For Blood and Wine are Red
Chapter Four: The Red Keep
Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews last chapter! You're all awesome!
Shout out to Mocking_point of ao3 for guessing the anime that inspired the sailor characters! The anime was Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, and their prize was a scene of their choosing. There were some awesome ideas (I wanted to write all of them, but the chapter started to get away from me ), so the two prompts that I've used were Sansa and Wylla talking about their siblings, and Wylla not-so-subtly asking about the marriageability of Sansa's older brothers.
He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty place
What Could Go Wrong? Sansa thought hysterically as she and Arya followed Lord Varys into the Small Council Chambers, their Lady's Mask and Lord's Face tight about them. She is so, so thankful for Jory and Sandor Clegane at their backs, but by the gods Old and New how she wishes she had Lady and Nymeria at their sides as well. It is taking every piece of mental fortitude she possesses not to twitch or fidget; a Direwolf's ruff to sink her hand in would be perfect, right now. At least a wolf would be allowed to enter the Small Council Chambers with them; both Jory and Clegane remain stationed at the door into the Chambers, leaving the sisters alone amongst the Lords.
"In absentia of the Hand Lord Eddard Stark and the Crown Prince Joffery Baratheon," Lord Varys calls ahead, soft voice raised just slightly, "might I present the Ladies Sansa and Arya of House Stark?"
Sansa and Arya both raise their heads and straighten their spines; Sansa gives her best smile and prettiest curtsey, with Arya a stiff shadow at her side.
"My ladies!" Cheers a gentleman with the same dark hair and bright eyes as the king. "You favour your parents considerably."
"Thank you, Lord Renly," Sansa answers for them both. "As you favour your brother his grace, as well. If it pleases you, my lord, as we are one day to become family I would like to take a turn of the castle with you later to learn the design and learn more about House Baratheon."
"It would be my pleasure, Lady Sansa," he smiles sweetly back. "And you, Lady Arya? Would you join us as well?"
Arya takes a moment to mull over her answer, before using a pleasant tone to say, "If you please, my lord. I'd like to learn all about the castle while I'm here."
"As I understand it, Lady Wylla Manderly has travelled with you as well?" Lord Varys inquires.
Aha, Sansa thinks. The spy is at the Harbour.
"The more the merrier!" Lord Renly cheers again. He is far more friendly than his brother, Sansa thinks.
The small man at the other end of the table to Lord Renly clears his throat softly, just loud enough to gain attention. This one has salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee, a style of beard that Wylla had told them was fashionable for men of the South. "He is right, my ladies, in that you favour your parents considerably. Though whilst the Lady Sansa is your mother in her younger days, Lady Arya is the spitting image of your Aunt Lyanna!"
"That is kind of you to say, my lord," Arya gets out. "Though, I'm told I have the Stark look – do I not look like Father and Uncle Benjen and Uncle Brandon too, then? Did you ever meet them, too?"
How awkward, Sansa thinks despairingly. At the mention of Uncle Brandon, anger had flashed hot and wild in his eyes for all of a second, before he laughed awkwardly and waved a casual hand, as if brushing aside a cobweb. "All too well, my ladies – I met them all at the last Tourney at Harrenhal, and still carry a token of Brandon's esteem, from navel to collarbone."
Sansa gasps, draws the attention from Arya's too-keen grey eyes back to herself. "Did you duel him, my lord? How brave!"
"Love makes us do many things, my lady," he smiles at her, inclines his head, and shift shift shift, "I am Lord Petyr Baelish, of the Fingers. Your mother may have mentioned me."
He had challenged their uncle for Mother's hand and lost. SHIFT. And then Mother had wed Father? Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh gods –
"So sorry to hear about your troubles on the Kings Road, my ladies," Lord Baelish offers with a smiling face and unsmiling cat-green eyes. "We are all praying for Prince Joffery's full recovery."
