Chapter Eleven: May These Roots Grow Deep.
Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.
OOOO
Catelyn Stark relished being back in her childhood home.
This all went without mentioning the current state of rife intrigue at Riverrun. Catelyn was unsure of the wiseness in leaving Riverrun, or her father for that matter, unattended. Edmure, now the powerful Lord of Fairmarket, apparently often travelled to Riverrun to sort out the matter of ruling the Riverlands. Unfortunately Johanna Tully had gone into labor. Uncle Brynden was now serving as the regent of the East. The sickly, little Lord Arryn his new ward. Given that Sansa was nowhere near Harrenhal, Catelyn was the only one of Tully blood remaining. Apart from her sister of course, though Lysa hardly ever seemed quite handy given the circumstances.
"I never could have fathomed something so chaotic residing in Riverrun when I was a girl," Catelyn Stark muttered firmly to Maester Vyman. They both walked along the battlements which allowed them to peer at the land for miles around. Lovely it was, though there was a wild nature to these rivers and woods that Catelyn had just brutally been reminded also applied to the tenuous stability of Riverland politics. "My only consolation is that Lady Johanna will have to soon suffer the consequences of this monstrosity that she created."
This all was in reference to the Assembly of Riverlords. She had stayed at the Eyrie long enough to witness the Blackfish's shocking marriage to young Briary Grafton of an increasingly powerful Gulltown's ruling family. While immensely beneficial to the tenuous grip he had initially held in the Vale it was undeniably shocking. All the Lady of Winterfell knew was that Sansa had spoken to her Uncle Brynden shortly before he had announced his intentions with glassy, lifeless eyes. That meant Riverrun was left unattended for a week at least. While he had attempted to rein control Maester Vyman did not wield enough influence to bring order to the Assembly. "I cannot believe they would dare try to settle a matter so contentious as land disputes while my father was indisposed!" Cat snapped with sudden ferocity. The Riverlords were an undeniably contentious bunch. "How can one region be so completely divided? The north, east, south, and west all seem determined to defy Riverrun at every turn."
"These are only the second sons too, my Lady," Vyman reminded her morosely. "Nothing has changed since your departure. All of the Lords still hide behind the walls of their keeps plotting against one another. There have never been enough Tullys born in any generation to settle such contentions with marriage alliances. Nor do I imagine it helped matters at all for your father's aspirations to have strayed so far from his bannermen."
"What was it that Lord Roote's decrepit uncle kept barking at me about?" Her brow wrinkled curiously, "Regarding Lord Lychester?"
A pregnant pause followed. "Since the Rebellion's end Lord Lychester has allowed his lands to run astray. He is broken without any sons to take control of such matters given that all of his heirs died fighting the Targaryens." Wide, old eyes blinked at her as they paused to lean against the retainer wall of the battlements, "Lords Bracken and Roote have pleaded ferociously with your father for years to give one of them control of Castle Lychester so they may wrest away control of those fertile lands. The issue is that House Blackwood has also begun to clamour for such a favour, but Riverrun cannot be seen as favoritizing three of its most prominent Lords."
"My father should have wedded his children to other Riverlords," Catelyn spoke slowly, contemplatively, "Rather than to a Stark, Arryn, and Rogare. Now is the time for me to prove I have learnt from that mistake while I am in charge of Riverrun."
"My Lady, you cannot mean to-." Maester Vyman was cut sharply short.
"Yes, I do intend to. Nor will Lord Lychester be able to refuse such an 'honor'. Especially when a fertile Tully woman, who managed to give a notoriously infertile Arryn a child, has such a high chance of birthing a new Lychester heir." Blue eyes glimmered, "I cannot stay here much longer than two months. I miss my sons at Winterfell far too keenly. Though to leave Lysa behind without adequate supervision from another Tully is to ask for trouble. The woman is insane, and would cause a civil war with all of these squabbling nobles residing in Riverrun." She nodded at the Maester, "You will go tell Lord Lychester my intentions. Then that Piper cousin on the assembly shall be sent to rule over those lands as a regent before the Brackens, Blackwoods, and Rootes come to blows. Again."
She did not tell him the true extent of her plans before he scurried off. Lord Lychester would likely not live very long. That was when the Pipers would be given leave to wed Lysa to their own bloodline. Securing the Lychester lands, an alliance with House Piper for Riverrun, and keeping Lysa very far away from any position in which she could sow chaos again. Sighing, Catelyn rubbed at her pounding temples for a moment. Plotting had never left a thrill behind, but instead an aching heart full of anxiety and fear. Deciding to see to the neglected ledgers before visiting her sickly father the woman resigned herself to many more headaches over the next few months.
There were enough political matters to over see that her poor heart was already at a risk of failure.
OOOO
King's Landing reeked of shit and unwashed bodies. "I am sick of this stench," Sansa hissed at her sister as they walked arm-in-arm through the Red Keep. The pair of them had arrived in the city three weeks prior. Now they found themselves fleeing the army of Ladies-in-Waiting who were still unpacking the many belongings brought along.
