soothing sore feelings and skinned knees, cuddling and loving them. She had seemingly limitless patience and had dealt with their bannermen as gently and diplomatically as she had their young cousins, who needed constant reassurance, love and the knowledge that they were valued and important. Children and bannermen were no different, truly: once Alynore had understood that, their bannermen melted for her.
He melted for her.
Garlan was awed by her, and ashamed of how much she had been overlooked and underestimated. He adored her. He had come to respect her. He knew he was growing to love her.
Her relief was palpable: Garlan had returned. His armour was dented, scratched and smeared with gristle: his face had been slashed, from the centre of his right cheekbone, down through both lips toward his chin. His dark-gold beard dripped with blood. Her eyes burned and she reached for him, yearning to launch herself into his strapping arms and let him hold her – the way he had the first time he had seen her at the Arbour. As Grandmother had teetered and had to be reclined on a chaise, recovering from her shock, Alynore had silently wept into Garlan's broad chest, all the while shock, horror and relief warred inside her. Horror that she now carried a child while there was yet a living male heir to claim Highgarden, dread for her child's fate…
Instead of launching herself into Garlan's strong, comforting embrace, Alynore lowered her hands to her belly, swollen with Jon's child thriving inside her womb. She felt them kicking and stretching inside her, felt their heartbeat. No-one had ever told her what pregnancy felt like. After the sickness had subsided, she felt nothing but wonder at the connection, the life growing inside her. The life Jon had given her. She wished he was here now: she wished he could know Garlan. She wished she could tell Jon that she was no longer alone.
And that she did not regret the child he gave her, or their time together, for a heartbeat. She would not change things – now that she was assured of their family's fate.
Garlan had reclaimed Highgarden. She had done her utmost to support him, garnering support from those who had been bullied into betraying them. She knew half their shame stemmed from seeing a beautiful young woman in tears – had it been Garlan alone, it would have been all the easier for their bannermen to deny him. But set a weeping woman in their midst and their chivalry came roaring to the forefront of their minds. Especially a weeping pregnant woman with no home in which to raise her child: where chivalry failed, motherly instincts prevailed. The ladies of the Reach had pressured their husbands and sons and nephews – had henpecked them until they committed their troops and swore oaths of fealty on bended knee.
Alynore had resolved to let them live forever with their guilt, rather than grant them the relief of a swift execution for their treason.
She had thought of Jon, granting pardons to the children of those men who had butchered his brother and watched his sister suffer in silence. She thought of how furiously loyal those children would forever be to Jon, for he had granted them their lives when it was within his power to strike them down and call it vengeance. That wasn't Jon, though. He was not vengeful: he was just.
Alynore followed the example of Jon and Lady Sansa Stark. She was just when she could be cruel. Gentle where she could be wrathful. Shrewd and calm and calculating when emotion threatened to overwhelm her.
She reached up and wiped her eyes, which were streaming freely with hot tears that startled her. She hadn't felt the chill, so concerned with the outcome of the battle. Garlan had returned with news of their victory and her relief overwhelmed her.
"You said Highgarden was not easily defensible," Alynore said wonderingly. They had never needed to worry about defending their home: they had armies to deter anyone from ever getting close enough. "I did not imagine it could be taken so easily… If we could take it back so easily, what chance do we have if a greater force sets its eye on us?"
When Daenerys Targaryen set her sights on them.
"We must fortify it," Garlan told her quietly, and he tried to hide a grimace. Her gentle eyes saw it, though: she stoked the fire over which a small cauldron of mulled wine simmered sluggishly. When it was bubbling she dipped a clean handkerchief into the wine, rinsed it out and pressed it carefully to his face.
"How is Grandmother this morning?" Garlan asked, and his lip stung, bleeding freely when he smiled at the stubborn look on Alynore's face as she relentlessly tended to his injured face.
"She slept ill," Alynore murmured, tenderly wiping the blood from his face. He clenched his fists rather than grab her and hold on as the wine stung his open wound. "I am sorry," she winced, as he flinched and hissed. "The wound must be cleaned."
"I know," he grunted softly. He gazed down at Alynore, noticing the shadows beneath her eyes, the tight set to her lips. She had been unwell in the early months of their journey throughout the Reach due to her pregnancy, but the last few weeks her sickness had abated. She had been sleeping more restfully and ate everything set before her with enthusiastic gratitude. Grandmother was not the only one worrying, he knew. The girls were too young to understand, and long may they remain innocent of such things. But Alynore…overnight she had taken on the burden of their House alone, and it was not easily handed over to another to carry. Not when she carried that responsibility, the future of their House, in her womb.
"And you? You are pale," Garlan said softly, catching himself from cupping her face; his hands were covered in blood and gristle.
"The baby kicked all night," she admitted.
"It could sense your worry," he said, glancing down at Alynore's belly. It was noticeably rounded now, and her dark moss-green velvet jacquard skirts swayed with every movement, the hems caked in five inches of sludge. He reached out, again catching himself before pressing his hand to her belly, awed once again by the lengths she had been prepared to go to protect their family's future. Other men might be horrified, disgusted even, that she had thought of such a thing. But not he: he was impressed by the plot to ensure their family's future while relinquishing none of its wealth or influence. Only a woman could think of such a thing, he had often thought since he had first heard of his grandmother's and Alynore's scheme: only a woman would ever have to think of such a thing.
Gazing up at him, Alynore's eyes swam and she rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. She wiped her face and rinsed the handkerchief, dipping it again in the boiled wine before cupping his head with one hand so that he could not wriggle away and pressed the handkerchief to his face, making him hiss.
"We must summon the maester. The scarring may ruin your beard. Mayhap the maester can keep the stitches small," Alynore winced, but she did not faint at the sight of the gore and gristle on his armour and boots, or his face cut open. The blade had been sharp, at least: it had sliced through the skin with ease, not tearing. She examined the wound carefully, without paling. He had learned more about Alynore the last few weeks than he had the rest of her life. He imagined there was very little that she could not handle if she committed herself to it.
Garlan gazed at Alynore, her beautiful face, her kind and tireless nature, and couldn't resist asking, just one more time, "Promise me that he was good to you."
She sighed heavily, and he was learning how to read her expressions, what she hid so well. She was reaching the limits of her irritation with him over this matter.
"How long will you to continue to ask that question in hopes I'll give an answer you can reconcile?" she asked quietly, smiling but with a delicate sting to her tone. She fixed her pale, pretty eyes on him and said sternly, "He was brave and gentle and strong and the very best man I have ever met. If his child is half the man their father is, I shall be proud. Please accept that." She frowned and searched his face, then said gently, "I was not abused, assaulted or manipulated. I chose this." She glanced down at her swollen belly. The maester believed she had a scant four moon-turns until the birth, if all went well and the baby came to term. She was young and healthy: they remained cautiously optimistic. "We thought you were – it was just me." Alynore said, gazing into his eyes earnestly. "I thought I had to do it all by myself…"
"I know," he said, for he, too, had believed that he alone had survived. Unlike Alynore, however, his thoughts had turned to Essos, to losing himself in the ranks of a sellsword company, even to swearing fealty to Prince Doran as a sworn sword. The last thing he had thought of was reclaiming Highgarden. Why would he do such a thing for himself alone?
