Eda and Edla; sisters who are servants of Winterfell, stumble into the Kitchens.
All sound in the bustling Kitchen stopps as soon as they step through the large door.
The young women wear plain heavy gowns with smock aprons of their profession over top. Their usually neat appearances have taken on a disheveled quality that matches their somewhat shocked expressions.
To those who had seen the war weary return home and witnessed heart sickness or mind sickness from the brutalities of war, they could see a faint shadow of the same disbelief and numbness in the sisters' faces.
The aprons which were usually off white, smudged with ash, smears of grime or splashes of wine from a day of hard graft, were today dull pink…the color of washed out blood.
They look like butcher's apprentices rather than servants of Winterfell.
Today the unfortunate sisters had been the two unlucky servants tasked with cleaning up the wrath of a god.
When Queen Sansa had absently ordered for the bloody remains of the two would be assassins to be cleaned up, Steward Bower had assigned the sisters because they were known as stoic women despite their ages. Hard lives in Wintertown and having had to clean up more than one bloody mess when the Bolton's ruled had seemingly inoculated them at a young age to horror and gore.
Or so everyone would have assumed.
It seemed even their cast iron fortitude was tested by witnessing the wrath of a god.
Cook shuffles through the throng of servants and assistants to the two lost looking women.
Carefully they reach out and guid the sisters to the bench where others vacate and hurriedly made space for them.
"Come now young'uns, take a seat. T'is shock yer feelin'. A dram of cookin' wine and some bread will fix ye right up," cook says.
Shuffling quickly they retrieve a dark jug from a high shelf and pour two hearty goblets of strong smelling cooking wine.
Pressed into their hands the sisters seem to sup from them out of reflex. When the heat hits their bellies they shudder.
The subdued crowd watches them in mute fascination and horror.
It seems all the servants are packed into the Kitchens, everyone trying to keep their heads down as Winterfell is secured by pissed off knights and agitated Order members.
The fact that the air seems heavy and the very walls hum if you stand too close to them is an unspoken threat that the resident god's wrath may not yet be fully sated.
The assination attempt on the Queen had come like a bolt from the blue by the treasonous Stormlanders…yet its quelling had happened equally quickly. The first anyone knew of anything wrong was from the cries of a broken man sailing over the wall of Winterfell. Evidently he had tried to shoot the god full of arrows and she had swatted him like a fly.
Then came the explosion.
Anyone unaware that something was happening in Winterfell had soon become so when the sound of the Great Hall's door exploding had boomed out across the land.
Terrified birds had fled in flocks, the Godswood had gone quiet of wildlife and the poor stable boys had tried fruitlessly to calm panicked horses who were terrified.
The fact the air had heated and vibrated as though the very air they breathed was waiting to attack everyone had been an unpleasant reality which brought home the gods anger and power.
The great wooden doors of the hall, built to act as a last line of defense to withstand siege, double thick and fixed with heavy iron reinforcements was reduced to splinters. There had been nothing bigger than a man's thumb after the god disintegrated it in her mindless pursuit to save the Queen.
The servants who manned the glasshouses had already been heard whispering that the fine splinters and dust of the wooden door would make fine mulch for the growing things in their domain.
Eda and Edla seem lost in their own minds as they sup the wine. Their hands are white knuckled on the goblets.
Aedra, a gossipy young servant of seventeen summers who has yet to learn when to keep her mouth shut seems to fidget and shuffle across from the sisters. Her eyes cast around at the quiet masses in frustration that no-one is speaking.
Her curiosity, or rather, her thirst for gossip finally overwhelms what little propriety she has and she hisses to the sisters, "Well, what was it like? What is happening in the hall?"
Cook hisses and slaps the back of her head in reprimand, "Shh, don't be askin' silly questions. It be none of your concern….cannae you see they're distressed?"
Aedra huffs, seemingly unperturbed by the reprimand and the generally disquieted atmosphere amongst the servants she had roused with her question. Her eyes narrow on the sisters.
Eda meets her eyes, sups from the goblet until it runs dry and pushes it forward in silent request for more.
Kindly, Cook tops up the goblet.
Eda swallows around her terror narrowed throat, "Soup…" she whispers.
Cook frowns, "I don't have any soup lovey but there be some stew I can-"
Eda shakes her head vehemently, "No…no…you…you don't understand. Soup!"
The crowd of servants sway towards her unconsciously at her rambling nonsense. Cook's brows furrow but before they can question Eda, Edla clarifies her sister's remarks.
"Soup. The god…Her Holiness…she turned the men to soup," she whispers.
Aedra huffs, "We know that. It's the talk of Winterfell. The god blasted the assassins into mush."
Eda shook her head vigorously and a hysterical laugh escapes her lips, "No…no, you don't get it. Words don't do it justice." Another breathless laugh as she stares deep into Aedra's eyes before glancing around with hollowed out gray orbs at the curious onlookers, "The men…their furs, their bones..even their armor and swords…she didn't just kill them Or c-crush them..she turned them to soup."
Edla snorts without looking up from her goblet, "Soup that had been cooked too long and mashed and then strained through muslin cloth to boot…they were beetroot soup. The blood glittered…it was coarse and thick…I didn't understand…"
Eda nods, "It was like the dust in the blacksmiths…fine metal from honing swords. The finest plate steel; the chest plate, chainmail, gauntlets, sword…all of it…just dust. It twinkled in the candlelight as we mopped the blood. It had sunk in the puddle but when we mopped it we could feel it. Metallic blood sticking to everything."
Hushed and shocked whispers flow across the room and faces pale at what the women reveal.
Aedra can't help but seek more clarity for her gossip mill. This story will net her some extra attention in Wintertown, a free drink at the Tavern or an extra crust of bread in the market when she haggles.
"There was nothing left…nothing at all?" Aedra whispers with poorly repressed excitement.
