Loras was freezing cold. Every inch of him was cold, his muscles tight, the awful, seeping, and ever present cold there. Large, fat, wet snowflakes had begun to fall, ones that soaked into the fabric of all of their clothes turning them damp and even more miserable. There was a constant wind as they rode, rolling off the vast and endless stark lands.
He could admit there was a wild, and untamed beauty to the harshness found here for all the misery he found in it. It was like all the softness of the world had been stripped away leaving it as harsh and merciless as life. Not to his taste, but well...his taste didn't matter any longer. Loras was pulled from his morose thoughts by Markas's loud and grating voice demanding his attention.
"You fight in the war?" He looked at him, a challenge clear to be seen in his face.
Loras tipped his chin up. "Lord Florant hired my services during the war."
"You at the Battle of the Blackwater then?" Markas eyes were bright and focused on him.
The focus of the entire party prickled at the back of Loras's neck. "I was, and a good thing too for Lady Forrester's safe passage out of King's Landing."
Markas Woolfield laughed. "Aye, there is that. What's a Riverland bastard doing fighting for the fucking flowers?"
"Florants are foxes." Loras personally thought the whole pack of Florants could drown and the Reach would be better for it. But they were still of the Reach. "And the Riverlands don't pay as well as the Reach."
Dallar, one of the men at arms who'd have been a knight had he been born in the south, scoffed. "Don't see the point in sellswords. How'd do ya ever know ya'r enemy won't pay more halfway through?"
"Because sellswords who fail to fulfill their contracts don't get hired." Loras shivered at a particularly cold blast of wind. "How the fuck are you all not freezing?"
The men burst out into laughter, Markas's open palm slamming into his shoulder. "Double up your shirts Tom, ya won't last to Winterfell if ya don't."
"I am." He replied miserably. It was the worst.
Mira actually spoke to him for something that wasn't buisness. "Perhaps a third shirt tomorrow."
"That will be all my shirts?" He stared at her in horror. Dear gods he was going to smell disgusting. Just...disgusting.
Mira shared a look with one of the Northern men. "I'm sure you'll survive."
Loras's shoulders slumped. "I had more clothes at war."
"Southern pounce." One of the guys snorted.
He ignored the insult, just looking out over yet more empty fields of wilderness. "Why is so little of the land cultivated? I mean at least some blackberry bushes would be useful."
Markas chuckled. "We don't have people tripping all over each other here. The land that can be farmed is. Why plant what couldn't be harvested?"
"The land is just being unused?" Loras couldn't comprehend it. The battle for arable land in the Reach was the basis of a great deal of his family's power. For it not to be so here was…
Mira spoke then, clearly taking pity on him. "Land and borders of territory are still just as contested as in the south. The North lacks the manpower to use some of its resources, but those that we have the ability to use, we do so to the fullest. Any Lord who doesn't know what every foot of his land holds is a fool."
"Aye, can't risk not using what you have when the day comes when you need it." Markas nodded sagely.
Loras's hand dropped to his sword hilt as the men around them tensed, sitting more forward in their saddles. "What is it?"
"Deer."
Loras's eyes closed against his will as he groaned at the flavor of hot venison hit his tongue, the juices smearing across his mouth. Not everything about the North was terrible.
/
Loras was brushing Mira's horse before getting the saddle on when one of the men, Dallar raised his voice in question. "So is what they say about the Tyrells true?"
"What do they say about the Tyrells in the North?" Loras felt a spark of something like life in his soul at the way the man had said 'Tyrell'. Like it was something to be mocked, something ridiculous, a joke.
Dallar laughed. "Well, that southern Queen of theirs is on her third husband. Say she's fucked half the court by now. Beauty, grace, and dresses showing more skin than a whore. And what sort of knight is a Knight of Flowers? Like what, he's got so many bastards they call him after it?"
"Naw, I figure it's cause it's some stupid tourney thing." One of the other men called from where he was saddling an animal.
Loras bit viciously down on the inside of his cheek. His grip on the brush turned so hard the wood threatened to crack from it. He nearly chucked the brush to the side and lunged for the man to beat his face in for daring to say that about his sister.
"Queen Margaery is very southern, but she's not a whore. Unless you think all of us women are since our marriages can be bought." Mira touched his shoulder lightly, and briefly as she spoke. "However, you'd never believe the cloak of live flowers that Ser Loras had at the last tourney in Highgarden I saw."
Dallar blinked. "What sort of daft fucker would waste enough time to make that...or worse pay for it?"
"I believe he paid several women handsomely for their work in weaving the bluebells together." Mira shot Loras a look as she spoke.
Loras...Loras gave her the faintest of nods. But he would not forget she'd defended his sister. "I remember that, I believe he paid twenty silver stags for it."
"Good gods…." Dallar shook his head. "I'd near be able to eat for six moons with that for me an' my family."
And...well Loras's cheeks heated at that. It was a paltry sum to him. It'd seemed such a minor thing to create the best effect. Only...well it sounded ridiculous when spoken about by men in practical garb in the cold.
Markas whistled at him. "Oy! Southern boy." He chucked a wad of something at him.