"Agreed," Arya whispered back, "It is even worse in the city."
"Have you been going into the city alone again?" Sansa snapped seriously in her sister's ear. "Father will have your head if yo-."
"I have my own sword, and several daggers hidden on my person, sister," Arya bit back sharply. "After father started screaming that one night I also started asking some guards to travel with me." Only two days earlier Arya had returned in muddy trousers from a wild day in the markets of King's Landing with a bruised eye and breath reeking of mead. Their father threatened to force her into the Silent Sisterhood after she stumbled into dinner thirty minutes late in the aforementioned state of disarray. Of course, it was not just Arya who he unduly treated as a child. Sansa's plans to turn the ruinous Dragonpit into a charity project using her own soldiers as laborers was flatly rejected. The Hand had gone into a conniption after Arya manipulated King Robert into granting the future Queen of Westeros any necessary clearance. Then there was Bran.
"Wait," Sansa hissed in response as they ducked into the shadows. Standing in their line of sight was none other than Bran. Knocking on a door prior to being allowed inside. "Whose chambers are those that he just went into?" Her voice was like steel.
"Renly Baratheon's," Arya answered back in hesitant tone, "He has been drinking with Lord Renly and Ser Loras for a fortnight from what I hear."
"How could he possibly be interested in those two sodomites," Sansa snapped, mostly to herself, as they scurried back along on their journey out of the Red Keep. "Our brother is only eleven-years-old. Nor has he ever expressed any interest in other men before. We would have noticed, surely." Their younger brother was truly a strange specimen. He had proven himself clever and talented by scores while they were both delayed in the Vale.
First by performing with ease in the Tourney of the Hand a month earlier. Apparently the boy had been trained incredibly well in the Vale by the Royces. Using his unbelievable speed, from what they heard, Bran managed to defeat Meryn Trant, Bryce Caron, and numerous hedge knights in the melee. Then to an even greater amount of surprise he had won the archery challenge against a truly skilled man named Anguy of the Dornish Marches. Leaving him with a purse which rattled full of ten-thousand Dragons in prize winnings. The King now had Bran spending all of his guard rotations with him while he whored and drank into oblivion. Also gifting the boy with an expensive set of white-and-grey armour, along with an equally costly blade and a destrier.
Princess Myrcella offered Bran her favour for the tourney which he now proudly wore everywhere. Tommen Baratheon seemed to have fallen for such charms too as the awkward Prince could now be found practicing in the yards with his new friend. Then the lad had managed to somehow convince their surly, preoccupied father into naming him cupbearer for Small Council meetings. In less than a month Bran impressed Grand Maester Pycelle who had been continuing his education alongside Tommen and Myrcella. Given that he was in the pockets of House Lannister that was admittedly worth very little. Now it seemed that he was also ingratiating himself into the good graces of Renly Baratheon. Whatever the cost of such a feat was Sansa did not wish to know.
"Perhaps our brother has learnt on his own that security can have no cost too great," Arya remarked dryly. "Word is that he had several blistering arguments with Prince Joffrey while we were postponed. You know that if either of us were trapped here alone with that beast we would give Renly whatever he wanted for some sort of alliance. Especially if we happened to be a lad who will someday soon grow into a comely Knight."
"Do not remind me, sister," Sansa shivered at the reminder of her betrothed.
"Besides," Arya seemed to realize her error, and clearly tried to ease the tension with humour. "I know exactly what you have been getting up to in the Riverlands. Many people in Westeros whisper of it."
"Suspicions are not-," Sansa cut herself off with an embarrassed face.
"Precisely, Sansa," Arya chortled mischievously. They were still linked together, whispering. That was the only way to speak in the Red Keep given the number of spies that lurked about. Especially with how often their words devolved to the level of treason. "All that I am willing to presume about Bran's questionable friendships is that he must have truly done splendidly well at that tourney. Perhaps I shall beat him in the fighting yards, and show everyone that he is not the only Stark of fighting prowess."
As anticipated the pair fell into an uneasy silence. Neither of them able to risk discussing something so sensitive as Sansa's display of sorcery at the Eyrie in a place like the Red Keep. All Arya had said of the matter was that she was, for the first time in her whole life, terrified of what risks her sister had taken. Soon enough they were free of the treacherous walls, but even as they tucked themselves into a carriage neither spoke of anything sensitive. As new as they were to the capital the trust of few servants could be called their very own. "On the topic of Bran," Arya remarked as the carriage rattled about through the streets of King's Landing, "I overheard father mentioning that Lady Stokeworth tried to arrange a betrothal between our brother and Lady Lollys."
