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Every Loyalty
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Chapter IV:
The Lady of Winterfell
She remembered that last day well.
Before the Leffords of Golden Tooth were to join Tywin Lannister in the fight against Robb Stark, the self-proclaimed King in the North, Larisa organized a feast in honor of her husband's house. Lord Lefford himself was late to arrive, held up by last-minute preparations, but his son Harden was the first to sit with his men near the head of the long table.
It was a grand meal, and no one ate better than her husband, before she made the mistake of pouring his wine too heavily while he laughed.
His soiled trousers was the highlight of the evening for his men, but Larisa steeled herself when his hard gaze caught her and made her resist the urge to go and hide in the kitchens.
"Idiot," he growled through clenched teeth. "Can't even pour a man's drink."
He ignored her apologies. Then he grabbed her when she would've excused herself and got him a rag to mop up the spill. She stood with her eyes cast down, and her hands folded in front of her while the men of House Lefford stared, or smirked, or laughed.
"There's nothing at all in that head of yours, is there?" He leaned back in his chair and looked long at her. "You thought your name alone would buy you a castle on a pile of gold."
Larisa had come to know this much: Harden Lefford was a man that enjoyed being comfortable. Having his cup filled often and surrounding himself with finery made him very comfortable.
Lord Leo Lefford was not such a man, which made life for his son at Golden Tooth distinctly uncomfortable. Harden would one day inherit these halls, but he had been aiming for bigger and better things when he first asked his father to make him a match within House Lannister.
"Clearly you thought it would," Larisa remarked, to the amusement of some men in the room. As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted it though, if only to avoid seeing the superior contempt on her husband's face.
"If you were a woman half as beautiful as your famous cousin, you'd be worth something. If you were a woman at all, you'd be worth the time I've spent bedding you for an heir-"
"Perhaps if you were more potent, you would have a son by now," his father drawled.
Larisa raised her head and greeted Lord Lefford, who sat down at the head of the table. He waved off her curtsey and warmly took her hand.
"Sit down, my dear. Enjoy yourself." She sat at the man's left and ignored her husband's stare from across the table.
"It's a damn good spread," Lord Lefford told her, carving well into the roast chicken. She nodded with a small smile.
"Thank you, my lord."
It was the last she spoke to either man that day, and the days to come.
"Where do you come from?" Sansa asked of Martha. The girl was permitted to sit with her needlework while Larisa was made to stand and brush out Sansa's auburn hair. She glanced over at her former handmaiden with some curiosity. After four years, Larisa knew little more than her name.
"I hadn't thought to ask," she murmured.
"You weren't asked for an opinion, either," Sansa said crisply. She turned to Martha, who gave a meek nod.
"I am from Ashemark, my lady."
Sansa thought for a moment. "House Marbrand?"
Martha inclined her head.
"So you are highborn." Sansa nodded to herself. "I thought so."
Larisa hadn't, but she did now have a vague memory of a Marbrand debt.
She looked over at Martha, with her dark blondish hair in Southern-style braids. She didn't carry herself as a noble lady, but perhaps that was just her quiet nature. Whatever the case, Marbrand was a small, but respected house of the Westerlands, pledged to House Lannister. Which also meant that she would've served Larisa's mother, Lady Dorna, until she came of age. Until Larisa had taken her into service, that is.
"The lord's son is my cousin," Martha admitted.
"Do you want to return there?" Sansa asked. Martha hesitated, and so did Larisa with the comb in her hand.
"There is nothing for me there, my lady."
"Why not?" Sansa asked dryly. "Surely your family will still take you in."
"They would," Martha agreed. "But my betrothed was killed when Cersei destroyed the Sept of Baelor...as long as she rules the south, there will be no peace there."
Sansa seemed to accept this, and then she stood.
"I need something warm to drink then."
Martha nodded, "Yes, my lady."
Sansa took the comb out of Larisa's hands and began braiding her hair herself.
"You can stop that," she said, "and empty my chamber pot."
Larisa did not move.
She understood that Sansa Stark had been through a great deal, but so have most in this country. Larisa refused to kneel like a dog for this girl, younger than her, who once was a selfish, petty child like all that came to King's Landing seeking their fortune.
She might be a Stark, but Larisa still knew who she was.
She was no Lady-in-Waiting.
The corner of Sansa's mouth raised a bit as their eyes met, cool blue against pale green. "If you don't like my brother's little arrangement, I'm sure the kitchens could use someone to scrub the floors."
Larisa remained quiet, biting her tongue, until Sansa sighed impatiently.
"Go on, speak freely."
"With all due respect, my lady, you don't give a shit where my handmaiden was from," Larisa said dryly. "She was given to my family to repay a debt, and would have married my brother Martyn, had he lived. And then to another, had he lived. Just as you would still be married to my cousin the Imp, had he not escaped a beheading."