He barely caught it before it could hit his face. Loras swallowed tightly, it was a thick, woolen shirt. The cut was simple, a piece of clothing he'd have scoffed at in disgust at home but here...it was clearly well made, no embroidery or flourishes. He looked up at the man. "Thank you."
"Eh, can't have you whining about the cold all day." Markas stomped his feet, knocking the snow off of his boots.
Loras was less miserable as they rode further along the road. He was certainly less cold. It helped that it had ceased snowing hours ago. His eyes narrowed. "Is that a rider ahead?"
"That's a banner at least." Dallar's eyes were positively squinted as they continued to ride forward. "Grey banner, that's Stark then."
There was a buzz as they continued to ride towards the approaching riders. It was a small party riding towards them of five riders.
Loras could tell none of them were nobility as they got closer, though he did note one was slightly apart from the rest, his clothing black and brown instead of grey and brown. As they reached speaking distance he spotted a broach of a leaf with the Stark direwolf over it. A personal sigil for Sansa perhaps? Though it wasn't the only image of the same leaf-patterned about all the men. One had it roughly stitched into his collar, another burnt into his scabbard. Only the man in brown and black had a direwolf over it though.
Markas as the unofficial leader of their group pulled forward. He called out as their party came to a halt. "Oy!"
The apparent head of the party spotted the sigil on Markas's overcoat as they drew even with them. "Lord Woolfield, road clear to Whiteharbor still?"
"Aye, just a bit of snow. Nothing awful. What news from Winterfell man?" Markas Woolfield half demanded, excitement thrumming through him. "They name Lord Rickon the Stark of Winterfell yet?"
The Stark man at arms drew himself up. The pride of a man following a path he knew was right written across his face. "Her majesty, Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf has been named Stark of Winterfell, Queen of the North and the First Men. We ride to ensure Whiteharbor and the coast received the ravens. And survey the arrival of the first of the new Northern fleet returning from Essos."
Loras's eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly. That was...not a girl who'd held his arm for a few turns of the garden. That demuring and tittering girl had been named Queen over her own brothers? In her own right? "How is that even possible?" He uttered into the shocked silence.
Only it was apparently not so shocking to the Northern men. For as the shock passed there were nods of acceptance. Dallar spoke up, ignoring Loras's question. "So we're to be independent then? Good. A pox on the south."
Laughter and smiles broke out. One of their party members, whose name Loras hadn't caught, spoke up. "Do we have to have a gift or something if the Starks are royalty again?"
"I don't think so?" Markas shook his head. "Come, we'll set camp early. We all have many questions we would be glad to have answers to."
Loras was vaguely numb and more awake than he'd felt since the cell in the Sept of Balor. Had Margaery guessed this? Who could guess this? The North were some of the hardiest sons of bitches to fight. No one wanted to fight the North. They were practically as savage as the tribes beyond the wall. But they, and apparently those from beyond the wall were naming the wounded bird with her wings clipped Queen? What even was that? Had he misjudged the girl that badly?! He wasn't Margaery but he was still a grandson of Grandmother, and she hadn't suffered fools. But then would Sansa have even survived if she'd been anything else but a broken bird? He didn't know, and it troubled him. Because the woman these people spoke of would be capable of protecting him, but she didn't sound like the kind who would do so. And their words of a god made flesh sent shivers of terror down his back.
/
Loras woke miserably. There was a cold ache in his bones, and his face felt like it was going to fall off. Alas, he had to climb out of his bedroll. He really didn't want to. He squinted at the smoldering remains of their fire from the night before, and gods damn it all, Mira was already up, dressed and working on sewing a pair of gloves.
With a groan, he braced himself and then crawled out. The cold weather was miserable. He desperately pulled on his outer layers as quickly as possible. "Fuck." He nearly toppled over getting his boots on. With a slight hop, he straightened, grabbing his fur cloak and hauling it on over his shoulders. He buckled the leather chest straps into place. Damned things had always seemed old fashioned and grim to him when he'd seen the rare northern knight at tourneys. He took it back. He took it all back, damned things were necessary with how much weight there was to the great fur cloaks of the north.
"Do you want some time alone with your cloak?" Mira asked from the fire. A dry amusement to her tone caused his cheeks to heat.
He glared. "Trying not to freeze."
"I've missed the cold." Mira closed her eyes, turning her face into the faint breeze. "I didn't think I would. Everything was so lovely in the Reach."
Loras looked at her for a long moment. He leaned over and picked up some fresh logs and added them to the smoldering fire and picked up the metal pot for cooking the morning boiled oats. "What's the Ironrath like?"
"Old." Mira opened her eyes looking into the distance towards where her home lay. "Ancient. You could feel in your bones that it was a place that had been for over eight thousand years and would stand another. They don't have trees that large in the south. Our ironwoods grow so wide all of us here could set camp inside of one. Not ten men could wrap their arms around a single trunk of the truly ancient ones. Sometimes I fancied I could hear the Old Gods whispering in the creak of the wood and rustle of the leaves."
He shivered at the thought of such a place. His home was Highgarden with its endless gardens of carefully tended roses looking over vast fields of wheat. Warm golden sunlight, harp music from a dozen cousins all desperately looking for a quiet nook to practice in. An endless bustle, people everywhere, art and beauty to be seen with ease. "Isn't that...disturbing?"
