A.N.: This chapter is very short but took a very long time, for two reasons: firstly, the last couple of terms at school were chaotic and took it out of me! Secondly, I couldn't get the perspective right.
I'M SO EXCITED FOR HOUSE OF THE DRAGON! Given that the Rogue Prince is Larra's favourite, guess who I'll be supporting!
Valyrian Steel
48
A Legacy of Ice
"Calanthe Lannister!"
The young girl jolted as if struck by lightning, whirling around as she dusted off her hands. Larra watched, her heart in her mouth, her mind racing back years to gentle summer days spent playing with her brothers and sisters…and Bran, clambering over the roofs as quickly and nimble as a squirrel. The day was warm, the sun shining hotly, making the snow shimmer blindingly, yet watching Calanthe scurry down the wall using the same handholds Bran had discovered all those years ago made Larra go cold.
Calanthe's face was flushed, her emerald eyes sparkling excitedly. "I climbed to the top of the Unbroken Tower and used the Far-Eye. There are people coming. Thousands of them!"
Larra exchanged a quick glance with Ser Gerold, who had joined her on her tour of the yard as she assessed the progress of the archery lessons as well as the rebuilding of the First Keep and the Broken Tower.
"Which direction are they coming from?" Larra asked, her stomach clenching. Calanthe looked up, orienting herself, and pointed.
"That way," she said.
"Southeast," Larra said, the knot in her stomach loosening. Ser Gerold exchanged a look with her. With every moon cycle, they became more and more aware of the time passing. More aware that the Night King's army was imminent. They were waiting. And yet while they waited, they were becoming more comfortable in their home: life went on. Despite the daily drills and constant war councils, the longer the Night King's army took to reach Winterfell the longer people had to become complacent about the threat.
She turned to climb up to the battlements, careful of the gritted steps. Calanthe bounced eagerly beside her and Larra smiled softly to herself, smoothing Calanthe's unbound hair from her face. To Calanthe, this was an adventure – it was exciting.
"We'll have to do something about all this hair," Larra sighed. "Now…where did you see these thousands of people?"
Calanthe pointed and Larra carefully tugged Maester Luwin's Far-Eye open, raising it to her eye. She scanned the horizon to the southeast and made a stunned noise. Calanthe was right. They had been expecting Daenerys Targaryen's forces for weeks yet neither Unsullied nor Dothraki hordes had arrived at Winterfell. The weather had remained fine for the last two weeks, the sun shining, birds singing in the godswood: everyone was happier because of it, most of the castle turning out to enjoy the sun while it lasted. It was perfect Northern weather, Larra thought. Perfect for moving armies. Larra caught sight of movement on the horizon, darkness against the blinding, shimmering whiteness of the snowbanks and frowned.
She was accustomed to the shell-like Unsullied leather armour, watching them spar and drill in Winter's Town, and of the Dothraki's rough, pieced together clothing of leather and fur, their long braids oiled and decorated with tiny bells that tinkled with every movement. Every day, she had been out with the Lannister girls while their kos taught them how to ride without fear: Larra knew the style of the Dothraki saddles, their patterned blankets and the breed of horse they favoured. The approaching masses were neither Unsullied nor Dothraki. She scanned the column, frowning when she could see no standards raised above the riders, no identifying sigils to give them notice of who approached.
Dread flickered through her mind. They were not Unsullied nor were they Dothraki. They were Westerosi but who led them? Why had they come north? Had they been sent by Cersei, to annihilate the threat while all her enemies were settled in one place, unable to flee? They were preparing for a siege against the Night King but defending their home against an army of men with siege weapons…that required far more machinery and entirely different tactics. Yet Cersei was proud: her lion sigil would be splashed everywhere, the crimson of their embellished armour vivid against the grey and white background of the North. She would want them to know the armies had been sent by her and fought on her behalf.