"I am sorry for Leonette," she said softly, his wife's name barely more than a hushed whisper. Alynore's eyes searched his face, her shoulders drooping slightly. "I am sorry for her death. She was wonderful."
"She was," Garlan agreed, his heart aching. "She was truly a beauty."
"Garlan… I am glad that you are alive," Alynore said quietly. "Willas would be too. Everyone said he was the cleverest but he said you were the best of us. He told us all the time that you were the better man."
"I miss him," Garlan admitted, the emptiness in his chest throbbing. She grimaced as the baby gave a sharp kick. "Do you have pains?"
"The baby kicks," Alynore said, rubbing her belly to coax the baby to gentle. "They're strong."
Garlan gazed at her belly curiously. "What does it feel like?"
"Now that the sickness has subsided…it's lovely. I feel them moving and know when they're sleeping and…and they get the hiccups sometimes in the morning," she said, her smile beautiful. Garlan's smile faded.
"Leonette and I were trying," he admitted. "She was excited to be a mother… I always worried about becoming a father."
"Why?" Alynore asked gently. "You'll make a wonderful father."
"There's only so much I can do to protect the people I love," Garlan said, aware that Alynore was wiping blood from his face after doing the seemingly impossible – reclaiming Highgarden with a paltry force and few advantages. "The thought of being powerless to stop them being hurt…"
"You're so worried about the bad that you've lost sight of the good," Alynore said tenderly. "I can't wait to hold them for the first time, to see them smile, to teach them how to toddle about the gardens and learn about the world. How to ride and fight and dance and love and…and live. To learn how to be brave and embrace their lives in spite of fear."
"You're not worried?" Garlan asked.
"I was," Alynore admitted freely. "I was deathly afraid. But you're alive." She gave him a deeply earnest look full of emotion. "You gave me hope… Now you've reclaimed our home for us. No matter what's to come, we have each other…" Her shoulders drooped and she glanced over her shoulder subtly, gazing at Grandmother before saying, "I know you do not wish to marry me."
He tensed and asked sharply, "Why do you say that?"
Grandmother had declared that they would wed once they had reclaimed Highgarden or Alynore had delivered her child, whichever came first. Garlan knew his grandmother too well to be insulted by her insensitivity: she was thinking only of their future. He mourned the past in private, as he knew she did. In her mind, the Uprooting of Highgarden had occurred because she had been distracted by thoughts of revenge, desiring vengeance for Margaery – always her favourite. Margaery was dead, and because of her desire for vengeance, the rest of her House had followed Margery's fate. The Queen of Thorns would make no such mistake again.
Highgarden had been reclaimed. Their bannermen had sworn their oaths to Garlan: Alynore had inspired their adoration and nurtured their dread of Daenerys Targaryen to galvanise their loyalty.
As soon as Alynore had given birth to her child, Garlan would marry her.
"It's quite alright," Alynore said, the understanding in her eyes devastating. "If it is your desire not to marry me, I will support you. I will be your ally against Grandmother: we both know you will need one… Just know that if you do not, I shall not be married off to another. I know what I am worth. Our bannermen are undeserving of me." Fierce pride glowed in those gentle green eyes and Garlan was awed by her self-assuredness, her strength.
He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it. Looming over her, Alynore's eyelashes fluttered as she gazed up at him. "I will marry you, Alynore."
She shook her head, and said gently, "We both deserve better than to be married for appearances' sake."
He realised she wanted…what he'd lost: respect, companionship, love. Lust, perhaps. His body throbbed with awareness at the thought. He adored her. She was kind and gentle and strong, proud and nurturing, wise and shrewd… He gazed at her, with her pretty eyes and rounded belly, and the idea that one day, perhaps, he might make her heavy with his own child… He and Leonette had never managed it: but they had enjoyed every moment of trying. He hadn't been with another woman since Leonette yet from the moment Grandmother had decided he should wed Alynore, his awareness of her had grown.
Garlan reached for Alynore's other hand and drew her closer.
"If you will let me, Alynore, I will wed you. Not because Grandmother commands it or the future of our House demands it… If you would be my wife, I will be a partner to you. I shall respect you and be loyal to only you, share my life with you, be a companion to you."
"And a lover?" Alynore asked, and he watched the blush tint her cheeks prettily despite her bold words.
"Only if you wish it," he said softly. For though he kept asking her about her pregnancy, what he truly wished to hear was that Alynore was in love with her child's father. The fact that she refused told him she did, fiercely, and likely always would – as he would always be in love with the memory of Leonette. They had been ripped away too soon, before their love had the chance to wither.
"What about you?" Alynore asked gently.
"If you will have me, I am yours," he said earnestly. He gave her hope, she had said: What she didn't know was that she had given him a reason to live. Her, and that child in her belly. They had given him something to fight for: he would never have reclaimed Highgarden for himself. But for her…for that baby… He had fought for their future. He always would.
And what was the point of reclaiming Highgarden if they allowed the ghosts of the ones they had lost to dance through echoing halls, rather than filling the gardens with laughing children? It would shame him to ignore this second chance the gods had granted them.
It would shame him to mistreat Alynore by making her feel anything less than absolutely desired, cherished and respected.
"What do we do now?" Alynore asked softly, her voice subtly hoarse. "How do we rebuild?"
"We have all we need," Garlan told her. "There are those in the Reach still loyal to House Tyrell though we may have lost the respect of our fiercest commander."
"Lord Tarly," Alynore said, and Garlan nodded. One of the few men Grandmother had ever respected. "He rides with the King in the North."
"Not the Targaryen girl?"
"He has no respect for her, not after what she did at the Ash Meadow," Alynore said. She had told him of Dragonstone, and the King in the North's reaction, scolding Daenerys Targaryen before her court, when she had razed the Gold Road and turned the Lannisters to little more than embers. "She could not compel them to kneel nor command them to take the black. Jon Snow invited them north."
"A clever loophole," Garlan said softly.
"Jon Snow knows Lord Tarly's worth; he was the only one to defeat Robert Baratheon in battle. Ned Stark told his children stories of the Rebellion," Alynore said. "Were the Tarlys Targaryen loyalists during the Rebellion?"
"The fiercest – they fought for Rhaegar, though, not for Aerys," Garlan said. He had been a young boy barely out of the cradle when the Rebellion had begun. Willas had had memories of their father and uncles marching off to war, but it had been so very far off and he had been so very young. "Everyone fought for Rhaegar."
"I wonder what he would think to all this – to her," Alynore mused.
"What does Grandmother say?"
Her tone dark, Alynore said, "She says she has seen this before."
"She'd know better than anyone; she's old enough to have watched Aerys' descent," Garlan sighed, watching his grandmother sleep. "I don't know which to be more afraid of – the lions or the dragon."
