Chapter Eleven: Sociopaths and Sorcery.
Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.
OOOO
"You are a clever one, Robb Stark," Shiera Seastar swept into his solar.
"How so?" He asked, sitting up straight. Unsurprisingly the young man had been buried in mounds of documents as usual. The Northerly brilliance of a dying summer pooled through his window, bathing her face in light. In accordance with the unusual warmth she had shirked her usual furs. A silky gown of silver lace which hugged her bosom tightly prior to whirling loosely downwards to her feet. Settled around her throat was a necklace of emeralds and sapphires. The lovely jewels caused her mismatched gaze to flash in alternating patterns. The acting Lord of Winterfell did not hesitate in gripping the desk before him tightly.
She was dressed to kill.
"You do not trust me," With great grace Lady Seastar settled across from him. Her fingers snapped up as he started to protest. "That is good. You have as much honor as your father, yet you are thrice as cunning. It means I will not wind up wedded to a simpleton." She smiled at him, as he lost his breath at the thought of marrying her. "The Blue Roses will serve as excellent spies throughout the North. Even if you only meant to use them as a deterrent against my influence."
"Clearly not," Robb shook his head disappointedly, "If you could so easily determine such a thing."
"I am not some mere Northern Lord, love," She reached over to grasp his hand in her own whilst moving to pluck away a paper from his mound. Heart swelling, tongue knotted, Robb could say nothing in response. "Distrust me until our interests are more permanently aligned. That is understandable and advisable. Just realize that I am far from a fool. Few have managed to plot by me unnoticed." Her lips tightened as she perused the document. Her manicured fingernails squeezed tightly at Robb's hand until he returned the favour.
"How can you love me?" Robb asked suddenly, almost instantly regretting it as she glanced at him in response. "You bedded many men far comelier, smarter, and stronger than I. Women too, if the accounts written by Maesters from that time are anything to go by. You were a Princess, a Mistress of Whispers, a merchant, and the most desirable woman in the world. You still are, come to think of it…" He trailed off as she stared at him.
"Love has a different meaning to everyone that claims to have found it, Robb Stark," Shiera set the page back down. "Yes, in those days I took whatever I lusted for. Westeros was my orchard, and I picked whichever fruits were to my liking. Because I could." Her other hand reached over to slide up his wrist. "Then my brothers stripped me of all but a fraction of my wealth. Bound me deep beneath Winterfell where they thought no one would find me. They stole my easy, boring life as a Targaryen Princess away from me. Thrusted me into this era of political strife." Her eyes began to glimmer with more life than Robb had ever seen. "I am no longer the Princess or Great Bastard you have clearly read so much about, my love. Ever since you woke me from my slumber I have become whatever I make of myself. Can you imagine the thrill of starting with nothing? Conniving your way towards something with little more than your own cunning?"
He did not answer, for the answer was obvious. The Starks had owned very little to be proud of. All of Westeros had scorned them only five or so years earlier as poor savages. Now with every passing day it seemed he found himself sinking his teeth into more with immense relish. Seemingly a trait learned from the woman holding his hand now.
"It was a delicious turn of events," The Riverine Lady sighed almost erotically with fluttering eyelashes, "To take what I wanted for once rather than have it given to me. I went from a relic of a disgraced dynasty to one of the most powerful Nobles in the Riverlands. All of my influence in Lys reclaimed. An heir to the Kings of Winter my lover." She glanced fully at him now. "You are my greatest conquest. I took you as a naive boy, and trained you to square off against the strongest of your future bannermen. Influenced your mind so that you could scrutinize my every intention. Shaped you into the greatest challenge I have ever encountered."
"I am not your conquest," Robb contradicted her plainly, "Not yet at least, Shiera."
"No. Not yet." Shiera corrected herself whilst slipping back to her full posture. Standing to both feet she stalked around the desk. Fingertips skimming across the many documents. "More importantly, my love," Her voice took a taunting lilt, "What led you to believe you were not my comeliest suitor?" That voice dropped to a sultry growl as she wedged herself upon his lap. "You are so tantalizingly manly compared to the southerners I bedded in my youth, so persistently honorable in the face of my charms." Her lips swelled around his earlobe, "So. Frustratingly. Delectable." They tore into one another like wild animals not long after that.
Idly, Robb Stark mused surprisedly to himself that he was not angrier with the Targaryen beauty. Her love was a greedy, jealous, hungersome abomination fed on the blood of ambition. So very different from what he felt for her, so much less pure. Frankly, the Stark heir was merely relieved that no matter how twisted Lady Shiera's heart was it belonged to him. That he alone would come the closest to conquering it. If she could believed of course.
Terrifyingly enough, he did believe her.
OOOO
"Do you think we will arrive at King's Landing before father, Sansa?" Arya asked as they rocked within the swaying war galley.
Fingers twiddling with the dials of the same metal ball she had found in the Crypts so long ago, Sansa looked up. Her sister wore trousers and a shirt of mail. Perfectly prepared in case any pirates took it upon themselves to attack the fleet of White Harbor war galleys. Beside her reclined their mother in one of the worn gowns she had owned since first arriving at Winterfell. "No," She answered shortly, "Though that is fortunate. The King will have no say in where we decide to place our cousin."
"I never imagined I would be sailing for my own sister's keep with four-thousand Northmen," Their mother bit out harshly, "Plotting to steal away her only son."