"You have more guests," said Ser Gerold. His rich voice was a welcome rush of warmth, exotic and strange and enticing, especially in the cold of the North. Every woman who ever saw him swooned: yet when he was not sparring, Darkstar preferred to drink tea and play cyvasse with Larra, or recline reading in his chamber, swathed in furs for warmth – so he claimed. As yet, Larra had heard no gossip that Darkstar had claimed a lover amongst the women of the North to keep him warm. Larra frowned through the Far-Eye, trying to discern the faces of those riders at the head of the column.
"Possibly," she said, lowering the Far-Eye to glance at Ser Gerold. He had been training in the yard below: his cheeks were flushed with colour, his violet eyes vivid and sparkling in the sunlight. His silky hair was tied back with suede cord, gleaming like golden pearls, a few loose wisps caressing his handsome jaw adoringly. "I cannot make out their faces."
"What of their sigils?"
"They carry no standards," she said, and Ser Gerold frowned bemusedly. "Either the weather has forced them to embrace practicality over ceremony or they do not wish us to know who approaches."
"They are not Daenerys Targaryen's promised armies?"
"No. They seem Westerosi," Larra said, and Ser Gerold held out his hand for the Far-Eye. As he held it to his eye, Larra turned to the little girl fizzing with excitement beside her. "Calanthe, go to the solar. Tell Lady Sansa and the King that there is an army approaching." She turned to Ser Gerold as Calanthe darted off, careful of the gritted steps, skidding across the yard as she headed inside, her long golden hair rippling behind her. "How many, do you think?"
"Fewer than five thousand," Ser Gerold murmured. "There are carriages."
"Carriages?" Larra frowned. "What self-respecting commander remains inside a carriage during a march? Are they marked?"
"Too far away to see clearly," Ser Gerold frowned. "Ah, I can see the sigil on the door of one of the carriages: yellow and red and black. And now the others…teal."
"Teal?"
"Teal," Ser Gerold repeated, his beautiful lips twitching with amusement. Larra had not grown up amongst artists. Colours in Winterfell were limited, and the men in her family even more so. She doubted Jon would know what teal was.
"Any siege weapons?" Larra asked.
"None that I can see," Ser Gerold said. "There are wagons, though. Siege weapons may be disassembled for transport."
"I know what I'd value during a winter campaign," Larra said grimly, "and it isn't trebuchet and ballistae. If they are wise, they brought provisions." She held out her hand for the Far-Eye and Ser Gerold handed it to her: she scanned the horizon and watched the approaching column carefully. "Well, we know at least that they do not intend to lay siege."
"And how do you know this, lady?" Ser Gerold asked, almost purring. Dressed plainly in his leather tunic, he hunched his shoulders and started to rub his arms to chase away the chill that had caught him now that he was no longer sparring.
"Rub your chest," Larra told him. "Keep your heart warm and it will take care of the rest. They keep to the King's Road and their pace is gentle."
"Perhaps because of the carriages," Ser Gerold mused, rubbing his gloved hands over his heart.
"Consider their speed. If not weapons, what do you imagine is in those carriages?"
Ser Gerold smiled softly to himself. "Women."
"You don't bring your ladies on campaign," Larra said, and Ser Gerold shook his head. Larra gazed through the Far-Eye and made a thoughtful noise. "Especially not for a winter siege."
"They have come to support you."
An hour later, dozens of knights and lords pushed their way into the Great Hall, groaning with relief and gratefully accepting bowls of stew and flagons of ale. Some went straight to the great hearth where enormous logs popped and snapped as the fire licked at them, creating a blaze that made the cavernous hall seem stifling to Larra. She glanced up at the high windows, opened a crack to coax in fresh air and the sound of the birds singing in the godswood. Lord Tarly, the ancient Umbers, Ser Davos and Bronze Yohn Royce stood clustered near the end of the high table, among others, armed and armoured, grim-faced, watching the newcomers.