"Oh, that poor thing," Sansa answered in response, "I am of half a mind to give Lady Lollys a spot in my court so that any possible marriage might be arranged." Her Tully eyes glimmered speculatively, "I have caught wind of five other betrothal offers. Bar Emmon, Sunglass, Rykker, Estermont, and unsurprisingly, the Freys." Both shuddered at the last House listed. "Father rejected them all." They chittered boredly for some time more about how high their little brother had risen. Until, of course, the carriage rattled to a halt and their destination popped into view.
The Dragonpit had been gifted in its entirety to Sansa by King Robert with no small amount of manipulation employed by Arya. Almost all of her army brought directly from the Vale had been redirected towards the task of working on its reconstruction alongside King's Landing's team of engineers. When fixed once more Sansa planned to use the structure to bathe, feed, and rehabilitate the sizeable homeless population. Also inside of the maze-like building would be hidden living spaces fit for any number of noble guests. These would serve as an excellent hiding place from Joffrey when things finally grew bad enough. Swallowing at the thought of her evil betrothed Sansa swept forth. "Have you yet secured those charts of the currently existing sewers in King's Landing?" She asked the Maester who had been dedicated solely to assist her ambitions.
"Yes my Lady," Maester Hollel nodded profusely, chains rattling earnestly. He hailed from House Paege of the Riverlands, directly sworn to the Tullys, which was why she had chosen him despite his lesser degree of training at the Citadel. Loyalty was a far rarer commodity than smarts. Soon enough the three of them stood beneath a makeshift tent with a table covered in papers. Engineers flitted about rapidly as they bustled back and forth into the Dragonpit. "These are the only city sewers. They are connected to what waste pours from the Red Keep, and heavily overwhelmed as a result."
"Spare any engineers you can to begin examining how we might improve the capacity of currently existing sewage systems. As well as to pinpoint the best places for new ones to be established." Sansa directed the obedient man. "How much of the homeless have you redirected towards the task of burying the filth beyond the city walls?" A clever idea of her's had been to pay the less fortunate and to get rid of the years of filth deposits which had built up at the same time.
"Nearly all. The crippled and useless, however, have been ignored." Maester Hollel spoke happily as though he deserved praise.
"No one is useless," Arya chimed in, "Do not forget that that very mentality is what caused this unbelievable stench to arise in the first place, Maester." He frowned at her briefly, but nodded his head like a lapdog nonetheless.
"We have managed to recover what broken stone was salvageable. The rest was sent to the shanty settlements to be donated towards finer homes for the less fortunate, as you requested, Lady Sansa." He continued, "Reparation of the dome began today. I must, however, show you the…. Artifacts we have recovered in the ruins."
"Before you do," Sansa said primly, handing him a scroll, "His grace signed this law into order for me yesterday. Please notify the City Watch. No longer will people be allowed to toss the contents of their chamber pots or rubbish bins out the window. The homeless will be tasked instead with carting it all out to the pits which have been dug." With that they all slipped into the dank Dragonpit. "Have the skeletons you find mixed in with the structure to reduce costs, Maester," Sansa directed as though she were born to oversee such matters, "They are decades unclaimed anyways, and will rest here as a symbol for the people. They defied the corrupt Targaryens. Now they will forever guard impoverished Smallfolk from harm. Spare any dragonbone from such a fate though, I have a separate idea for such valuable specimens."
"In fact," Arya cut across again, "Have a statue commissioned honoring their memories as well. Incorporated somewhere in the decorations."
"Splendid idea," Sansa agreed, "Now what other matters required my attention?" They were pulled further into the torchlight to see the massive space that had once housed dragons. What followed seemed to stress how kindness towards the Smallfolk only paid off in scores for those responsible. "Aerys Targaryen hid a stash of Wildfire how large here?"
"Many barrels," The man answered in response, while both sisters stared at him with wide eyes. "What would you like for us to do with it all?"
"How many men have seen it?" Arya asked plainly, already thinking on the same terms as her sister.
"Only the three who found it." He spoke without any hesitancy.
"Wildfire is a rare commodity. If no one knows of it then I imagine we should not hesitate to take it for ourselves. Given that our men have done all of the hard work of stumbling upon such a cache."
"Yes," Sansa told the skeptical Maester. "Those men will not tell anyone other than my brother and Lady Shiera of what it is. They will set sail with it at the blackest part of night. All of them will be richly rewarded for such an undertaking. Besides, nothing good came of having so much Wildfire in this city the last time."
"Of course, my Ladies," He still seemed nervous about the situation though did not dare interfere with their plotting. "Many weapons and goods have been recovered from skeletons and in general. What will you have me do with them?"
"Send it all North alongside the Wildfire as a cover," Arya thought quickly enough of an advantageous excuse, "Our brother will be wedding Lady Shiera soon enough. Mark my words. That will serve as a suitable wedding present, at least for their armory I suppose." What neither of the sisters said was that Robb would surely most of the weaponry to the Rogares at a profit. They were still stockpiling for a coming confrontation with Braavos after all.