The sisters pale and shake their heads. Edla confirms it with a hysterical laugh, "Nothing! They were puddles. The furs they wore, their bones…everything was just liquid. We used so many clothes to mop them up and ring them out into buckets and then emptied them out with the chamber pots. But still the blood stuck in the crevices of the stone. The wall, the flagstone floor…like the god had imprinted their stain on the stone as a reminder. Prince Jon…when he saw it wouldn't come out, he just shrugged and sent us off. Told us to leave it, said it would be a warning. Two splotches of blood soaked stone. It…it just…"
Eda's eyes are narrowed in confusion and she speaks as though talking to herself, lost in thoughts and far away, "Not even teeth. Even when Ramsey fed people to the dogs or pigs the teeth would remain."
The room flinches simultaneously at the reminder of the mad Bolton who had ruled here and his sadism. The dark and ungodly things he had done are unspoken stains on their minds and hearts.
Eda continues as though unseeing how her words cause a tide of shuffling unease, "The teeth were the hardest part…you have to take a hammer to them to crush them properly. Always the last thing to rot…I saw the force Ramsey used when he would bash them out but they still were chips and pieces we could pick off the floor…but the god…just dust in blood."
Edla laughs, "And not a drop on the Queen. Two assassins trying to kill her, restraining her and the god turned them to bloody mist that scoured the walls but the Queen? The Queen standing in the middle of it all? She didn't have a single drop of blood on her. Not one! Like the god willed them dead and nothing of them to touch her and it was so. Pristine she was as she sat with the god."
Many dry throats swallow as they try to comprehend such power bound up with such vicious control.
Aedra eyes the sisters, "The god is well? It is said she was injured? For all her supposed power she was hurt?"
Grumbles and hissed reprimands flow at the foolish girl for her blasphemous words but they are unnecessary. Edla hiccups a mad laugh. "Hurt? She had three arrows sticking out of her, one surely in her heart and she ignored them as though they weren't even there. I-I don't think she even noticed. She was so focused on the Queen…and the Queen…"
The crowd leans in as Edla trails off. A hissed voice from the back of the room calls, "The Queen? The Queen what? Tell us girl!"
Edla's head jerks back up as though just remembering her rapt audience, "The Queen…she was so concerned. The god wanted to move the Queen somewhere safer but Her Majesty called for the Maester to remove the arrows. She- she ordered the god to sit and let the Maester tend her…"
Sharp indrawn breaths rush around the room at such a breach of etiquette but everyone leans impossibly closer to hear the end of the tale.
Even Cook now is enraptured, "And? How offended was Her Holiness?"
Eda snorts, "Offended? She was amused. She kept telling the Queen that the arrows were nothing. That she could just pull them out as though they were nothing, but the Queen was so upset and worried she ordered Her Holiness to sit and let the Maester tend to them. The god…she just indulged the Queen. She had this sort of amused, maybe confused? And indulgent look as though she was letting herself be put upon to appease the Queen's pointless worry."
The room rumbles as they digest the idea that a god would follow a mortal's orders out of amusement and a desire to appease them. The hold the Queen has on the god's interest could not be denied or underestimated it seems.
Edla half smiles, "Her Holiness had no such patience or indulgence with Maester Wolken though. She ordered him to hurry up and just pull the damn arrows out because she said she was 'healing around' them. He plucked them out and the god…she seemed more impatient and annoyed than hurt. It was like pulling a thorn from a man's hand rather than an arrow from ones heart."
Silence reigns at this image.
Suddenly Elda rises and fumbles at her pink smock, trying to untie it with clumsy hands, "I have to get it off. I have to get them off."
Eda joins her sister, pushing back from the bench and in sudden panic trying to pull off her own pink smock.
The crowd watches in horrified fascination. The reality that this water stained remnants of blood which cover the servants aprons and smocks is all that is left of the two traitorous assassins penetrating their brains.
The women finally manage to free themselves of the sodden cloth and cast them across the heavy table.
CooK frowns but bundles them up and turns swiftly to the fire. Without hesitation the cloth is cast into the flame.
Cook's face is stormy for a moment but it smooths as they face the sisters, "I'll speak with the steward and make sure ye get new work clothes. Better the last remnants of those treasonous pigs are burned. No amount of cleaning would wash out the traitors' stains."
The sisters sigh and nod gratefully. They sit once more and sup their wine and absently rub their hands across their biceps to infect some warmth back into them.
Cook magnanimously turns to the fire and stokes it back up even though with so many bodies packed in here there is little need for extra warmth, the cumulated body heat already making the room uncomfortably warm.
One of the servant boys, Godwin, huffs, "Fuck 'em. Good riddance. Got what they deserved didn' they. Tried to murder our Queen. What about the Peasbody shite?"
Cook casts another hard look at Godwin but their eyes swing back to the sisters, curious to know if they would illuminate his fate as they had the others. Curiosity it seems was trumping manners and politeness this eve.
Eda shudders, "His body was kneeling in the Hall. His own sword through his throat and his sword arm…it was in chunks on the floor. Frozen."
Cook's brows furrow, "Frozen?"
Eda nods, "Like the meat we might store in winter snows. It dripped with ice and was hard as rock. It- it was like the life's blood of his arm had frozen and exploded. His arm was in bits across the floor. They were easy enough to clean up. No splatter, just crystals of blood and flesh."
A hesitant voice from the side speaks up, Sera, the Queen's Servant, "I heard Lord Umber talking to Prince Jon. He said it was like Her Holiness didn't even notice Peasbody. She was so intent on getting to the Queen that when he attacked her she just made his arm explode, caught his sword and stabbed him with it. She didn't pause, didn't break stride, didn't even really acknowledge him. Just one moment he was attacking her and the next he was dead and Her Holiness was across the Hall beside the Queen after exploding the other other two."