They were a mixture of grizzled old men, fierce warriors, young men with battle-lust glinting in their eyes and a handful of women and more children. They were also a unique combination of young Westerosi men with unblemished armour and older men who, like Ser Jorah Mormont, wore Essosi garb beneath scarred Westerosi armour, accompanied by Essosi squires. As they poured into the Great Hall, gratefully accepting guest-right, Larra noted any sigils, no matter how faded they were. She watched older Knights of the Vale and Northern lords muttering amongst themselves as more men poured into the hall. Some of the newcomers confidently approached the querulous Lord Tarly, who seemed stunned by the sight of them. Larra watched the women: there were scarred Northerners as tall as redwoods – they converged on Lady Mormont – but the others were Essosi women of surpassing loveliness loosening their clutches on luxurious furs as they gazed around the Great Hall.
The Lannister girls had rushed from the nursery, eager to get away from their embroidery to share in the rare excitement in the Great Hall, and led by Calanthe they claimed a spot at the end of one of the long tables. The moment Leona saw Larra, she beamed and toddled over, accidentally knocked over by an enormous man with a scarred eye, dangerous two-inch bronze pyramid-studs covering his brigandine and a handsome Myrish dirk in one of his armoured greaves. He silently scooped Leona up off the floor and tenderly brushed away the tear that had slipped down her cheek. Larra watched him silently hand Leona over to Crisantha, who had noticed Leona's fall and risen to look after her.
Excitement rippled through the Great Hall as the newcomers settled in, groaning as they sat down at the long benches, accepting stew and ale, salt and bread. Larra watched them pour in, and how people reacted to their arrival. The fearsome, scarred Lady Maege Mormont and her surviving daughters Alysane, Lyra and Jory converged on Lady Lyanna, to her consternation: it took a lot to rattle the Little Bear. Larra turned as a growl echoed over the noise.
A giant of a man ploughed through the crowd and stopped short at the sight of Larra.
Haggard and thin, Larra still recognised the magnificent beard and the piercing flint-grey eyes that widened at the sight of her, sweeping past her to the pale-faced man sitting calmly in a wheeled chair behind the high table. His jaw dropped.
He started to laugh.
His haggard, lined face broke into a fierce grin as his laugh echoed around the hall. It sounded as if he had not laughed in years and it all now came tumbling from his body like a tremendous rockslide.
Never one for ceremony, the Greatjon grabbed Larra and lifted her off her feet. He was still laughing as he crushed her in a bear-hug. When he released her, she staggered back and the Greatjon chuckled.
"Larra," he said, chuckling. His eyes were filled with tears of mirth and he wiped them away, sighing softly. His gaze fell on Bran in his wheeled chair and he reached for Larra, cupping her chin in a startlingly affectionate gesture. The Greatjon's grey eyes shone but his face fell. "I failed them. I could not defend your father. I could not protect your brother."
"You didn't let them down," Larra said quietly. The Greatjon's eyes shone with grief and with guilt. Father had never had a more loyal friend than the Greatjon – except perhaps Lord Howland Reed. Her voice thick with emotion, Larra repeated, "You did not let them down."
The Greatjon smiled sadly, his eyes sliding to Bran and back to her. "You did what armies could not."
"Was there ever any doubt?" she asked, and the Greatjon chuckled softly, smiling.
"The King always said you were tougher and wilier than him and all your brothers combined," Greatjon said. He stroked her cheek and sighed.
"The King," Larra repeated in a whisper. She had never known Robb as King in the North. The Greatjon had named him King, had rejected sovereignty of the Iron Throne. He had placed the crown on Robb's head. She cleared her throat and called, "Jon! Come, kiss your grandfather."
Little Jon glanced over: he, Ragnar and Cade were pestering the Lannister girls while Little Sam read complacently to Rosamund, one of Larra's storybooks open between them. Rosamund had her head resting gently on Little Sam's shoulder, cuddling a doll as she listened. Little Jon stood and joined Larra, and she smiled as he stood as tall as he could, his shoulders pinned back.
"Lord Umber, you may not recognise your grandson. This is Little Jon," she said, and the Greatjon blinked quickly, startled.
