If he had been alone, could have done something about the itch on his right arse-cheek, unfortunately, as the Starks were standing stock still waiting in the courtyard for the king to arrive, he could not switch his hand to his rear to scratch it. To his left was Robb, the twins showing the two sides to the Stark family perfectly, and to his right was Sansa, eagerly staring at the entrance to the courtyard, Tristan not doubting that she was waiting to put her eyes on the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms. To her right was Bran, standing stock still whilst the other members of his family were to Robb's left. No, not quite all, he realised, Arya isn't here. As he was about to voice this, his mother also asked where his sister was, Sansa shrugged in a very un-lady-like way. Then the culprit in question ran across the courtyard wearing a guardsman's helmet, fortunately, their father caught her and passed the helmet to Rodrik. Tristan joined the rest of the household, or at least the male members of the household, in smirking at the girl's actions, only Arya. They quickly went back to their old stoic image as the first of the royal procession, a knight of the Kingsguard entered the courtyard, swiftly followed by a blonde boy in furs and blood red clothes, Tristan could only assume he was the crown prince and a sigh made him look to his right. Sure enough, Sansa was gazing at the new arrival with misty eyes and was making noises that made Tristan want to empty his insides onto the floor. He did not like the boy, he decided in that moment, if the prince hurt his sister, the royal blood coursing through his brains would not keep him safe from the Sword of the North. Tristan watched as the knights and other members of the royal party slowly drifted into the courtyard and, when everyone else bowed, he took his cue from them and dropped to his knee. He had to follow the others for he had no idea what the King looked like, but if it was the last person to enter then he did not look like the legendary Robert Baratheon, with the black hair and huge war hammer of legend. Instead, it was a surprise that the horse was still upright with the huge lump of fat on top of it. The heavy footfalls that approached the Starks further showed this weight and Tristan, once more following the example of his family, stood when they did and looked at the King. Tristan turned as the king greeted his father, looking at the women as they disembarked from the carriage. The Queen and her daughter looked too southern for him, hair like beaten gold, and too ostentatious, dressed in far too decorative clothes, he was surprised that they were not shivering, it was not the warmest of days in the Northern summer. Not that it mattered to him, more of a woman to see can never be a bad thing. But there was another girl, she was different. She looked to be perhaps two years younger than him, possibly three. Her dress, dark blue in colour, was far less arrogant, she wore no jewels, leaving her pale neckline exposed for all to see but, to Tristan's disappointment, the dress did not plunge too far down. Her hair was onyx black and fell around her shoulders in thick curls, reaching to just below her shoulder blades. Her eyes were dark blue and sharp, and her face was angular and sharp, every line ending with a sharp point. I hope no one's had to smack sense into her, they'd cut their hands on those cheekbones. But she also looked sad, he could see it in her eyes, it was the same look that Robb and Jon had had the day he had left Winterfell for the Dreadfort. This must be the King's niece, he couldn't remember her name, but she bore such a look to the man who was the king that it could be no other.
"The Sword of the North," Tristan's attention snapped to the king, who was addressing him. "We have heard much about you in the court."
Tristan bowed his head. "Thank you, your grace," he replied. "Good things I hope." Unlikely though.
The King laughed, "many a good thing yes, I look forward to seeing that fabled sword-arm of yours whilst I am here."
Tristan's smile crept onto his face. "If it pleases you, your grace, it would certainly please me." He may be fat as a sow, but he has a good head on his shoulders. Still, had tales of Highgarden not spread to King's Landing?
The King clapped him on the shoulder, "good man, it will be arranged," Tristan turned his gaze to the Kingsguard, there were not seven, not that he could see, but the famed Kingslayer was here, his lion helm and golden armour were a stark contrast to the pure white that the rest of that order bore. The Kingslayer would make a fine opponent, but any of them would suit me well I don't doubt. But it would have to wait for that time, it would not be now, first there would be a feast, in which Robb would escort the princess and he would be left, like a leper, to make the walk to the high table alone. He could see the laughter on Theon's face already.