"Your sister is deranged mother," Sansa snapped out testily, already close to zoning back upon her metal globe again. "Vipers though they may be not a single person to have visited Harrenhal from King's Landing thinks highly of her. What does it tell you that the Royces, Belmores, Templetons, Waynwoods, and Redforts have already amassed their forces? Nor did it take much at all for Arya to convince the King that we will be able to better influence the young Arryn?" What she did not say was that this was the perfect opportunity for her to have called her banners at Harrenhal. With the King's permission, as well as that of the Vale Lords, the greater majority would be marching to help in the possibility of a siege. Then Sansa would march straight to King's Landing with half of her summoned forces in tow. More than four-thousand men. Enough to lend some safety against the six-thousand Gold Cloaks should things turn sour.
"When did my daughters forget the Tully words? Family. Duty. Honor. To march against our own kin is a crime. Especially after what the Lannisters did to Lord Arryn!" The woman had been irate with cold fury since the King publicly ordered that she travel with them back at Winterfell. No other person could have served as a better diplomat in the particular circumstances.
"If the rumors regarding Aunt Lysa are false due to their sources originating from King's Landing," Arya sagely interjected, "Then so are any claims against the Lannisters. Besides, mother, we are not just Tullys. Our words are not purely your words. Winter is Coming." Her eyes flashed as sharp as the steel belted at her lean waist. "Lord Jon shaped the Vale into a far more powerful ally than it ever was before. It was due to his help that we have been able to attack piracy along the Stepstones. That we have begun to accumulate enough power that our coalition can counterbalance the Tyrells, or Lannisters. We will discern what we can from our visit with your sister and judge her fairly. That being said, nothing can be allowed to threaten what we have all built for ourselves."
Their mother went silent. Glaring mutinously at the rolling floor. Arya was correct of course. For more reasons than she had even listed. The Vale was a powerful ally to be depended upon. If they collected Robert Arryn it would allow Sansa to cinch at least twenty-thousand more swords beneath her belt. That would be three, newly powerful, kingdoms willing to defend her against the corrupt Crown Prince. Shivering at the thought of Joffrey Baratheon Sansa fiddled more with the circles of First Men runes. The increased number of Wildlings had meant that securing a tutor was easy enough. Back at Harrenhal she managed to become nearly half-way fluent with the help of a Spearwife named Osha. Prior to leaving Winterfell the young Lady had been sure to leave her no longer needed translator for Rickon and Robb's benefit. In a North that was shifting culturally from southron tradition back more evenly to that of the First Men it was vital they be able to speak as their ancestors once had.
Sighing, the nearly sixteen-year-old maiden set the object aside. She reminisced momentarily upon how the three of them, the Northern Roses and the Tully Trout had squared off against Lady Dustin. In the end, after threatening to have her heir sent to the Dreadfort as a ward alongside Ramsay Snow, they all gained things they wanted. Sansa received a solemn vow that the woman would faithfully serve House Stark until her death. Arya was promised that the booming female population in Black Crown would be given the choice to participate in the Order of the Rose. Their mother wisely asked that two-thousand Dustin men supplement any of the Manderly knights White Harbor would be able to provide. A wise move given that they all stood to lose quite a bit if pirates took them hostage on the Bite.
They had done surprisingly good work together. Even though the arrival of Giants at Winterfell meant Lady Dustin's power was soon to be curbed anyways with the swift constructions of Stoney Horn and a keep at Sea Dragon Point. Sadly it seemed that they all were now at each other's throats. Lysa Arryn would not be facing a united team of diplomats, but instead two unusually accomplished girls sparring ferociously with their mother. "My Ladies," The Captain slipped down, "You must see this." They all rose to the deck quickly. Sansa still held her ball close by. In fact, it seemed as though there were not many moments where it left her grip nowadays.
"Thank the fucking Gods!" Arya stretched as their mother chastised her for blasphemy and swearing. Sansa agreed wholeheartedly with the naughty words though. Land was in sight, but something else too.
"My lookout has counted over ten-thousand Valemen," The captain supplied the answer though he had not been asked for it. "A large fleet of long boats as well as all the banners of the Sisters. House Tollett is also present."
"Tensions have been rising in the Vale," Sansa explained to her mother. The woman's surprise was not hard to understand. "Your Lady sister is less approving of the merchants than her husband was. She has levied massive taxes upon the Sister ports, as well as Gulltown. The merchant class all across the Vale have fared little better. I will not be surprised if more than the Lords sent summons to raise arms aid our cause." A crack, ever so tiny, appeared in her mother's facade at that. Sansa quickly realized that the woman would be won over more easily than anticipated. The more Valemen that arrived at the Eyrie, the more her mother would have to admit that Lysa Arryn was not fit to rule.
OOOO
Bran Stark could not quite believe his luck. That he had become a squire to Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard. Of course, the duty quickly lost its luster. There were excellent bouts of practice in arms though that was easily negated by time spent with King Robert. Bran, despite his inexperience, was posted to fill in Jaime Lannister's old spot quite often alongside Meryn Trant. While the fat, corrupt King doted upon him, Meryn Trant was bitterly opposed to his arrival. Otherwise, everything was quite swell. After Ser Barristan escorted thirteen-thousand Tully men from Trident's Gate, Harrenal, and Fairmarket to the Vale they had headed straight south for King's Landing. In his spare time Bran either observed his father's duties as Hand, or raced with his Direwolf, Rune, throughout the Red Keep.