Godwin shakes his head in awe, "Fuck. If'n we is so beneath her, why dost she bother wit' the sparin' and teachin' the Order to wield sword? She is artistry wit' weapons but..if'n she can just kill a man wit' a look, why bother wit the rest of it?"
The room is silent until a calm voice at the door of the Kitchens answers, "To appear more human. To make us less afraid. So she can teach us to fight our own battles rather than depending on her…Because it amuses Her Holiness mayhap? The truth is that no one knows."
Servants rise quickly and bow without hesitation to Lord Umber.
He surveys the crowded room, unsurprised at its contents or their topic of conversation. With Winterfell on lockdown the servants had been sent to the Kitchens under guard to await further instructions.
Cook rises from their bow, "Apologies m'Lord, momentous events unfortunately lead to momentous gossip. How might we serve you?"
Umber huffs in half amusement, "Your apology is unnecessary. I am sure half the North will be dissecting this day before the week is out. And better they do. If'n they hear of the gods power it might discourage other dumb shits from pricking her anger or attacking our Queen."
The room shuffles at the irony of this man so casually discussing pricking the gods anger when not so long ago it was he who riled her temper.
Cook nods, "The Queen is well? Is there anything we can do?"
Umber seems to relax fractionally at Cook's sincere inquiry while he snorts, "Her Majesty is fine. Fussin' over Her Holiness like a hen pecking wife. You all will likely be released in another couple of hours to go to your beds or home to Wintertown. Her Holiness has said she'll interrogate the ones responsible and none can lie to her so this will all be cleaned up soon. The small council is meeting to discuss things and I figure wine will help settle the nerves a bit after all the excitement."
Umber pointedly shoots a look to the sisters who sup steadily at the cooking wine.
Cook bows, "Certainly m'Lord, I'll fetch you some decent casks." So saying Cook shuffles towards a back store room and with some of their assistants following they soon retrieve a tray and fill it with bulbous clay jugs filled with wine fit for noble tastes.
Umber takes the tray with a nod, "M'thanks. Rest easy, I will send the guards to let you go as soon as it's feasible."
The room shuffles nervously and whispered "Aye M'Lord" and "Thanks' M'Lord" sounds across the kitchen.
The room falls into tense silence.
Cook turns and sighs, "It seems we'll be here a while yet. I've got stew, some bread and plenty of nettle tea. If'n a bottle or two o'wine gets mixed in wit' it, well, I wouldn't see a thing. Let's make a feast of it, celebrate the Queen's survival."
An excited ripple spreads through the room and soon bowls are being handed out and serupsticious mugs of 'tea' are being supped.
GreatJon Umber had told a partial lie. It was no meeting of the small council that was occurring but rather an impromptu gathering of Her Majesty's supporters who were determined to hash out all the implications of this latest debacle. He carries the tray of wine jugs with great care, knowing the precious liquid will be needed to get through the talk to come.
Bloody inconvenient having to fetch the damn stuff himself with the place on lockdown but he is mighty pleased by how effectively the Queen has brought the whole of Winterfell under her iron control within less than an hour after her near miss with assassins.
GreatJon balances the tray and swings the door open to the small public solar where the meeting is occurring.
"I bring wine, grab your goblets and fill 'em up. I feel we are gonna need em," Umber bellows.
Lord Cerwyn, Forrester and Manderly sit in stiff backed chairs, alongside the Steward Bower. Tiredness and anger is etched into their faces.
Manderly reaches for the jugs and begins pouring large measures for all.
The Lords sit and sup heartily in silence for a few moments.
GreatJon was never a patient man however and so he breaks the silence, "So, what's the state of things now?"
Bower snorts, "State of things? The assassins are stains on our walls that mayhap never come out, the Queen is well and the pissed off god is marching towards the dungeons with Prince Jon to extract confessions of all who were involved. Wintefell is locked down tighter than a fish's arse and every man with a sword is itching to plunge it into a Stormlander's gut. If not for the god's power seeming to sit in the air and how the bloody stones of every room in Winterfell hum with her displeasure I think the men would have stormed the dungeon by now if circumstances were different."
Lord Cerwyn snorts, "You mean if circumstances were more normal." He sups from his wine with a sardonic smile at Bower.
GreatJon is just amused by the fact the usually stoic Lords seem to be speaking plainly for a change rather than using their stuffy court speech that reeks of political hot air.
"What of Rickon and her Majesty?" GreatJon asks.
Lord Forrester flicks his fingers as though this is not even a concern, "When Her Holiness agreed to go with Prince Jon to interrogate the traitors the Queen and Prince Rickon retired to her Chambers. Loras and Brienne guard the door while half of Winterfell's guard and all of the Order have camped out in the keep or around her chambers. I dare say anyone so much as looks funny at the Queen and they will be gutted from nape to knavel before any questions can be asked. She could only be safer if Her Holiness was with her."
GreatJon nods in understanding, "So are we gonna talk about it then?"
Lord Cerwyn gulps from his goblet and refills it. GreatJon can feel his eyebrows rising at seeing the usually stuffy man racing to get deep in his cups.
Lord Cerwyn huffs, "Which bit? How the god shrugged off three arrows, blew open a siege door, reduced two men, including their armor, to a fine mist, or the fact that the Queen not only stabbed Peasbody herself or that she then proceeded to scold the same pissed off god that just saved her as though she were an unruly child?"
Bower huffs a laugh as though it is all just too unbelievable to even begin dealing with, "It really is like something out of one of the Legends from the Winter Kings. Bloody madness."
GreatJon sighs, "Let's start with how her Majesty stabbed Peasbody. Queen Sansa is a strong leader and her mind is a deadly weapon but I never knew she had any martial wit to go along with it. I always thought she was too gentile for that sort of thing."