"That is kind of you, my lord," Arya offers with the sweetest smile in her repertoire, the false smile of a younger sister trying to blame an older sibling. "I hope that you are also praying for the butcher's son who was murdered – his name was Mycah, if you had not heard it, and he was twelve."
Oh no no no no no, Mother on high preserve them they won't even last a week – !
"Then, you must be Grand Maester Pycelle!" Sansa interjects quickly, turning to the elderly man seated at the table. "But, surely we are missing more council members than just his grace and our Father?"
A still breath, before Lord Renly informs them that his brother Lord Stannis, the Master of Ships, has returned to his seat at Dragonstone with no plans to return.
What is wrong with this city, these people? Lords Baelish and Varys know something, Sansa is sure, and she doesn't think it is anything kind.
"Well then," she tries, summoning her Mother in council as best she can. "If I might have a pen and paper to note-take for my betrothed and Arya to note-take for our father, my lords, we can start at your leisure."
Wynnie had never understand how she could be both Wylla and Fin, Northern Lady and Lord of the Underground. Wynnie could never get her head around it, but Arya Stark had looked at her and seen her, had understood that sometimes she was one or the other or both at once. Wylla loves her sister, would do almost anything for her and their House – but she would do just as much for the Ladies Stark.
They left her in charge of their few belongings and Septa Mordane, so she scouts out the suite that her ladies and their Lord father have been given, has stalked up and down every wall until she knows exactly where the windows are, the height of the rooms, the length of the walls. She repeated the same process in her own chambers, adjacent to that of the Hand's suite, and is looking forward to the Hour of the Wolf so that she can practice climbing into and out of the windows. If it were darker she might try to slip out and back to the harbour to gain a better understanding of this cesspit city, but it is still glaringly bright. So, she decides, she will just have to visit a Sept, the Southern excuse for a Godswood, and the rookery instead. That should at least keep her busy until her ladies' return!
She convinces Septa Mordane to come with her as a deterrent against gossipers, and the both of them stop to ask servants for directions. The moment they step outside of the Keep, they have two tails. Interesting. The tails follow her and Mordane all the way to the Sept, hanging back whilst the pair go about their business lighting the candles they need for their prayers. Wylla lights candles to the Mother for her family and for Lord Stark's safety. She had wanted to light candles to the Smith for help with Lady Sansa's hairpin plan, but she was watched here too, so she didn't dare. Instead she lit a candle to the Maiden, and prayed for a safe execution of their plans, for a lack of marriage offers for herself and the Lady Arya. Her usual practice was to offer a prayer to the Stranger for protection against those her wanted her head – either as Wylla or Fin – but today she hesitated. Most Southerners avoided the Black God unless they were praying for the recently deceased, or one that they wished to be so. Would she have the defence of "Northern customs" to protect her intentions? Or would she invite unnecessary study upon her person, and give the game away before they could even start?
Seven Hells. What Could Go Wrong?
Problem. Someone at the Harbour has already betrayed her and her ladies; Fin's absence will be noticed, no matter what mischief she asked Scales and Netta to cook up for her to flush the rat out, and no matter that the pair can try to pretend to be her for a few weeks to disguise when she actually left the Harbour. Which could lead to either her own discovery, or a false accusation levelled against one of the many sailors who left port within a few days of Wylla herself. False accusations could lead to unnecessary deaths of her people; her discovery could lead to worse. Just because Lord Varys could openly be the Spy Master, doesn't mean that every regional Whisperman could afford the same!
Solution. When they tour the market streets, Wylla could try to find travel idols of the Seven to keep in her room so she can offer the prayers that she wants to. Secondary solution, if one of her schools – like Yao and his crew – were to return to Kings Landing, she could have them buy the idols for her and sneak them to her via whatever network she develops. Tertiary solution, she could just sneak into the Sept at night dressed as Fin and offer her true prayers then. She'll play it by ear.