"The dragon," said Alynore firmly. "The lioness thinks she has won: let her believe it. As long as she is watching for dragons from the North we can rebuild in peace. Let them kill each other."
In the distance, they heard the cheers. Their men, their soldiers, victorious. Celebrating their victory, as if it had always been inevitable and they had struck in the hour of the wolf because it was a strategic advantage, not because they could not sleep for agitation. Garlan had not slept: the future of the Reach, of his House, his surviving family, rested on the strength and skill of his sword-hand. They heard the cheers and Alynore sighed softly.
"They'll want to see you," she said.
"I could not enter Highgarden without you," Garlan told her. "We're standing here today because of your words and actions over the last months, not mine this morning."
But for his slashed lips, he would have kissed her for the look she gave him.
She went to one of the engraved trunks at the foot of the fur-strewn bed and opened it, the firelight picking up the silver sheen to her moss-green dress as the heavy fabric swayed over her belly and billowed at her feet. She picked something vibrant emerald-green of the trunk and carried it to him.
"What's this?" he asked gently.
"Time for a change," she said, and Garlan took the folded fabric, holding it up and letting it unfurl. His heart thumped and stood still a moment, grief and pride warring in him. Alynore had stitched a new standard. The emerald background remained the same. Instead of the single five-petal rose in gold, a simple hand-and-a-half sword stood on its tip, embroidered in silver and gold. At the hilt were two roses, their petals blood-red and trimmed with gold thread. Entwined with the blade were vines glinting with thorns and more roses – blood-red and trimmed with gold like those that represented Garlan, his personal sigil of two roses to denote his status as second-born son. He noticed the silver thorns on the vines, and counted the smaller roses – six in total, one larger than the others with a tiny golden bud fit to burst beside it. A rose and bud for Alynore and her child and five more blooms for their young cousins. House Tyrell in its entirety.
"We took the rose for granted," Alynore said quietly. "Our safety and prosperity… Our sigil must serve as a reminder of what it has cost us." Garlan nodded slowly, examining every detail, every stitch. "A sword entwined with roses – the sword with which you reclaimed our home. The roses that grow in spite of the swords to which we lost our family. Red for the blood shed at Highgarden. Lest we forget."
"Lest we forget…" Garlan repeated in a murmur. The thoughtfulness and purpose of each detail was staggering. His eyes lingered on the larger of the roses, the tiny golden bud beside it. The hope it represented. His lips twitched and he licked his lip as it started to bleed once more but he stared at the sigil, remembering… "The North remembers… I cannot help but think of Sansa Stark. Isn't that curious."
"You knew her?"
"In King's Landing when she was married to Lord Tyrion Lannister," Garlan said quietly. He remembered her, resplendent in copper-gold, her hair glowing like dancing flames, red-gold jewels from the finest Lannister goldsmiths draped about her neck and wrists – Leonette had chided that the Queen could have been more tasteful about showing the Lannisters' total ownership of the Stark girl: instead, they had trussed her up with gilded shackles like a common slave. Leonette had seen Sansa's unhappiness – everyone had, but it was Leonette who voiced her concern to Garlan. The young girl's grief and fright was plain to see – grief for her murdered family, fright for the bedding ceremony that loomed – and all laughed at her scarred, stunted new husband. Garlan remembered Lord Tyrion overselling his drunkenness to spare his new bride the humiliation of a public bedding, how Lord Tywin's iron tones had settled the dispute when Tyrion had threatened King Joffrey's life rather than allow his new bride to be degraded.
"Will she remember you?" Alynore asked, and it was a loaded question: Sansa was now Regent to the King in the North after all. She controlled the entirety of the North. If they were ever to regain strength, they needed allies.
"Likely," Garlan said sadly. "Leonette and I were the only ones to talk to her at her own wedding… Grandmother tried to manoeuvre a match between her and Willas."
"So the Old Lion married her off to the Imp."
"He treated her well," Garlan said, almost defensively. He knew Tyrion Lannister hated that nickname, and his respect for the man had only grown after the Blackwater. "He kept her safe from that malicious brute – Joffrey."
"Was he so terrible?"
"Worse. He was excited by others' pain, he relished it…" Garlan growled softly. The idea that Father had so heedlessly entered them into an alliance with the Lannisters, flinging their beloved Margaery at the beast, still nettled. "Margaery did well to manage him so thoroughly. She exceeded even Grandmother's expectations."
Alynore sighed heavily. "Grandmother poisoned him."
Garlan's beard twitched. He had been a guest at the so-called Purple Wedding, had watched the spoiled boy-king humiliate his uncle. He would never wish violence upon innocent children but Joffrey had never been innocent: rarely had anyone deserved their fate more. "So I've heard."
"You don't sound surprised, or even appalled," Alynore said wonderingly.
His voice hoarse with earnestness, Garlan told Alynore, "At the first sign that Margaery suffered, I would have opened his throat without hesitation."
Their new standard was run up a flagpole. The girls were gathered up and deposited in a carriage with Grandmother. As soon as the maester had stitched up Garlan's face, he kissed the back of Alynore's hand and helped her into the carriage, careful of her billowing skirts. It was becoming more difficult to see where she was walking. When she was settled in the carriage between Cassia and Ren, a fur thrown over them all, Garlan climbed onto his horse and took the flagpole from a waiting squire. The banner unfurled, snapping in the breeze, and all eyes seemed drawn to it as he led the way through the camp to the Long Mile. Wherever they went, cheers greeted them, the name "Tyrell" echoing on the crisp winter morning air, along with a chorus of "Garlan!"
He ignored them, scowling as his horse trotted along the Long Mile. He had warned Alynore not to allow the girls to peek out the carriage windows: the great lawns that spread from Highgarden, trimmed with ancient woodlands, were churned up and strewn with bodies. Already he saw Silent Sisters approaching the dead, carts drawn by mules piled high with bodies. Men delivering mercy worked their way through the bodies, too. The dirge of death had grown silent in the time he had been with Alynore: the men had either succumbed to their injuries or been granted mercy. His men cheered as he rode through the great gates and the noise signalled more men, who were cleaning out the remnants who had managed to flee inside the curtain-wall. He directed his horse through the many layers of gardens encircling the castle to the Golden Gate, golden roses entwined around the steel. The gates were opened for them and they trotted the short distance from the gate to the grand marble stairs sweeping upwards to the main entrance, past immaculate parterres, elegant topiary and mesmerising marble statues all glittering with dew in the sunlight, the frost long since melted by a strong sun that made him sweat in his armour.
There were no bodies here. Any blood spilled had been hastily concealed by the pale-gold gravel that lined walkways between parterres and follies. He cast his eye around, assessing for anything that might have been missed, before handing his standard off to a squire: a stable-boy ran up to take control of his horse, and the boy gave Garlan a grin before taking the reins.