Before the feast, Tristan found solace in the godswood, in one of the higher branches of the Heart Tree. He was alone, for Robb had more formalities to assume, being the heir to Winterfell, than he did, giving him certain freedoms that Robb could no longer enjoy. Still, this place was better when I came with Robb. Before the bastard and the Dreadfort. In their youth they had often come here together with Jon, and Theon when he arrived after the failed rebellion of the Greyjoys.
He sighed. He was not looking forward to this, it was too much pomp and ceremony for him, he would rather just go in sit down and eat, his skills lay with the sword, not with the tongue, if he wasn't interested then he simply wouldn't talk, but he was expected to flatter and soothe, to compliment the weak and cow tow to the lazy. It made him sick.
"Tristan," called out his mother, who must have ventured into the godswood to find him, "Tristan."
Tristan sighed and dropped, hanging off the branch and climbing nimbly down the tree until he dropped on the ground. His mother was sternly waiting for him there. "Mother," he said. Here it comes.
She sighed, "Tristan, you need to stop climbing."
"I agreed to stop climbing the walls, not the trees." One of his few talents was avoiding instructions as much as possible. But even that lost its charm. He wasn't a boy any longer.
"But Bran takes after you in that, he climbs too high and too much," she truly looked fearful for Bran, who was a far better climber than Tristan was, Tristan had not been to the tops of the towers in years but he was never as fast as Bran was. Bran is unnatural, the day he falls from a the walls is the day I go south of my own accord.
Tristan nodded, "very well mother, I will have words with Bran once the royal visit is done and they are moving their arses back to the south, where they can all curl up in front of some warm fire and forget about us."
His mother looked relieved and sat down. She did not come here often, so it must have been serious, so Tristan sat down as well, running his fingers through a cool dark pool. "You must not be in such a manner in front of the royal court Tristan," she chided him, "you do reflect on Winterfell and the family with your actions."
Tristan looked into the black water of the pool. "I know mother, but do they have to be so… southern, the queen reeked disdain."
"She is a Lannister," his mother pointed out, "I would ask that you do not judge all southerners by the Lannisters of Casterly Rock." Tristan felt his cheeks flush, he sometimes forgot that his mother came from Riverrun when he spoke, it was ill of him, she was of Winterfell now.
"Forgive me mother," he said, looking her in the eye. "I meant no offence." One day I'll meet someone who truly gets offended. He'd beat them as he did everyone else.
"I know," his mother said, reaching out and taking his hand in her own. "But you must learn not to offend unintentionally. I do not take it personally, but the likes of the Lannisters will do so."
"Let them," Tristan said, "I fear no Lannister." His hand was shaking. "I don't," he told himself.
"Maybe not for yourself," his mother said, "but they have power over the throne, and, judging by the clothes of the Crown Prince, they will over the next one as well, they could do a great deal to your family." She reached out and touched his cheek, her touch was not strong, but he did not resist it as she made him look her in the eye. "You are my boy," she told him, "you have Ned's look instead of mine but do not think that I love you any less, when your father sent you to the Dreadfort it broke my heart, but he was insistent that you learn your lesson."
"And it is a lesson I have learned," Tristan replied, "but not very well, if the Lannisters harm my family, I will kill every single one of them."
()()()
As it turned out, he would not be walking to the high table alone, rather he would be escorting the King's niece to the high table to be seated near her and to entertain her for the evening. He put on his best clothes for the evening, a cloak lined with the fur of a snow white bear, and the cloak itself was black as night, whilst his main clothes were the grey and white of Stark. He was presented with the King's niece by the king himself outside the main door. "Sword," the King had said, "this is my niece, Shireen Baratheon, you will be escorting her," with nothing else to say, the King marched off to Tristan's mother whom he would be escorting to the feast.
Tristan bowed his head. "My lady," he said.
She curtsied to him, her new dress was shining gold and she had a pearl necklace on that plunged down into a low neckline, which Tristan snatched more than one glance at, far more satisfied with this one than the one she had been wearing when she arrived. Whoever thought of the idea of chastity had no cock. "My lord," she replied. She held out her hand and Tristan took it and kissed it, glad that he would not scratch her with his newly clean-shaven chin.