Problem. She is obviously being watched – she has had two tails since the Keep, a child and a maid. Another three children tagged her in various places in the street that she saw, and she is not arrogant enough to think that she spotted everyone in the chaos of so many people in one place. A man tagged her when she entered the Sept, and another woman has come in since. She does not think that they all report to the same person (if they do, then this is a LOT of overkill for the second daughter of a Northern Lord). By her count she is being watched carefully, closely, by at least two factions, possibly three.
Solution. Well, this is why she dyes her hair green and has a brunet wig hidden expertly in her trunk. She will have to learn the patterns of these streets and the castlefolk to know when best to escape. For now she will play ignorant, so that they do not suspect that she has tagged them herself, and so that they will not expect her to slip their watch.
Urgh. She's going to have to explain all of this to her ladies in detail! Lady Arya has the wolfsblood, and Lady Sansa is an anxious thing underneath her façade, this is going to be painful!
She brushes her fingers over the base of the pedestal of all of the Seven, and engraves the detail into her brain to remember for next time, and to tell her ladies to do should they visit the Sept themselves – let these Southerners think that this is some quaint Northern custom, after all.
Finally done, they meander their way back to the Keep (the two tagalongs swap out for another pair halfway there; the children expertly swapping out, the two women just slightly out of beat – definitely two separate masters), and then Wylla asks for directions again to the Godswood, leaving Mordane in the Tower. The "Godswood" has nothing on any proper Northern one, of course, even if she has never kept the Old Gods herself. But still, there is a sense of peace here that she has only ever associated with a Godswood or a solo skiff on the open water. She breathes deeply, allows herself a moment to feel, before she kneels by the Heart Tree and places her hands upon the trunk.
Send my ladies all of the luck that you can spare, she thinks to the Old Gods. Let us be successful. Let us make it out of this vipersnest of a city alive! And please let us be home before Winter comes.
"Well?" Sandor grunts at the Little Bird and the Wolfbitch, as he and the Northman fall into step behind them once they leave the Council Chambers.
"Would you be able to direct us to the Godswood, please? We didn't have a chance to offer thanks for our safe travels before the meeting, and I fear I wouldn't stay awake long enough to go to the Sept and back." The Bird chirps, perfectly poised. The sister is blank-eyed and blank-faced, straightening and reorganising the note sheets she holds over and over again. He grunts at her, watching the halls for any more damned spies, and says out of the corner of his mouth, "Go straight for the next three halls, and turn right at the bottom of the stairs."
The Northman goes to speak, but Sandor gives him a sharp looks and shakes his head slightly, and they both stay quiet until they are finally in the Godswood. The green-haired Fish is there already, kneeling at the base of the Heart Tree, but she jumps to attention once she spots them. The Wolfbitch shoves her paperwork into the other girl's arms and promptly climbs a tree, taking deep gulping breaths at the top, and looking all over for any eyes. Good, they're learning.
"What a mess!" The Little Bird moans, staggering over to the Heart Tree and collapsing by its roots where the Fishgirl had knelt before her.
"What happened?" The Fish and Northman demand together.
"A fucking –"
"Arya!"
" – shitshow."
"Your lord father will wash your mouth out with rye if he hears you saying that!" The guard snaps.
"Despite her vulgarities, she's right," Comes the Little Bird's muffled voice. "Sandor, what can you tell me of Petyr Baelish?"
"That slippery cunt? A self-made man of wealth, he runs the most expensive brothel in Kings Landing, and has a few houses in the Riverlands and Vale as well. Your aunt had her husband instate him as the Master of Coin a few years ago."
"He's in love with Mother." The Wolfbitch says from up her tree. She drops a dagger she's pulled from fuck-knows-where down to her sister, who scratches at the bark with the dagger until the sap bleeds. Two eyes and a mouth, for their strange Northern gods. "He duelled Uncle Brandon for her hand and lost."
"But that was over twenty years ago!" The guardsman exclaimed, crouching next to the Bird and placing a hand on her shoulder. She pricks her palm and presses it to the etched face, bowing her head and praying silently.
"That's not the way he spoke in there," Snarled the Wolfbitch. "Sansa, did you see how he looked at you?"
