For Blood and Wine are Red
Chapter Five: The Street of Steel
Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews last chapter! You're all awesome!
Writing Rickon's letter in this chapter HURT fam. I dug out letters my baby brothers wrote me when I first went to boarding school and also called Mum to confirm it was as accurate as I could make it, buuuuttt… yeah, just read it, you'll understand.
He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.
Rickon Stark
Maester Luwin tutts as he smears a poultice over the cuts on Rickon's face, and Rickon fights not to whimper at the sting of it.
"It won't get infected, will it?" Robb asks from Rickon's left, where he holds Rickon's hand because Robb's scared and not because Rickon is, because he isn't.
"No, my lord, though it is likely to scar."
"Mother will love that," Robb says. Rickon thinks it must be sarcasm, because he's pretty sure that Mother will be angry that Rickon snuck Bran out of the castle when Robb told them not to, and for getting into the fight in the first place, and possibly for killing that man – no, actually, Mother will be angry that they had to, not that they did.
"Mother isn't here to love it or no," Bran grumbles under his breath from Rickon's other side. He was scared too, so he's holding Rickon's right hand.
"That's enough of that," Robb scolds. "Be glad that she isn't here, else your punishments would be worse. As it is, neither of you are allowed out of the castle unless you are with me or Theon, or someone we have delegated as a proxy. Neither of you may have dessert or sweets for the rest of the week –" Rickon shouted at that, and beneath his feet Shaggy stood with a growl. " – and you are lucky it isn't longer! If it hadn't been for the wolves, you both could have died today. I said that we would go camping together when Mother returned, Rickon, and you couldn't be patient for a few weeks until she got back."
Bran squeezes his right hand, and Rickon bites back his arguments.
"Sorry, Robb." Bran says. Grudgingly, Rickon echoes him.
"You'll both train with me and Theon every morning before we start our duties about the castle. You'll both train with Ser Rodrik from the morning meal to the midday, and then you can join me and Maester Luwin to continue your lessons from midday to dinner."
"What about my lessons with Osha?!" Rickon demanded.
"You will have your supervised hour with Osha after dinner, when I am free to see what she's teaching you." Robb's Lords Face is tight, and there is no trace of the worried older brother from the forest. "Rickon, you will practice your letters by writing to the girls, and you will start with what happened today. You will tell them what you did, why it was wrong, and what you have learnt from this. Alright?"
Rickon scowled at his knees and grumbled, "Yes, milord."
"Rickon."
"Yes, Lord Robb!"
"Seven hells, stop sulking!" Bran snapped at him. "Robb's right, it could have been so much worse. Just take your knocks and move on."
Rickon doesn't want to. He wants Sansa to sing to him and Arya to practice with him until he's the best and Mother and Father to put him to bed and cuddle him. He wants Robb to stop acting all Grown Up and he wants Bran to take his side and not Robb's and he wants Jon to be home to tell him how much he has grown. Their pack is divided and he doesn't like it, and he just wants everyone to be home. He doesn't want his lessons to be supervised and he wants his family to be unthreatened, he wants to go on adventures with Arya and Jon and he wants Bran to be able to walk and climb and he wants to see how Sansa has improved and he wants Robb to smile. He wants Theon to teach him to sail like he promised to, and Father to teach him how to wield Ice, and Mother to teach him his stitches like she taught the girls.
But Rickon is six, and no matter what he wants, the world is not as kind as he once thought it to be.
Dear Sansa and Arya,
I reely wanted to go camping with Bran and Robb but Robb is so busy so me and Bran went on our ohn and wen I went to trap rabyts but 3 wildlinz and a dezerter attacked Bran so the wolfz and I went back and fort them with Robb. Bran and I kild the dezerter and Robb kild the 2 men and we let the woman lyv her name is Osha and she is going to train me to. She sed im a warg so she trains me evry nite for 1 hour with Robb watching she trains me with spyr and to be a warg im good at the spyr and better at being a warg. Me and Shaggy can join when im awake now and wen im asleep to but Robb is stil mad at us so we cant have dezert or sweets for a week and we cant leave the castle without Robb or Theon and we train alllll the tym but im going to be the best at the sord and at the spyr when I next go camping.