Alynore appeared, carefully climbing out of the carriage, and Garlan darted to her, anxious that she might trip. He held out his arm and she smiled, but it faded all too quickly as her pale green eyes swept over the familiar sight of home.
"It looks the same," she breathed, horror-struck. After all they knew had occurred here – the butchering of their family – Highgarden remained as it had always been: immaculate. "How can it look the same?"
"Highgarden remains the same," Garlan said quietly, as his little cousins tumbled out of the carriage, smiling widely, their eyes glinting – they were home. "It is we who are altered." He offered his arm to Grandmother, who grumbled and snarled as she manoeuvred herself out of the carriage, and her grip was tight when she grabbed him for support.
"Here we are, then," she said plainly, gazing up at the magnificent entry to their home, the sweeping marble stairs and magnificent marble statues – Lyseni statues of beautiful young women with bared breasts carrying trays on which arrangements of trailing plants and flowers would usually be draped, dotted with lanterns to illuminate their graceful faces – to her youngest grandchildren running about the familiar parterres, giddy at being home, and Alynore, her hands gently caressing her swollen belly as she gazed up at the open loggias and the hints of the rooftop gardens and the glittering windows and sweeping verandas. Grandmother reached up and patted Garlan's hand. "You're a good boy."
Grandmother extricated her arm from his, leaning on her cane to hobble determinedly toward the stairs. Garlan gazed up at the castle. It was exactly the same, but for one thing: no-one waved from the loggias or the balconies. There was no music playing: no-one danced in the outdoor ballrooms under canopies of spray-roses and honeysuckle: no longer did children play in the groves of rhododendrons and azaleas, or rush through the parterres to bring their mothers enormous gardenias decadent with perfume while ladies picnicked and embroidered, waiting for their men to return from a hunt, or dawdled beside the fountains for the coolness that came off the water while their children splashed and played.
He had never known Highgarden to be silent.
He was startled, then, when he heard his little cousins laughing and playing, teasing each other. Alyssa and Poppy, Cassia and Ren were playing a game with tiny Amna, hiding behind topiary. The delicious gurgle of their giggles echoed across the still gardens, and he smiled. His lip stung, the stitches tugging, but he watched the girls playing.
Tyrell rosebuds were playing in the gardens once again.
"Leave them," Alynore said quietly, as Garlan opened his mouth to call the girls to them. "Let them play. Soon enough they'll learn their mamas are not here to greet them."
"They know what happened here," Garlan frowned.
"Yes, but they are children. They do not truly understand; it is too abstract," Alynore said quietly. She sighed heavily and gazed at Garlan. "We must be ready for their grief when they realise what it truly means." She nodded at the girls' septa, who dipped a curtsey and walked near the girls, keeping an eye on them without ruining their game.
Garlan offered Alynore his arm and she looped her elbow through his. She gathered her skirts in one hand as they climbed the sweeping stairs, and Garlan wondered if she was shivering from cold or dread as they reached the top of the stairs. It was eerie, he freely admitted it. The silence was eerie: he had never known Highgarden so quiet. So…lifeless.
It did not help that winter had come, stripping the vitality from the gardens. Only a Stark, he thought, might appreciate Highgarden in winter, for the skeletal structure of the gardens remained, trimmed with snow and glittering with ice. But they remembered how vibrant it was, how glorious the gardens were in high summer.
Now, everything lay dormant beneath the frost. Its time would come again.
So would theirs.
Larra flicked her gaze up as the door opened and she tracked Lord Tyrion's movements as he made his way toward her, glancing about at the maesters busily searching books and making annotations, looking as if he didn't wish to be seen as making a beeline for her. The pleasant hum of people meandering through the stacks joined the scratching of quills and the crackle of a fire in the small hearth and Lord Tyrion took note of everyone in the library as he approached Larra. He looked grim and uncomfortable yet determined.
He pulled a chair out and climbed onto it, sighing heavily, his sharp eyes drifting over the contents of the round table on which Larra's work was spread, books piled high, a Far-Eye and a pair of Myrish compasses use for drafting and navigation glinting in the fading sunlight.
"Siege preparations," he noted, and Larra nodded.
"Yes," she said. He paused.
"There have been meetings to discuss strategy, then," Tyrion said, and Larra's lips twitched as she continued to read her scroll.
"Not since Jon returned," Larra reassured him. And now was not the time to insist upon one: after Rhaegal had returned them to Winterfell, Jon had taken himself off to the crypts. She hadn't seen him since. Larra knew better than to approach him: he needed time to think on all she had revealed. It helped that Lady Olenna Tyrell had prepared him somewhat. He had already been thinking of it, even if only because the idea upset his perception of Ned Stark as their father. Larra had come up to the library to prepare for their next strategy meeting. Larra glanced at Lord Tyrion. "Your brother sent pyromancers north. We need an idea how best we can utilise them."
"Should you not discuss that at the next meeting?"
"Oh, we shall. At length," Larra told him, failing to hide a grimace. She despised meetings that dragged on. Thrashing the dead horse, as it were. "It is always best to have some ideas prepared. At least we have a starting-point. Most of these ideas will be shot down for one reason or another." She paused and looked at Lord Tyrion. "I should like you there, my lord, to provide your insight. You used wildfire to great effect during the Battle of the Blackwater."
Lord Tyrion watched her carefully. "You request my presence at a war council?"
"Yes," Larra said, giving him a look. "As I said, your insight will be invaluable."
"I shall, of course, join you," Lord Tyrion said. He made no mention of Daenerys. They both knew what Larra insinuated and what he had clarified: that Tyrion's presence was requested but Daenerys as yet remained uninvited. He fidgeted in his seat. The topic provided a good segue to broach what Lord Tyrion had specifically sought out Larra to discuss. "May I ask why the Queen has not been invited to these talks?"
He knew, of course. It was a formality, hearing it from Larra's own lips.
She gave him a stern look. "I would rather she not have any inkling how Winterfell is best defended during siege," she said plainly, and Tyrion gazed back at her miserably.
"Larra," he said quietly, but there was a warning bite in his tone, almost beseeching. "She saw."
"Saw what?" Larra asked, turning to her scrolls and making a note.
"This morning," Tyrion breathed. He wondered if it was true, or whether Daenerys' mounting wrath had warped something in her mind. "Daenerys saw you make off with Rhaegal."
Larra glanced at Tyrion, her expression stubborn, almost imperious. She told him, "Rhaegal made off with me."
He stared, his breath gusting from him in a gasp. "So it is true."
Larra Snow had claimed a dragon. A dragon? He recalled the Stark children, Jon and Larra included, had bonded deeply with those direwolf pups of theirs. Ghost used to lick his ears whenever he saw Tyrion at the Wall. But a dragon… How could a Stark ever bond with a dragon?
"Yes, it is true," Larra said, and Lord Tyrion stared at her. She could practically see his mind working. "Rhaegal appeared weeks ago: we've been flying together ever since, every time the weather is fine… That look on your face. What thoughts are behind it?"
