Chapter Nine
–
There is no truth.
There is only perception.
–
Disclaimer: I own no rights to the Game of Thrones series written by George R.R. Martin. Eleonora, Nyx, and Moon are my own inserts, but I own no other characters.
–
With the Captain of the House Guard's broken and barely conscious, Varly stepped into his role as second-in-command with quiet authority. He sent Wyl's body to the Silent Sisters to be cleaned and prepared for a proper northern burial. Eleonora ferociously insisted her father, Jory, and all of the lesser injured Stark guards be taken to the Hand's Tower. She protested vehemently that there was no safe place for northerners in the south, but they must stay together for as long as they could. Varly did not disobey his lady, nor did he disagree with her claims. Grand Maester Pycelle was extremely offended when he was commanded to do his healing from outside the infirmary, and more so as the Hand's eldest daughter hovered over his shoulder while he examined her father like a Nighthawk.
Eleonora surrendered her bedchambers to Jory, leading the City Watch into her room. Jory groaned loudly, gripping his aching ribcage. His leather armor had been removed and his once white undershirt was now soaked with his blood. Eleonora ripped open his shirt to see the damage done and gasped at the horrific open wound from the top of his shoulder to just above his nipple. Jory heard her sharp intake of breath and sent her a weak grin as he winced in pain, "I think he just nicked me."
The eldest Stark daughter's eyes suddenly flooded with tears again as a few of Pycelle's septas stepped in to remove his shirt and clean his wound. One of the septas held a small cup of the milk of the poppy in her hands, leaning in to pour it down Jory's throat. He struggled to turn his head away, "May I have a moment alone with Lady Stark?"
"We must clean your wound and suture—"
"Only a moment," he replied, "and then I will do whatever you ask of me."
The two septas nodded quietly, setting the milk of the poppy on the table beside him, and stepped outside, closing the door behind them. Eleonora stepped forward and pushed Jory's blood stained hair from his eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks freely now, "I'm so sorry, Jory. If my mother wouldn't have captured Tyrion Lannister, Jaime wouldn't have retaliated — Wyl would still be alive and you would—"
"Nora, you not only saved my life but the others as well," he said through his pain. "I will not close my eyes knowing you bear any sort of guilt for what Jaime Lannister and his men have done. It's only because of your skill with your bow that we're alive."
Eleonora knelt over him, kissing his forehead for a long moment before breathing life into Jory with her words, "I'll be right by your side when you wake up."
"Then I reckon I should get to sleep, so not to keep you waiting," said Jory, attempting to smile through his grimacing. Eleonora reached for the cup of milk of the poppy and brought it to Jory's lips. He drank the liquid in three gulps, looking up at her one last time before closing his unfocused eyes, "Oh, how I have loved you, Eleonora."
She covered her mouth to silence her abrupt sob. A heavy knock came from behind her, "yes, septas, you may enter."
The two septas entered with their heads bowed and Eleonora immediately noticed why. The king and queen stood behind them in the doorway. Robert had taken time to dress. He wore a black velvet doublet with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon the breast in golden thread, and a golden mantle with a cloak of black and gold squares. His face was flushed from drink. Cersei Lannister stood beside him, a jeweled tiara in her hair. Eleonora rose from Jory's side and bowed to the king and queen. Whenever Robert saw Eleonora it was almost as if he were shocked by her appearance for the very first time and his expression did not hide this. She quickly stepped forward into the empty common space outside her chambers, closing the door behind her.
"Your Grace," said Eleonora, wiping away her tears and bowing into a curtsy. "Your pardons. I was not expecting you."
"No matter," the king said gruffly. "How fares your lord father?"
"Grand Maester Pycelle swears it will heal clean," said Eleonora, feeling more exposed and fragile than she had ever felt. Robert frowned. "He will need much rest before he wakes as will our Captain of our House Guard if his wounds can indeed be mended. Wyl, one of our best men was not so fortunate. He lies now with the silent sisters, Your Grace."
"And you single handedly killed four Lannister men," demanded Cersei. "Who do you think you are?"
"I killed five Lannister men, Your Grace," said Eleonora with ice on her tongue, "and I am a Stark of Winterfell. Your brother gave me no other option."
"I take it you do not know what your lady mother has done?" asked the king, interjecting before Cersei could fire back at Eleonora.
"She abducted Lord Tyrion on the kingsroad," said Eleonora coldly. "I know what she has done, and it is not my place to speak on behalf of her or my father."
"Suddenly, she learns to hold her tongue," said Cersei callously. "How convenient."
"Forgive me, Your Grace," said Eleonora, growing more uneasy and anxious. "I must return to my father—"
"You will leave when your king commands it," bellowed Robert. It startled her so much that she took a step backwards until her back slammed into the cold stone wall behind her. Eleonora's blue Riverrun eyes widened. "Cut from the same cloth, you Starks and your stubbornness… it's enough to drive a sane man into madness. Keep the king's peace, all I ask. Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets. I will not have it."
Eleonora felt her chest contract. He was close enough to her that she could smell his drink on his hot breath — Bormon's whiskey. It was a popular drink of the south and a scent she wished to forget. It suffocated her and she tried to take a deep breath. It was as if Black Walder Frey's ghost had returned to smother her with his foul stench. She felt the weight of him on her chest, his fire breath against her neck, his hands squeezing her wrists so tightly that her bones would surely grind to dust. Eleonora's balance wavered for a moment as she took a very wobbly step. The king caught her elbows in his hands and his mouth came close to her ear as her balance wavered for only a moment. Her forehead fell forward and she felt Robert's bearded mouth against her jaw whisper only by accident, "Lyanna…"
"Your Grace," she said quickly, erasing his words. "Where is Ser Jaime Lannister? He fled when the City Watch arrived."