Those easy, early days came to a swift end though. On his off time from standing guard with Trant, Bran had wound up in the gardens with Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella. While Tommen, a very sweet boy, circled Rune's patient head with a crown of flowers, Bran sat beside the Princess on the fountain. They often read through books she had gathered from the Red Keep's impressive library. Both of them wished to travel the world one day, and they had bonded quite well over little historical facts regarding the Free Cities. It also did not hurt that Bran was quite smitten with Myrcella. She was already beautiful, as well as intelligent. After all, few but the most prodigious minds were able to so easily win at Cyvasse.
Prince Joffrey ruined everything, of course. The nineteen year old was a monster to say the least. A true terror. Twice a month he went hunting only to return with monstrously butchered animals. He would strut about openly with lovely whores wrapped around his arms only for them to never be seen leaving the keep again. To make matters worse the Crown Prince did not discriminate with regards to status. No one was safe from his straying gaze. Just the year prior he had very publicly defiled a Farring girl. She had been found pregnant, dead, and broken at the bottom of a tower. Everyone knew the truth though a guard was blamed for it anyways.
That day was the day in which Bran squared off against true evil for the first time in his life.
The Prince had approached without warning. Surrounding him were two younger Lannister cousins. Sycophants who indulged Joffrey's sick nature in exchange for favour. "Books, sister? Breeding mares should not waste their time with words." He jibed in a condescending tone. Bran had stood to bow, for in the likeness of his mother Joffrey Baratheon demanded courtesy. Rather rudely he tore the tome regarding the unexplored lands of Sothoryos away. They had been excitedly discussing Bran's wrinkled letters from Jon Snow leading Myrcella to scour the library as usual.
"Stop it now, Joffrey," Princess Myrcella was the bravest of her bloodline. Bran had always imagined that she alone truly embodied House Baratheon's words. Discreetly he rather recently confided such to the King only to notice the fat man begin taking more interest in the long neglected Princess.
"Or what, sweet sister?" He sneered, tossing the tome into the fountain behind her.
"No!" Her grief was plainly evident, and easy to understand. That book was rare, incredibly so. Written by Corlys Velaryon after his travels around the world. Myrcella's face turned red. "I am sick of you, Joffrey," She snarled, "Of watching you breath-!"
What happened next was very quick. The nineteen-year-old grabbed his sister by the front of her exquisite, green gown. Ripping the front of it open while his Lannister cousins snickered and egged him on shamelessly. Rune stood on his haunches whilst growling violently at the shameful scene. Bran did not hesitate at withdrawing his sword so that it pressed against the sadistic man's chin. Sandor Clegane, along with Mandon Moore who had been guarding Myrcella, turned on Bran. Both of them choosing Joffrey's pleasure over siding with a defenseless Princess. "No fear, sister," He smiled like a worm despite the steel pressing gently into his flesh. "You are a pretty little thing. Just look at how smitten this Stark shit is with you. Father will have no trouble marrying you off as soon as you flower. Then you will no longer have to watch me breathe. You will be too busy getting fucked by your husband. Growing bitterer with each day until you are a shell of your former beauty. No more than a whelped husk like our mother." His green eyes flashed like fire, "Then I will take your firstborn as my ward. Raise him to be exactly like me."
Those perverse fingers tightened as she was nearly dragged off the ground. In turn Bran pressed the steel tighter in his chin so blood was drawn. "Do not put this fate off. If father dies before you are sold off then I will have you wedded to Walder Frey." A grin as he glanced at the Hound. Something was whispered so low that none could hear. Though immediately after Joffrey dropped his sister to the ground so suddenly that she fell. Bran wasted no time wrapping his own cloak about the girl's nudity. Defending her from the untoward glances of Moore and the Lannister cousins. "Take note Stark," The Hound glared down at him as his charge fled the scene, "You drew blood. That one does not care if his victims have cunts or cocks. He will be coming for you."
Tommen struggled to calm Rune while the squire knelt beside Myrcella. Her eyes were wet with tears. "He will never touch your children, Princess," The boy promised, "I will convince the Starks, Tullys, and Arryns to raise their banners if such a thing were ever to happen. I would lead the charge myself." A finger was placed against his lips as the sweet beauty shook her head with those wise eyes.
"No Bran. I would never let men die for the sake of my brother's sadism." There was still strength in those green eyes. "Mine own fingers would sooner wrap around the hilt of a dagger than give him what he truly wanted." Shakily Myrcella Baratheon peered at the fountain behind her. "Now, could you please have Ser Moore retrieve that book. I must at least try to dry…" Everything else was lost on him as he wondered whether he was strong enough to protect the Prince and Princess, let alone himself, from their brother. Not when his father was preoccupied with some unspoken secret. Not when his brother and Lady Shiera were back at Winterfell. Not with his sisters in the Vale.
Now was the time for him to grow fangs of his own.
OOOO
Johanna Tully sat with one hand upon her very pregnant belly. The drapes in her study were shut tightly. Whenever light flowed through the windows of the Gatebridge Keep she found herself sorely tempted to ride through the beautiful landscape. That was not possible given the late stage of her pregnancy, as well as the information that needed tending to. Not only did her position in the center of Westeros mandate that she always be up to date on the latest politics, but her former status as a Rogare meant a knowledge of events beyond the Narrow Sea was vital too. Her child was, after all, the nibling of Drazenko Rogare. As he grew in strength so would the heir to House Tully.