"There is also one more matter," He snapped prompting a servant to skitter forth from down a dank hallway. In his hands rested a bastard sword pressed into a pommel. "In the Storming of the Dragonpit, Ser Willem Royce died. This surely belonged to him, and was known by the name of Lamentation." With that he slid the sword free to reveal its proper glory. Valyrian steel with runes of the First Men inscribed across its glittering surface. The Stark girls had seen Ice enough times to recognize this for what it was. "Who would you have me deliver this to, my Lady? Perhaps Prince Joffrey?"
"No," Sansa gasped sharply, "I will give it to Arya. She is a fine warrior. Besides, such a blade will suit a daughter of the First Men." With that Arya Stark became the first wielder of Lamentation since the Dance of Dragons.
Sansa Stark could have sworn her little sister's eyes had never been more excited, or quite so wide as they were in that moment.
OOOO
"You are such a lovely thing, with all of your pretty little dresses," Queen Cersei smiled in her perpetually toxic manner, "My dove." That sort of tone always betrayed what she thought of Sansa. The ridiculous woman had treated her as no more than a child since she arrived in King's Landing. Even though the Lady of Harrenhal had accomplished more than Tywin Lannister's cunt of a daughter could only have dreamt of doing.
"More of a bat, truly. If we are to at all account for the Lady Sansa's banners." Joffrey Baratheon simpered nastily, making no secret of his distaste for the woman he was to wed.
Sansa sipped politely at her water in response. Wine was only for home, for safe places, she mused whilst removing her body from mind. Even then it was only to be consumed in careful quantities too. There were always those who were overly aspirant lurking in the shadows. Clever Lann, after all, had likely taken advantage of the Casterly's dulled wits, and she now suffered such poor company as a consequence. "I am much more of a direwolf, my Prince," She corrected carefully, "The bats of my banners merely serve to honor the Whents who served before me." Shiera had taught her much, that was true, though always did her mother's greatest lesson ring true.
"Before the Whents that same sigil served the likes of mad Danelle Lothston," Cersei downed another cup of Dornish red. "Do you honor her memory, my sweet dove?" If only you truly knew. Her green eyes smoldered like the wildfire they had sent to Winterfell several days earlier. Sansa's own fingers clenched momentarily, out of sight beneath the table, of course, whiter than the very precious mounds of dragonbone pilfered North as well. Tywin Lannister would have been better served teaching his daughter the slightest bit of courtesy rather than history. All claw and no armour, Sansa thought miserably.
"That is of no matter," Joffrey announced, cutting her off rudely, cruel eyes glimmering, "My Lady will soon by my Queen. Then I shall have all of her banners burnt, and Harrenhal placed under the rightful regency of a man. Until Lady Sansa gives me a spare son. That is when the stag shall be pinned atop those crumbling walls." She did not say that she would rather have burnt Harrenhal down with her own hands than see it pass to her 'better'.
"Speaking of sigils, Lady Sansa," Cersei gloated in a smugly cruel tone, "Joffrey has a gift for you." With a smattering of loud claps the foul bitch gestured violently for one of the servants to enter the chamber. On his arm rested a platter draped in a swathe of red cloth. Dishes were moved aside as the grotesquely bulging thing was settled in front of the Stark girl. Without a bit of patience the servant ripped the fabric away prior to sweeping out of the room silently. Sansa almost gaped with horror though she was too practiced to betray such an unflattering emotion. That did not mean the blood failed to stay in her face, however.
Starin- No. It no longer had the eyes necessary for staring. Weeping streams of crusted blood marred the already mouldering head of a wolf. With a pelt the same colour of Dream's. Fur shorn, gory bones showing at certain spaces, and formally regal jaw broken permanently open in a haunting manner. Crossbow bolts, the trademark of Prince Joffrey, could still be seen embedded all about the head. "I hunted the bitch down yesterday morning," Joffrey whispered in a gleeful sort of way, speaking to himself more than her, "She howled for a long while before the fifth bolt shut her squeals up."
"Your hunt yielded a fine meal, Joff," Cersei remarked like a casual lioness, "I found it rather tender. Almost better than venison." Sansa's blood had officially run cold. "Perhaps Lady Sansa should join you for the next hunt. I hear she can wield a bow and arrow, even if it is a distastefully unfeminine ability."
"She is far too busy with the filthy beggars and useless cripples who flood the streets." They were not speaking to Sansa, but about her. A rather common highlight in these regularly scheduled luncheons. "Though naught is much more unladylike than her little sister." Sansa would have bristled at his jibe of Arya if she were not so terrified by the thought of accompanying him on a hunt. He had already heard of her ability with a bow from court whisperings, no doubt, but Cersei had just deliberately put the thought in his sickening mind. Would she be forced to help torture innocent creatures like this little wolf?
"The 'Blue Rose of Winterfell' they call her," The Queen sneered semi-drunkenly, "I would think the title 'Bitch of Winterfell' more apt. Would you not agree Lady Sansa?"