"He was a babe-in-arms when your brother called the banners," the Greatjon rumbled dazedly.
"Soon he shall be as tall as you," Larra said, "and just as strong."
"If not stronger," the Greatjon chuckled softly. "I'm not what I once was."
"You've been on your knees too long," Larra said, and Greatjon grunted his agreement. "Perhaps you would remember your old strength better if you grasped your sword. Teach the young lads a thing or two."
"I've already forgotten more than they'll ever learn," the Greatjon laughed heartily. Larra smiled but frowned when a sudden clamour rang through the hall, shouting voices and the unmistakeable sound of weapons being drawn. Haggard as he was, the Greatjon's instincts were just as sharp as ever – not quite as quick as Larra, who unsheathed the hunting knife at her back and flung it at one of the Unsullied guards shoving a travel-worn man to his knees with their short sword drawn. His sword hit the flagstones with a clatter. The Greatjon seized a second Unsullied, lifting him off his feet as if he weighed little more than one of Leona's ragdolls, a thick arm pinned around the soldier's neck, twisting his arm unnaturally – yet the Unsullied refused to relinquish his hold on a gilded scabbard. A third Unsullied who had shoved the man to his knees moved to guard a diminutive figure in white.
Lady Targaryen's face twisted in an unpleasant snarl. Her ribbed fur overcoat drew Larra's gaze ever so briefly: the tufted, short white fur so intricately stitched flickered as she bristled with anger, while vivid red embroidery and beadwork made it seem like blood was oozing into the fur. It was the most expensive garment Larra had ever seen in her life. The time and effort to stitch each individual inch-wide strip of fur together alone!
It reminded Larra rather vividly of a snowbear she had once battled and then slaughtered for food in the True North.
Silence fell suddenly. Sweet Sister in hand, Larra strode forward and deftly kicked the short sword away from the Unsullied solder: the man with the scarred eye and a handsome dirk in his greaves picked up the sword and weighed it contemplatively in his enormous hands.
"You dare attack my guards?" hissed Lady Targaryen, ever so calmly.
"You will not lay a hand on those under the protection of guest-right," Larra said, her voice as gentle and as lethal as snow. She nodded at the Greatjon, who grunted curiously. She nodded a second time and he shrugged then released Lady Targaryen's commander. She glanced down at the travel-worn man on his knees before her. A leather glove had fallen to the ground: gilded steel glinted in the light streaming down through the high windows. She held out her left hand, pulling the man to his feet. "Welcome back to Winterfell, Ser Jaime."
"My lady," he answered softly, straightening up. His emerald-green eyes – so like Calanthe's – swept over her face and recognition flickered. He had been polite as an instinct but now he remembered who she was. And he looked stunned. He glanced from Larra to Grey Worm, who cradled his hand. "You're fast for a dead girl."
"Fortunately for you," Larra said. "I apologise for the manner of your welcome, Ser."
"What's happened?" a voice asked, but Larra did not need to look up to know who it was. Jon had arrived.
"Our guest oversteps her authority," Larra said quietly, her eyes on Lady Targaryen.
"I demand that this man is brought to justice," snarled Lady Targaryen.
"Justice?" Larra repeated, her voice so silky and so soft that Ser Jaime Lannister was suddenly taken back to his captivity, to a young man's impossibly gentle voice and a direwolf's lethal fangs a hair's breadth from his throat. He suppressed a shiver.
Lady Targaryen's expression grew harder and seemed to pull herself together, trying to make herself appear larger. She looked almost comically small, with her elaborate braids and her fur coat, especially compared to the tall and elegant Lady Larra in her simple leathers and frock.
"When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father, who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat, who sat on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor," Lady Targaryen said, her soft voice full of cruelty. "He told me other stories as well, about all the things we would do to that man once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp."
Larra scoffed. "Well, you haven't taken back the Seven Kingdoms. Nor is Ser Jaime in your grasp. We have stories too, older than yours. The Greatjon will remember this one. Ser Jaime himself bore witness to it," Larra said softly. "It happened in the throne room of the Great Keep, perhaps yards from where the Mad King was slain. You remember of what I speak, do you not, Ser Jaime?"