Not much had changed in the Reach, Westerlands, Stormlands, or Dorne. Tywin Lannister had been heard discussing his imminent return to King's Landing where he would serve as Hand. A far more powerful man than he had been even whilst serving in the same capacity under King Aerys. With all of the lowly taxed trade the merchants had carted through the Sunset Canal he had grown wealthier than ever before, which truly said something. Not only himself, of course, but his bannermen as well. Every Westerman Lord had experienced the phenomenon of bulging coffers. Their castles growing larger and their lifestyles more opulent.
Of course, Ned Stark had recently passed through the Riverlands with the news that he was the new Hand spreading like a flame. That meant Robb Stark who had proven himself to be very capable would remain as acting Lord of Winterfell. So House Stark's already swelling armies and coffers would continue to do just that while the Direwolf's influence would permeate even more deeply in the south. A Stark Hand would yield their coalition great strength in battling an increasingly powerful Lannister regime. Not only that, but Sansa Stark's betrothal also served as a good omen. Then there was the matter of the besieging of the Eyrie. With Robin Arryn's welfare placed into better hands the coalition would be just as strong as before.
This was absolutely essential to matters that disseminated far beyond Westeros of course. With help from the Vale, North, and Riverlands her brother had launched a campaign into the Stepstones. He had only recently managed to consolidate power in Lys by wedding their younger brother Trycharios to the daughter of their greatest rival. In turn, Trycharios had managed to attain enough status from the union that he was finally named First Servant to the Master of Trade. Likely he would one day serve as the 'impartial' overseer of the Temple of Trade and Court of Glass for the rest of his life. All of this recovered influence meant that two fortresses had been erected on the island of Steelcrown.
Not the largest island at all no, especially when sitting next to the much bigger Bloodstone, but it was a valuable foothold. All pirates had been scourged, captured, or exiled. In several years the rest would be purged as well prior to being fortified. Then a mixture of new Westerosi Lords and Lyseni merchants would be allowed to settle the lands. Tolling the passing Essosi merchants a fair bit of coin for the much safer journey. So long as Bravos kept its fucking nose clear of Rogare affairs for once, that was.
"Niece," A loud voice boomed chidingly as though she were still a little girl, "How often must I warn you against upsetting yourself during pregnancy?" Her Uncle Medore stepped into the chambers with those twinkling blue eyes. The monstrously tall man gently prised the papers from her fingers. Secondhand papers stolen from Edmure's oft-neglected desk of important information. He was not an unintelligent man, her Lord husband. The Riverrun heir was simply disinterested in the affairs most people of import allowed to dominate their selfish attentions. Edmure was kind. Spending entire days with the Smallfolk, listening to their concerns. Johanna had fallen deeply in love with her husband's delightfully massive heart.
"I cannot confine myself to these chambers. Even if it is irresponsible of me to concern my mind with plotting." Johanna sighed softly. At her behest the man had been extracted from Old Town so that he could remain instead with her in the safety of the Riverlands. She greatly enjoyed having a family member so close at hand while her brothers were a kingdom and sea away.
"Hanna," Her Uncle did not hesitate to pull a chair out so he could sit. Their knees touched as he reached out to grasp her free hand. Instead she placed the fatherly fingers upon the swelling belly which was constantly assaulted by fluttering kicks. "You have always been responsible. Not like Drazenko though. Your sense of duty comes from a love for family. Not a desire to satiate an overly inflated ambition." The flesh around those blue eyes crinkled. "Let Edmure and I take care of you for once. Enjoy this opportunity to be irresponsible. Unshackled by obligation."
That pretty head of silver curls shook in response. "No, Uncle Medore," Violet flashed, though not unkindly, "There is no such thing as a rest in our world. Our House let its guard down only for the rest of Lys to try and purge us from city. We rested a second time, and as a result you are the closest thing I will ever have to a father. Bravos never sleeps. She births soldiers by the thousands for every Rogare we whelp into adulthood." The baby kicked against the joined hands prompting them both to smile. "I am going to raise a brood of fighters. Silver-haired Tully children wealthier, more powerful than any ruling House of the Riverlands before them. They will wed powerful people. Then, the combined might of Lys and Westeros will finally vanquish our foes."
"Your mother did not dare to fret over such things during any of her pregnancies," Moredo Rogare countered in response. "She recognized that none of those plots could come to fruition if her children were not born without complications. Her love was enough that nothing else mattered but the safety of her babes." The, almost condescending, criticism hung heavy in the air like a cloud.
"No woman loves in quite the same way as another," Johanna smiled softly, "My mother protected us with all the might she possessed. I am in a very different position. Lys will soon be completely beneath our control when Trycharios rises to prominence. My husband is Lord of the Riverlands and Sunset Canal. Uncle to the Starks and Robin Arryn." Her fingers ghosted across her belly as the man finally pulled away. "I wield weapons as strong as any of those employed by those Faceless Dogs. My babe is-must be strong enough to grow healthily as I fight. We all must pull our own weight now. Drazenko's plans depend upon equal contribution."
"Drazenko will lead us to our deaths fighting that fucking city of assassins!" Moredo almost snarled.