"No I would not, your grace." Sansa stood without leave. Her blood was boiling. The insults had finally gone much too far. "My sister is a beautiful young woman. A more capable, more honorable," She sneered at Joffrey, "Warrioress Westeros has surely never before seen." Tully-blue eyes smoldered, "Never so blatantly defile the sigil of my Father's House again. Nor let me hear you speaking such intolerable ills of my sister. I tire of showing courtesy to those who would disrespect and belittle me so openly." Back as straight as ever she stared blankly at them both, "I beg your leave." Sweeping out of the room Sansa felt herself quivering like a leaf.
Perhaps it would be dishonorable to break a betrothal. Treasonous especially given that King Robert had all-but ordered it. Sansa no longer cared. She would rather spirit herself, Arya, and Bran into safe territory than ever bind herself to such a cruel family. Only a moon had passed since her arrival in King's Landing yet it seemed, as always, that the rumours held much truth. Naturally she found that her feet had carried her to the Tower of the Hand. Knocking upon her Lord Father's solar door the girl was relieved to hear him bid her entry. "Sansa," He did not look up from that book he had retrieved from Maester Pycelle several moons ago, according to Bran at least. Their father had grown obsessed with something. Often gallivanting openly about King's Landing to visit blacksmiths and even brothels. Only to refuse to tell his own children what was happening.
"I must break my betrothal to Prince Joffrey," She spoke firmly. Finally managing to gain the man's attention.
"What? Such a thing would be dishonor at its greatest?" He declared more than asked in a rather stern tone.
"I have been nothing but dishonored since arriving in the capital, Father!" Sansa finally exploded vitriolically at the clueless man. She was thankful to have sent the guards away to ward off any possible spies. "Unfortunately you have been far too busy with your silly, secret mission to notice!"
"Bran and Arya have been doing very well for themselves here," The Hand rebutted plainly. He had never respected the rank Sansa earned for herself in the South. Now it seemed she would have to flee for Essos to avoid wedding Joffrey.
"Out of necessity." She calmed herself for an important battle of wits with the Quiet Wolf. "Bran has been forced to consort with the most scandalous sorts of people for his own safety. Arya focuses on her lessons to avoid the court. As the only Stark present I have been relentlessly demonized by the Lannisters given that they blame our House for the disappearance of the Kingslayer."
"Why do you bother with courtly intrigue then Sansa, if you have clearly bitten off more than can be chewed?" He asked in a knifelike tone. Clearly wanting to focus again on the book spread open in front of him.
The anger bubbled back up again. "Are you asking a future Queen of Westeros, your daughter who will be trapped in this loathsome city one day to hide from the court?" Her voice was as cold as a blizzard. "I cannot help that the Queen and Crown Prince are too foolish to respect the influence I wield in three of the seven Kingdoms. Nor can I help that my own family is unable, or unwilling, to aid me in fending them all off. Do you expect me to last in the Red Keep for the rest of my life without any assistance and no allies?"
"Such games are easier to steer clear of than to play," His remark left Sansa wishing she had her trusty bow in hand. Or one of the daggers pinned underneath her skirts.
"The game of thrones would certainly be much easier to win if you helped me in currying some level of support with the Small Council, father. Though you have never had much of a head for the grander picture unfolding beneath you." With a dismissive glare she turned to storm away.
"DO NOT DARE SPEAK TO ME IN SUCH A MAN-." The door slammed shut behind her.
Slipping upwards she wound up in her own chambers again. Tears streaming from both eyes in a torrent. She barred the door prior to collapsing on her bed. In all of her days of life Sansa had navigated the political world in semi-friendly territory with allies like Shiera to watch over her shoulder. Now she was friendless and struck with the ominous reminder that Starks did not do well in foreign land. Even worse, Sansa had just allowed her Wolf's Blood to show, dominating any sensibility in dealing with the Queen and Prince. Their next meeting would begin from a position of great disadvantage. "Am I really as clever as they all like to say?" She hissed angrily at herself. Head twisting prior to bumping into the metal ball that had been lying where she left it beside the pillows.
Sitting up suddenly, extremely glad for a distraction, Sansa Stark took the globe constructed by some long-forgotten Stark into both hands. A relic from when they had been Kings themselves. When winter had flooded their veins. Before southron weeds like the Lannisters dragged them down into the mud. Fingers twisting mindlessly she was horribly surprised by the loud click which suddenly cracked through the air. The ball had opened across the middle just enough for her to pry it open. Dust and floating cobwebs revealing one of her greatest delights in the whole world. Knowledge.
The ancient, long-forgotten kind too.
OOOO
Arya was free from court for the day at least. Not obligated to spend time on frivolous matters of fancy with King Robert who had been too busy with several whores that morning to summon her for their regular fast breaking. Nor did she have to visit the Dragonpit with Sansa given that her sister was preoccupied with Queen and Prince. No. She had a glorious day in the training yards. Though that did not mean the girl was alone. No. Prior to leaving the Vale her mother had forced upon her some of the most difficult Ladies-in-Waiting to have ever been born.