And what a favor that would have been to Lady Sansa, if Tyrion had paid for Joffrey's murder. The argument could even be made that they were still married by law.
"You're right. I couldn't care less about the sheep who served you," Sansa said. "Except that your family butchered my family, yet here I am. And here you are."
She crossed her arms expectantly. Larisa glanced to the far corner.
Eventually she went to it, and reached down for the chamber pot.
"I may technically be a knight, but I don't need a squire."
Jon nearly smiled. "Maybe so, but you're the best one for him."
He and Ser Davos Seaworth sat alone in the war council room, planning their next moves to secure Winterfell. There were still areas of the castle left that needed to be rebuilt and the construction was underway, but there was also more than needed to be done before the winter snows started for real.
"It doesn't seem right that an advisor should get a squire before his king," Davos pointedly noted.
"I'm not a knight," Jon said.
Just then, Willem Lannister came in with the midday meal and some ale. He set a plate in front of Jon, who waved it off.
"None for me."
The boy hesitated. He looked confused, unsure of what to do next.
"I'll take some, young man," Davos beckoned him over. Willem filled his cup, and afterwards Davos instructed him to see to the other lords taking their meal in the dining hall. Willem gave a nod and a nervous half-bow in respect, and a lower one to Jon before he slipped out.
Davos turned to the man beside him. Even after such a brief time, he now knew Jon Snow to be a good man. Also somewhat of a dour one.
"Not hungry?"
"I'll go to the kitchens myself, later."
Davos raised a brow.
"If you don't like the lad, why'd you let him stay?" he asked, a knowing gleam in his eye.
"Should I have listened to my sister then?" Jon said dryly. "I won't execute the innocent, even a Lannister."
"Or a young boy?" Davos said. Jon sent him a bit of a glare. There the knight had his proof—Olly's betrayal was still something of a sore spot for his new leader.
One could hardly fault him. But it was interesting, too. Telling of his character.
"It'd be wise to keep an eye on him," Davos said, "but the boy knows what his life would've been like with Ramsay Bolton."
Jon finally looked up from the map of the castle that laid on the table and looked to his advisor.
"A short one," Davos finished. "You did show 'em mercy. And he's grateful, just like the girl. Even if they don't say so."
That was how Jon found himself wandering, finally by himself, outside the keep. Still within its walls, he could hear the sound of something being struck, over and over. And someone's angry huffs while they were doing it.
He rounded a corner of the castle and saw Willem, repeatedly attacking a straw figure with a wooden stick. There was some form there in his movements, Jon thought, but overall it wasn't much swordsmanship. Surely his nobleman father would've taught him something by now.
How old is this kid, exactly? he thought.
"Are you supposed to be out here?" Jon asked. The boy jumped at his voice, whirling on Jon with his makeshift weapon. Seeing who was in front of him, Willem dropped his arm quickly and held the stick behind him. He lowered his eyes nervously.
Jon walked over and inspected the deep stab holes in the tightly woven straw—a little impressive, for him not even using a training sword.
"Don't be so focused that you lose your surroundings," he said. The boy nodded, but he stayed quiet.
He still wouldn't look up.
Jon unsheathed his own sword, Longclaw, which finally brought the boy's attention up from the ground. He turned it over and offered it, pommel first.
"Your name's Willem?"
"…Yes, your grace."
Jon allowed him to grab hold of the sword. He fixed Willem's weak grip, instructing him how he should hold a proper weapon. Then he corrected the boy's stance and let him do a couple experimental swings.
"It's heavier than I thought," Willem admitted. He carefully handed back Longclaw.
"One day it'll feel less so, but not by much. A sword should be just heavy enough," Jon said. He signaled to one of the men bringing in wood for construction, Lenan his name was, and asked him to bring back two training swords.
"If you're gunna sneak off and practice, may as well do it right."
Willem ducked his head sheepishly as Lenan returned, handing over the training swords to Jon. He tossed one to Willem before unbuckling his sword sheath for Lenan to hold Longclaw on standby.
He was young, and raw, but Jon thought this boy had the instincts, if not much formal training. All it took were a couple well-placed jabs along with Jon's barked instructions before Willem caught on and corrected his mistakes. Every time he fell back into the dirt and snow, he was back on his feet even faster.
"Are you going to keep letting me knock you over like a toddler?"
Mostly Willem tried in vain to block the sharp thwacks to his midsection, arms and legs, but Jon could see him holding back his wide smile. In it he could see the joy of a boy who was taking a step closer to being what he knew he was meant to be.
It threatened to break Jon's steady frown.
Until he noticed the young woman watching nearby. Her hands were tightly clasped together, her lips pursed, and her narrow gaze watched them both sharply.
Ah, he thought with a slight smile. The girl who stood alone before the lords of the North with her head high, and demanded them all to listen to her.