Ser Jaime cleared his throat softly, flicking his emerald eyes at her as if he barely dared raise them from the flagstones. He said softly, "Lord Rickard Stark's trial-by-combat."
"I doubt Lady Daenerys ever heard a bad word spoken of her father," Larra said, cold fury slashing like shards of ice through her veins. "In the name of educating her, perhaps you could tell us why the Mad King's death was celebrated by so many. Perhaps you could start with what happened after Prince Rhaegar ran off with Lyanna Stark?"
Ser Jaime stared at her for a moment then cleared his throat gently. "Lord Brandon Stark rode to the Red Keep, demanding justice for his kidnapped sister. He and his friends were seized and imprisoned, charged with plotting the murder of Prince Rhaegar," Ser Jaime said, and the older Northmen in the Great Hall murmured darkly amongst themselves. They all respected Ned Stark but they had grown up with Brandon Stark, the Wild Wolf. Some in the hall had lost brothers and uncles alongside Brandon. "The King sent summons to their fathers, to answer for their sons' crimes. He assured their safety until they reached King's Landing. When they arrived, he had them all arrested. Lord Rickard Stark…demanded a trial-by-combat."
The Greatjon growled low. Something flickered in Ser Jaime's emerald-green eyes. "King Aerys laughed… He chose wildfire as his champion. Lord Stark was suspended from the rafters above wildfire lit by pyromancers. Brandon Stark… Lord Brandon's hands were chained behind his back, a leather cord wrapped around his neck…it was all connected to a Tyroshi device. The more Brandon struggled, the tighter the cord became…but the King left his legs free, and a sword placed just out of reach." Ser Jaime swallowed hard: his eyes were glazed. His voice was soft and hoarse with memory. "The King told Lord Brandon that if he freed himself, he could save his father. Lord Brandon strangled himself, struggling to free himself, while his father was burned alive in his own armour… His skin blistered and smoked and his hair caught fire and his eyes…his eyes melted. And Brandon… Their deaths were excruciating and undeserved. What the King did to his people…to his wife…he deserved his death and worse."
The Great Hall was deathly quiet.
Larra's eyes burned but she exhaled slowly, sniffing delicately. "You had newly been named to the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime."
"Yes, my lady," Ser Jaime answered politely.
"How old were you?" she asked, more curious than anything.
"I was sixteen then, my lady," Ser Jaime said quietly. Larra's breath gusted from her.
"Younger than I was when I fled Winterfell with my brothers," Larra said softly. "It must have been horrifying."
"Worse than the sounds of their screams was the King's laughter," Ser Jaime said softly, and the Great Hall seemed to bristle with anger. A collective memory – a shared rage. For a long moment, the hall remained silent. Larra turned her gaze from the haunted Ser Jaime to Lady Targaryen's guard. He still clutched the scabbard: the Greatjon had his hand clamped on the Unsullied's shoulder. When Larra snatched the sword from his grip, all Grey Worm could do was glower.
Larra examined the intricate details of the scabbard, unsheathing a few inches of the blade. The rippling steel seemed to glow sunset-red, while the rubies set into the hilt flickered like live flames. The crossguard was formed into lions' paws, sharp claws digging into the rippled red blade.
"This is newly reforged." She swung it in her hand, her wrist loose, the blade singing through the air. Gendry sat sprawled on one of the benches, Crisantha perched daintily beside him, Leona sucking her thumb as she cuddled in his lap. Larra sheathed the sword and passed it to Gendry, who freed a few inches of the blade to examine it.
"Tobho Mott's work," Gendry sighed appreciatively, clicking his tongue. "See his mark?" He exhaled softly, awed. Larra saw the spark of inspiration in Gendry's eyes. "It's beautiful work. Wherever did you get the steel?"
Ser Jaime cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing almost apologetically at Larra. "Your father's sword."