"You'll have to forgive me in advance my lady, I am not very good at this," he admitted to her, although it was not something he was truly ashamed of. "My brother normally has the honour of the noble ladies."
She didn't appear unnerved by that. "I also lack much experience at this... I won't know bad from good, my lord."
"A fine idea," Tristan said smiling. They moved into line, behind Bran and Rickon, the two boys standing tall as statues but a fidgety as mice.
They entered the feast together, and Tristan hoped that it would be better than he had feared.
He held out his right hand and Lady Shireen took it, adjusting her sleeve slightly as she did so. They walked down the centre of the hall and he guided the Baratheon lady to her seat, sitting down on her right side when she had done so. He was shortly joined by Robb and the Princess Myrcella, who looked up at Robb with a blush on her face and wide adoring eyes. The two of them sat next to Tristan, closer to the Royal couple and Robb and Tristan's parents. The meal itself was enjoyable to Tristan, who noticed Lady Shireen adjust her left sleeve a few more times.
As they were watching Robb dance with the princess, and Sansa dance with the prince; whilst the King fondled a serving girl and the queen looked imperiously at them all, Lady Shireen asked, "are you going to ask me to dance, my lord? I believe it is custom at events like this." It was not an accusation-like question, but rather one of interest.
Tristan shook his head, "I only dance when I sing," he told her, "and I only sing with steel."
"Ah yes," she commented, "there was much talk of your victory in the tourney at Highgarden in the capital around the untimely death of the Hand."
"I didn't win the tourney, so much," Tristan informed her. In the south, men got ashamed of such matters, but Tristan had not jousted on principle, so it mattered not to him. "I won the melee, my good friend Domeric Bolton won the joust and the tournament."
"Apologies," Lady Shireen said. "But the tourney of Northern Valour, as it has become known stoked up quite an interest at court."
"Valour?" Tristan asked, shocked. After what had happened there, what he had done there, surely they wouldn't call it that. Northern brutality, savagery yes, but valour, no. "You're certain they call it the Tourney of Northern Valour?"
"Unofficially," she commented in reply. "And it is not a widely known name, to most it is still the Tourney of Highgarden."
I shouldn't push this further. I am representing the Starks, as mother said. What happened there.. they can never know. "Well," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "I care not what people call it, or me."
"Was your brother there?" Lady Shireen asked.
"No," he said simply. He had wished more than anything that they were, but they were not. "I was in service to Lord Bolton at the Dreadfort at the time," he explained, "I was going as a companion to his son, and Domeric let me compete when I was down there."
"He must be a close friend," she commented.
Tristan nodded. "Me, Domeric, Daryn Hornwood, Cley Cerwyn, we are as close as you can get without growing up in the same castle."
"I haven't heard of the others," Shireen said, taking a sip of her own drink. "Daryn and Cley."
"Daryn of House Hornwood," Tristan replied, "Cley of House Cerwyn. Together with Domeric, my closest friends outside Winterfell." He smiled at the memories they had. "We used to go together in many places, when others came to Winterfell for the Harvest Feast, we slipped out, stole horses and were riding in the Rills for days. Our fathers sent hundreds of men after us, we were all locked in our castles for the next two months, but after that we saw each other regularly. Mostly by me visiting them," he admitted, "my lack of duties as a second son give me more free time than the others. And two of them are already bound by betrothals."
"They are?" Shireen asked, apparently with genuine curiosity. "To whom?"
"Daryn is betrothed to Alys Karstark," he told her, "and Domeric to one of Lord Redfort's daughters."
"Is Lord Redfort not a Lord of the Vale?" She asked.
Tristan nodded. "Domeric squired for the Redforts for three years, he only returned a year ago," he told her, shortly before I removed his bastard brother's corrupted head, "but he developed a friendship with Lord Redfort's sons, and came away with a betrothal offer, which his father accepted."