Myranda Royce clearly had a mark of control over the other women given her undeniable societal status in the Vale. Despite her humorous moments Arya was irritated by long bouts of unsolicited advice. Then there was Lelia Elesham, eldest daughter of the Lord of the Paps. Seventeen-years-old, a frame comparable to that of a willow, with thick black hair. She was quiet. Terrifyingly so, and Arya could tell that the young woman was clearly waiting for some slip of information that could be exploited.
Counterwise, Cynthea Frey, a niece of Lady Waynwood, was incredibly talkative with an inability to keep any secrets. Luckily for the fifteen-year-old girl she did not take after her Frey father in looks. Poor Jocelyn Dustin had struggled wretchedly to acclimate as well after so long as the only Lady-in-Waiting. Often butting heads with the much older Myranda Royce. To make matters worse the youngest daughter of House Stark had been forced to take Barbara Bracken and Bethany Blackwood into her collection. Needless to say, the two cunts hated one another as was to have been expected. Though it at the very least purchased favour from both of the ceaselessly warring Houses for Riverrun.
"Stop complaining, Bracken," Bethany Blackwood nearly snarled as she stabbed at a training post with surprising ferocity. "None of us are comfortable." Arya had been exasperated with her Ladies-in-Waiting sewing uselessly in the stands while whispering endlessly as they peered down at the 'handsome' men gathered about. She had felt no guilt in ordering them to partake in her water dancing lessons. Braavosi water dancing was an art one could not gain access to in the North, so the girl had decided to add it to her repertoire without any hesitation. Arya was also eager to see which of her Ladies were the most useful.
Barbara Bracken for instance, so completely out of her element, would be returned to mending and sewing for the duration of her tenure. With no aptitude or interest there was nothing Arya could do to convince the Lady that all women should at the very least be able to defend themselves. The others were more surprising. Myranda Royce was the gamiest of them all having donned boiled leather and taken quite quickly to practicing with the morning star. She was manipulative, however, and was probably doing it to gain favour with Harry Hardyng's unofficially betrothed. Lelia Elesham demonstrated the most aptitude with a natural talent at the spear. Having claimed to of fished along the coasts of the Paps with her father from an early age.
Jocelyn had been training Lady Bethany in the art of knife fighting which she had grown rather skilled at. Worshippers of the Old Gods, after all, tended to stick together. Arya had already decided that she would arrange a good marriage for the Blackwood lass in the North where she would be surrounded by like-minded First Men. Then there was Cynthea Frey. While Arya had decided firmly that she wanted nothing to do with the House of the Crossing it seemed that the girl would be a sole exception. She took to the sword with a great deal of interest. Using Arya's tiny, old one to gain muscle whilst practicing alongside Arya with all manner of instructors. Whether it was Syrio Forel, Aron Santagar, Thoros of Myr, or any number of more mildly amused warriors, Cynthea always tried her best. With everlasting eagerness to boot.
"Sister," Arya spun around after having just defeated Balon Swann, Jaime Lannister's replacement on the Kingsguard. The amused man had underestimated her ability, and was the first to meet Lamentation. It had been no match at all. There stood Bran with Ser Barristan the Bold. Glancing to the left she recognized with growing dread that King Robert was now sitting in the stands. "Where did you get a sword like that?"
"It is certainly Valyrian Steel. Ser Balon's blade never stood a chance," The Bold remarked. Arya felt her muscles earned from three years of practice tense. Would they take it from her?
"If you can defeat me I will be more than glad to tell you," She withdrew the rune-inscribed blade again. Above them King Robert could be heard guffawing loudly at the turn of events. Lancel Lannister, always present, giving the drunkard an endless supply of wine.
"'Tis dishonorable to spar with a Lady, Brandon Stark," Ser Barristan interjected firmly.
"Not dishonorable if said 'Lady' gives him a shave first, Ser Selmy," Arya retorted fiercely. Arm whipping around she allowed the blade to whirl daringly several inches in front of Bran's throat. Her brother returned the mischievous smile prior to freeing his own steel. Barristan stepped back to watch with Cynthea, scowling with tight lips at the scene. Much time had passed since the pair of them fought against one another in Winterfell. Both of them had gained much more skill since, however.
The Squire's blade wobbled feebly against Arya's spell-forged blade. Parry, thrust, thrust, parry. For every move they were matched evenly. Bran had squared up on his bases with the Redforts and Kingsguard it seemed. Conversely, she was a hodge-podge of learnings all melded together into a unique style. It was a match of wills. Traditional orthodoxy versus a young woman who had learned from anyone willing to instruct her. In a fancy show of footwork Bran managed to thrust his blade towards her neck only for his sister to spin neatly away. Blade rising up in the air momentarily only to slam mightily against his weapon. The buckling which resulted forced him to retreat backwards. Both wolves circling one another with hungersome expressions.