A high-pitched noise from the ginger. "I had hoped that I was imagining it! How long do you think it will be before Father and the company arrive?"
"Could be another month or more," Sandor grunts at them, whilst the Fishgirl hisses her breath out between her teeth.
"My ladies, were you followed?"
"Not that we saw," came from up the tree. "But that's why I'm up here."
"I went to the Sept with Mordane before," she says, looking Sandor in the eye with that gimlet stare of hers. "We were followed there and back."
"Either the Spider or Baelish," he shrugs at her, watching. She nods back and keeps her council for now – smart. Hopefully she reiterates to the Stark girls how dangerous this fucking city is.
"Explain the city to me again, please, Sandor," The Little Bird asks him, hands white-knuckled on the treetrunk. "Please."
So he does, curses and slurs and all; tells her of the powerplays she can expect, tells her that her songs hold no sway, here. Tells her the rumours he's heard of Baelish at her insistence, and those surrounding the Spider at the Fishgirl's. Answers them honest and true because dog he may be, killer he may be, but liar he is not and never has been.
"When they return, will you tell Joffrey and the Queen what you have told us?" The Bird finally asks him when he has said all that he can.
He half-cocks his shoulder. "If they ask me I'll say I told you what the city is like. But I'm no liar, Little Bird, if they ask me something specific I'll tell 'em."
She breathes in and out once, deeply. She stands, wipes her hand dry of blood and sap on a kerchief, and gestures her sister down from the tree, and then she offers him a small, honest smile. "Alright. Thank you. Could I trouble you to help Jory escort us to the Tower of the Hand, please? And, would you be open to traveling the markets with us tomorrow, as well?"
He grunts and nods, rolling his shoulder out. "What time?"
"As early as possible, if it pleases you."
"Markets won't open until the third bell after sunrise."
"Well, then we shall be ready to go by the third bell!" She says with a soft-sort of cheerfulness. "That way the stall-runners will have time to open and settle before we arrive, but there shouldn't be too many people around, either."
He gives her another nod and jerks his head back towards the Keep. "We'd best get you back into your cage, then."
The last camping trip had been a failure, but Rickon was determined that this time they'd make it work! He'd been sneaking treats from the kitchen this last week, had stockpiled blankets, and readied Bran's sled in easy access of the stairs. He had found old tarps that he intended to turn into a tent, and had convinced Summer and Grey Wind and Salty to keep it a secret from Robb (Shaggy already knows it's a secret, and will always keep Rickon's secrets for him). The last thing he needs to do is convince Bran, which should be easy!
Or at least, before the accident it would have been. But now, even though Rickon has prepared everything and has it all ready to go, and only needs Bran himself, his brother doesn't want to do it. Bran doesn't want to go outside anymore because of his legs – Shaggy says that Summer says it's because it hurts Bran's heart, to see all of the things he did before and now can't do the same way or at all, anymore.
And Rickon can understand that Bran is worried because of his legs, but Rickon has the sled set up, and all of the wolves said that they would come with them! Shaggy asked Summer, if Bran needs to go pot then Summer will help Bran stay upright enough, or dig the hole, whatever his brother needs! Rickon planned everything!
It takes him hours to convince Bran that this is a good idea, and in the end he's pretty sure the only reason Bran agrees is to get him to stop asking, though on the condition that they go back to Winterfell the moment anything bad happens, or else at the grey of dawn in the morning if they make it through the whole night. Rickon agrees cheerfully, because he knows that it's all going to be fine, Bran, you'll see!
(Rickon is six. He doesn't yet fully know what a jinx is. He is a Stark – he will learn, and he will learn the hard way.)
All is well for the first hour that they are away, while Rickon is mounting their tarp tent, and arranging blankets so that they will be softest and warmest for Bran, and tries his hand at setting a rabbit snare, just as Arya had taught him when the girls returned to the castle with Lady. They have a fire set and ready for nighttime, not yet lit so that Robb won't know where they are. They enjoy some of the sweetcakes that Rickon had snuck as a snack, go back and forth sharing wild stories for another hour, and then Rickon goes to check his snare, practicing his wolf-quiet steps with Shaggy and Salty as he goes.