"You put yourself in great danger," he wheezed anxiously. Daenerys' fury had been horrifying to witness. "More than you realise."
Larra laughed, the soft rich sound beautiful in the calm stillness of the library. Her teeth flashed as she smiled. "I have become intimate with terror in the years since we last met, Lord Tyrion. Of all the things I am frightened of, Daenerys Targaryen is the least of them."
Tyrion closed his eyes, sighing. "How can you despise her so fiercely when you have never met?" he asked, then remembered what she had intimated on his arrival: that Daenerys had abused her brother. Larra's intensely beautiful face became soft, thoughtful.
"You remember my dreams? I showed you my paintings," Larra said, and Tyrion nodded. He had always been intrigued by Larra's strange dreams of the past, recalling the dragon-dreams of Daenys the Dreamer and Daeron the Drunken. He had spent hours poring over Larra's paintings, visions of the past, people they both knew and adored from songs and legends and histories. They used to discuss those histories over port and heavy fruitcake while playing cyvasse, Tyrion swathed in furs to fight the chill while Larra lounged in a simple wool frock, crocheting between turns, a majestic-looking longhaired cat purring in her lap. Now, this older, more striking Larra turned vivid purple eyes on him, severe and dangerous. "I have watched her for years. She does not inspire terror in me, nor love, but fury."
"You once told me that anger makes you stupid," Lord Tyrion reminded her, his expression earnest, beseeching.
"It does. Why d'you think I won't meet with her. We gave her guest-right. I spent a long time being patient, being calm – because Bran needed me to be clear-headed and focused, to take all emotion out of my decisions…" Larra sighed, shaking her head. "After what she's done – after what she did to Jon…I'm worried I'll slit her throat to the bone if she but gives me a wrong look."
"Then meet her where you may be stopped from doing something you will regret," Tyrion told her, almost exasperatedly.
Larra watched him carefully, her anger subsiding to something far more dangerous. A predatory calm that made his skin tingle with awareness. Gently, she said, "I'm not sure you'd care for Daenerys to be around others when she hears what I have to say."
"Do not anger her," Tyrion warned her anxiously.
Larra gazed back at him and said calmly, "When she breathes fire herself I shall mind my words. She has made herself my enemy."
"You are smarter than this," Lord Tyrion said. Larra smiled. He narrowed his eyes.
She was smarter than this, he realised. So was Sansa… Larra had been dreaming of Daenerys for years and she and Sansa had had months to prepare for Daenerys' arrival, he understood. Dread filled his stomach as he gazed at Larra's intensely beautiful face, those exceptional amethyst eyes. Yes, Larra was smarter than this. So why antagonise Daenerys, unless it was for a reason.
Sansa was the model of courtesy. Arya lingered in the shadows. Larra…Larra would draw Daenerys' ire. It had been decided between them within hours of their reunion. With Rhaegal and Larra bonded, she was always going to become a target for Daenerys' wrath. Daenerys believed she owned the three dragons, that she alone had the power to command them, that because of them she was special. Larra bonding with Rhaegal threatened that: it would threaten her, the mythology she had built up inside her own head to make herself more god than girl. It threatened everything Daenerys believed.
Daenerys believed any disagreement was betrayal.
Rhaegal bonding with Larra would be perceived by Daenerys to be Rhaegal abandoning her. Betraying her. Rejecting her in favour of another.
She was all that was right and just in the world. To stand against her was to stand in the way of justice and goodness: to stand in her way was to declare themselves evil and worthy of annihilation. Any who opposed her must die, for they were evil.
So Larra would draw Daenerys' ire and keep her focus. Larra, who had bonded with a dragon of her own, who had spent weeks learning to fly in harmony with Rhaegal as if they were one, who was teaching herself airborne acrobatics and practising her swordsmanship while flying… Larra, who had been highly educated in strategy and knew how to live out in the wilds alone… Perception was everything: let Daenerys believe Larra was the greater threat. Draw her focus away from Jon. Away from Winterfell and the North. With Rhaegal it was possible for Larra to go anywhere…and Daenerys would give chase out of fury and fear of Larra's ambitions.
"How did she react, when she saw me with Rhaegal?" Larra asked curiously, wondering if her insight was accurate.
Lord Tyrion gave her a dark look. "There was…talk of betrayal, of theft and usurpation, that she should have expected nothing else from Robert Baratheon's dogs."
"That's interesting," Larra said, though her tone contradicted her words. Lord Tyrion frowned at her. "She didn't wonder why Rhaegal had bonded with another?"
"No," Lord Tyrion said slowly. Daenerys hadn't: he, on the other hand, had been trying to work it out ever since.
Larra watched him carefully. "You're here trying to mollify her. You want me to welcome her as a treasured friend, to throw myself on my knees before me and thank her for coming all this way and beg her forgiveness for my rudeness."
"I don't," Lord Tyrion said pointedly.
"She'll be sorely disappointed," Larra said bluntly. She watched Lord Tyrion wincing, his eyes troubled. "Her rage frightens you."
"She is…unpredictable."
"That's a delicate word for unstable," Larra said, and Lord Tyrion gave her a subtle grimace of agreement.
"D'you know, I have never once thought 'I wish Father were here'…now I find myself longing to consult with him," Lord Tyrion admitted almost wistfully. "He who served Aerys for twenty years, through their youth, through the Defiance and all that came after. I would ask him how he did it."
"You already know the answer to that," Larra said gently. "Your father was intimidating."
"A thing I never was."
"You are not tall," Larra corrected. "Your intelligence, your sharp tongue, your confidence and shrewd nature and your goodness – combined, they make you very intimidating. Joffrey lived in terror of you… You've forgotten who you are. You've forgotten that you are powerful, that you are intimidating and brilliant and strong and just. The gods made you short: your father and Cersei and even Daenerys would make you small. Don't let them."
Lord Tyrion gazed at Larra. Slowly, he slid down off his chair, reached to cup her face and gave her a tender kiss on her cheek.
"What was that for?" she asked gently, and Lord Tyrion was almost startled to see her blush as she raised a hand to her cheek.
"I do believe I have missed you," Tyrion told her, with great feeling.
"I know I have missed you," Larra said quietly, giving him a wistful smile. "My mind has been stagnant far too long. Would you join me for conversation and cyvasse, as you used to?"
"It would be my pleasure," Lord Tyrion smiled.
"Good conversation is worth more than gold," Larra said thoughtfully. "Especially enjoyed over a game… Tell your lady to come to the hall later. She may take the empty seat beside me for the evening meal."
He smiled miserably and sighed. "I hope you know what you're doing."
"It is a good thing for her that you do," Larra replied.
"Whatever you and Sansa have plotted – for whatever reason… Be careful," Lord Tyrion murmured seriously. "Daenerys does not play by anyone's rules but her own."
Larra's eyes glinted dangerously, her expression severe, serious, when she replied, "I know."