"He has left King's Landing, but that is none of your concern," said Cersei bitterly.
"None of my concern?" said Eleonora indignantly, pulling her arms from the king's touch. "Jaime Lannister ordered Lannister men to butcher my own and would have succeeded if I wouldn't have gained the upper hand. He did this all to chasten my father. Are we all to forget that? Will he not be brought to justice?"
"My brother was not the cause of this quarrel," Cersei told the king. "Lord Stark, his men, and his murderous daughter attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his wife attacked Tyrion on the kingsroad."
"That is untrue," said Eleonora, unwilling to bow to the queen's lies.
"Are you calling your queen a liar?" she snapped.
"Never, Your Grace, but the fool who convinced you your twin brother did not instigate the bloodbath certainly is," she replied coolly.
The queen narrowed her eyes to slits, "and still you let him go."
Eleonora's expression remained unchanged though her stomach lurched. She chewed on her next words for a long moment, choosing them carefully, "I would not harm your brother, Your Grace."
"But you had the opportunity to hold him until the City Watch arrived, did you not?" she replied. "You had your last arrow aimed square at his heart but chose to lower it, or was that another lie one of my fools convinced me to believe? Why did you let him go?"
The king swirled the wine in his cup, brooding. He took a swallow. "I want no more of this," he said. "Lannisters slew one of their men, nearly killed another, and mamed my Hand, and she killed five of yours. Now it ends."
"My father will wake to think this no notion of justice," Eleonora flared.
"Nor will mine." The queen looked to her husband. "Is it that simple then? Had I been born a Stark, would you have wanted to coddle me, love me, fuck me—"
Robert's face was dark with anger. "How many times must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?"
Cersei's face was a study in contempt. "She knows, Robert," she said. "What a coward you become if a Stark should command it—"
Purple with rage, the king lashed out, a vicious backhand blow to the side of the head. She stumbled against the table and fell hard, yet Cersei Lannister did not cry out. Her slender fingers brushed her cheek, where the pale smooth skin was already reddening. On the morrow the bruise would cover half her face.
Eleonora couldn't help but bring her hand up to cover her mouth to silence her quiet gasp. She tried to fight it, but she hadn't expected such sudden violence. Eleonora stepped forward and attempted to help Cersei to her feet but she pushed her away with contempt.
He shouted for a guard. Ser Meryn Trant stepped into the common room from the hall, tall and somber in his white armor. He looked upon Eleonora like he recognized her from Flea Bottom on the night of the Feast of the Maiden. She stared directly into his eyes, unblinkingly. He would not frighten her. "The queen is tired. See her to her bedchamber." The knight helped Cersei to her feet and led her out without a word.
Robert reached for the flagon and refilled his cup. The king seated himself, cradling his wine cup. "Please, sit with me for only a moment." The rage was gone from him now; in his eyes Eleonora saw something sad and scared. "I should not have hit her. That was not... that was not kingly." He stared down at his hands, as if he did not quite know what they were. The king sat in the center of the velvet green sofa in the middle of the room.
Eleonora seated herself against the arm and as far away from him as possible, "no, you should not have hit her."
"Mother of my children, my wife," he muttered, taking another drink. "She's smarter than I give her credit for, and she knows that, too. She knows I've never loved her."
"Your Grace—" said Eleonora, looking deep into her palms, wanting desperately to retreat into Jory's room.
Confused, the king shook his head. "I killed him, Rhaegar. I drove the spike right through that black armor into his black heart, and he died at my feet. They made up songs about it. Yet somehow he still won. He has Lyanna now, and I have her ." The king drained his cup.
"Your Grace," she started, "I must tend to..."
Robert pressed his fingertips against his temples. "You look just like her. For so long I couldn't even remember what she looked like and then I saw you at Winterfell, twirling your wine glass across the hall with Tyrion Lannister. Like seeing a ghost had escaped my memory. The gods have cursed me truly."
"I've been told all my life," said Eleonora, pushing a thick strand of hair behind her ear. "You cannot imagine the burden of being born in the shadow of a woman you've never known."
"You inherited your Uncle Brandon's spirit and his temper, I see. You're still like her though," he breathed. "She was beautiful and sharp tongued and wild. She could ride a horse like a Dothraki Khal—"
"But I am not Lyanna, Your Grace," said Eleonora. "I am sorry."
Robert stood up, grasping the sofa arm to steady himself, "no you are not, Lyanna." He leaned over and kissed Eleonora's forehead entirely too long, but she didn't dare move away. The door to Eleonora's bedchamber opened and the septas stepped out carrying bloody rags. They blushed and averted their eyes when they saw Robert. Unashamed, he slowly took an unsteady step back. "It's enough."
"Here, make sure your father has this when he wakes." He pulled the heavy silver hand clasp from a pocket in the lining of his cloak and tossed it on the bed. "Like it or not, he is still my Hand, damn it. Beckon me when he wakes. I have much to discuss with him."
The king slammed the door to the tower behind and Eleonora's face immediately fell into her hands. She wept for her father, for Jory, for what she knew was coming. She cried because she missed Robb and Jon, Bran and her mother. She wanted to be home more than anything.
"Nora?!" called Arya, bursting through the door followed by Mira, Rickon, Sansa, and Septa Mordane.
Eleonora quickly ceased her sobbing and wiped her face clean of tears. She plastered a weak, reassuring smile and stood up to face her little sister who had already begun to cry.
"It's alright, sweets," said Eleonora, nearly knocked over by Arya as she wrapped her arms around her big sister's waist. She petted her sister's hair. "Father has a badly hurt leg, but he'll be alright once he's rested. Jory is in rough shape, but he's strong."
"What if Wyl, Jacks, and Varly?" asked Septa Mordane.