Hello, Stark luck.
Summer looses a howl that grabs Shaggy and Salty's attention, and Rickon's by extension. The wolves' share a flash of Bran's fear, of people bearing down on his defenceless older brother, and Rickon drags himself and the sword he had stolen from the armoury for his rabbit hunting atop of Shaggy. Salty races ahead of them, howling for Grey Wind back at the castle. The two wolves burst into the clearing in time to for Rickon to be in front of a woman lowering her spear at Bran.
"Brave one, this one," one of the two men sneers. "Bet you aren't nothing without them wolves, though!"
Rickon sneers back. "I'm six. What's it say about you, that you want to fight children?"
"Rickon, go and get Robb, get out of here!" Bran demands, but Rickon won't, he won't!
"I am Rickon Stark of Winterfell," Rickon snarls at them, spinning his sword to whack the woman's spear away from Bran and out of her hand. The Direwolves circle, snarling and slavering. "Don't touch my brother!"
"The boys're worth nothin' dead," the woman says. "Benjen Stark's own blood? Think what Mance would give us!"
Rickon stares them down, looks at them from the back of his wolf and does not flinch, twirling his sword like he's seen Jon do in the training yard. For a moment, Shaggy reaches out and touches the edges of Rickon's mind with his own. Grey Brother and his Boy are nearly here, Shaggy says. Rickon flashes a feral smile at the three people, and brandishes his sword flashily again.
"That one's a warg," the woman says, shocked.
"A Southerner? Piss on ya!" Snapped the other man.
"Piss on Mance Rayder," snarls the first man, brandishing a knife. "And piss on the North! We're going as far South as South goes – there aren't no White Walkers down in Dorne."
Rickon tips his head back and howls like Shaggy does, setting Shaggy, Summer and Salty off as well. The three Wildlings – for what else could they be? – all start at the sound, and don't notice that it's covering Grey Wind and Robb's approach.
"We're not Southerners," Rickon tells them, sending a thought out to Shaggy and the others to snarl more, to bare their teeth, to slaver drool, to be as scary as they can. Summer is directly in front of Bran, who is still in his furs under the tent, and Salty is pacing back and forth, back and forth just in front of him. Shaggy and Rickon are just behind her turning point, and Grey Wind is travelling quickly, directly behind the Wildlings. "We're Starks of Winterfell. We're Northern as they come."
"Drop your weapons," Robb's voice comes from behind them, startling the two men and causing the woman to freeze. "Let them go and I'll let you live."
The first man gestures with his knife at the second man, who moves towards Robb with his axe aloft. Robb ducks backwards from the swing, twice, thrice, then gets inside the second man's reach and cuts his throat. There's another man Rickon had initially missed, dressed as a Black Brother, like Jon before he left, and he and the first man are moving towards Bran and Rickon even as the woman moves to attack Robb. Salty and Summer move towards the Watchman, and Rickon drops from Shaggy's back to stand in front of Bran so Shaggy can help them. Summer and Shaggy both take a wrist into their mouths, pulling the Watchman down to the ground so Salty can tear out his throat.
"Bran," Rickon whispers, watching the first man closely. "You got your dagger? You remember what Theon taught us?"
Bran scrabbles at the furs while Rickon twirls his sword, over and over so that the first man is paying attention to him and not his older brother. Robb has the woman by the hair, and is calling out to the other man to leave them be, sword warningly at the woman's throat
"Waste your time with her then," the first man snarls, reaching for Rickon, who batters at him with his tiny turney sword. "That ain't even sharp!" He snaps, grabbing Rickon's wild curls and pulling him up with the knife to his throat. Rickon looks at Bran, who is looking more panicked the longer it takes him to find his dagger, and looks to the wolves, sending his thoughts to Shaggy quickly, tells them to disappear and then come up behind the man.