"Drazenko will lead us to salvation," She corrected sternly, "He is the greatest mind this House has lain claim to since Lysandro the First Magister. I will no longer tolerate you acting like a petulant child over his outwitting you. It was years in the making." Her hand reached out to grip her uncle by the bearded chin tightly. "You will help me. Because it is what is best for the sake of this child."
He had lost the argument at that reminder. "What do you have planned for me, niece?"
"Lord Hoster grows weaker with each visit Edmure makes to Riverrun. Soon I shall be the Lady of Riverrun, my attentions fully turned towards managing our very unruly Riverlords." Her hand was removed. "You will be granted Fairmarket after we leave, but it will come at a cost. I expect you to wed Eleanor Mooton, the only heir to Maidenpool." The Mootons had grown very powerful after their centuries old petition for a charter of expansion was granted. "The Freys have been sniffing around her for months now, from what I hear," Johanna continued. "That is why you shall go 'hunting'. Find yourself lost, and forced to seek sanctuary at Maidenpool. Spend time with the girl. Dazzle her in a way no Frey possibly can." He was handsome enough despite his age to woo such a valuable maiden.
"What if her father does not want to strengthen his ties with Riverrun, or the Rogares?" He asked in response.
"You will offer to send your second born son to grow up at Maidenpool. The firstborn shall be a Rogare of Fairmarket, but the spare shall be a Mooton of Maidenpool." Her lips curved dangerously at this, "The Late Lord Frey would not bend to give quite that much. Nor would such a greedy man be willing to halve Eleanor Mooton's current dowry." She waved at his protest, "Securing Maidenpool as a dependable ally for centuries to come is far more important than a bit of gold. They are growing too strong, and the Tullys have allowed them to drift much too far away from Riverrun's control."
"Fairmarket and a son who shall rule Maidenpool are not enough." He responded shortly. Johanna had seen this moment coming from a league away. Her uncle had revitalized the Rogare Bank from absolute destitution. There was no way that she would get anything from him without negotiation.
"What do you want?" Her voice was clearly exasperated.
"You will create a position on the Assembly of Riverlords to suit my interests. I shall become the Ambassador to Essos." His teeth resembled the fangs of a wolf at that point.
"Fine. Just do not use this as a means of interfering with Drazenko's plans." For the securing of Maidenpool she was willing to trust him with such power again. He was her uncle after all.
"Drazenko is in over his head," Moredo Rogare stood to full height, "If you children insist on playing such deadly games then I shall not be leaving you all to your own devices. It is time an adult stepped back into such matters, no?" Those expensive, leather boots of his squeaked as he strode to leave the room. "Eleanor Mooton shall be secured within a fortnight." The door shut with a loud click.
Leaving Johanna Tully to wonder if she had just helped, or hurt her brother's ambitions.
OOOO
Arya spent the morning of their arrival to the Eyrie with Nymeria. Before her alleged 'beauty' had blossomed the girl would have tried to be more inconspicuous. Spying had once been her forte. Now with each day that passed it seemed more unlikely that she would ever be able to so easily gain such information again. Common born soldiers whispered as they stared her way, highborn Lords knelt into gallant bows as they kissed at her hand, and any camp followers tittered with angry expressions at the loss of attention. Whether she wore trousers or dresses it seemed not to matter, for the encounters which left her feeling sickened still occurred. King Robert's almost slovenly obsession with the youngest Stark daughter seemed to have been the final nail in the coffin of her innocence to lecherousness.
For that reason, the girl found herself nearing Sansa's chambers within the Gates of the Moon. Lord Nestor Royce, of a cadet branch, had wasted no time opening his gates and had clearly been preparing generously for a show of exorbitant hospitality. Such was unsurprising. There was barely shy of fifty-thousand men outside his gates. Twenty-five-thousand Valemen, thirteen-thousand Rivermen, and ten-thousand Northmen. In other words, the days in which Lysa Arryn's paranoid mania had been allowed to rule unchecked would be cut short.
Especially, she though smugly, now that her Uncle Brynden had arrived to the scene. He was very familiar with the Eyrie. Perhaps more so than any other person who did not possess Arryn blood. Even better was the man's influence over their sometimes petulant mother. With only a single private conversation the Lady of Winterfell had been cowed back into her politically astute, sceptical self. After having sparred with the man earlier that day Arya had also begun to wonder whether Stony Sept might help establish Sansa's chain of southerly Red Roses.
Pushing the thoughts back for a more appropriate moment she neared her sister's chambers. They had been placed on opposite ends of the castle. Sansa's status as a Queen-to-be meant she currently occupied a very grand apartment. Arya, unfortunately, found herself squeezed into an available room with her sole-remaining handmaiden Jocelyn Dustin. Her hawkishly observant mother just next door to reprimand her for trying to sneak away unaccompanied during the night. Of course, this was the only option available to the Stark girl. Myranda Royce, clever and manipulative by scores, had clung to Sansa like the plague along with dozens of other Vale Ladies who had travelled to witness the disgracing of Lysa Arryn. Now would be Arya's only hope of speaking in private with the Lady of Harrenhal.
Admittedly, the plan which had taken shape in her head did not got quite as easily as imagined. "Lady Stark does not take any visitors in the night," A stiff Knight clad in Sansa's new colours barked down at her. He was likely one of the thousand or so men who Sansa had knighted to fill her previously slim army. Fiercely loyal to the woman who had given him a better life. Especially if her sister trusted him enough with guarding her chambers.