"Wyl is dead," said Eleonora gently and Arya's sobbing grew louder. Mira picked Rickon up into her arms and rocked him. Sansa hugged Septa Mordane and buried her head in her chest. "We need to stay together, now more than ever."
–
Eleonora woke before first light, hoisted the still sleeping Rickon on her hip, and crept in an exhausted haze to the window in the common area. She watched Lord Beric form up his men. They rode out as dawn was breaking over the city, with three banners going before them; the crowned stag of the king flew from the high staff, the direwolf of Stark and Lord Beric's own forked lightning standard from shorter poles.
Alyn carried the Stark banner beside him. Alyn would be a knight one day. The Tower of the Hand seemed so empty after they left. Eleonora leaned against the oculus window ledge, one arm across her waist. She was silent and still, her breaths long and slow.
"Where is everyone?" asked Arya as she ripped the skin from a blood orange. "Did Varly send them to hunt down Jaime Lannister?"
Eleonora swallowed hard but did not speak, her palm sliding from across her waist to her own slender neck. Rickon did not stir.
Sansa sighed. "They rode with Lord Beric, to behead Ser Gregor Clegane." She turned to Septa Mordane, who was eating porridge with a wooden spoon. "Septa, will Lord Beric spike Ser Gregor's head on his own gate or bring it back here for the king?"
The septa was horror-struck. "A lady does not discuss such things over her porridge. Where are your courtesies, Sansa? I swear, of late you've been near as bad as Arya."
"Probably bring it back for the king," said Eleonora, without an ounce of emotion in her voice and without turning to face them. Septa Mordane's horror only grew.
"What did Gregor do?" asked Arya.
"He burned down a holdfast and murdered a lot of people, women and children too."
Arya screwed up her face in a scowl. "Jaime Lannister murdered Wyl, and the Hound murdered Mycah. Somebody should have beheaded them."
"Jaime didn't murder Wyl," said Eleonora bitterly, remembering the arrow slicing through Tregar's tan leather-like skin. "Tregar did and he died for it."
"And it's not the same," said Sansa. "The Hound is Joffrey's sworn shield. Your butcher's boy attacked the prince."
"Sansa, stand up," said Eleonora suddenly before Arya could speak for herself, looking at her sister for the first time with fire in her eyes. "Go to your chambers."
"You're not mother, you can't tell me what to do," said Sansa airily. "You won't dare when I'm married to Joffrey. You'll have to bow to me and call me 'Your Grace.'"
Septa Mordane came lurching to her feet to discipline Sansa, but Eleonora held up one open palm to motion for the woman to stay seated. The eldest Stark sibling walked forward and placed her hand on the table beside Sansa, leaning over to look down at her sister.
"Sansa, you were born a Stark of Winterfell. You may one day lose that name but no man, no family, no title can ever take away your blood. You will always be a Stark even when you're not," said Eleonora with much purpose, tilting her sister's chin up to force her eyes to meet her own. "You may indeed be queen someday, but that day is not today. You will stand up from this table, go to your chambers, and stay there until I say you are allowed to return. And if you dare speak ill of the butcher's boy, Mycah , once more then I shall flog your behind in front of the entire royal court. Do you understand me, Your Grace?"
Tears welled in Sansa's eyes, but she nodded and stood up without another word to her elder sister. Sansa stalked away with her head up. She was to be queen, and queens did not cry. At least not where people could see. When she reached her bedchamber, she barred the door and took off her dress. She began to sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.
Arya opened her mouth to gloat but Eleonora stopped her, "Arya, not another word from you today. Finish your breakfast and I'll send you and Rickon with Mira to play in the gardens once she returns with the washing. I think everyone could do with a bit of time to themselves."
—
He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood. In the dream his friends rode with him, as they had in life. Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory's father; faithful Theo Wull; Ethan Glover, who had been Brandon's squire; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of speech and gentle of heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord Dustin on his great red stallion. Ned had known their faces as well as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man's memories, even those he has vowed never to forget. In the dream they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist.
They were seven, facing three. In the dream as it had been in life. Yet these were no ordinary three. They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white cloaks blowing in the wind. And these were no shadows; their faces burned clear, even now. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked up over his right shoulder. Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Across his white enameled helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings. Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.
"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends." As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. "Eddard!" she called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death.
"Eddard," Lyanna called again.
"I promise," he whispered. "Lya, I promise . . . "
Eddard Stark opened his eyes. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows of the Tower of the Hand.
"Father?" a shadow stood over the bed.
He was certain, in his hazy consciousness that it was Lyanna, but his daughter's face appeared illuminated by candlelight. The past faded away like smoke in the night.
"Nora . . . how long?" The sheets were tangled, his leg splinted and plastered. A dull throb of pain shot up his side.
"Six days and seven nights," said Eleonora, bringing a cup of water to his lips. The memory of the Lannister attack began to reappear in his memory. The blood, Jory, Wyl, and his daughter on her white mare with her arrows had saved them.
"Are you alright?" asked Ned. "Did Jaime Lannister hurt you?"
"No," said Eleonora softly, adjusting her skirts to sit at her father's bedside. "He didn't harm me."
"The others?" he asked. "Jory? Wyl?"
"Wyl was killed, the sisters have him," said Eleonora sadly. "Tom, Varly, and Jacks are perfectly fine besides a few bruises. Jory is alive. He was wounded worse than you and has yet to wake, but his heart beats strong. "
"Where is Jaime Lannister?"
"We don't know, he left the city," she replied. "He could be anywhere now."
Ned pushed himself up straighter, "I'll send for the guard to find him—"
"No, father, I am afraid that is not a possibility," she said gently. "I killed five Lannister men. The king said himself that we cannot seek retribution. Lord Beric, Alyn, and several others have left to hunt GregorClegane. Varly has taken on Jory's duties in his stead."