Forrester snorts again, "Bloody good job she wasn't too gentile. Stabbing the prick is what bought her time for Her Holiness to arrive. She saved her own damn life as much as the god did. Then again, I assume it was the god who taught her. She seems keen on women being able to defend themselves, even has a woman in her Order I hear."
GreatJon shifts uncomfortably, it nags at his traditional pride that women folk had to fight. That is menat to be the men's job but he can't argue with the results, "Bloody stupid notion anyway. Women not bein' able ter swing a blade never helped them when they're caught alone at the mercy o'some scoundrel. Northern women are tough things and with what's coming it's fight or die."
The Lords mumble and nod in agreement as they polish off the first jug.
Lord Cerwyn rubs his eyes, "Damnedest thing I ever saw. The door of the keep was blown to bits I could pick my teeth with. I have seen the bloody remnants of war but what Her Holiness did to those men was …unnatural. One moment they were there…and the next they were gone."
Greatjon huffs, "Fuck'em. Got what was coming to them. All that's changed now is that we have more proof of what happens if you cross the god. She's been mighty restrained til now, as I can attest the most. But for fuck sake, she's a god. She commanded the earth to swallow the Dreadfort and threw me across a room like I was a horseshoe, the air humming with power and Winter frosting the hall in her rage. It's not that surprising that she is powerful."
Bower slams his goblet down and his face is white, "Speak for yourself. There is a difference between abstractly knowing she has power and seeing it on display so….brutally. What's to stop that power turning on us? Gods are beings of whim."
GreatJon scowls, "Horse shit. Her Holiness has been restrained and only acted in our and our Queen's defense. Hell, she let the Queen fuss at her and order her to sit for the Maester. I think the Queen has it well in hand."
Lord Forrester snorts a laugh, "Well in hand. The Queen plays a dangerous game. She leads a god by her affections…affections we do not know will remain or if the Queen will allow it to be returned. Until she accepts or denies the courtship we are in limbo. There is doing ones duty but…can we really expect the Queen to try and leash a god by her-" Lord Forrester cuts himself off abruptly as his face heats, he makes vague hand gestures and his eyes bulge.
Lord Umber and Steward Bower watch him in confusion for a moment before their own color rises as they catch his crass meaning. They jump to their feet in outrage at the implication. They speak over one another berating Lord Forrester.
"Watch your tongue! Our Queen does her duty."
"Her Holiness' regard is not so fickle or superficial a thing. Keep your filthy accusations to yourself."
Lord Cerwyn is more calm, "I think it best if we leave the Queen and god's courtship a private matter between them. The Queen seems to have a cordial understanding with the god. A god who seems happy to continue her courtship and defense of her Majesty. After seeing what befell those who attempted her harm, I don't plan to get between the god and Her Majesty so I suggest we move on."
The men grumble and Lord Forrester looks cowed. He sups his wine and nods in agreement.
"My apologies. I spoke out of turn…it's all just so…."
"Mad?" Lord Cerwyn offers.
Umber snorts, "That's a polite way of putting this shitshow. The Long Night is here and bloody gods walk the land. It's all fucked. Nothing for it but to drink and fight and keep doing it until ye can't no more."
"How eloquent," Bower dryly asses.
"What of the mood of the people? Are there any other possible avenues of dissent that we could have overlooked as we did the Stormlanders?" Lord Cerwyn interrupts before Lord Umber and Steward Bower can begin sniping at each other.
Umber slowly moves his gaze from Bower and shrugs, slumping in his seat, "I overheard the guards talking as I went for the wine. Everyone is just pissed off at an attack on the Queen or gossiping about the gods' retaliation. I overheard the Kitchen servants dissecting the whole thing. Word will spread like Wildfire by tomorrow night. The story of her Holiness' wrath will be inflated with every retelling. Songs will be sung, stories told and all will know not to piss off a god who courts a Queen."
Lord Manderly who has been quietly observing nods, "Good. That is good. The quicker the story spreads the better. If people hear of how brutally and negligently her Holiness dealt with this attack then it may put off anyone foolish enough to do something similar in the future."
A knock comes to the door and Lord Manderly casts a look, "Ah, good, he is here. Enter!" he calls.
A guard enters looking serious and watchful, "I have brought Crann Snow, as requested My Lord."
Lord Manderly nods and beckons the guard, "Good man, send him in and then wait outside."
The guard nods and stands aside to reveal a hunched Crann Snow who is looking worried and nervous to be brought before so many important men.
Lord Manderly smiles reassuringly, "Come in Crann Snow. We have questions."
"We do?" Lord Umber asks in obvious confusion, the other Lords giving equal looks of consternation.
Crann shuffles into the room, bows to the assembled Lords, "My Lords."
Lord Manderly rolls his eyes at his fellow Lords, "Yes we do. In all the confusion and…distracting excitement of Her Holiness saving the Queen, most people have overlooked the other asassination attempt that failed today. Ser Swann's attempt to kill the god's touched man Fitz."
Lord Umber huffs, "Ser Swann must have been totally incompetent. Fitz was eating the abandoned food in the Hall with the mad Wilding Tormund as though they hadn't a care in the world and they weren't feet from a pissed off god and the bloody pools of her victim. He hardly had the look of a man who had come near death."
Manderly nods, "Exactly. Everyone is overlooking Fitz. All I have heard is that Swann is dead. The Stormlanders thought Fitz was enough of a threat to want him dead, yet he lives. I want the details of how that happened. A mad scholar surviving a trained knight on an assasination mission is an intriguing tale I would bet."
Bower and Lord Cerwyn turn now to face Crann, their intrigue risen as they realize they hadn't really given Fitz assasination much thought.
Crann almost shrinks under their combined scrutiny.
Lord Umber pours a mug of wine and thrusts it towards Crann, "Well then lad. Tell us the tale."
Crann takes the fine wine and sips it. The taste is richer than anything he has ever had before, but the pleasant heat it ignites inside him eases some of his nerves.