"Let me pass," Arya snapped back, stepping forth just the slightest bit, "You are speaking to Sansa Stark's sister."
"Not another step," The guard was unyielding, "Lady Stark will be more than happy to speak with you in the morning." His fingers moved to rest upon the pommel of his sword. Unsurprising given that Arya was no mere maiden. She could fight as well as her brothers, having been trained by Wildlings, Essosi immigrants, and a very reluctant Rodrik Cassel.
Behind her a familiar growl left Arya smiling wickedly. The guard shrunk back instinctively at the baleful sound. "I think I will be going in now." Without pausing the trouser-clad Lady marched passed him. Nymeria bounding alongside up the stairs to Sansa's apartment. "Good girl," She paused to ruffle the Direwolf's ears while moving to open the door. Unfortunately, this meant that the girl almost fell in shock at what awaited her grey eyes. Candles covered every inch of the luxurious chambers. The papers, scrolls, and books Sansa was always occupied with had been spread all about the space. A large, ancient-looking tome sat upon in front of Sansa's naked knees. On a small stool before that book balanced a large glass candle.
The chanting was truly the most terrifying part of it all. How her sister, one of the most Ladylike women in Westeros, appeared to be so… Wild. Auburn hair falling in chaotic tangles down that pale back. Willowy form twisting like one of the vipers Dorne was so famous for. Hisses, buzzes, and snarls erupted into the air. They were lucky to be so high up in the tower that no one else could overhear such terrifying sounds. Just to be safe the brave young woman shut the door behind her, fearful that someone might realize just how mad Joffrey Baratheon's betrothed was. Finally noting that Nymeria, Dream, and Phantom all sat beside one another beneath a far window. Eyes glowing against the flickering lights.
Suddenly her head was thrown back. Closed eyes pointed at the ceiling as her arms moved in a possessed sort of way. A fistful of leaves were scattered into the air above after being snatched out of a wooden bowl. More bizarre ingredients were used in similarly strange ways. Finally, Sansa stood to both feet, head still thrown back the whole time. A large flask opened so its contents could drip over her nude body. There was a gasp for air as the chanting stopped. With a mighty breath she finally stared forwards again.
Every lit candle suddenly went out.
Back pressed against the door Arya nearly screamed when the strange, glass candle emitted a blindingly brilliant light. Arms raised she observed the once dark world from what seemed to be a new perspective of reality. The grey, stone walls looked like mist in the Neck. Any shadows present grew darker than the obsidian they had begun mining at Winterfell. Sansa's red hair looked like flickering fire.
Red.
Fire.
Blood.
Crimson eyes glaring at Arya. A voice so cold, cruel and terrible screamed in her ears. Taking one-thousand shapes. Assuming one-thousand forms. 'Your heart belongs to another. Your destiny lies unwoven with mine. Your powers of blackness instead of hope.' A force pushed her back into the door. Hard. Winded by the occult onslaught she was stuck with images. A beautiful young woman nearly all men coveted. Corpses hanging by ropes of pain. The city guided by a Titan. Men with the bodies of horses. Lands vast and varying. A soldier in gold with the confidence of a king. The Lion in the depraved shadows. Home.
"Arya?" That voice like honey signalled that the frightening images were over. Collapsing forwards she fell into her older sister's arms. Even though her naked form was covered in blood. Despite the fact that the future Queen of Westeros was a witch.
OOOO
The nobility of the Vale grew increasingly astounded, and enamored, with her daughters by stages. First had been the whispers of their beauty. How Sansa's blossoming southron looks were paired perfectly by Arya's burgeoning Northern loveliness. Then came the mutinous tittering of the Ladies as they enviously ridiculed what the girls had made for themselves. Sansa as a great Lady of the Riverlands. Arya, much more veiled amongst the softly visible Vale Ladies jealousies, as a ferocious warrioress. Now there was this great feat of cleverness. Seasoned men many years their elders had overlooked something that Sansa had managed on her own.
Lysa Arryn, her own sister, was now securely manacled away in a pair of chambers. All because Sansa had called the ruse so early on. That Catelyn's, apparently highly deranged, sibling had made to flee Westeros by boat. The five-hundred soldiers dispatched by the Lady of Harrenhal when they first arrived in the Vale had proven incredibly effective. Utilizing the new roads to disseminate rapidly towards Gulltown and other points of escape. Without wasting any time the Lady Arryn had fled for Heart's Home. Promising to wed a recently widowed Lyonel Corbray should he decimate the men in her pursuit. No matter how much the Corbrays coveted such a mighty play for the Eyrie it was a moot point. Catelyn's daughters had brought fifty-thousand men into the mountains. There were no other Houses willing to spurn the wealth brought in by Jon Arryn's loans to the Rogare Bank in favour of Lysa.
So they had personally delivered her in chains with three-thousand soldiers following them close behind.
"Why did you do it," Catelyn whispered, even though her sister was imprisoned down at the Gates of the Moon. As far as was reasonably possible from the snotty Vale Lords housed in the Eyrie's halls. Before the Lady of Winterfell was her nephew. Sickly as ash with a brow that seeped like a fountain. No matter how gently she cooed whilst wiping that pallid face the little boy grew no better. Comatose after his idiotic mother had dragged him all across the Vale from people who never even meant him any harm. One of a large team of Maesters summoned from across the Vale arrived to check on the young Lord.