"Drop the blade, or I cut his throat!"
Rickon keeps one hand on the one with the knife, and with the other slowly, carefully, pulls his own dagger from his belt. "Don't, Robb!"
He only has the blade on the side of Rickon's neck, not fully to the front, and it is not-quite touching. Good. Rickon can work with this. He had a dream of Arya the night before, dancing from fight to fight, and he had watched how her style changed as she aged in the dream from child to young woman to nearly grown, paid attention to the moves she had used that looked nothing like anything Ser Rodrik or Jory could have taught her. Some he recognised from Bran's climbing days, from when Bran tried to teach him to do what was second nature to his older brother.
This is what he uses now. He slips his own dagger up, carefully up, and under the dagger of the man as a buffer – and then he drops, let's himself become dead weight and tries not to listen as the man's dagger screeches off of his own, shallow cuts opening on his right jaw, cheek and ear. The man curses as he stumbles, lifts his knife as though to do something to Rickon, but just like the Dream Arya, Rickon shoots his dagger up and into the belly of the man, strike strike STRIKE, and then there is a cry from Bran and another dagger comes whistling through the air, and takes the man in the throat, even as an arrow punches through his chest.
The wolves bound back into the clearing, howling triumphantly, and Summer and Salty drag the man's corpse off of Rickon while Shaggy licks his wounds clean. Once it appears that the man is truly dead (and Rickon and Bran did that, they did that, they killed a man!), Rickon bursts into tears.
Robb makes a high noise in his throat, and Bran calls out to him, but Rickon just shoves his face in Shaggy's bloodied neck and bawls like the baby he isn't anymore, he isn't!
Theon stumbles out of the bush then, calls to him, but Robb says, watch her!, and bounds to Rickon's side, dragging him into a tight hug and passing his hand over Rickon's head, smoothing down his curls.
"You were so brave," Robb says, picking him up and carrying him to Bran so they can cuddle each other. "Both of you were so brave! I'm so glad you're alright." He makes shushing noises until Rickon has finally calmed down, and then tells them, rueful, that they are in so much trouble.
"What do you want with this one?" Theon finally calls, having kept an arrow trained on the woman the whole time.
"She called me something," Rickon tells Robb, watching her over Robb's shoulder. "Why?"
"Called you what you is, little soldier," She says after a moment. "Called you a warg."
"That's just a fairytale." Theon scoffed.
"You ask him," She says quietly back. "You ask the little soldier how he called the wolves to him, how he knew what they knew."
"Shaggy tells me everything." Rickon says sullenly. "He doesn't get mad at me like people do, and he doesn't tell me I can't do things."
"And you can be him too, can't you?" The woman says, even softer.
"No," Rickon frowns at her, taking a staggering step away from his older brothers. "Shaggy is Shaggy and I'm Rickon."
"You can enter his body," the woman says with a trace of impatience.
"I just said that," Rickon snaps at her, just wanting a nap and a bath. "We share, but we're not each other."
"What're we gonna do with this one?" Theon asks, jerking his arrow at the woman.
"Gimme me life, milord, and I'm yours." The woman begs.
Rickon looks to Robb, draws himself upright, and says, "Give her to me. She can teach me more about warging, and can help me train more."
"She tried to kill you!"
"It was only the men that did that," Bran says, softly. "She wanted to ransom us to Uncle Benjen."
After a moment, Robb says, "We'll keep her alive. She can find work about the castle, and for an hour a day she can have supervised lessons with Rickon."
"Thank you, milord!"
Rickon picks up and sheaths his sword, cleans his dagger and belts it, and then steps up to her. "I'm Rickon. What do I call you?"
"Osha, little soldier. I'll teach you everything I know, don't you worry."