He drags in a breath and considers how to explain, "Well, um…Fitz was working on making a far seeing eye. He was distracted by it as he usually gets when his addled mind fixates on something. Ser Swann came in and we assumed he was there as the guard for Prince Rickon. The Prince has been hiding out in the workroom to avoid his lessons on numbers and letters. Fitz seems oddly indulgent of it. He gives Prince Rickon small jobs and helps him with his letter. The Prince takes to it easier than traditional lessons and it's been helping so I think Her Majesty has been turning a blind eye to it."
Lord Mandelry nods, "We know of Prince Rickon's time in the workroom and how it is aiding his learning. Did Swann take any notice of the Prince? Any ill will?"
The Lords all tense at the question but Crann is already shaking his head, "Ser Swann was respectful of the Prince and even when he attacked Fitz he seemed to ignore Prince Rickon's presence. I shielded him behind myself when the violence erupted but it was over so quickly…I can't say if Ser Swann had any intention of dispatching Fitz and then turning on Prince Rickon."
The Lords grumble and Lord Umber mutters to Lord Bower, "We'll have to include the Princes in any future plans for increased protection…just in case."
The Lords nod to one another and Lord Manderly focuses on Crann, "Tell us about Ser Swann's attack. How did Fitz survive? Did Swann make a mistake? Was Fitz prepared?"
Crann swallows and again shakes his head, his eyes going distant as he recalls the scene in his mind's eye.
"No my Lords. You must understand, Fitz was wholly focused on the bits of metal he was assembling for the far seeing eye. Ser Swann was seemingly in deep conversation with Prince Rickon. Then out of nowhere he drew his sword and swung at Fitz's neck from behind."
Lord Cerwyn's eyebrows rise, "From behind? And yet Fitz lives? How?"
The Lords all wear similar looks of intrigue as they lean forward.
Crann licks his suddenly dry lips and sips the wine again. His brows furrow as he tries to explain something that he himself has struggled to understand.
"I-I am unsure my Lords. Fitz…he just rolled away from the sword. One moment he was standing looking at his trinkets and the next he was rolling to the side while Lord Swann's sword crashed into the workbench where a second previously Fitz had been standing."
The men exchange worried and confused looks, "Perhaps a gift of protection from the Smith when he cracked his mind? Or a blessing of protection from Her Holiness for her companion?" Lord Manderly hypothesis.
Bower's eyes are distant, "Possibly. If it is so, it makes the man better protected but also more dangerous. How far does this gift go? How dangerous is he?"
Umber shifts uncomfortably in his seat, "Fitz spoke of killing people at the evening meal once. He was…cold about it. A warrior he may not be but he spoke of killing with an odd detachment, a cold logic. He spoke of the human body like it was another contraption to take apart. Mayhaps the Smith's blessings grant him more martial qualities than we thought?"
Lord Manderly's eyes narrow on Lord Umber, "You didn't mention this to us before?"
Lord Umber shrugs, "The man stays locked in his work room all day unless Her Holiness drags him out. I didn't think he was a threat."
Bower scoffs, "That seems to be a decidedly deadly miscalculation. One that Ser Swann made."
The Lords all exchange looks and a silent agreement that a better eye will be kept on the Smith Touched man and his guards is made between them.
Lord Manderly refocuses on Crann, "What happened after Fitz rolled away from Ser Swann's attack?"
Crann shifts uncomfortably, "Ser Swann's sword was buried deep in the workbench. He had put all his weight behind his intended killing blow. When he couldn't pull it free he withdrew a knife and made to charge for Fitz, but Fitz threw an oil lamp at him. Ser Swann went up like a candle, and as he howled in agony at his burning face Fitz calmly picked up a pen and stabbed him straight through the ear. He killed him instantly. Fitz withdrew his pen and calmly stuck his hand, which had caught alight while stabbing Swann, in a bucket of water before asking me if I knew what that was all about."
"A pen? What manner of weapon is this?" Lord Umber asks.
Crann flushes, "Uh, no M'Lord. A pen…it's a writing implement. That is, Her Holiness and Fitz say that in their realm quills aren't used to write with. It's why their letters look so bad. They said they use machines but also sometimes pens. Fitz has been trying to make them. The one he stabbed Swann with, it's a length of wood with a pointed nib of fine sharpened metal at the end. He dips it in ink and writes with it, but he is also working on one which is a hollow tube of metal with a similar carved, thin, spiked end. He claims the hollow tube can be filled with ink and it will drip through a small hole on the sharpened spike which acts as the nib, creating a flow of ink so a man has no need to dip the nib in an ink pot or to sharpen its end like you would with a quill."
Crann is alight with excitement as he explains the idea of a 'pen' while the Lords all look on in seeming bewilderment.
Bower drags his hand down his face and then gestures for Crann to calm down with a stopping gesture of his raised palm, "Wait…wait, you are telling us that Fitz killed a fully trained Knight, in full armor, armed with a sword and a knife…with a lamp and some kind of metal quill for writing?"
Crann's face falls as he sees the Lords don't share his enthusiasm at the idea of the new invention that would make writing more efficient, "Um, yes my Lords? I suppose that is one way to look at it."
Lord Manderly blows out a long breath between his teeth, a constipated look on his face.
Lord Umber is red in the face and begins giggling madly, "Hee..hee…Ha! Killed by a fucking quill…Ha! Serves the treasonous bastard right! Ha, ha ha ha."
Crann stands awkwardly as the Lords look queerly from one to the other and sup their wine.
Crann shuffles awkwardly.
Lord Manderly sighs, "Thank you Crann Snow. I believe we have heard all we need to from you as of this moment. I am sure you are tired after the day's excitement. The guard will return you to your quarters."
Lord Manderly waves him away even as Lord Umber continues to laugh.
Crann bows and backs out of the room with a sigh of relief.