Love Rickon and Shaggy
Sansa Stark
Whatever mood had taken Arya the night before, she seems to have gotten over it by the dawn. Today they will traverse the Street of Steel from the third bell to the fourth – but that is four hours away. Until then, they have Arya's practice with the sword and Wylla's with the trident while Sansa throws kanzashi after kanzashi, and then after an hour the three girls all see how high up the wall they can climb (or in Wylla's case, how long she can stay up there). The remaining hour before they break their fast is spent in two parts – the first knife fighting, and the second cooling down and drying off, washing sweat with a damp cloth steadily to hide how much of their washbasin they use, and then dabbing a drop of Wylla's strong perfume between the breasts and at the wrists as a final cover-up. Once they are all clean, they practice their various new languages and alphabets, and then help each other to dress quickly and join Septa in the solar. She is surprised to see them all there promptly and already dressed – Sansa had even managed to tame Arya's hair! Sansa has done both of their hair into her new personal style, two braids on the crown and two at the temple, and then one thick braid down the back, with Sansa's kanzashi disguised as simple decorations in her own braid.
"Well!" Septa puffs. "You are all early this morning!"
"We were so excited to finally be in the city that we awoke with the dawn!" Sansa laughs with her, distracting, distracting. "We are going to explore the Street of Steel this morning – Lord Varys has promised an escort, and Sandor Clegane has been kind enough to meet us after the third bell."
Jory raises an eyebrow at her, but Sansa is happy to note that it is the brow that Septa cannot see.
"We're going to get presents for Mother and everyone!" Arya adds, chirpy enough to continue the distraction. Dear as Septa is to Sansa, the woman isn't very well-versed at noticing when she is being deceived.
"That is very kind of you, Arya," Septa says proudly. "Shall we go to the Sept today?"
Arya hides a grimace behind a large mouthful of brown bread and jam.
"After the Street of Steel," Sansa says quickly. "And then we are going to tour the grounds with Lord Renly. Afterwards, if we might take a turn about the Godswood? And then lessons, of course!"
Septa does not disguise her huff when Sansa mentions the Godswood, and Sansa did not expect the older woman to. She has never been shy that her preference is for the New Gods, and that she holds little love for the Old. Wylla had commented when they were still aboard Yao's ship that she suspected the only reason Septa even agreed to go to Winterfell is because she thought that Mother's influence would mean that her children would be more in favour of the New Gods.
The morning meal passes quickly, if awkwardly, and then there is a knock at the door that reveals Sandor Clegane.
"Thank you," Sansa smiles at him without honorifics or titles, and Septa hisses at her for her lack off courtesies.
"I asked her not to call me ser or lord," Clegane growls at Mordane, before she has too much of a chance to get rolling. "Most else call me Dog, and if she and the wolfgirl don't want to that's fair enough." Behind Septa, Sansa flashes Clegane a brilliant smile. "C'mon, we're late."
Sansa walks beside and a little behind Clegane on his left side, so that she won't impede his swordarm. Arya and Wylla walk arm in arm behind them, then Septa, and Jory brings up the rear. When they reach the courtyard that adjourns the Tower of the Hand, Lord Varys awaits them with perhaps twenty soldiers in Lannister gold. Sansa does not allow her breath to hitch, does not allow her smile to wobble or her eyes to mist.
"Good Morning, Lord Varys!" She calls instead.
"Good Morning, Lady Sansa," he bows back. "I trust you slept well, your first night in Kings Landing?"
"Yes, My Lord, thank you – and yourself, did you sleep well?"
"You are kind, child. So, the Street of Steel is it? The men are ready to go whenever you are."
Sansa gasps. "My Lord, I hope that not all of these soldiers are to come with us? This is too many!"
"You and your sister are the daughters of the Warden of the North and Hand of the King, and you, Lady Sansa, are the betrothed of our Crown Prince. My Lady, this is the lowest number of soldiers that we could send with you."
"Lord Varys," Sansa says, straightening up and looking him dead in the eye. "If we go into Kings Landing with so many soldiers around us, we will scare the populace! Clegane and Jory are more than enough protection for us – I would accept no more than three of your soldiers, My Lord, anything else is excessive."
"I could perhaps go down to fifteen, My Lady –"
"That is still too much! Five, mayhaps, but anything else really is –"
"My Lady –"
"Lord Varys, why do we need so many?" Arya piped, face a picture of innocence that immediately has Sansa's hackles up. "In the North we only need one guard to protect two ladies going to the markets – do you want Jory to help with your soldiers' training if you need twenty to look after three ladies? He's really good, he helped train our brothers!"
Sansa had been wrong yesterday – this is how they will die!
Sandor growled, stomped forward and called out three names. " – you're with me! Spider, we'll see you when we get back in one piece!" Sandor held his arm out for Sansa to take, growled at Arya and a stiff Wylla and a scolding Septa to keep pace, and they were on their way for the gates.