Arya paced up and down the walls of hers and Sansa's chambers, trying not to scream. Once the stupid Hound had left, they'd had an early dinner with Jory and Septa and retired for the evening. Sansa was knitting and Wylla was writing a letter for her family, and not a one of them could do the melee practice that they wanted to for fear of being caught by the palace spies. Her wolfsblood burned beneath her skin, burned like ice and salt, and she wanted needed wanted to do something! She had tried to study Xerx from the scrolls that El had drawn up for her, but she had far too much energy to sit still, and she just needed something to do to distract her until it was safe.
"You could change clothes now if you like, milady," Fin Wylla murmured, almost too low to hear – but Arya has good ears and always had, and more-so since they had received their pups. "I can teach you to climb the wall, since it looks like you're fit to already!"
Wylla might have actually been joking, but Arya didn't care! She was going mad! So as quickly and quietly as she can, she changes into shirt and breeches, shucks off her boots but leaves her socks on, and pulls her hair back into a half-tail like Father favours. Sansa makes an interested noise, so she looks up at her older sister with cocked brow.
"That style suits you," Sansa says simply, wrapping string around needle and (purling? knitting? Arya didn't really care) finishing her stitch.
"… it's a boy's hairstyle," she says slowly, watching her sister.
"It's hair," Wylla says, whilst Sansa hums her thinking hum, takes a moment, and then answers.
"You're both right, I think. But a simple style suits Arya, both her face and her preferences. I'm just saying it looks good."
"That doesn't even make sense," Arya grumbles, trying to hide her self-consciousness.
Wylla sighs, then asks Sansa to start singing to hide the sounds of her instructing Arya in wall climbing. As Florien and Jonquil starts up, Wylla quietly instructs Arya to look for the gaps in the bricks where the mortar resides, to jam her fingers and toes into those gaps and try to lift herself up the wall.
"Corners are your friends," Wylla says softly, "and so is momentum. A run-up won't hurt you, if you can afford it. Put the pillows under wherever it is that you'll be climbing though, to mute the sound of you falling."
"I won't fall," Arya says immediately.
"When I first learnt how to, I was always falling," Wylla (Fin?) laughed quietly. "There's no shame in it, milady, it all comes with practice."
The walls are nearly four metres tall. In the time it takes Sansa to sing Florian and Jonquil, Jenny's Song, Brave Danny Flint, and Maiden, Mother and Crone, Arya had fallen what felt like a hundred times, and had yet to climb more than halfway up the wall. By the time Sansa had sung Rat Cook, The Seasons of My Love, The Winter Maid, and Iron Lances, Arya was ready to cry.
"Wyl – Fin? Will you show me how, please?" She finally asks.
"Wyl works, when it's just us, miladies," She he theysmiled brightly, put down the letter to Wynafryd, and launched herself? at the wall. Wyl bounced from side to side of the corner of the room all the way to the top, wedging a leg and arm against either wall and bracing her back against the roof.
"That was too quick!" Arya exclaimed, quickly lowering her voice to be softer than Sansa's singing.
"I told you that momentum was key," Wyl smiled, dropping onto Arya's pillows and rolling across the floor. "Here, too – be mindful of how you fall, so you don't hurt yourself."
"Rest a little while, Arya," Sansa suggests, Six Maids in a Pool coming to a close.
"I'm going to bed," Arya snaps, upset with the world and herself and her stupid, perfect sister.
"You didn't want to practice knives before bed?" Sansa exclaims, voice low.
"No, goodnight!" Arya flings herself under her sheets, trying not to cry.
"You could at least change, Arya, you're filthy!"
She wraps herself more firmly in her sheets, huddles up into a tight ball, and tries to hold her breath to stave off the tears.
Wyl sighs, says oh dear, and sits herself back at the desk with her letter. Sansa huffs, and starts knitting aggressively, needles click-click-clicking away.
Any other person wouldn't hear the conversation the two older girls have together, but Arya had good ears, and wasn't about to let them in on this fact.
"Is she always thus?" Wyl breathes.
Sansa gives a soft huff. "I knew it wouldn't last! We're so different, and I've been trying, but I don't have the wolfsblood as she does!"