And Jon knew now, like he knew then, that it had all been for the boy's sake.
"My lady," he greeted.
Willem frowned and lowered his sword when Jon slowed and lowered his. When he saw his sister, his expression soured.
"What're you doing here?"
"Your grace," Larisa nodded respectfully to Jon, who nodded. Then she turned to her brother.
"Ser Davos has asked for you."
Willem looked to Jon with imploring eyes.
"Best not keep him waiting," Jon said, but his smile let Willem leave them with a small grin on his face.
"You disapprove?" Jon asked, before Larisa could take her leave as well.
She lowered her eyes—it seemed like a practiced move, not actually demure, he thought. "It's not my place to say, your grace."
"If it was?" Jon hedged.
They walked together back to the main courtyard after he took Longclaw back from Lenan. It was busy with men and women preparing for the long winter as well as the evening meal.
"Willem is not meant for war," she said eventually. "He admires the sword because he admired his brother Martyn. And Martyn always loved his cousin, Ser Jaime…he wanted to be a great knight."
"The Kingslayer?" Jon did little to hide his sarcasm. "Your brother had high aspirations."
Larisa looked up then, catching him off guard with the angry flash in her deep green eyes. "As did yours."
They stopped in the middle of the courtyard. Jon bristled at any slight to Robb's memory, but he finally noticed how some of the men had stopped to stare at what must've looked a strange sight: the King of the North and the Lannister woman.
"I'm sorry, your grace." Her gaze fell again. She seemed to realize the same thing he had. "That was thoughtless."
Jon reluctantly shook his head. "As was I."
They parted ways soon after, but all the while he couldn't erase the picture of her burning eyes.
"You're rather quiet tonight."
Larisa watched her brother, her chin in hand as she watched him plow through pork meat and stew without so much as a glance in her direction. Usually she couldn't get him to shut up about his daily annoyances with Ser Davos, who made him help the man practice his reading.
Now, however, Davos sat to the right of Jon Snow with Lady Sansa, making their table laugh with tales of his smuggling days. He was a good storyteller, and Larisa often hung on his words at mealtimes, even from across the room.
She and her brother sat at the far end of the dining hall, near the kitchens where Larisa would soon have to help clean up the evening meal.
"Those bland onions and potatoes can't be more thrilling than my company," she teased, and prodded at his side. "Out with it, then. Is it because I interrupted your little play fight with the king?"
Will ripped a chunk of pork from the bone and chewed loudly, the way he knew irritated her to no end. She yanked at his ear, making him yelp and slap her hand away.
"Get off!"
"You need to take your duties more seriously, Ser," she reproached. "We are not at home. We are not guests. Jon Snow is not your brother."
Will shot her a hot glare. "You're not Mother, so stop pretending you are!"
Larisa was stunned to silence. Then her temper flared against her will.
"So your clothes wash and mend themselves, do they? That carcass you're devouring, you prepared it yourself?" she challenged. "The bruises Jon Snow gave you, I didn't waste my time crushing leaves for a salve and soothed them for you?"
She scoffed when he didn't answer. "Then I must not be the one who cares for you after all."
Will only grabbed his plate and left her in a petulant huff.
Her appetite gone, Larisa returned to the kitchens.
Martha was there, already scrubbing bowls and scraping off bones from the plates for scraps. She saw Larisa and freed her hands.
"I'll take your dishes, my lady—"
"I am no longer your lady, you idiot," Larisa snapped. "Our Lady Sansa has seen to that."
She dumped her bowls into the large basin and went back the way she came.
She hastened through the dining hall, out to the courtyard where the night was already dark and snow flurried, but Larisa could breathe.
At least, until she nearly stumbled into three northern men. She could place their faces, but not their names. They seemed to recognize her well enough.
"The fuck're you doin' out here," one of them asked.
Larisa meant to move on quickly. "Sorry to have troubled you, my lords. Please excuse me—"
"Sorry to have troubled you, me lords," he mocked her in a girlish voice. "Lannisters. Always so damn clever talkin'."
"Real clever today, sneerin' to Jon Snow about his own brother," the third remarked.
"Half-brother n' all, but still. Mighty disrespectful if you ask me."
"I meant the king no disrespect," Larisa said. She meant it too; offending the king, or these men, was the last thing she aimed to do.
She backed up a step or two, but they matched her. Soon the castle wall was behind her, and a swell of panic began to coil from her belly up into her throat.
"You're a proud little shit, aren't you?"
"Prouder than a man who'd accost a woman in the dark," she mocked.
The moment his arm raised, Larisa couldn't help but shut her eyes.
And then the crunch of boots in the heavy snow reached her ears, along with the men's muttering.
"What the hell are you doing?"
When Larisa next opened her eyes, she hardly believed it.
There stood the Lady of Winterfell.