"When was Robert here?"
"The day it happened," said Eleonora. "He and the queen came to speak with you, but I was here. He was not pleased, but he wanted me to give you this."
Eleonora places the Hand's pendant in her father's hand. He examined the pendant in his hands before squeezing it tight, "I must speak with Varly now, please send for him. We'll speak again in the morning, Eleonora."
—
It was midmorning when Septa Mordane lightly tapped upon Eleonora's door. The eldest Stark did not hear her call. Jory Cassel remained asleep, though with much more color on his cheeks than the day before. Eleonora's back faced the old woman, curved over the man as she gently dabbed his bare chest with a damp cloth she continued to cool with a bowl of water positioned beside her. She leaned over further and pushed a strand of his untamed, brown mop of hair from his chiseled jaw.
"My thanks, Septa Mordane. I would talk to my daughter alone, if you would be so kind." The septa bowed and left as Lord Eddard quietly walked in behind her and closed the door. Eleonora looked over her shoulder at her father, hanging her head for a moment before standing to straighten her skirts and wipe her eyes. She did not cry often, and never so anyone could see her.
"How is he?" asked Ned, soft and genuine.
"He has still yet to wake," she replied quietly, "but his color has begun to return. I think that to be a good sign. Maester Pycelle says he should wake soon."
"Ay, he'll be on his feet again soon enough," said Ned wisely. "Men who have something to live for have survived in the most extraordinary of circumstances."
"I reckon waking up in a foreign land with a hole in his chest and Varly in charge of the guard is not exactly what Jory wants to wake up to," said Eleonora, smiling sadly.
"I imagine he'll be pleased to see you," said Ned, looking for Eleonora back onto Jory, "and to know you've barely left his side.'
Eleonora knew she must have been misunderstanding her father's tone, "Jory has been like blood to House Stark, it's the least I can do."
Her father sighed in a very loving way, looking onto Jory. He placed a hand on either of Eleonora's shoulders and looked her square in the eye, "He's loved you for a very long time, hasn't he."
For the first time Eleonora found herself too stunned for words. She felt her eyes grow moist again and her breath become trapped in her throat for a long moment. Her father was not phrasing his words as a question for his daughter to acknowledge. He already knew the answer, but she felt inclined to reply.
"Yes," she whispered, finally releasing her breath.
"And you love him as well?"
"Yes," she breathed.
Ned released a hollow laugh. It was not a malicious laugh, nor a laugh of humor. He gently put his palm on the back of Eleonora's head to bring her forward to kiss her forehead, "It's alright, Nora. It's alright to be afraid of how much you care for someone."
"How long have you known?" asked Eleonora. "How did you know?"
"I knew Jory had affection for you for well over two years now," said Ned. "A blind man can see it. It's the way he looks at you, not lustful or lecherous like other men — more how I look at your mother."
"Why have you not said something?"
"Because it wasn't until not long ago that I noticed a change in you," he replied. "You began looking at Jory the same way. A father knows what lies in his daughter's heart."
"I didn't anticipate it," said Eleonora softly. "It just happened."
"You know you have my blessing if you asked for it, I'd give it without a moment's hesitation," said Ned. "I know no better man. He may not have the land or title, but his heart and love for you is pure." Ned looked down at the tiny frame of his eldest daughter. "I also know that you have never cared for the idea of marriage, so I will not broach the subject with you today. I do not want to quarrel, especially now."
"I love Jory, but I refuse to lose what little freedom I have as a woman," she said. "I wouldn't abandon that for any man."
"You remind me so much of your—" Ned paused and chose his words carefully. "It's just that you remind me so much of your Uncle Brandon. You've spent so much of your life with the burden of your Aunt Lyanna's physical liking, but it's Brandon's wolf blood that I see in you."
"You never talk about Uncle Brandon to me," said Eleonora slowly.
"Brandon was quick to anger, but always a kind heart,' he said. "He rode his horse like you, as if he were born a centaur, but had to earn the skill the same. My father worried Brandon had too much wild in him, too much wolf blood, and perhaps in the end he did."
"Do you fear that is what will become of me?"
"Not anymore because I'm sending all of you home to Winterfell," he said. "That's why I've come to speak with you."
"What?" said Eleonora, startled. She couldn't claim to be completely surprised considering recent events but this was a very sudden decision for her father to make which was not his character. She did not hear her father mention anything about his own fate, so she asked, "What about you?"
"I'll stay behind and manage what I must, but has become far too dangerous for the four of you to remain in the south," said Ned.
"I do not disagree with you concerning the girls and Rickon," said Eleonora, "but Jory is not strong enough to travel such a long distance, and I will certainly not leave King's Landing without you, father. I will not."
"Nora, it is a better risk for all of you on the kingsroad than in the Hand's Tower," said Ned and her blood ran cold. "I've arranged for a carriage to transport Jory along with a small convoy of Stark men to escort you and Rickon home. You'll leave as soon as Jory wakes. Once I settle things with Robert, I'll send Arya and Sansa with Mira to follow not long after. I cannot send all of my children from King's Landing in one sudden journey, especially Sansa with her betrothal to Joffrey still very much alive in the eyes of the court. Do as I ask."
Eleonora looked back at Jory and nodded, "yes, Father."
—
"I'm certainly capable of riding my own horse, my lord," said Jory, painfully shifting his feet over the side of his bed. Eleonora sat beside him, helplessly attempting to keep him from getting to his feet too quickly.
Every time his chest throbbed, he remembered Jaime Lannister's wicked smile through the pouring rain as he whispered into Eleonora's ear. His face so close to hers that he could feel the hotness of their breaths.
When Pycelle has gone, Eleonora handed Jory a cup of honeyed wine. That clouded the mind like Poppy's milk, yet not as badly. He needed to be able to think.