Glad to slip away from the sad sight Catelyn found her feet carrying her to the High Hall of their own volition. Completely alone staring at the desolate state of the Arryn Throne. Only a practically orphaned, unhealthy little boy who possibly would not last that much longer. "A sad sight is it not?" Came a creaking, ironlike voice.
The fading beauty turned about with a swirl of her fading, auburn locks. "Lady Waynwood?" She had only met the woman in passing the day prior along with a flood of other nobles. The Lady of Ironoaks was possessing of a regal air despite her quibbling neck, and wrinkled face. "I would have thought everyone else asleep by now."
"Then you are a fool, and I should speak to your husband, or daughter herself, instead, Lady Stark. Men do not sleep at night. They prey on whores, and each other. Hungering for power." Her voice was firm. Though there was more behind it. Someone younger, born of a lower stature might not have called it for what this truly was.
Catelyn had every intention of doing so, however. "You are no more than the Lady of Ironoaks. How dare you speak to me in such a way?" Blue eyes blazed, "I shall only forgive such an affront should you tell me what you hunger for, Lady Waynwood."
"You know your position in this realm well, my Lady." The crone moved to the left as Catelyn moved to the right. They were circling one another slowly as predators would. "I find myself enjoying such confidence. Your daughter did indeed inherit her spirit from you."
"Sansa?" She queried confusedly.
"No. I speak of Arya Stark. The incarnate of your husband's beautiful, coveted sister." Without hesitation the woman broke their circling. Turning to face the Arryn Throne. "To be frank I have never hungered for anything less than that throne before us."
Still not overcoming the suspicious nature of the woman's words Catelyn stared at the seat once more. "Tis not yours to hunger for, however. Not when my nephew has been returned to his rightful seat."
"Not mine at all. No," Waynwood agreed, "Though we both know that the young Falcon Lord is quite unwell. He was sickly before that woman dragged him about the Vale like a cyclone, and he is even worse off now." Her eyes peered sternly at the other Lady, "I do not threaten his safety. My hunger is not quite black enough to orchestrate the murder of a child. Though I cannot help but plan for every possible likelihood."
"Your nephew," Catelyn tried to ignore her queasiness at the way she so easily agreed that little Robert would not pull through. "They call him Harry the Heir, do they not?"
"Cousin," She corrected, "Though he may as well be a grandchild for all the time I have spent raising him. A strapping young man with the look of Jon Arryn about him. He was knighted three years ago by Lord Royce during the Purge of First Men. In fact, Ser Harrold just returned this month from fighting on the Stepstones." Then from the shadows came a handsome man. With sandy hair, deep blue eyes, and a very tall, broad form. Swinging from his strapping hips was a greatsword on the left, and an axe on the right. Beside the muscular youth stood a Maester holding a box.
"You wish to have my daughter wedded to Ser Hardyng? To so boldly conspire against Lord Robert is treason. Against the Vale and the peace provided us all by the Iron Throne." The plot having been adequately sussed out, Lady Waynwood simply shrugged semi-defeatedly. At least there would be no more need to dance around sugary words.
"I told you that I would never conspire against a child. That is the truth," The crone reminded Catelyn. The Riverland woman gauged easily enough that the Vale Lady was telling the truth. However, that did not necessarily mean the admittedly dazzling lad only a few paces away possessed such an honorable steel. "Though you have proven yourself to be anything but a fool over the course of our conversation. You must have realized during your journey here how wealthy the Vale has become. We Lords of the Mountains finally have some wealth to call our own. Our new might could possibly be lost to the Starks and Tullys should the connection forged by your Lord father pass into the afterlife with the little Falcon."
Catelyn could appreciate that logic. This journey had only reaffirmed what her daughters had told her all along. The Vale was too powerful now to risk letting the Eyrie abandon their coalition. Tywin Lannister or the Tyrells, perhaps even an overly aspiring Frey, would waste no time putting a jarring halt on Winterfell's growing influence. The Campaign in the Stepstones and any profitable trade benefits from a strong relationship would suddenly cease to exist. "Either way, Ser Hardyng is ten years older than my daughter. He is a man, and hardly willing to wait until Arya has truly flowered."
"I am only seven years older than the Lady Arya, my Lady," Harry the Heir spoke for himself now. He was suave. Still so youthful despite all of the battle experience he was purported to have.
"Still little better," Catelyn sniffed, completely ignoring Lady Waynwood now.
"Your daughter is not some frivolous maiden, my Lady." His tone was arrogant, decidedly rude. "I have never seen a woman fight. Let alone fight as well as she has in the yards since my arrival." That bark turned into a tone laced heavily with wonderment. "Lady Arya is already on the cusp of her greatness. A blind man could see such. I will wait however long I must to attain the Blue Rose as my wife."
The poetry seemed genuine enough though Catelyn was well enough on in years that it did little to sway her into a swoon. "You will find, Ser, that my younger daughter is not swayed by such flowery sentiments and words." Perhaps in that moment the Lady of Winterfell began to recognize just how alike she and Arya were.