Laughing, Larra stepped hastily out of the way as a pygmy goat kid bleated and frolicked past, then another. Both wore dolls strapped to their backs with ribbons: the dolls held lances – familiar-looking crochet hooks. One doll wore a grey cape: the other wore crimson. All around, men noticed and roared with laughter and children tumbled into the Great Hall, laughing and screaming with delight. Calanthe led the charge, shouting at the goats to stop.
"You'll get us in troub – oh!" Calanthe skidded to a stop in front of Larra, who raised her eyebrows, hands on her waist.
"Hello, Mummy," cooed Leona innocently, giving her a pretty smile full of pearly teeth, raising her arms to Larra, who scooped her up and nestled her neatly on her waist. She ignored what Leona had called her, though she noted the look Narcisa and Delphine exchanged as they hung back with Cade, who was trying to look inconspicuous. Larra reached down and scooped up one of the pygmy goat kids bleating about her ankles, the knight dragging amongst the rushes, its lance lost.
"Whose idea was this?" she enquired, examining the cape worn by the knight as she managed to extricate it from the kid. The children remained silent, exchanging quick glances. "Hm. Line up, please. Smallest to tallest – you too, Cadeon." His lips parted in protest but he shrugged and joined the line spanning the length of the high table, where Jon was already sat beside Sansa, who was chatting with Arya. Bran watched the proceedings with a small smile lingering on his lips. Slowly, she walked along the line, starting with little Rosamund, who smiled contritely up at her.
"Rosamund," she said sweetly, and the other children groaned. "Would you like to tell me who came up with the game?" Rosamund swung where she stood, pursing her lips and glancing down the line. She glanced up at Larra and shook her head. "No? That's strange." She wondered what had been promised to Rosamund, who adored sweets but most of all cuddles. Next came Neva, who blushed scarlet but kept her eyes on the floor: beside her, Briar was fussing over the second kid, her lips quivering as she tried to hide a smile.
Neva wouldn't betray her brothers and sisters: Briar was too stubborn to either.
Larra stopped before Altheda. She seemed to vibrate with the effort of keeping silent as her gaze darted to the side. Larra smiled benignly at her, waiting, and behind the children, Bran chuckled softly. Altheda squeaked and grimaced.
Then she burst: "It had nothing to do with me! Yes! Alright, I was enjoying it, I admit that, but I didn't do anything! It was Calanthe! It was all Calanthe. I'm not going to be punished for something I didn't do! If anyone deserves to get punished, it should be Calanthe!"
Behind them, Jon's shoulders shook as he hid his laugh in his cup. Bran's eyes glittered, and the people nearby laughed softly.
"Well, I think it's safe to say we all just lost a bit of respect for you there, Al," Larra clicked her tongue. She sighed and gazed at each of the children in turn, doing her best to appear stern. She would be lying if she said she was not tickled. "This is just so disappointing. I mean – forcing these two innocent kids to joust for your entertainment."
"T'was you we got the idea from!" Calanthe blurted indignantly, and Larra's eyebrows shot up. "Bran told us you used to do the same thing!" Larra turned to stare at Bran.
"I never!" she gasped incredulously. As the goat wriggled against her, she rubbed her chin over its little head, kissing it. Mischievously, she added: "T'was cats. Trickier to get the saddles on them but infinitely more amusing to watch them saunter about with the knights on their backs."
"We tried the cats but they're too small," Calanthe said disappointedly.
"And their claws are sharp," Briar said, holding up her hands, which were torn to shreds.
"We thought about racing frogs but the ponds are all frozen over and I'm not going near the one by the weirwood – it's heated by dragonfire," Calanthe said stoutly. Larra's lips twitched.
"There are stoats. I saw tracks in the godswood," she said gently. "They'd make for wonderful racers. You can go out to the godswood tomorrow and hunt some."
The children grinned: only Calanthe paused, frowning at Larra – suspicious. She made her face benign and let Leona climb down, latching her hand onto Crisantha's skirts almost immediately, sucking her thumb. Cade caught Larra's eye and smirked.
"Do they have any chance of catching a stoat?" Bran asked, as the older children guided the little ones to the table. On special occasions, the children were invited to dine in the Great Hall. Larra wandered around the end of the table, her hems billowing at her feet, and she sighed as she settled down into a chair beside Jon. The kid tucked its head under her chin, calm, and she stroked its little legs and kissed its head.
"No more than you did catching frogs when I sent you and Rickon out to find them," she said, grinning.
Bran laughed. "You took such delight in tricking us."
"You were so innocent, it was hard to resist," she laughed. "I only ever did it when I was close to throttling you."
"You sent us out every afternoon, searching for one thing or another!"
"I did, didn't I?" Larra chuckled. She examined the cape worn by the knight that had been tied to the goat kid with ribbons. "At least they're being creative. Look at the stitching – Cissa made this, though she'll pretend she'll have nought to do with childish play."
"You should send them hunting in the crypts for rodents of unusual size," Jon murmured, and Larra glanced over at him, laughing.
"After telling them the story of the Rat Cook," Sansa added, gazing past Jon to Larra, who laughed richly.
"I did play some awful tricks on you, didn't I?" she sighed.
"You were so playful," Bran smiled warmly. "And we adored every fright."
"The best was the Snafflefang," Arya said softly. Jon and Larra burst out laughing. She had spent months convincing her siblings of the existence of the Snafflefang, leaving clues and tracks and all sorts around the castle, setting them up to believe that in actual fact Old Nan was the Snafflefang of her stories. When Father had learned what she was doing, he had joined in the game. The usually stoic Lord of Winterfell had delivered the bedtime stories Larra had dreamed up and handled the appearance of every clue with utmost sincerity, continuing the ruse.
"I always liked the cards," said Bran fondly, and Larra smiled. Every night when they were boys, she would cut her deck of painted cards and from the random draw create stories. Rickon used to love the game: it was the only thing that got him into bed, even those nights when he was fraught with exhaustion and in tears, refusing to sleep because he wasn't tired.
"Do you tease them?" Jon asked, nodding toward the girls. Larra smiled softly.
"No," she said quietly. "They've been frightened enough."
She stroked the kid and smiled, content with the goat sleeping in her lap, sharing a cup of stout with Jon while they waited for the food to be brought out. The Great Hall became noticeably quiet, and she glanced up. Her amusement seemed to seep out of her: beside her, Jon went rigid, though he did not look up from the table. She reached over and gently squeezed his hand, as Sansa lowered her wine cup, her eyes on the new arrival.
Daenerys Targaryen looked beautiful. Of course she did: she devoted hours to her elaborate braids and had armies of maids to serve her. She had come from Essos with a fortune in Qartheen fabrics and freed slaves who had become her seamstresses. The gown she wore tonight was a work of art, and Larra knew Sansa would be admiring the many hours and the skill of dozens of embroiderers that went into its creation. Gone were the Qartheen gowns, the Meereenese tokars, the horsehair vests and painted silk trousers. Daenerys favoured a new silhouette: her lightly tanned shoulders were bared by a wide neckline that fell off the shoulders, her waist highlighted by tight stays, her bodice drawn to a point. Heavy, open over-sleeves billowed elegantly to the floor while fitted ones were laced tightly around her wrists. The thick fabric was deep and lustrous, like simmering coals, and the hems and lining of her heavy, billowing sleeves were richly embroidered with shimmering, glittering beads and gemstones in fiery tones of copper, garnet and ruby, creating the illusion of flames. The hems of her full overskirts were similarly embroidered, looking like they were trimmed with smouldering embers. They shimmered and glowed with every step, refracting the light from hundreds of candles littered along the tables.