"Is she trying to die?" Sandor snarled under his breath once they were on the main road leading to the Street of Steel.
Sansa released a tiny, shrill noise not unlike a boiling kettle.
"Tell me of yourselves, good sers!" Wylla piped up behind them, arm in arm with Arya, Jory and Septa five steps behind them and the guards walking to either side and behind them. "Clegane called you, uh, Thom and Bert and Bryn?"
Wylla chatters with the guards the whole way into town, teasing information out of them like weavers carding wool, peppered with irrelevant questions and tangents from Arya while Sansa gets her strangled breathing under control and clings to Sandor's arm with a deathsgrip.
Once they have reached the Street of Steel, her breath is under control and her sister and friend are cheerfully telling the guards a wild story about a shadowcat that had supposedly caused mischief in the Merman's Court a few years ago.
(Sansa is quite sure it is a lie, but when the guard Thom inquires with her, she immediately rebukes his and Septa's doubts, agreeing with Wylla and Arya and insisting that of course it had happened, did shadowcats not travel so far south? Sandor shakes with concealed chuckles, and Jory agrees just as readily as she, though with far more enthusiasm.)
"Here you go," Sandor grunts, taking his arm back from Sansa and resting both hands on his belt threateningly.
Sansa gives him a very quiet thank you, turns to her sister and Wylla and says, "Why don't you two go with Jory and Brent and Bryn down the lefthand side of the Street, and Sandor and Thom can escort Septa and myself down the right?"
"Sounds good to me," Wylla says cheerfully, reaching in to grab at Sansa's hands, hold them tightly and squeeze and to smile brightly. She blinks five times – their pre-agreed upon signal for spies.
Shift, five already?! What for!?
"Let me know if you see any travel idols of the Seven," Wylla said cheerfully, "Wynnie had wanted some for a gift, and her nameday is soon."
"Look out for a smith who might be interested in commissioned hair pins for Mother," Sansa smiles back, doing her best not to white-knuckle Wylla's hands in return. They turn to their respective sides of the street, and Sansa walks into the first forge. The front is a small table laden with commonplace creations – nails, horseshoes, basic jewellry, the odd kitchen knife or dagger. Sansa speaks with the woman who mans the front, the wife of the smith; the woman is Lynne, and her husband is Jon. Sansa makes smalltalk with them, looking over their wares and making gentle inquiries – any children, how long has Jon smithed for, how did they meet. Lynne tries to shuffle Sansa along, saying that a Lady of such clear High Birth wouldn't want anything from their shop. Sansa smiles at them as gently as she is able, takes Lynne's hands in hers, and says, "Today I am looking for a commission for my Mother. The next time I visit, I might just be looking for a friend to talk to. Thank you for showing me your wares."
"If you're after something proper, milady, you'll want to be up the top of the Hill," Lynne flushes. "Tobho Mott is the best smith on the street."
"By whose judgement?" Sansa asked, still smiling. "I'm Northern, and already this morning I have found a difference in Northern and Southern judgement. I will commission whoever I think is capable, and whoever is comfortable making my commission." Lynne's eyes flick to the guard over her shoulder, and to another person that was out of Sansa's viewpoint – ah. Lynne was aware that Sansa was being watched, it seemed.
"Thank you for your time, and I look forward to seeing you again on my next visit to the Street of Steel," Sansa smiled at them, dipping her head and moving to the next forge along.
She makes small-talk with every forge she enters who will entertain her. A few she thinks might be able to do the commission justice, so she pulls out the one blunt kanzashi in her hair as a demonstration, and requests Direwolf heads and leaping trouts for the decorative end. She has lined up three smiths to attempt the blunt kanzashi and gossiped with another five by the time she reaches the top of the hill, and sees that Arya and Wylla have beaten her already to Tobho Mott's shop. Bert and Bryn are outside, and Sandor makes Thom stay out as well to avoid overfilling the space – Septa sits on a bench outside and fans herself, unused to the temperatures and exertions.
Arya is speaking with the apprentice, a strapping boy a few years older than Sansa herself with black hair and very familiar blue eyes.
Oh, shift, Arya!
"Sansa!" Arya cheers, holding up the bulls-head helmet for Sansa to see more clearly. "This is Gendry, look at what he made! Do you think Robb would like one?"
"This is beautifully done!" Sansa exclaimed, moving closer and taking a hold. "Oh, it's quite light!"
"The metal's been treated with Qaathi techniques, milady," Gendry says softly, shoulders up around his ears. "It's lighter, but just as strong."