Bower groans, "So, to sum up, we have a god that can turn armored men to fine mist on a whim, and a Smith Touched scholar who seems deadly with writing instruments?"
If anything, Lord Umber laughs harder at the sense of disbelief in the room.
Lord Forrester drains his goblet of wine and looks mournfully at the last jug, "I think we will need more wine."
Lord Manderly nods, "Aye. When I tell you what Maester Wolken had to say about the god's blood you will definitely need it. And that's before we even begin the discussion of how we go about a Queen's guard."
Lord Forrester lifts the tray of empty jugs, and like a man going to his execution, he heads for the door, "I'll be back shortly with more wine. Hopefully by then Lord Umber will have himself back under control."
Chapter 47
Sansa drank warmed wine with her morning oatmeal in her private solar. Her small council and Daisy in attendance. "So it was religious in nature?"
"Aye, they see her Holiness as a dark demon that will bring ruin, and a woman being promoted over male options as a sign of that ruin coming." Jon's jaw ticked slightly. "I doubt they'd have remained loyal even if her Holiness wasn't here."
Daisy spoke up. "They think Jon should be the King because their fire god brought him back to life. And because Stannis approved of him. Your being a woman, and my general existence was just their justification to do what they already wanted. They hadn't considered breaking their vows until you were crowned."
"How many of them?" She was oddly detached from the result, she'd been an idiot. Again. Religious zealots would never accept a Queen following another religion, especially a religion that challenged their own so fundamentally. Tree gods weren't threatening when they were trees, once one was walking and talking it became a great deal more threatening. She'd known exactly what Jon would have to mean to them. Had seen the look in even Davos's face when he gazed upon Jon. The awe. Sansa had let herself trust where she should have known better than to. Even if it'd been Cerwyn and Bower's mistake that allowed her guards to be composed of only Stormlanders for a shift despite her orders to the contrary.
Jon replied. "Twenty two were involved with or aware. Of those seven died in the attempt. So fifteen men including Dondarrian. Of the remaining men...perhaps five aren't resentful of their situation."
"Five." Sansa uttered, she was...exhausted.
Lord Glover scoffed in disgust. "Fucking traitors is what they are. How dare they! After being given shelter and home."
"Aye, fuck 'em." Umber's face was red with upset. "I say we put them all to the sword."
"Enough." Sansa closed her eyes as she waited for her counsel to settle. Her eyes opened as she looked around at the indignant and furious faces. "Enough. We will not mindlessly slaughter men like beasts. The guilty will be executed in two hours time. Jon, you will have to swing the sword."
Jon was grim, but he didn't shrink or fold from the order. "I can do that."
"We send the others to the Wall. They need not swear to the Night's Watch, but they'll fight beside the brothers of the Wall. We can't afford to lose trained and competent knights." Sansa had a hundred different things she needed to do, and a thousand to do after that. "We'll send more provisions to the Wall with them, as well as more of the Umber forces back to Last Hearth to better prepare it."
Greatjon Umber crossed his arms unhappily. "And have more of my small folk sent south."
"If the Wall falls, Last Hearth won't hold." Sansa knew that her understanding of war was poor at best. But a ten thousand foot tall wall of magical ice dwarfed any defense that man had across the continent.
The giant of a man grumbled. "Mors could escort the traitors to the Wall."
"By the gods, you great fool." Lady Dustin cut in from where she was sitting by Lord Forrester. She glared at Umber before turning to Sansa. "You can't send all of them away or they'll be seen as guilty regardless of keeping their heads."
Davos spoke carefully. "She's not wrong, sending them away makes them guilty."
Sansa kept her mouth shut as she allowed herself to see their point. "None of them can remain in the guard for the royal family. Or for anything vital."
"Ser Wagstaff was genuinely upset by the rest of them breaking their vows. Also he's like...ten." Daisy's look of bafflement was vaguely amusing.
Davos frowned. "He's eight and ten?"
"Right...but he's all 'knights must follow their vows' and generally I'm kinda horrified he's survived this long in an active army without a single brain cell dedicated to like...anything that isn't outright stated. I think he failed to notice the murder vibes happening because he was too dumb to." Daisy shrugged, which she was not wearing the arm sling… "Keep him in the guard rotations for the royal fam, just like...pair him with someone with a brain. But someone tries to attack you and he'll stab them gleefully and probably effectively…?"
Jon gave a sigh. "She's not wrong, he's loyal to his oaths."
Glover crossed his arms. "That leaves four others you hold above reproach, remove them from positions of authority but leave them in your household. Send the remaining ungrateful bastards to the Wall with orders to...regain their honor or something suitably boring but understandable as you being disappointed in the fuckers instead of them being guilty."
"Send them to the Last Hearth, their change from there to the Wall is a shorter journey and won't imply they're being punished for anything more than failing to notice treason happening under their noses." Lady Dustin agreed.
Sansa noted no one disagreed with the statement. "Good, then see to it once the execution is over, I want every man of the Stormlands in the courtyard for the execution. And put Ser Wagstaff behind my shoulder with someone Northern, Brienne and a Wildling with Rickon and let's be done with it."
Sansa found the executions themselves...anti-climatic. It was cold, snow lightly falling as each traitor was dragged to the block, beheaded and then dragged to a body cart. It was utterly silent in the courtyard. Jon didn't ask for their last words, and the men to be executed didn't offer any. The small folk, nobility and soldiers just witnessed it with ruthless, silent, fury. She didn't doubt for a second that if she'd had a single visible bruise the crowd would have attempted to rip the guilty to shreds.
But for all that it was a simple affair she looked at Jon with regret, they needed a better system for execution. She couldn't depend on him to bear the weight of swinging the sword. It wasn't fair to him, and even in this moment where he wasn't conflicted over the death he was dealing, it was clear to her at least, that it would bother him. Sansa refused to appoint an executioner, but to let Jon do it...she needed a better way, even if it meant hanging criminals instead of beheading them so she could do it herself.