"Now is no time to be a hero," said Ned. "What good will you be if you overexert yourself and are unable to travel the entire way North? You'll ride in the carriage with Eleonora and Rickon until you're strong enough to ride again. Your Lord commands it."
"Yes, my lord," said Jory, sipping on the honey wine.
"You'll leave before sunrise," said Ned. "Jacks, Porther, Fat Tom, Heward, Quent, and Donnis will escort you on your journey. Varly will lead in your wake when the girls and myself depart as soon as we are able. With any luck, we'll all be home before harvest."
"As my lord commands," he said.
Ned sent them a weak smile and left for his chambers, closing the door behind him. Eleonora took his face in her hands once her father was out of sight. She gently placed her forehead against his and the pair both closed their eyes. They had survived, and they would keep surviving — together.
—
"You can't," said Arya.
"Please, Father," Sansa managed at last. "Please don't."
Eddard Stark favored his daughters with a tired smile. "At last we've found something you two agree on."
"I didn't do anything wrong," Sansa pleaded with him. "I don't want to go back." She loved King's Landing; the pageantry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all. "Send Arya away, she started it, Father, I swear it. I'll be good, you'll see, just let me stay and I promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen."
Ned's mouth twitched strangely. "Sansa, I'm not sending you away for fighting, though the gods know I'm sick of you two squabbling. I want you back in Winterfell for your own safety. One of my men was cut down like a dog not a league from where we sit, and what does Robert do? He goes hunting."
Arya was chewing at her lip in that disgusting way she had. "Can we take Syrio back with us?"
"Who cares about your stupid dancing master?" Sansa flared. "Father, I only just now remembered, I can't go away, I'm to marry Prince Joffrey." She tried to smile bravely for him. "I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies."
"Sweet one," her father said gently, "listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me."
"He is!" Sansa insisted. "I don't want someone brave and gentle, I want him. We'll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you'll see. I'll give him a son with golden hair, and one day he'll be the king of all the realm, the greatest king that ever was, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion."
Arya made a face. "Not if Joffrey's his father," she said. "He's a liar and a craven and anyhow he's a stag, not a lion."
Sansa felt tears in her eyes. "He is not! He's not the least bit like that old drunken king," she screamed at her sister, forgetting herself in her grief.
"Sansa, breathe," said Eleonora carefully. "You are beautiful, you are good, and you are a Stark. Stop losing yourself in the grandeur of titles. Do not place your happiness into the hands of a man. You have a mind and a heart of your own. Listen to them."
Ned shouted for Septa Mordane. To the girls he said, "I am looking for a fast trading galley to take you home. We will sail as soon as I can find a proper ship and I settle the King's affairs, with Septa Mordane and a complement of guards... and yes, with Syrio Forel, if he agrees to enter my service. But say nothing of this. It's better if no one knows of our plans. We'll talk again tomorrow."
Sansa cried as Septa Mordane marched the pair down the steps. To Sansa, they were going to take it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, they were going to send her back to the bleak grey walls of Winterfell and lock her up forever. Her life was over before it had begun. She wrenched away from her little sister's hand, stormed into her bedchamber, and barred the door behind her.
"I'll speak with her," said Eleanora, "and I'll speak with Mira once Rickon has taken his bath."
"Get your rest, Eleonora," said Ned. "You leave before first light."
—
"Sansa, come now," said Eleonora, affectionately rubbing her sister's back as she sobbed face first into her pillow. "Father only wants you to be happy."
"I would be happy if I married Joffrey," she insisted vehemently. "You don't understand because you've never been in love!"
"Sansa, you cannot love someone you don't truly know," said Eleonora, petting her sister's pretty red hair to soften her words. "You love that he will be the king of the Seven Kingdoms, and you love his golden hair and his pretty green eyes, but you don't love him."
"You don't know what I feel," she cried, slamming her face into her pillow dramatically.
"I'm leaving in the morning, and I don't want to leave you this upset," said Eleonora. "Winter is coming."
"Winter is always coming," said Sansa, groaning. "I want to stay in the warmth and the sunshine. I'm not like you. You were made for the cold."
—
The grey light of dawn was streaming through his window when the thunder of hoofbeats awoke Eddard Stark from his brief, exhausted sleep. He lifted his head from the table to look down into the yard. Below, men in mail and leather and crimson cloaks were making the morning ring to the sound of swords, and riding down mock warriors stuffed with straw. Ned watched Sandor Clegane gallop across the hard-packed ground to drive an iron-tipped lance through a dummy's head. Canvas ripped and straw exploded as Lannister guardsmen joked and cursed.
The morning was overcast and grim. Ned broke his fast with his daughters, Rickon, Mira, and Septa Mordane. Sansa, still disconsolate, stared sullenly at her food and refused to eat, but Arya wolfed down everything that was set in front of her. "Nora, tell Nymeria that I miss her very much," she said.
"Of course, pup," she replied with a weak smile. "I'll tell Lady the same."
Sansa merely twirled her fork in her food without looking up and shrugged.
"Girls, please take your brother and ready yourselves for the day," said Lord Eddard. "I'll speak with your sister alone before she departs."
Lord Eddard led his eldest daughter to the solar, sitting beside her on the old velvet sofa. He took her hands in his. Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses when he looked upon his eldest child, and for a moment he wanted to weep.
"We'll see each other soon, Father," said Eleonora, smiling a small smile. "No need to be so brooding. You look rather like Jon."
"Winter is coming," said Ned, returning a gentle smile. "No day is promised."
"It's like you're sending me on a pilgrimage to my death," she laughed but her father did not.