"How would temperature changes affect the shapes?" Sansa inquired, turning the helmet around to expect every angle. "It is not uncommon for snow storms to come through even in Summer, in the North. Would the drops in temperature affect the metal?"
A mulish twist to Gendry's mouth. "You'd need extra padding of leather or sheepskin on the inside to better protect it, then, milady. If you're serious about one for your brother, I can make it."
Sansa smiled at him winningly. "Thank you, but that seems mean, asking you to make something so complicated for someone you can't even measure. If he ever visits Kings Landing, we'll be sure to bring him here!" She handed the helmet back. "How are you with jewellery, Gendry?"
A grimace. "What did you have in mind, milady?"
Sansa smiled brilliantly, and pulled the blunt kanzashi from her hair. While he was examining the hairpin, she flicked her eyes to Wylla and raised a brow, inclining her head back towards the street. Wylla blinked ten times, what the shift?!
"Did you want this remade exactly, milady?" Gendry asks then, before she had a chance to do anything else.
"Oh, yes! I was wondering if you might be able to create either a Direwolf head or a leaping trout for the decorative end, but otherwise this is what I would ideally be after."
"How soon would you like it?"
"You must have other projects in front of this, so whatever works in your schedule."
He jerked his head up at her at that and stared. "R-really?"
"Of course!" Sansa said with a bright smile and a horrible feeling in her belly. "There is already an order to things, after all."
"…oh…"
"What's that mean?" Arya demanded from where she'd been practicing Wylla's knife-flipping trick on one of the daggers. "Do people not do that in the South?"
"Highborns want their commissions done and want 'em done now," Sandor drawled, looking over a dagger himself. "Especially if they're as high as yourselves."
Arya fumbled her catch and glared up at Sandor, and Sansa turned to face him.
"What, why?" Wylla asked over their shoulders. "High birth means the privilege of leading, of protecting your people, not getting your orders done faster!"
Sandor and Gendry stare at them for what feels like far too long, so Arya snaps what?! at them.
"Are all Northerners like this?" Sandor asks them in a quiet voice.
"Well, some of them aren't, of course," Sansa answers. "The Boltons, Lady Dustin – but for the most part, everyone is equal and all that is different is your responsibilities."
"This is why my family moved to the North, when we were driven from the Riverlands," Wylla said teasingly. "Starks are different, but they're decent and fair."
Gendry laughed at that, smiled at Arya and said, "Take me with you when you return North, milady?"
Arya laughs a sure! at him, and Jory says that they should probably head to the Sept and then back to the castle. Arya moans and groans, while Wylla purchases a new dagger "for her uncle" and Sansa finalises the commission details with Gendry.
Their hour in the Street of Steel is finished. For now, they are safe.
Wylla Manderly
If she were able to speak with her family immediately, without anyone else listening in or reporting what she said or wrote, she would be bemoaning to her sister and Grandfather about Lady Arya's manners and mannerisms, for surely the little wolf was going to get them all killed.
Wynnie might rebuke her, and say oh Wyl, you can't blame everything on the little wolfgirl!
Yes. Yes, Wylla could!
They had been tagged five times that Wylla saw as they made their way from the Tower of the Hand to the Street of Steel. Once they reached the Street itself, a new person had tagged them at every forge or shopfront that they stopped at! Wylla is now sure that there are at least three different factions spying on them, but even still, what overkill! They have four tails on their way to the Sept, and she's pretty sure that the acolyte that greeted them at the door served at least one of the factions.
The temptation to pray to all Seven Gods is great, but also suspicious as fuck, so she restrains herself to praying to the Mother, Maiden, and Smith, touching the base of all seven statues when she finishes and watching to make sure that her ladies remember to do it too. Arya nearly gets them in even more trouble because she prays to the Stranger, but she says she is praying for her friend who died on the road, and glares at Clegane when she says it.
Seven Hells.
Septa scolds them (Arya) the whole trip back to the Tower, and only stops because one of Lord Renly's men is waiting for them at the Tower with an invitation to take that walk around the castle grounds. Clegane dismisses the three soldiers and Sansa manages to lose Septa Mordane by pointing out how much the older woman has tired from all of their walking thus far, and how much more walking they're sure to do with Lord Renly. Sansa somehow also charms Renly's man to tell his master that they would be along as soon as they had had a chance to freshen up after their trip into the city.