"Not when the whispers are home." Mira smiled at him. "The woods may have held memories, but also our home, our laughter, our light." She shook her head. "It wasn't disturbing at all."
Loras took a seat on the decaying log she'd chosen to sit on. It blocked their fire from the rest of the road. But offered some small protection from the wind, it why Loras and the rest of the men had given the place beside it to Mira. "What will you do once you're home?"
"Hug my two brothers and sister left to me." Mira wiped sharply at her eyes. "Sorry, I think I just want to sleep in my own bed, and know that I'm safe."
He poked at the fire. "I don't know how to be without my sister. I miss home, my brothers, the rest of my family. But my sister? She's more than that."
"You two were close." Mira's eyes tracked to the snoring lumps of their travel companions before continuing, her word choice as careful to avoid saying anything that broke the illusion of him being Tom Rivers, bastard knight of the Riverlands. "In homes with many siblings, we all have the one we love best. Or at least that's what I've seen."
He looked at her, and he remembered she had lost two brothers hadn't she? Asking if her closest sibling was dead would be cruel. "Who do you think Joffrey loved best?"
"Himself." Mira paled slightly in sheer disgust at the mention of the mad shit. "Maybe Cersei." A slightly mean glint in the girl's eye.
Loras sniggered. "Truly, a child only his mother could love. And well, we all know who Cersei loves best."
Mira lightly slapped his arm. "You're horrible."
"I've never claimed to be good my Lady." He grinned properly for perhaps the first time since it'd all gone wrong.
She flattened her fingers out against her knees. "I don't think I'll miss the games of the south, though they were fun at first."
"Everything to win, everything to lose." It was oft parrotted phrase about Highgarden. Incidentally, he had several cousins with gambling problems.
Mira looked away and into the fire. "Truly? I had so little to gain, wanted to gain so little, and I lost everything anyway. My brothers, my honor, my name, my dignity, my own body." Her voice was horribly bitter.
"Your honor? You were caught back dealing with Tyrion for sponsorship of your family? How is that dishonorable?" Loras blinked, that barely counted as backdoor dealings in the capitol. It was nothing, horribly dangerous once Tyrion was out of power. But it was the sort of thing that was supposed to be publicly known eventually. That was the point of it.
She shivered for the first time since they'd reached the North. "I had one true friend in King's Landing. Only one. And I said nothing and let him be executed."
"Would you have been executed in his stead?" Loras looked at her, he wondered what all she'd become entangled with. Too little power, caught between titans.
Mira swallowed. "Yes, but it would have been the right thing."
"You'd have been dead. You did the right thing." Loras grabbed a waterskin and poured it into the pot and carefully set it over the fire before dumping the oats in.
She stared at him. "That's going to be disgusting."
"It'll be hot." He defended, fuck if he knew how to cook over a cooking fire. But clearly, none of their companions did either because the only edible thing they'd managed was roast meat.
There was a dramatic groaning sound from one of the sleeping rolls. "Good gods, could ya two shut the fuck up?"
"Oy! She's a lady you cunt!" A leather satchel was chucked at the first man who'd spoken.
There was a wheeze.
Markas sat up. "You all are terrible." He looked up at them. "How is it that a lady like you was left with this southern rapscallion?"
"I'm a knight!" Loras protested, oh no. If he ended up married to Mira Forrester to protect her honor and to keep himself from being strung up by Northerners, his ghost would find Margaery and yell at her. "I would never impune her honor."
Markas frowned, his eyes very clearly drawn to the barely there space between Loras and her.
Mira sighed. "He's a sword swallower. My virtue has been quite safe." She looked at the men like they were stupid. "How else do you find a sellsword willing to go north at the start of winter?"
Loras paled, that was….this was the North. They could kill him and none would care. And while his preferences were moderately tolerated as a secret in the Reach, it couldn't be in the North.
"What, you like sticking it in men? I don't want him touching my bed." Dallar's face scrunched up as he paused, half crawled out of his bedroll.
Mira rolled her eyes as she scoffed. "Please, as if he'd stick anything in you."
Loras unwound slightly as the men just snorted, and someone punched Dallar in the arm. There was no reaching for swords or proper anger.
"She's got the right of it, Tom here's too pretty to fuck the likes of you." Markas winced. "Apologies my Lady."
Mira waved it off. "If you think you are shocking after King's Landing you are more foolish than I'd thought Woolfield."
"Aye, that's fair." The man climbed out of his own bedroll, pulling on his outer tunics. "And you." He looked at Loras before giving him a tight nod. "You have my back with that sword of yours if we get attacked and I don't care where ya stick anything in bed."
Loras breathed out, a weak chuckle leaving his lips. "Well, with how hairy your Northern behinds must be I think I'll be finding my bed quite cold as I don't like bears."
Dallar peeked into the pot, his nose wrinkling. "Are we eating that?"
"Can you do better?" Loras challenged, his shoulders easing, even more, his hand slowly moving away from his sword hilt.
Dallar grunted. "At least it'll be hot?"