Embers trail her every step, Larra thought, glancing covertly at one of the long tables, where Lord Tyrion watched Daenerys from behind his wine-cup.
She was the only one in the room wearing jewels. They sparkled and shone in the candlelight. She was the only one dressed as if for a court ball. She stood out – as alien and other.
Larra noticed her jewellery – a choker of small black-gold medallions, each of them copying the Targaryen sigil, linked with rubies. A rope of black pearls that tumbled over the bodice of her dress, from which a fat ruby hung. Over her heavily-embroidered sleeves, her wrists were bedecked with elaborate bracelets, configured as many-headed dragons, the black-gold set with rubies and obsidian.
Daenerys swept along the Great Hall, head held high as if she owned the place, her eyes hard. Her pale-silver hair glimmered in the candlelight, and Larra wondered how long her braids had taken – what it was like to have such time to waste on frivolousness such as hairstyles. Only when she reached the high table did she seem to falter, only for a heartbeat, as Jon continued to speak in low tones to Sansa, leaning in toward her – ignoring Daenerys completely. Beneath the table, Sansa rested her hand gently on Jon's thigh. It was grounding: Jon gave her an appreciative smile.
He could not look at her. Not today.
Not now that he knew.
Beside him, Larra sat lazily in her chair, stroking the baby goat and staring Daenerys down, a challenge in her eyes that grew with Daenerys' every step closer, until she stood before them and her haughty expression grew uncertain. Her eyes drifted over Sansa, in a simple dark gown, her hair shining more beautifully than any crown, to Jon, willing him to look at her, for his eyes to smoulder with desire as he beheld her in her new gown, and finally…the sister. Jon's twin.
Daenerys had spent many moments steeling her nerves to enter the Great Hall – so long, in fact, the children had rushed past her without paying her any heed, engrossed in their game. She had watched the Starks laughing and teasing, stunned by the way the Lannister girls flocked to Larra Snow, eager to have her approval, giddy when she joined in their fun, respectful of her when she admonished them. Daenerys had watched Larra Snow, and the way Jon Snow's gaze often flitted back to his fiercely beautiful sister. She was dressed even more simply than Lady Sansa. Her hair was drawn into two thick, raised braids away from her face, free tendrils curling rebelliously and framing her fiercely beautiful face, the braids twisted and pinned in a thick bun at the back of her head. Whoever did the braids had very clever fingers: her profile was exquisitely beautiful. She wore a dove-grey dress made of wool, with fitted sleeves and full skirts that fell in a pleasing silhouette around her feet when she stood, trailing ever so slightly behind her when she walked. The neckline and sleeves were daintily embroidered with tiny clear glass beads and milky pearls of different sizes. They shimmered and glittered in the candlelight like the sun on frostbitten mountains. Daenerys was reminded of the True North and her fleeting impression of snow-capped mountains and lethal gorges.
An army of serving girls appeared. Daenerys' entrance was rather lost in the sudden bustle as dozens of girls carried out great tureens of stew and jugs of stout, ale and wine.
"Do sit down before the stew get cold," said Larra Snow, giving Daenerys a scalding look. Daenerys hurried around the table, blurting an apology as she bumped into the younger brother as she accidentally kicked the wheel of his chair.
"I am sorry," she blushed. His dark eyes glittered; he raised a pale hand, brushing it aside. As Daenerys settled into a seat between Larra Snow and her crippled brother, she glanced at the brother, who was reading raven-scrolls piled into his lap, and at Larra Snow, who was stroking the baby goat she had confiscated from the children. As a maid set down a steaming tureen and lifted the lid, Larra Snow made a hungry noise.
"Dumplings," she said hungrily, reaching for the ladle and doling herself out a generous helping of rich beef stew, thick with pearl onions, gravy-drenched carrots, cooked with wholegrain mustard and stout. Steam billowed to the hammer-beam roof and Larra's eyes glimmered a vivid amethyst as she dug out three knobbly, crusty suet dumplings. The tops were golden and crisp while the bottoms were soft, pillowy and soaked with gravy, and they were filled with herbs and strong Northern cheese. Dishes of cabbage and other green vegetables were placed along the tables, and Larra sprinkled a pinch of ground pepper on hers as a luxury – she couldn't get enough of pepper. Using her spoon and her fingers, she dug in.
Beside her, Daenerys waited patiently to be served. Only when Larra had finished her first dumpling – she saved the other two for last, her favourite – did Daenerys reach for the ladle and pour herself a bowl of stew.
Lord Tyrion appeared before them, pausing as he wandered across the hall to his young cousins, and gave them both a courteous bow. Daenerys' lips thinned as she realised he had made no differentiation between herself, his Queen, and the bastard at her side. She knew Tyrion had visited this place years ago but did not know what his bonds were like here at Winterfell. He had interceded on her behalf, of course, to secure an invitation to dine with Larra Snow.
Of all Jon's sisters, even the eerie-eyed one, Larra Snow frightened her the most.
"If you only ever do one thing right in this conquest of yours, it was naming Tyrion Lannister your Hand," said Larra Snow, finally acknowledging her presence as Lord Tyrion waddled off to sit beside his eldest cousin. "He's a good man."
Daenerys watched Lord Tyrion with his young cousins, remembering the night at Dragonsotne when her Unsullied had defended her from the vicious child. She had not scarred: her bare shoulders were proof of that, and she was glad. She did not like thinking of that night, the night that Jon Snow had scolded her so terribly.
Daenerys said, "I wish I shared your faith in him."
Larra looked sharply at her, and Daenerys flinched at the severity in her eyes. "That is a reflection on you, not him."
Daenerys sipped her wine, barely able to hide a grimace. It was not Arbour gold, as she had become accustomed to drinking. "I didn't ask him to be my Hand simply because he was good."
"I'm glad to hear it. Goodness only gets you so far. Combine that with brilliance…" Larra Snow trailed off. She ate a few bites of her meal, then said thoughtfully, "Tyrion knows the game better than anyone."
Tersely, Daenerys asked, "And what game is that?"
"The only one that's ever mattered to you," Larra Snow said coolly. "The game of thrones."
"I did not come to Westeros to play a game."
Larra laughed softly, and as she did so she noticed the quiet in the hall. Unusual, for mealtime – but then again, so was Daenerys' presence. It was the first time anyone had seen Larra speak to her, and they watched carefully. "Of course you did. The winner gets the Iron Throne. It's what you've wanted all along. There's no need to convince me otherwise. You want the Iron Throne and will do anything to get it."