"You're the first child I've ever loved," he said abruptly and Eleonora's small smile fell. "When I first saw your face those years ago, in your mother's arms, it was as if I had never known love until then. You looked so much like a Stark, but you had your mother's eyes from the day you met the world. You were never like your mother, too much like your father—"
"You speak as if my likeness to you is a sin," she smirked.
"No, it's—" he began again. "It's just that I need you to know, from your first breath— you were mine. You will always be my first daughter, and I've loved you then and until the end of days. Nothing will ever change that. Do you hear me? Nothing."
"I love you, too, Father," she said, slightly unnerved, "always."
"What I tell you now, you must never forget and never repeat," he said. "Do you understand?"
"Yes," she said slowly.
"If anything were to happen to me, I need you to do two things," he said, peering deep into her Riverrun eyes. "You will ask your mother to tell you the story of the Ice Moon."
"Ice Moon?"
"She will tell it best," he replied, nodding slowly. "The second thing I ask of you — tell Jon he will learn of his mother from Howland Reed. I promised him I would speak to him of his mother when we see each other again. If we do not, I leave the responsibility to you."
"I would do as you ask, but I won't have to do either, Father," she said, squeezing his hands. "We'll all be together soon."
"Of course," he said, squeezing her hands again to reassure her. "Of course we will."
—
Jaime came to her at sunset, as the clouds reddened above the walls and towers. He came alone, as she had bid him. For once he was dressed simply, in leather boots and hunting greens. Cersei dressed similarly, her face was swollen still from Robert's hand. Ned Stark has given her an ultimatum regarding her bastard children, and she would protect them no matter how many men had to die.
"Robert had another tantrum, I see," said Jaime, gritting his teeth. "It will be his last."
"We haven't much time," said Cersei as she stood close to him. "It won't be long before Robert has an unfortunate accident."
She stood beside him in the gardens. Her every move was graceful. Her curling blond hair moved in the wind, and her eyes were green as the leaves of summer.
"I'll send the Kingsguard north on the kingsroad as soon as Joffrey is crowned the new king," said Cersei.
"Why the kingsroad?" asked Jaime, furrowing his brow.
"To kill that Stark cunt and take the boy," said Cersei as if he should have known. "My spies tell me they're traveling north ahead of the rest of their pack. I'll have them killed, too."
"Why would you kill the Stark girl?" asked Jaime, his eyes threatening to dance. "She's more useful to us alive."
"To you," said Cersei. "She is more trouble alive than dead."
"You honestly believe that?" he replied, aghast. "You don't think the north would start a war if a hair on her pretty little head was harmed? You'll already be playing a dangerous game taking Ned Stark as a prisoner. Think of the consequences we'll face."
"You don't want her dead because you're grown attached to the girl, like some mangy starved dog," said Cersei. "The kindest thing you can do to a sick pet is put it down. You'll meet the guards already on kingsroad and bring me the head of that black haired bitch."
Jaime swallowed hard, "as you wish."
—
"Will we see Nyx and Shaggydog again?" asked Rickon excitedly in a singsong voice.
"Of course, pup," said Eleonora, pulling Rickon against him to kiss the top of his head. "We'll see Summer, Grey Wind, Lady, and Nymeria, too. We'll see them all together again."
"Are you happy to see your big brothers, too, little lord?" asked Jory, smiling as he sat across the pair of starts in the paraquin, "and your lady mother?"
"Nora is my mother," he said simply, peeking out the back carriage window through the linens. He sat up on his knees, small and curious.
"You mustn't say that, Rickon," said Eleonora, looking uncomfortably at Jory. "We share the same mother, and she loves us both very much. Do you hear me? Rickon?"
Rickon stared intently through the linen curtains, squinting in silence before his eyes grew large in fear.
"Who is that, Nora?" asked Rickon, pointing his index finger through the opening.
Eleonora furrowed her brows and turned about to see a half dozen men approaching in white capes, the King's guard. They had their swords drawn. Something was wrong. Six knights of the Kingsguard-but no sign of Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan-were arrayed in a crescent around the group. They were in full armor, enameled steel from helm to heel, long pale cloaks over their shoulders, shining white shields strapped to their left arms.
"Jory," she whispered because she could find no other words.
Jory pushed himself forward to see what Rickon had spotted. He gripped his sword just as the paraquin came to an abrupt stop. He kicked open the door. Eleonora clutched Rickon against her body and slithered out the side of the carriage on the opposite side of the King's guards.
"What is your business here?" Fat Tom's deep voice called out.
With Jory injured, Varly at King's Landing and Alyn gone, Fat Tom had temporary command of his household guard. The thought had filled Ned with vague disquiet. Tomard was a solid man; affable, loyal, tireless, capable in a limited way, but he was near fifty, and even in his youth he had never been energetic.
Perhaps Ned should not have been so quick to send off half his guard, and all his best swords among them. He would have felt slightly more at ease if Jory was healthy and a few more able bodied men had joined Eleonora and Rickon.
With a single sharp thrust, the nearest gold cloak drove his spear into Fat Tom's back. His blade dropped from nerveless fingers as the wet red point burst out through his ribs, piercing leather and mail. He was dead before his sword hit the earth.
Jory kept the two Starks ducked beside the horses, reaching up and yanking on Moon's reins to free her attachment to the carriage, "you have to take Rickon and ride East. We'll meet along the riverbed."
"What are you talking about?" he whispered.
"I'll lead them north and come back to meet you," she hissed. "Take as many men with you as you can."
"I am not leaving you," said Jory.
"Do not allow your feelings for me to dull what you know to be true," she spat. "I will not have Rickon die because you care for me."
"Nora—"
"I command you as your lady, not as your lover," she said. "Protect Rickon and heed my words. Ride Moon east to the river, and I will find you. Go, now!"
Jory clenched his jaw and nodded silently. He threw Rickon onto Moon's saddle and painfully climbed upon the large white mare.