As the last head hit the ground with a wet thump, the incident was hopefully brought to its bloody end. She could only be more cautious in the future and hope the point was made. Because if even this wasn't enough she didn't know how to make a stronger statement. Well a stronger statement that she was willing to make. Sansa's jaw remained firm, her chin raised as she turned and left the courtyard. It was enough that she did not blink as she witnessed the justice done in her name.
/
Jon ran his whetstone along the length of his sword. Not that Longclaw needed it, it's valyrian steel glinting in the light despite the faint smattering of snowflakes. He let the silence of the gods' wood soothe him. He wasn't surprised to hear the sound of a thick woolen dress brushing across the fresh snow. Looking up he stilled his motions.
Sansa looked down at him, raising a single brow. She didn't say anything, but she must have seen something on his face because she moved closer and sat beside him. She let out a long sigh, gazing across the black pool, and simply stayed beside him.
They just sat there. Eventually, he returned to sharpening his blade. It was...nice. He put his whetstone away with practiced motions. Jon turned and looked at his sister. The one he'd known and loved least as a child, but now he found his humanity beside. "What now?"
"We find a better way to kill the dead, we hold the North together. And we survive a hundred more days like this one, and a thousand unlike it."
"When did you get so wise?" He asked, a fond smile on his face.
She straightened her skirts. "I'm not wise." Her face was tired then. "I should have known this was coming. Daisy warned me back in Barrowtown there was something happening in their ranks."
"They weren't even considering turning on you then." Jon's face furrowed as he tried to piece together how his sister thought she'd failed. She'd even stabbed one of her attackers, which was impressive and not something he'd known she could do.
She shook her head. "I knew they believed Daisy a monster, and I knew they believed you were their chosen leader. They are the sort of men who'd act on those beliefs. Killing me and attempting to drive off if not kill Daisy is the obvious path."
"The true fight, the war they believe must be won for their god is to the North though. You are leading them against that enemy." Jon stared at her and reached out taking her hand. "You cannot know what everyone will do before they do it all of the time."
Her head turned to his sharply, a horrible certainty and faint terror. "I have to Jon, if Daisy hadn't of been there they would have succeeded. There is nothing but victory or defeat in this game, one misstep and the cost is death. We won't get a second chance."
"Sansa…"
"No, I should have seen it coming, I have to do better." She breathed out, looking away from him again. "I need to delegate more, I've been doing too much and it's left me blind."
Jon stared into the pool, the snowy clouds reflected in it's dark surface. "I misjudged my men, and they killed me. I may be your Hand, but I cannot see what you see."
"I don't need you to." Sansa tightened her hand in his grip. "I can't swing a sword or lead armies. Together we might be enough."
He released her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders hugging her to him. "We have to be." Or the ages of man would end.
They sat there, quiet as they simply existed beside one another. It was a calm, a sense of belonging he scarce recognized for what it was. Peace. Yes, he felt sorrow, grief, exhaustion, a hundred other conflicting emotions. But it was peace, and it was understanding. And so they remained there together.
/
Daisy burst into Fitz's workshop. She barely glanced at Crann, Osha or Rickon. Jittery energy was buzzing under her skin. "Sup, I need to talk to Fitz. Alone." It was kind of an order.
"Uh.." Fitz looked at her in some confusion from where he'd been…hitting something with a mallet?
Osha acted quickly. "Come on Little Wolf, you have lessons with Maester Wolken soon." She reached up, resting her hand on Rickon's shoulder and gently pushing him towards the door.
Crann bowed to her. "Holiness, I'll…be out in the yard?" He scurried out the door.
Fitz pointed at Rickon. "D-don't ignore your math. It's i-important."
"I won't!" Rickon whined as he was pushed out the door by a fond looking Osha.
Daisy shut the door with a wave of her hand. She was barely thinking about the casual display of power. "Fitz something's wrong with my powers, they're growing."
"Ah." Fitz set his tools down, crossing his arms. "W-well they always were g-going to grow."
She pushed her hair behind her ears. "Fitz I exploded those men without trying and I can feel it." Daisy bit at her lip and then reached out and set her hand on his shoulder letting her vibrations run through him. Their intensity near violent.
Fitz's expression was stunned, his mouth falling open. "D-daisy…."
She yanked her hand back. . "It's been like this since the attack." Her eyes narrowed. "What's that look for?"
"That's n-not a power spike." Fitz wet his lips. "T-that's your temper."
Daisy closed her eyes. Breathing in slowly she centered herself breathing out. So, bad news. "Explain, 'cause it doesn't usually feel like this."
"Look…" He ran through his hair. "You've b-been using your powers more here right? L-like way more than at home?"
She blinked. "I don't have a cellphone, laptop, tv, or video games and it's the dark ages. So yeah, it's something to do that's not building a cult?" Daisy's shoulders wanted to tighten. She had a terrible feeling she knew where this was going. "And I'm apparently a god here."
"When was the l-last time you needed your g-gauntlets?" Fitz had that critical look he got when piecing together a puzzle.
Daisy opened and then shut her mouth….when she'd first arrived? No, she'd been wearing them more out of habit than anything on the zephyr. "Oh. But…how? The serum should have fucked up my control?"
"Well yeah." Fitz shrugged. "But with your powers not br-breaking you anymore you can actually use them now." He poked at her shoulder, frowning as the vibrations transferred to him. "I t-think you've been connecting your senses to v-vibrations for a while now. So y-you got mad, reached for their v-vibrations and 'boom'." He made an exploding motion with his hands. "Y-you're still upset so your vibrations are a-agitated." His head tilted to the side. "N-not sure why though…like w-we almost get killed all the time."