"And none for yourself?" She asked.
He looked at her, eyebrows raised. "Interested, my Lady?" He asked coyly. He leant in close to her ear, "intrigued by the northern warrior?"
Her cheeks flushed a deep red, nearly violet. "I... I... my lord... I..."
"You have no idea what you would be getting in to," he replied, kissing her cheek lightly. If she were of slightly lower birth, he would have continued, but one does not bed the king's niece without consequences.
She was shaking with nerves in that moment, quivering and fussing with her sleeves. "My lord, please... this is... improper." Gods this one is chaste and innocent, but in this dress, at this time, she could only be described as beautiful.
"Very well then, my lady. I humbly apologise. I meant no offence."
"That is... quite alright, my lord. Thank you."
He nodded. "Would you still like to dance, my lady?"
She nodded. "Anything to put off my singing."
Tristan looked for Robb, who had just finished dancing with the Princess. "Robb!" He called out, over the noise of the musicians. He beckoned his other half over. "The lady wants to dance," he told him simply, checking his father wasn't looking before refilling his wine.
"Oh, and you want me to dance with her?" Robb asked.
"Not especially," Tristan smirked back, looking between Robb and Shireen, who had her eyebrows raised as well. "But she wants to, and you can, besides," he said, draining his glass and getting to his feet. "I need to take a piss."
Robb shook his head, laughing as he did, even Lady Shireen cracked a smile, her cheeks returning to their alabaster hue. "Eloquent," she commented.
"Isn't he just," Robb added, holding out his hand. "Well, my lady, shall we?" She took his hand and Robb led her out to dance. Leaving Tristan the opportunity to go to the privy.
On his way back, he bumped into a man with golden hair, green eyes, in a golden and red tunic. "Lannister," he greeted.
"Stark," Jaime Lannister replied.
Tristan nodded, then made to move past him. "Your pardon," he said, but Jaime Lannister stopped him.
"I hear you will be coming south with us."
"I don't know about that." Tristan replied. Not if I have a choice.
"It will be good to have the fabled Sword of the North with us, the competition has become rather stale."
Tristan smiled at him. "If you were hoping to see me in the lists," he told the Lannister. "Then you'll be disappointed, I have little time for poking a man with a very long stick."
"The melee then," he replied, still smiling, and moving aside so that Tristan could pass. He nodded his appreciation and moved past him. He entered the hall to see that things were getting more and more out of hand. He slowly made his way to the main table, where Arya and Sansa appeared to be up to their usual antics, well, Arya anyway. His mother gave him a pointed look and then looked at Arya, Bran and Rickon. Tristan, upon catching sight of Robb still dancing, nodded back.
"Not like the wine Rickon?" He asked, looking over their shoulder.
Rickon shook his head so Tristan picked up the cup and sipped. "You're right," he said faking a grimace. "This is horrible, leave it with me, I'll get rid of it. He downed the glass. He smacked his lips. "Now," he said, "let's get you three off to bed."
After a little protesting, and carrying a sleepy Rickon in his arms, he escorted his three youngest siblings off to their chambers. Rickon and Bran went without protest, but Arya required him to enter her chambers and see that she got into her night dress and into bed. "Come on Arya," he pressed. "You've had more than enough fun for the night."
She grumbled and sat on the bed, refusing to lie down. "Do I have to?" She asked. Tristan did not bother replying, simply glaring at her, but his sister could be almost as stubborn as he was at times. "Tell me about the Dreadfort," she insisted. Tristan sighed and sat down on her bed next to her.
"You want to hear about the Dreadfort?" He asked her teasingly. "About the room where they hung the skins of their enemies?" She nodded eagerly and he laughed. "Some other time Arya," he said, pushing her gently down and tucking her in. "Now go to bed, little sister," he said, kissing her forehead. She scowled, but closed her eyes as he blew her candle out and left the room.
When he shut Arya's door, he decided to get some air, get away from the hot Great Hall, so he went outside and leant against a wooden railing, breathing in the cold fresh air. "The hall is not to your liking?" He recognised the voice.