Aided by a fitting snarl Arya danced into an elegant downwards slash. Bran met her though which brought things back to a draw again. For some time this match seemed to last. Growing tired the Stark daughter realized her time was not going to last much longer at all. He was too well-built now with the stamina to boot. Ducking into a fluid crouch she slapped his left leg with the bastard sword held in both hands. He toppled to one knee with his sword settling against her neck. A smirk flashed plainly upon his face until he realized that a dagger was poised in front of his undefended crotch. "You underestimated me brother," She grinned into his ear, "Again."
They separated with a hug which did naught to settle her bitterness. Men were always underestimating women, and she was sick of winning due to their folly. "You fight like Wenda Cafferen did," Ser Barristan spoke sharply after gesturing Bran away from the yard, "Without honour. Remember what happened to her." He stormed away to no doubt trade rotations with another Kingsguard. Or the man simply wished to privately chastise poor Bran for drawing against a girl.
"Whatever did happen to Wenda Cafferen?" Cynthea asked whilst sidling up alongside Arya. She shrugged before an answer could be given. "It is of little consequence. You have much honour, Lady Arya. Far more than a man like Ser Selmy could ever hope to match." Gentle fingers settled upon her shoulder. "You handle yourself and others with grace, dignity, and elegance. When we are old crones I swear to you that we shall visit his grave to snicker at how he spoke such injustices." Mousy hair was lit to a deep chestnut by the sparkling sun. Pretty blue eyes conveyed the most sincerity Arya had encountered since leaving home for King's Landing.
Perhaps she would not mind becoming friends with a Frey as much as she had once imagined.
OOOO
"Will you marry my brother one day?" Rickon asked with his usual untrained manners. The almost six-year-old Lord had paused to peer out of a great window from Winterfell. Below bustled many of the ten-thousand people in what was growing into a larger city with each passing day. Strong men hauling mounds of weapons and obsidian from the smithies and tunnels below Wintertown. Women sewing, cooking, or bustling about in general, whilst running affairs above ground for their men folk. Further out immigrant engineers who had recently finished constructing the sprawling tunnels now directed peasants in finishing the most recent curtain wall.
"You are asking the wrong question, Lord Rickon," Shiera corrected with a gentle smile, reaching down to brush stray curls from his forehead. "When will I marry your brother is far more apt. No?" They moved on together from that spot, further up into the keep. Behind them Shaggydog intimidated away any serving wenches with his terrifying size.
Robb had been forced to travel west so that a peaceful transition could be ensured for the recently arrived Giants. Then there was the matter of many more at the Wall whom would soon need to be settled as well. The Great Bastard was tasked with looking after Winterfell in his stead. A lengthy castellanship given that her lover would be sailing from Sea Dragon Point to the Wall prior to returning. "Are you betrothed then? As I am to Osiria Magnar?" He rephrased his question. Rising to the challenge.
"Your brother is a man grown. Capable and wise. He has decided on his own that a marriage between us will one day be beneficial. Soon our mutually agreed upon engagement shall be declared aloud. As soon as the ravens fly, and contracts have been signed, we will be betrothed." The woman did not bother to lower her voice. Such news was commonly suspected throughout the North now. Only a woman possessing of Robb Stark's absolute trust would have been left in charge of his seat and youngest brother.
"Oh." He paused speculatively, "Do you miss your mother and father?" That matter had been weighing heavily on the young Stark lad since the departure of his family. Shiera had ignored his wild behavior until Robb left him as her ward. With no small amount of effort she retrieved him from the Crypts with a tamed Direwolf in tow. Accomplishing a task many seasoned guards had failed at in no more than a day. Now Rickon dutifully followed her everywhere with cut hair and presentable clothing always on.
"My father was an unwise man. He loved me, I suppose, though not in the way Lord Stark cares for you. Take comfort in knowing that your father shall never use you as a weapon, or try to sell you to the highest bidder. One day you will be a great bannerman of the North with a fine keep, and a beautiful bride." Her face darkened as Rickon peered up at her. "Lord Stark would never threaten to wed any of his own children."
"What about your mother?" The boy asked after a very long period of silence. Even at his young age he could tell that there was a great deal of dark blood between Lady Seastar and her long deceased father.
A coldness spread between them. Not the sort that came on freezing nights when the snows piled high beneath Winterfell's walls. More like sunny days spent in meadows when clouds closed upon those frolicking below. Happy, yet sad. "My mother died when I was born." A wistful expression crossed the woman's face. Rickon thought she had never looked so lovely before. So painfully real. "She visits me in my dreams. Tells me what I am doing right or wrong. Everything I hunger for comes from the lips of that specter I have never been so blessed to meet." Fingers curled gently into his locks as they stepped into her solar. "Mothers never forget, or leave their children behind. Even the cruellest ones cannot escape thinking of their babes. Lady Catelyn is no exception, my little Lord."