She had a single name pop into her head then, 'Sansa'. Sansa had almost been killed and that was unacceptable. She was her…kind of her best friend now that she thought about it. Biting her lip she considered it. She hadn't been happy to get shot, hell her shoulder was faintly sore still even if she was acting like it wasn't. She hadn't spared a thought for Fitz's safety, he could handle himself. So could Sansa, she was proud as shit Sansa had stabbed one of her attackers. She might have even survived long enough for Brienne to get there. But…it wasn't acceptable. "That's…not good."
Because she'd react like that if the team was in danger, slightly. But that violently? Probably not. At least not without threats first. Daisy wouldn't blink at blowing up someone who tried to hurt Fitz or Jemma or any of the team really. But she wouldn't do it instantly when she had other options to try first. Negotiate first if the mission permitted it, that was the first lesson in combat. The golden rule, May may have sucked at it but she still passed it on. It was practically Coulson's guiding motto. And she hadn't done that. There were very few times she hadn't done that.
It was…well that was deeply awkward. Now that she was thinking of it, if she hadn't of known Sansa was surrounded by excellent guards she's personally felt the vibrations of she'd have stayed by her side. Because deep to her bones it was telling her to ensure Sansa was safe. The steady heartbeat she hadn't let out of her focus was there in the back of her head. That was…oh that was really bad. "Shit."
"W-what? Do you know what's d-different?" Fitz was suddenly interested. And then he clearly saw something in her face, because it turned to pity. "Oh, Daisy…"
She held up a hand. "I can deal with it."
"Y-yes, the paste you made is you dealing with your crush." He sighed, his hand running through his hair again. "Hell." His shoulders slumped. "You have t-terrible timing and taste."
Daisy dropped her hands on her hips, rocking back and forth slightly. He wasn't entirely wrong. Even Lincoln had been on a different side when they'd started their thing. And while that had been awful and painful, she was aware anything with Sansa was utterly out of the question. The woman hid it well but she tensed when anyone got close to touching her. Hell, she'd seen the woman stabbing the body of her former 'husband'. Something dark coiled in her gut at the reminder of Ramsey fucking Bolton.
Fuck knew if Sansa was anything but straight, but based on what Daisy had seen she probably was. And even if it wasn't…Sansa thought she was a god. It'd be so horrifically easy if not inevitable for any advances to be seen as coercion. Which meant nothing could happen. The faintest hint of her feelings and Sansa would clam up instantly. Hell, it'd taken them months just to become friends. A friendship she valued.
Daisy swallowed the bile in the back of her throat. Right. Her luck was the actual worse. "No one can know."
"Uh…everyone knows?" Fitz was looking at her like she was a spooked animal.
She glared at him. "To protect her."
"R-right…uh…when we get h-home I'll make you some real s-strong alcohol?" Fitz awkwardly shuffled back.
She gave a sharp nod, that was a terrible idea but frankly, she'd probably need it. However, if she lost her temper like this it wouldn't be hard for Sansa to pick up on what she'd realized. Unless….that slimeball Baelish was arriving tomorrow. A few strong gestures of courtship to ensure she was safe. Sansa would assume the timing had to do with Baelish. Daisy swallowed. "Fitz, how do I make sure nobody even thinks of threatening her again? Cause just cause it's a lost cause doesn't mean I can't ensure she's safe."
His eyes were sharp as he folded his arms. "Well….you a-are technically a god killer? A-and how many Kree did you k-kill looking for me?"
Daisy drew a line through the last idea. "There's too much that could go wrong with that."
"I d-don't know, you wouldn't crack t-the pipes probably." Fitz shrugged.
She stared at him. "Seriously?"
Fitz groaned but didn't disagree. "Fine…w-we're the worst for this."
"Totes." Daisy buried her head in her hands. "Jemma or Mack or Yo-Yo wouldn't be dealing with this shit."
Fitz reached out and hesitantly gave her one of the most awkward shoulder pats in history. "We h-haven't done too bad. What's o-one cult?"
She let out a whine of sheer frustration. Because she missed her family, her world, her everything like a missing limb. She'd give almost anything to be able to hug Jemma, and tease Davis and Piper before heading back to earth. God shitty take out, missions, SHIELD, she really needed to face a conversation with May. It was just…so much. But at the same time, she really cared about these people here. "I hate this." Worst time to catch feelings ever.
/
Lord Forrester stared at Lords Glover and Manderly and a very awkward looking Brienne of Tarth. "You want to form a Queensguard?"
"Aye." Glover poured them all drinks. "Lady Brienne here is already her sworn sword so I thought she ought to be here. But if the three of us bring it up at the next small council meeting, her Grace might accept."
Brienne muttered into her mug of ale as it was handed to her. "Not a Lady."
"The North's never had a Queensguard, or Kingsguard. It's a southern thing. Pays homage to their Faith of the Seven." Forrester folded his hands, he didn't disagree they needed to do something though. They'd come far too close to losing another damned ruler. "But after Robb and now this…"
"Exactly. Those southern pounces got something right there. And we make it of the North." Glover agreed. "Look we have to do something, we can't keep losing our Lords, Kings and Queens like bloody flies."
Forrester nodded, the man had a point. They hadn't had a Stark not die a bloody violent death in three generations. And it wasn't like Starks had historically died peacefully in their sleep of old age all that reliably. Oh sure a few peaceful deaths existed, but a lot of violent bloody deaths as well. "It could be used against her Grace if we replicate the southern court too much. Forming a proper small council already is pushing what will be allowed."
"A royal guard doesn't have to be called a Queensguard.." Brienne put in carefully.
Manderly nodded as he took a long draw of his own ale before sitting. His chair groaned in protest but held nonetheless. "Five men, for the shape of the weirwood tree leaves. Seems fair enough to me."
"Can't give them red cloaks, to Lannister looking." Glover pulled out a sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal for writing quick notes and looked at them expectantly. "Stark green?"