"She did well, to get as high as she did in nearly an hour." Wyl murmured. "Wynnie took ages."
A moment's silence, before Sansa asks, "Lady Wynafryd knows how to do what you do?"
"Some of it." Arya imagined that Wyl shrugged here. "It's as I said, you know – the Ladyship is what Wynnie's good at, and the back allies were mine. We know what each other does, but we each put more into our respective fields. You have many brothers, my lady – one might be better at arms, another at the books, a third for the faith… this is what parents usually encourage, that children concentrate on their strengths. But, for most houses, when it comes to daughters, they're encouraged to marry as advantageously as possible, and that's… that's it. We aren't like that, at the Harbour – oh, well, we are, but we marry within our strengths." A quiet moment, before Wyl continues. "Unless our uncle has male children, Wynnie will inherit White Harbour one day. She needs a husband who is willing to take on the Manderly name. So!" a cheery tone, "if your brother Jon changes his mind about the Watch, she'd happily take him!"
Sansa laughs softly, and then there's the sound of cloth, like she's moved or gestured, and Wylla keeps going. "And for me, a second daughter? Probably I should join all the rest of them in badgering your brother Robb, but … what if my uncle never remarries, or have children? Father's cousin, Marlon, has no issue either, and little interest besides, in either women or the back allies. Who will be Wynnie's knife in the dark? What, do I try my luck with Theon Greyjoy?" a disgusted noise. "So we were looking at the Houses closest to us, the Lockes and the Flints of Widow's Watch, for a match for myself – or maybe another Northern bastard, but there's only three at the moment – Jon of Stark, Larence of Hornwood, and Ramsey of Bolton, though nothing pleasant is said of him. But if we both marry bastards, what image does that give our House? If it were only your brother, that's one thing – one of Eddard Stark's children? Anyone'd be mad not to snatch him up for their daughter, and ingratiate themselves with your father. But the others? Two bastards marrying two highborn ladies, it looks like we're trying too hard to get in the good graces of other houses." Wylla sighs, faux sadly. "Do I then try to marry a foreign sailor for a trade contract? I've tossed the idea at Yao before – gods know he has enough siblings that I could! – but is it worth the perceived insult or drop in standing that such a marriage would garner?"
"Even Northern marriages are not without politics," Sansa says sadly.
"Well, there's little worrying about it now, of course. If you're to marry the prince, then I shall remain as your handmaiden until either I am dismissed to find a husband, or until a desirable match asks for my hand. Soo until then, I'll do my back ally work in this cesspit and send my knowledge back to my sister as frequently as I can."
"Is that what you've been doing?" Sansa asks, sleeves rustling again.
"Mm, it's drivel until you know how to read the code. I've told Grandfather that there is a leak in the Harbour, he'll get the appropriate contacts to catch them out."
"Would you teach me the code?"
Wyl laughed. "Maybe another day, my lady! Want to play What Could Go Wrong instead, until we can start the knifework?"
"Oh, alright! How do we start?"
"Ooh, I've got it! The old tales are true, and White Walkers stir in the Land of Always Winter. What Could Go Wrong?"
"Wylla!" Sansa laughed, and slowly Arya fell asleep to the sounds of them planning out how they would handle the Nights King and his army. Her dreams were hazy, indistinct images that reminded her of Nymeria, something to do with blood and the little boys and weapons, but by the time she awoke the next morning, she had nearly forgotten the details.
So I'm throwing myself a little "writing retreat" this weekend – my parents are away from the station (not a farm, not this far inland), so I'm out here watching the animals for them. There are SO MANY piglets since I was last home! They're adorable! Havoc (my dalmatian) is also freaking out because she's never seen so many animals before, and her FOMO plays up every time I have to feed the poddy calves . My brother and sister-in-law left a lot of their grog behind in the old house, and I am … somewhat drunk. Living my best life today
Come find me on tumblr (Fairy of the Friz) or insta (WaltzingTheFaePaths)!