With that she went to sit at her desk while Rickon knelt in front of the hearth to stroke at Shaggydog's fur. Pondering the things his brother's soon-to-be-betrothed had said to him. Many people of varying degrees of import visited during that time of childish reflection. Between inner ramblings he discreetly paid rapt attention to Lady Shiera's dealings. 'Patient observance is a man's finest sword,' Sansa had once said to him. There was Maester Luwin who had stopped to ask about their trip to Wintertown that morning to check on planned expansions of sewers. A squat woman arrived with a menagerie of comely youths prompting Shiera to take him onto her knee. They observed as the beautiful men and women disrobed prior to sending the chosen few off to a 'brothel.' What followed their departures was a brief lesson on how to properly manage such establishments. As well as a glimpse at the tax reports of a vastly improving, Northern sex market.
Then a messenger bearing news of Theon Greyjoy's imminent, unannounced, visit to Winterfell interrupted Rickon's lesson. In no time at all he was busy learning instead how to hastily prepare a keep for the visit of an important guest. Unaware of the fact that Shiera Seastar was shaping him just like she had shaped all of his other siblings.
OOOO
"Wisdom Roarke," Came the squeaking voice of his acolyte, "Wisdom Malliard has asked me to convey a message to you." The timid boy of ten-and-three slipped free of the shadows. He had come to them tan with bright eyes. Unfortunately, the dark, ominous Guildhall had stripped him of such luxuries. Now the acolyte was sickly pale with a tangle of black hair. Fingertips blackened by the dangerous materials he had been bidden to work upon.
"Speak." Roarke did not suggest. His voice was firm with a fiery undertone. That firm, masculine tenor had earned him much respect. Accordingly, a clever mind gained the young Wisdom high rank in the Alchemists' Guild.
"A woman has visited with Wisdom Hallyne. She has been speaking at length with him in his study. Wisdom Malliard told me to warn you that the Lady will be sent here soon." The stuttering answer was whispered out while both eyes were averted towards the stone floor. Useless as always. No details regarding what woman of Noble birth could possibly be so special to capture the interest of Wisdom Hallyne.
"Inspect each and every Wildfire chamber tonight," He looked back to his papers, "Then go to sleep. I have many errands set for you in the morning that must be completed by the next sunset." With a bow the useless boy scurried away. Leaving his master to wonder what exactly was headed his way. An hour passed until finally he was visited again. "Enter." Soft knocks dissipated as Wisdom Malliard opened the door to allow in a hooded young woman. Moving quickly the lower ranked man handed his superior a sealed letter prior to fleeing the chambers soon after. "Sit, my Lady," He gestured to his strange visitor. Pulling away at the seal. Silver eyes scanned firmly through the words with rising disbelief until finally the parchment was set aside. "Forgive me, Lady Stark," He managed to utter in a more subdued manner, "If I have trouble believing the High Wisdom's words."
With a flick of her wrist Sansa Stark pushed the hood back to stare at him with blue eyes. Deep as the Narrow Sea. Like pools of crisp, clear, springwater from his childhood home. Ruby red lips tugged into a wicked sort of smile. Auburn hair as dark as the deep flames that Wisdom Roarke had always been so fascinated by hung loosely across her back. An emerald coloured gown clung elegantly to a willowy, statuesque form. She was only several years younger than him at most, and the Wisdom had never consorted with such a beautiful creature before. Lady Stark flicked her wrist causing the candle in front of him to sputter out. With a swift snap the wick rose again, seemingly brighter than before. "You should be capable of believing me now."
They regarded one another for a long while. Him rubbing anxiously at the midnight-black scruff of his tan face. Her simply lounging in the seat across as though she owned it. "Such control over fire have not been observed since the dragons died out. Apart from rumours in Essos." He remarked simply. "How can I even begin to be of service to someone clearly so much more adept than myself?"
"The letter should say it plainly enough. In exchange for a chance to observe my abilities, you will train me during agreed upon evenings. When no one is any the wiser to where I am." Her voice was like steel. Roarke felt his breathing stiffen as she moved further into the rays of moonlight. "One day the Alchemists' Guild shall find an ally in the Queen. The greatest foothold into royalty your order will have gained since Mad Aerys."
"You wish to learn it all? Brewing of wildfire, how to control your gifts, all of our secrets?" He asked sternly in response. She simply nodded in response. "Then give me something you truly treasure. Only then can we begin your instruction." With hesitancy the young Lady fumbled at her wrist. Then without any pause Sansa Stark placed the bracelet into the man's outstretched hand. "Come back whenever suits you. There is much to be learned, Lady Stark." Pulling her hood over beautiful head the young woman left for the Red Keep.
Leaving Wisdom Roarke to ponder why a Northern Lady would have been carrying two Valyrian Gods of old on her person.
OOOO