Janos Slynt himself slashed open Quent's throat. Donnis whirled, steel flashing, drove back the nearest spearman with a flurry of blows; for an instant it looked as though he might cut his way free. Meryn Trant was on him. Sandor Clegane's first cut took off Donnis's sword hand at the wrist; his second drove him to his knees and opened him from shoulder to breastbone.
Eleonora took her Frey dagger and sliced free one of the grey paraquin horses. She slid her boot into the stirrup and lifted herself onto the mare. When she looked back she spotted Boros Blount on his black steed, a horrible grin on his face. Sandor Clegane was on foot now, a humored grin on his hideous face.
"What a pretty little rose," he chucked, his armor clanking together heavily as he approached her. "She smells so sweet."
Eleonora dug her heels into the hips of the grey horse, steering her north.
"I'll pluck her first," said Boros Blount, clicking his tongue to lead his steed after her, "root and stem."
Boros Blount had droopy eyes and a dark brown beard. He wore his Kingsguard armor and white cloak clasped with a golden lion, consisting of a shirt of enameled scales chased with gold, a tall helm with a golden sunburst crest, greaves, and gorget and gauntlets and boots of gleaming plate. He was very tall and broad, his skin tanned like leather.
She didn't have her arrows, and she didn't have a sword. She had her dead raper's dagger and a fat, old horse. She rode dead north as fast as the old mare would carry her. When the trees grew thick and the road narrow, she slid off that fat horse and pushed her onward down the kingsroad to lead Boros Blount and Sandor Clegane off her trail.
Eleonora heard voices and one horse carry on the way north of the kingsroad but one did not, one followed her true path. Her heart was racing so quickly that she was certain it echoed in the forest. She lifted her skirts and darted between dozens of thick redwood trees. She damned herself for not wearing her hunting clothes. It would be so much easier to move and to hide if she wasn't wearing her heavy blue gown. It didn't matter though, if Rickon was safe. If Rickon made his way north then she would die a thousand times in a gown or trousers or naked.
Boros caught up to Eleonora not deep into the kingswood. He rode his steed behind her and used his boot to kick her hard onto her belly. She skidded on her chest down a hill and rolled to a stop on her back. Her ankle was stuck under a thick redwood root. She desperately tried to free herself but her ankle would not budge. Her dagger slipped from her hand during her fall and rested just out of reach. Her forehead bled heavily and her lip had burst open. A bruise had already begun to grow across her cheek.
"Where did you think you would run off to, you pretty little rose?" said Boros Blount, dismounting his horse and slowly approaching her helpless frame.
"Set me loose," she seethed, trying to yank her ankle free.
"Now why would I do that?"
"I am the eldest daughter of the King's Hand and Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark," she hissed. "You will let me go."
"I don't take orders from northern whores," he spat, kneeling down at the soles of her feet. He pushed her skirts up over her knees. She fought him to push them back into place. She began to panic, the scent of Black Walder suddenly stunk in the air. She would not be raped again. She promised herself the day she had killed him, it would never happen again.
"King Robert will have your head," she screamed. "Let me go!"
"Oh, I doubt that," he laughed.
Boros gripped her bare knees and pulled her forward on her back, spreading her legs as he fumbled to undo his pants. Eleonora's eyes drowned in silent tears, clawing at the earth to reach her dagger.
"Well, what do we have here?" said a voice from behind Boros.
"Ser Jaime?" said Boros, rising to his feet and relatching his belt. "We believed you to have journeyed for Casterly Rock."
Jaime wore his Lannister colors, his white cloak no longer his uniform. He led his favorite black steed by the reins as he approached. Eleonora's throat grew so tight that she couldn't breathe. His eyes narrowed when he saw her beaten face and ripped skirts.
"Ah, yes," he said with a smirk, "but I couldn't rightfully leave King's Landing without a proper Stark 'farewell.'"
Eleonora pushed herself up to lean back on her elbows, her ankle still stuck snugly in the root. Her blue-handled dagger, the prize from Black Walder, was still just out of reach to free her.
"Jaime—" said Eleonora. He merely lifted his fingers upwards to silence her plea.
"We are on orders to kill the Stark girl and bring the boy back alive," said Boros. "I'm following the command of King Joffrey."
"Joffrey?" Eleonora scoffed in disbelief. "What of King Robert?"
"Dead," said Boros simply, "just as your traitor father will be soon."
Eleonora's chest felt tight and shallow.
"Where is the Stark boy?" asked Jaime.
"Still searching," said Boros, "but we'll find him."
"Well, you've found the girl yet still, she lives," said Jaime in his usual dry humored tone. "I was unaware raping Lady Stark was commanded by your king."
"No man could pass on an opportunity to fuck Eleonora Stark," said Boros, scoffing as he peered down at her as if she was raw meat. "Every man in King's Landing would do the same."
"Ah," said Jaime easily. "You wouldn't mind if I had a go myself then, too?"
"After you, my lord," said Boros, smirking.
Eleonora began to violently tug at her ankle again, no longer afraid of breaking it. With one final tug, the root snapped as well as her ankle. The pain was excruciating, so much she nearly vomited. She rolled to her side and fought to crawl away, snatching the Frey's blue handle blade and holding it against her own neck with violent determination.
"I would sooner die than be had by the likes of you," she screamed, straightening her long, slender neck and pressing the blade harder against her skin.
"Why would you want to do something so foolish?" said Jaime, smiling wickedly at her.
"You know I'll do it, Jaime," she warned, taking a poignant moment to catch her breath. "You know I will."
"I know," he said. With one swift motion, Jaime pulled his sword from its holster and swung back at Boros Blount. His knees folded and his body collapsed, his head rolled and stopped at Eleonora's feet. His face still wore a wicked smile. She slowly lowered her blade away from her throat in shock.