"And that is why I chose Lord Tyrion as my Hand, because he was good, and intelligent, and knows when he must be ruthless."
Larra pursed her lips and said tartly, "Something you routinely fail at."
Daenerys blinked, stunned by her audacity. She blinked quickly and stared at Larra Snow. "I beg your pardon."
"Oh, you're perfectly nice…" Larra said, waving a hand airily as she reached for her cup of stout. "You have all the appearance of goodness – you recognise, at least, what doing the right thing looks like…" She gave Daenerys an assessing look, and whatever she saw – or did not see – made her pull a face that made Daenerys blush. "Your mind may be improved by education. You've much yet to learn about when to be ruthless and when to be gentle. Sadly that lesson will be learned too late for some."
Daenerys ignored the jibe about the Lion Culling.
"I thought Lord Tyrion knew how to be ruthless," Daenerys said coldly. "I thought he knew his sister."
Larra watched her carefully for a moment before answering. She settled in her chair, casual and confident. "Shortly before my father was named Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon, guards captured a deserter from the Night's Watch. We were raised with the knowledge that there's none more dangerous than a deserter. They know their life is forfeit if they are taken, so they will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile. Cersei has been playing the game better than anyone for decades. She has found a way to murder anyone who has ever crossed her. She understands that her life is forfeit should she lose the game. Cersei has lost her sons. She plays for no-one but herself now. She has nothing to lose but her life. She will defend it viciously." Larra Snow shrugged delicately, the fabric of her dress shifting over her full breasts, the pearls and beads at her neckline glinting prettily. "Tyrion understood the Cersei who lived for her children. This Cersei, bereft of her sons, is an entirely new monster."
Coldly, Daenerys said, "I expected it to be an easy thing for him to betray his own siblings."
Larra sneered at her, saying, "That is your experience." After a moment, she made a thoughtful, amused noise. "Interesting, isn't it. I sacrificed a kingdom for my brothers…you murdered yours for a khalasaar."
The hall became, if possible, even quieter. Only the children, ignorant of the politics at play at the high table, continued to chatter. Larra noticed Narcisa and Cade watching carefully, either side of Tyrion.
Daenerys bristled. "Often I dreamed that Rhaegar had lived," she said. "I dreamed what my life would have been like had he triumphed at the Trident and been crowned king."
"You are not alone in that."
"You have lost brothers, I believe," Daenerys said icily. "Two of them."
"I didn't lose them. Losing them implies there is a possibility, however tiny, that one day they may return," Larra said sternly. "Rickon was a casualty of battle. Robb was cut down in cold blood."
"We have that in common. We've both known what it means to lead people who aren't inclined to accept a woman's rule," Daenerys said, trying to smile. "And we've done a damn good job of it, from what I can tell."
Larra scoffed. She laughed outright. A grin teasing at her lips, her eyes sparkling dangerously, she said, "Might I ask what you have observed here at Winterfell that leads you to the opinion that Northerners have no respect for female rule? Soldiers tripping over themselves to follow Lady Mormont's orders; Lady Karstark instructing archery; the leaders of the Free Folk having the King's ear; Sansa ruling faultlessly in Jon's stead?" She acknowledged each in turn, raising her cup to the women she had named. Daenerys gritted her teeth. Larra gave her a withering look. "You are projecting your own experience once again. Here in the North, we respect prudence, wisdom, loyalty and mutual respect, no matter where it comes from. This is a harsh land and our people live hard lives. Everything is built on respect, the knowledge that we will always look after each other. We take care of our people and they take care of us."
Daenerys blinked and attempted a serene smile, though she felt fury rising. "I cannot feel that we are at odds with one another."
Larra tilted her head in a way only hunters would know was predatory. Silkily, she asked, "Why do you think that is?"
Heedless of the warnings – Larra's tilted head, her dangerously soft voice – Daenerys answered, "Your brother."
Larra's eyes hardened. "And why should my brother put us at odds?"
"You think perhaps I am manipulating him," Daenerys smiled coaxingly.
"You seriously mistake my brother's character if you think small tits and elaborate braids will turn his head," Larra said bluntly, rolling her eyes. She drank from her cup and Daenerys had the sudden urge to smack it from her hand. Those fierce amethyst eyes turned on Daenerys, scathing. "And mine, too, if you believe I'd worry Jon could ever be manipulated…or bullied."
"Since I was small, I have known only one goal: the Iron Throne," Daenerys said, nettled. "Taking it back from the people who destroyed my family, and almost destroyed yours –"
"Your father destroyed your family, with no help from anyone," Larra interrupted, all but hissing. Daenerys jumped at the suddenness of her rage. "It is time you started facing uncomfortable truths. And do not think to use my family's pain to justify your cause."
Daenerys blinked dazedly. She was getting nowhere. This was not how it was supposed to be. Why was Jon not interceding on her behalf – why did he allow his sister to speak to her thus? Why had Lord Tyrion not warned her this might happen, that Larra Snow would use this opportunity to belittle and shame her? Did he want to see her humiliated? She shot a nasty look cross the hall at Lord Tyrion. Yes, she thought. Look at him with his cousins. He wants me punished for what happened to his precious House.
"My war was against Cersei," Daenerys said. She blinked, her anger melting away as she thought of Jon Snow, the one man whom she could rely on, the one man who told her truth absolutely and without apology, who was just and good, her equal in every way. "Until I met Jon. Now I'm here, half a world away, fighting Jon's war alongside him. Tell me, who manipulated whom?"
Larra laughed softly, shaking her head. Her curls – so like Jon's – danced about, lovingly brushing her face. There was no humour in her amethyst eyes as she said, "Jon's war…a war for life for all the people of this realm and every other… Interesting that you had to be manipulated into fighting for those you claim to deserve to rule by blood-right."
Her face turned hard. She reached across Daenerys to her brother. Lord Brandon, the cripple, reached over a pale hand and passed her something.
"What is that?" Daenerys demanded waspishly, scowling at the tight raven-scroll in Larra Snow's scarred fingers. Her heart hammered in her chest and her stomach turned as she recognised the seal glinting in the candlelight. A harpy.
His voice so gentle it was horrifying, Brandon Stark told her, "You ripped Meereen apart and stitched up the wounds poorly. But you never treated the rot. Now it has spread. Civil war wages in Meereen. The streets are washed red with the blood of those you had vowed to protect."
Larra Snow unfurled the scroll and read it before sighing and handing it to Daenerys. "The Meereenese are at civil war. The only thing both sides agree upon is that Daenerys Targaryen abandoned the city: they reject your sovereignty."
Daenerys felt cold. Her food turned to ash in her mouth.
Larra Snow said, with great sadness, "Daenerys… Those dragons were the ruin of you."
Daenerys snarled at her. "They were the making of me."
"Now you are nothing without them."
A.N.: You waited so patiently for it! I hope it lives up to expectations!