"Not really," Tristan replied as Jaime Lannister came up beside him.
"The Lady Shireen is about to sing," the Lannister added. "It is quite something to hear."
"I don't doubt it," he replied, "neither do I care about it."
"A man after my own heart," Jaime Lannister commented, and Tristan eyed him warily. He never knew what to make of southerner comments, they often tried to hide a dozen different meanings.
Tristan pushed off the railing and stepped down into the courtyard. "Go on then," he said wearily, "ask about Highgarden, I can tell you want to."
"No I don't," Lannister replied at once. "The thought hadn't crossed my mind, why ask when you can see." See what, unless there are- oh. He didn't know what had happened, he thought it just a melee.
Tristan smiled, now he knew what Jaime Lannister wanted, and made his way to the armoury. He pulled two blunted training swords out of it and tossed one to Jaime Lannister, who caught it deftly.
Tristan got into his own stance, adjusting his grip to compensate for the blade that was not his. He nodded at Jaime Lannister, who nodded back.
They leapt at each other.
He did not think, his sword arm acted instinctively, flashing left and right, up and down, striking high and low, deflecting, parrying and blocking from every direction as he fought Jaime Lannister. He could tell instantly that he was fighting the best swordsman he had ever faced. Lannister seemed almost lazy in his moves, but the lights in his eyes showed his excitement.
They exchanged a flurry of blows before locking blades tightly. Tristan, pushed up and away, knocking Jaime Lannister's blade aside and slashing a powerful blow at his belly. But the Lannister spun away and Tristan had to do the same in order to get back into a defendable position. He attacked again, striking high four times then dropping low, under Lannister's sword and striking at his ankles. But Lannister jumped and brought his sword down on him with a powerful strike, which Tristan blocked but it sent him to the ground. He had to move his legs deftly as he blocked every strike the Lannister sent at him, eventually using his blade as a hook knocking him off his own feet. But when Tristan brought his blade down in a hammering smash, Jaime Lannister had already rolled away as swiftly as a squirrel.
Smiling with enjoyment, he leapt at the Kingslayer again, smashing at him four times and using his elbow to slam Jaime Lannister's torso, making the Kingsguard grunt in pain. Then Tristan raised up and sunk his knee deep into Lannister's stomach, doubling him up. Against the knights of the Reach, that would have won him the spar, as he raised his sword looking to bring it down on Lannister's exposed head. But his foe reacted, sinking a fist into his own stomach, and doubling him up. Thinking instinctively, Tristan grabbed one of Lannister's legs and yanked, but he spun away before Tristan could trip him fully. They broke apart, panting and in stance.
Tristan looked deep into Lannister's eyes, and threw down his sword.
Jaime Lannister's eyes raised in surprise. "I didn't think you the type to surrender," he said.
"I didn't think you the type to hold back," he replied simply panting heavily. "But here we are." I have no time for a man who doesn't fight his hardest. That's no use to me. Still... What he had seen and experienced. It shouldn't be possible to be so deft with a blade. Whatever else you said about the Kingslayer, he knew the steel song well enough.
His foe laughed. "True," he said, dropping his own sword. "But you did well, you have great potential. Like myself at your age."
"Ancient history," Tristan smirked back. Lannister smirked too.
"It feels like it sometimes," he commented. "Still, I can see why those knights fell to you so readily at Highgarden, I know few as skilled with a blade as you."
Tristan's face darkened and he felt the anger he felt inside reflected on his featured. Jaime Lannister looked confused. "Have I said something that upset you?"
Tristan picked up the two training swords silently and put them back in the armoury. "There are two sides to every story Lannister," he said simply as he turned back to the superior swordsman. "What happened at Highgarden remains there. I will not discuss it further."
No longer caring about the feast, he made his way to bed, silently. He stripped down in his chambers, thankful for the piping in the walls, but missing the feel of a warm body beside his own. The last image in his mind was that of himself, standing in the middle of a room of blood, his sword unsheathed and coated in red gore.