Jaime wasted no time. He moved forward while Eleonora stared on at Boros Blount's decapitated head that looked back at her. He lifted her up to her feet as easily as a straw doll. Her entire body trembled and her leg ached in intense pain but she did not cry out.
"Are you hurt?" asked Jaime, looking her up and down. He tilted her chin upwards so he could look into her eyes. He could see her forehead and bottom lip were bleeding as well as a bruise where Boros had struck her down. The angry plum color would fade to yellow in a few days, and the swelling would eventually go down, but there was no mistaking it for anything but what it was. He prayed she had not been raped. He prayed he made it in time. "Did he touch you? Did any of them touch you?"
"No, they didn't have the chance," said Eleonora, shaking her head slowly with Jaime's fingers still on her chin, "but my leg is most certainly broken."
"Where is your little brother?" he asked. "Is he safe?" Eleonora looked at him without speaking for a long time, and he could hardly blame her for her hesitation. She was wise not to trust him with the location of her brother, but he could tell by her lack of urgency that he was alive and safe with any remaining Stark men. "Rally what's left of your men and ride East along the river for three days," said Jaime, and he noticed that Eleonora still looked dazed. "Stark, do you hear me?"
"Yes, yes three days East," said Eleonora, blinking several times and focusing on Jaime who was holding the horse's reins beside her.
"Three days East along the river to Braavos," said Jaime. "Do not stop at a stable, an inn, or so much as a roadside market. Stay away from kingsroad. Board the Wind Witch out of bay and you'll sail north."
"King Robert..." she said, suddenly drowning in this new reality. "Was what he said—"
"Dead, it's true," said Jaime.
"My father and my sisters," she said with unfocused eyes as her mind spun wild. "I have to go back for them."
"And you will die, or be locked in chains," said Jaime, lowering his head to look into her eyes. "Do not be a fool."
"You cannot expect me to leave them behind," she insisted. "What will become of them? And Mira, Septa Mordane and our house guards…"
"By now, all the Stark men will have already been killed," said Jaime and Eleonora shuttered. "Your father will be awaiting trial for treason—"
"Treason? Preposterous," she scoffed. "What crime has my father possibly committed against the crown?"
"He has claimed King Joffrey is not the legitimate son of Robert Baratheon," he said in a much quieter tone.
Eleonora looked up into Jaime's eyes, and she knew the truth then as if it had been before her face all along. Her hand found her parted lips, and she looked away in an attempt to process what was happening. She took an agonizing step backwards and ran her fingers through her hair, her lips moving but no words came out. Now was not the time to unravel the twisted history of Jaime and Cersei. He would never admit the truth because he could never put Cersei in harm's way.
"My sisters?" she asked suddenly. "My handmaiden Mira Forrester and my sisters' septa?"
"Sansa has been taken with her septa," said Jaime. "Sansa will not be harmed. She's too valuable. I cannot claim to know the fate of her septa or of the handmaiden."
"What of Arya?" said Eleonora. "Where is she?"
"She hasn't been found," said Jaime. "She's somewhere hiding in the city. She was in a sparring lesson and escaped."
"I have to find her and get her out of King's Landing," said Eleonora, limping towards Boros's steed.
She stumbled as pain overcame her and Jaime wrapped his arm around her waist to catch her from falling. She turned and looked up into his eyes before Jaime quickly swept her up into his arms and tossed her onto the saddle of Boros's steed.
"You cannot go back, and you know that," said Jaime, helping her adjust her injured leg into a stirrup.
"You'll be recognized before you reach the gates. What good would you be with a broken leg and a handful of guards?"
"You have to help her then," said Eleonora, desperately now.
"What?"
"Yes," she insisted wildly. "There is a man called Yoren taking recruits north to the Wall. He came to see my father just days ago. He can take her to my brother Jon at the Night's Watch. Jon would keep her safe. Find her and get her to him."
"Stark, I can't," he said gently, almost laughing at the thought. "You're asking me to betray my family."
"Why did you come here?" she breathed. "Why did you come back for me if you weren't willing to forsake your sister's command?"
"I learned of the order to hunt down your caravan and bring back your head on a spike," he admitted.
"My mother kidnapped your brother, and I knew but said nothing," she replied fiercely. "My father threatened your family's claim to the throne, and I would be happy to see him do it. I killed Lannister men before your own eyes. Yet here you are — with me. Why?"
"I've told you once before, if I wanted you dead," he said, slow and purposeful. "You would be dead already."
"You care for me," she said astutely. "Whether you admit it or not — you carry some fondness for me, no matter how reluctant."
"Only enough to not see your head on a spike," he hissed. "Don't flatter yourself, Stark. You do little more than amuse me."
"I am begging you now, Jaime," she said, tears swelling in her eyes. "Don't do it for the Starks. Do it for me, please."
He stared up at her for a long moment. Her eyes wider than usual, her small, slender hands clutched the mane of Boros's horse.
"I can do nothing for your father," he said finally. "I'll do what I can for your sisters." Jaime pulled on the horse's reins to lead her horse East. Eleonora reached down and pulled back on the reins to halt the horse.
"You don't have much time," said Jaime. "Reunite with what remains of your party—"
"Jaime," she said, demanding his attention. "Give me your word. You'll take Arya safely out of King's Landing."
"The promise from the Kingslayer?" he smirked, amused. "My word doesn't matter to any—"
"It matters to me," she said with conviction.
She didn't forgive him for what he had done to her brother, to her family. She never could. However, for whatever reason or motivation — he had saved her life. She would be dead had he not come back for her.
If he wanted anything from her besides a thanks for her life then he would not receive it, and he knew that, too.
"You have my word," he said, "the promise of a kingslayer."
—
Coming Soon: The North remembers.
—
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