"Ice." A gasp of horror seemed to hiss through the hall. Ice had a storied history in the North. It had been passed down from father to son, uncle to nephew, grandfather to grandson, since before the Conquest.
Larra stared at Ser Jaime, her vision dizzy as her heart stuttered. Stunned, she breathed, "You melted a greatsword down and made an ornament?"
"Two," Ser Jaime grimaced contritely. "Its twin has guarded your sister well."
Larra blinked and turned to Lady Brienne, looming over Sansa as always. Her sister's sworn sword stood with her grip loose on the hilt of her sword, clear blue eyes assessing. "Oathkeeper."
Larra's lips pursed. Gendry handed the sword back to her. "Does this bauble have a name?"
"Widow's Wail," Jaime cringed. Larra glanced sharply at him.
"Oh, that won't do at all… This sword is descended from Ice, wielded by hard men of great honour - and of brutality… Your father had Ice melted down and tried to reshape the steel anew, eradicate all that Ice stood for; and in spite of all his intentions, the blade has brought you here to Winterfell, where the blade has always belonged," Larra said, and she smiled richly. "It's brought you to fight for the North, to protect the very people your father intended to murder. The irony is delicious."
A soft voice said, "Honour."
Larra glanced over her shoulder. "Sansa?"
"The blade. It should be named anew," Sansa said, from her position behind the high table. Larra wondered vaguely when she had taken her seat. "Ser Jaime's actions are those of a man of honour. As we fled to Castle Black, Lady Brienne told me the story of how she came to be in my service. You made a bargain with my mother, Ser Jaime: that in exchange for your own freedom, you would keep her daughters safe. You went against your own family to arm and armour Lady Brienne, to be your sword and my shield, to protect me when you could not. My mother was murdered before I could be returned to her but your oath was honoured nonetheless. Lady Brienne named the sword you gave her well, Ser Jaime. Its twin deserves a name just as worthy of it. It shall be named Honour."
Larra gazed at her sister then turned to stare at the blade bared in her hand. She turned her gaze finally to Ser Jaime, who could not look more different than he had the first time he had visited Winterfell. The golden lustre had been scrubbed away and Larra thought they could now see the true steel.
Carefully, she sheathed the sword and offered it to the knight. "Let it be always a reminder to your House when they must choose between what is right and what is easy."
He reached for the sword but Larra remembered his gilded hand. He could not buckle the belt easily – and she would not humiliate him by forcing him to attempt it in front of everyone. She unwound the belt and stepped forward, reaching around the knight, to secure the belt around his hips.
As she did so, his expression flickered. His eyes widened subtly, his lips parting, and when she fastened the buckle and stepped back, he reached out with his remaining hand, cupping her jaw the same way the Greatjon had. Where the Greatjon's gesture had been affectionate, Ser Jaime's seemed unconscious, as if he didn't realise he was doing it. He stared at her, breathless, as if he had never seen her before.
He stared into her eyes.
Finally, his gaze drifted past her – to Jon, sat behind the high table.
Ser Jaime's dark gold eyelashes flickered as his gaze darted between Larra and Jon. He dropped his hand as if burned.
He cleared his throat softly, murmuring an earnest, "My apologies, my lady."
"You're pale, Ser," Larra said, frowning. He had seen something in her face – in her eyes – and she believed she knew what it was. Who he had seen shining from her eyes. Perhaps he noticed more in Jon's face than anyone ever could. Quietly, wondering why she was taunting him even as she asked it, she said, "Have you seen a ghost?"
Ser Jaime stared back at her, his eyes still wide – wondrous. As if he could not quite believe his eyes. Sadly, he said, "I think perhaps I have."
A.N.: I love the idea of "the stupidest Lannister" being the one to figure out the secret, even before Tyrion! I'll introduce a lot more of the other knights and lords in the next chapter – they're important for the story post-Night King. We need driving forces to get Larra and Gendry out of Winterfell to continue the game against Daenerys!