"Step into the light my boy," Lady Waynwood interjected. He did as bidden. She neared him suddenly. "Smile," A gentle swat against the Knight's cheek left his dimples wide in view. Brilliantly white teeth gleamed in the low lighting. "Imagine, Lady Stark. Your daughter wedded to Harry. A High Lady. True influence in this Kingdom. The sort that Lady Lysa was unable, or unwilling, to provide. Their children will be beautiful. Rich. Powerful. With the Arryn name if Harry ever has to take it on." Her emotionless face seemed to grow a shade mirthful. "For the first time since Lord Jasper the Eyrie will no longer be plagued by the endless wedding of cousins with cousins. Fresh blood shall leave these mountains more secure than has been the case in a long while."
""My Lady," The Waynwood Maester stepped forth, "I have brought the necessary materials to draft a betrothal contract."
"My husband is nowhere near the Eyrie," Catelyn responded humorlessly, "Unless you expected me to oversee such a matter. Besides, my daughters are not mere brood mares. As we speak my firstborn plots to raise keeps in the North for all of his siblings. Especially Arya."
"That is common knowledge, and not such a secret as you might have believed," Lady Waynwood stated plainly. "We intend to approach Lady Arya with the contract as well. She will be a powerful noblewoman in her own right soon enough. Though it is… Fairer for someone with more experience in such matters to negotiate the actual terms."
Catelyn had to make a very important decision in the split moment of silence which followed. They had just betrayed that this whole plot would be brought to Arya's feet even if she refused them. Hence, it was necessary to think of how her daughter would respond. Which of course led Catelyn to the realization that her youngest daughter always acted the opposite of her mother's expectations. Arya would say yes. That much was certain. She had already impressed upon her the importance of the Vale to the stability of their position in the realm. Paired with the fact that Arya could simply move to Skane, Greywater Watch, or Bear Island if her parents disagreed, Catelyn decided that it was best to draft the contract and see how the unpredictable girl responded. "I will draft such a document with you, Lady Waynwood. Though there will be several non-negotiable terms."
"Such as?" The crone smiled at having gotten what she desired.
"First, in the event that my nephew produces an heir of his own, this betrothal shall be nullified." The Maester scrambled to both knees to write upon the stone floor. Catelyn had already been plotting to wed Arya to the sickly boy. She was strong willed. With a sharp enough mind to rule the Vale in his stead should such come to pass. Of course, if Catelyn were being honest with herself, Harry the Heir was certainly a much more attractive candidate for a goodson. "Second, Ser Harry is not to run about the Vale impregnating serving maids with bastards. He will spend his time on more productive matters."
"Such as?" The impetuous, handsome Knight enquired.
"Your ward has proven himself in battle, Lady Waynwood," Catelyn ignored him, preferring to deal with the more seasoned woman. "Though I fear it will take more than muscles and scars to impress my daughter. Arya is as fond of reading and logistics as she is of practicing in the yard. Ser Hardyng shall travel to the Citadel. He will forge as many links as he possibly can by the time my daughter is of age. If he takes this matter seriously enough I have full confidence that Arya shall be so impressed with her betrothed that she will have no qualms entering into a possible union with him. Besides, bastards birthed in the Reach are far enough from the Vale to spare my daughter any such embarrassment."
Clearly, Lady Waynwood distrusted her lusty cousin to remain abstinent as much as Catelyn did. "Agreed," Her aged voice complied despite Ser Harry's stormy gaze.
"Finally, Ironoak will allow my daughter to begin inducting any of its willing women into the Order of the Rose. Ser Harry will help her in convincing the rest of the Vale Lords in such a matter if he ever becomes an Arryn." This was intended to not only buy Lady Waynwood favour with Arya, but to lure the girl into the Vale. The Waynwoods would be Ser Harry's greatest supporters. Any relationships earnt from time spent at Ironoaks would be immensely valuable to her daughter. Lady Waynwood, probably unable to conceive such a prospect as women fighting in the Vale, seemed to take a cut for her House. A forced nod left the Maester scratching out the new terms.
After that a dowry was haggled over. Briefly, for Catelyn sternly reminded them that Arya would soon be a landed, Northern Lady. Her second son would stand to inherit whatever the girl built for herself in her homeland. Not to mention a union with House Stark stood to give Ser Harry an unimaginable amount of legitimacy. Then, predictably, came Lady Waynwood's terms. Her House would merely have a very close relative installed on the Arryn Throne. Though if that did not come to fruition all of this plotting would have come for naught. "Since House Melcom was liberated of its proper position beneath our House as vassals we have stumbled into financial difficulties. Half of our wealth stolen from us because a Melcom lass bedded an Arryn some years ago. Despite the wealth brought on by Lord Jon's investments we are still indebted. I beg of you to convince Lord Robert's regent to set things to rights."
"I will, so long as you arrange a marriage between your House and the Melcoms to ease any resulting tensions," Catelyn agreed easily. Incurring the wrath of House Melcom was well worth gaining more favour with the Waynwoods. They would become much stronger, more dependable allies too.
"I also wish for Lady Arya to take on at least several Ladies of the Vale as handmaidens. With her court whittled down to Lady Dustin it is a course of action that will not raise eyebrows. It is also vital that she begin forging such connections in these mountains. Immediately."
"Two at the least," Catelyn corrected, "I have been contemplating suitable candidates in the Riverlands as well." With that last discussion they all slipped away. Agreeing to meet with her and Arya the next day. Leaving Catelyn to stare at the throne which her grandsons would possibly inherit one day. Her rambunctious, younger daughter would likely become a High Lady of Westeros. The woman suddenly wondered how it had all happened so rapidly.
OOOO