They duck into their rooms and change quickly, using a damp cloth under their arms and to the small of their backs (and for the older Wylla and Sansa, between their breasts) to wipe away most of the sweat from their adventure. Another drop of Wylla's strong perfume each to cover their sweatsmell, and they are ready to go again once they have shaken out their dresses and pulled them back on again. Wylla hisses her observations the whole time so that if anything happens to her, her ladies will at least know some of what is coming for them.
The moment they're away from Mordane and their only escorts are Clegane and Jory Cassel once again, Fin Wylla demands of Clegane,
"The fuck was that?"
"The fuck you talking about?" Clegane grunts back, while Jory hisses language! at her.
"Do you know how many tails we had today?"
Clegane shrugged. "A couple, no doubt."
"How many is a couple?" Wylla asked in her sweetest Lady's Voice.
"Wha – two or three?"
"Mm. Try a couple of tails for every forge!" Wylla hissed lowly enough that any ears in the wall shouldn't be able to pick her up. Clegane stumbles and turns to look at her with wide eyes, and Jory curses quietly over her shoulder.
"Fuck."
"What do they want with my ladies?" Wylla demanded. "At the last forge we had five eyes on us when Lady Arya and I went inside, never mind when you and Lady Sansa joined!"
"I wonder," Clegane growls sarcastically then, "What interest every man and his dog might have in the Crown Prince's betrothed? When was the last time a Stark joined the royal family, for fuckssake!"
"Outside of our aunt's abduction and rape?" Arya growled at him.
Sansa spoke then. "Starks have had nothing to do with Kings Landing since the Hour of the Wolf, when Cragan Stark was Aegon Targaryen III's Hand for a day. Before that, Torrhen Stark was the King Who Knelt for his Kingdom. We stay in the North; we have Vale or Riverland brides occasionally, like Mother, but they are rare. There were rumours about Jacaerys Velarion and Sara Snow during the Dance of Dragons, but that's only rumour. Do you really think they're putting so many people to watching us because of where we're from?"
"You're different," Clegane shook his head. "You said it earlier, at Mott's forge – people are people, the difference is responsibility. You could make a lot of people angry if they had heard that. On top of that – Cersei's position is Queen. When Joffery inherits, it would be as Queen Mother. If he has a wife, if he has a wife he listens to, which may not happen, then that wife takes any power that would have been Cersei's. They're watching you for information and to read the powerplay."
Sansa is frozen, but she takes a deep breath, whispers a very vehement shift!, and then gestures for Clegane to start moving again. "So I need to downplay my own understanding of the city, or of the politics? What is needed for us to stay safe?"
"For starters, for the Wolfgirl to be less wolfish," Wylla said wryly.
Arya goes to shout something, but Sansa put a hand over her mouth and then made a face of pure disgust.
"Don't lick me, Arya, you're not actually a wolf!" Sansa snapped at her. "We need to work on your diplomacy – we can start after we meet with Lord Renly. Shall we?"
Nymeria, Wild Sister
When the day-glow fades to night, Wild Sister and her brothers-who-remain at the man-rock-den with her race through the trees of what the men call the Wolfswood. They are well fed by their boys and the littermate-who-wasn't, so they don't need to hunt in the night – they run for the fun of it. Sometimes Black Brother's boy will run with them, and more so since they had taken the lives of men a few days ago. Occasionally the faintest hint of her girl will join them, and tonight she's nearly at the front of Wild Sister's head, seeing through her eyes and smelling through her nose.
It has been a full moon's turn since Little Sister's death. Her spirit-song reaches back for them, a faint wisp like mist in the earliest hours of the morn before the light.
Black Brother's boy is with them, and faintly too are Oldest Brother's and Brindled Brother's. White Brother is far, far to the North, but they reach and reach and he reaches back, with a faint shadow of his boy behind him too. They are missing only Little Sister, but… they five are still here, and their humans are with them. Their humans stretch some more until they are all sharing, until the wolves have one eye and their humans the other. Brothers and Sisters human and wolf stretch stretch stretch until they are all meshing and moulding together, until they are sharing and cuddled up to each other's mental image. Little Sister stretches about and around them, howls like an echo of an echo, and her girl is with them faintly too.
For Little Sister, they wolves think. They tip their heads back, half-them-half-human, and they howl for their fallen, they h o w l for their slain, for their family and for their humans' Name. For the lions at fault, they h o w l their warning:
We are pups no longer. We're wolves of the North, we're coming, and we'll howl on your graves.
AN
Really, it wouldn't be a Fairy of the Friz fic without a direwolf conference call!
Thank you so much for your support everyone, it really means a lot. 2021 has been a … long fucking year. Fingers crossed for 2022!
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