This story has been spinning in my head for over a year and is self-indulgent. Let me know your thoughts/feelings with a review!
The Beastling Arc
Chapter 10
The morning brings a brilliant light and cold that seeps to Camille's bones. Through her hangings, she watches Calluna, a new chamberer, tend to her to fire. It isn't enough warmth though, because even through the layers of blankets and furs, Winterfell is always freezing, land and people.
Blaze, Camille thinks, and watches as her fire roars. Calluna jumps at the action, scuttling out of her bedchamber, and in comes a woman with a long face, dark hair, and grey eyes. She looks from the chamber door to the fireplace, then back to the door, giving murmurs, before heading to her bed. Her eyes give a knowing look, putting a chill on her neck. Lady Ceridwyn.
Ceridwyn was one of her new ladies at Winterfell, put into her household on her father's orders. She was gentle, and kind, and knew of the stranger things she felt and saw. She got along well enough with her family, her ways quiet and loving toward Camille, and understanding toward her kin as they settled into the north.
"It is time to get up, lass," Ceridwyn had sung. The singing in the Old Tongue was not as harsh as when it was just spoken. Camille knew, as her ladies made her do both, instead of letting her speak in Dornish. Camille just blinked her eyes sleepily, as Ceridwyn moved her hangings back just slightly and rubbed her head. At the intensity of the light, her cousins groaned. Theryse and Aurelia were curled up together, and behind them, Arecel. She was Ceridwyn's daughter.
Ernatta had come then, sweeping her into her bed robe and then to the tray on her table where tea, cheese, bread, and fruit waited for her. Camille could hardly eat much else than a few bites, but Ceridwyn and Ernatta gave looks of satisfaction at her ladylike manners as she ate.
Soon enough they dressed her in the standard thick shift, with two pairs of thick hose, a light blue undergown with a high collar and fitted sleeves, an overgrown of lilac trimmed in vair, and a mantle of forest green brocaded lined with sable. Her cousins, dressed and fed soon joined her in the solar, along with her brothers as their lessons with their ladies began, the nursery solar warmth high with a few more of her willing it to be.
Over the past month, she had grown and discovered something new of her gifts and magic she could control. She could will the flame hotter, the plants bigger, to bend water to her will. It was a high Camille love...and feared.
Yadira had begun to catch her, giving looks when a candlestick would float, or a rough brush given by one of the she-wolves for her disappeared, or a cup of wine for one of Robb's ladies spilled. She always knew when she did something, but never said anything: they couldn't afford to. Her knowing look was enough. But there was a difference in willing something and controlling it. Camille hadn't mastered the latter yet.
The babes sat with Maester Luwin, a man of the citadel sworn at first to Catelyn. By the luck of his office, he was named the new Maester of Winterfell, and allowed to stay. He was just a maester, after all, Melantha had said. He was no harm.
The women all sat around them, embroidering, or cooing, but still in their own bubble to talk. Camille didn't even need to slip to hear, but to sit still and listen, while identifying the colors the man held up, or the shape. Ugh.
"There shall be a new gown?" Yadira's voice was clear, but soft as to not distract them too much.
"Yes, a lovely gown. In the Winterfell fashion, of course, Lady Yadira," Camille knew that voice, sickly sweet but harsh in the tones of the Old Tongue. It was Robb's lady of honor, Robyn Stark. She was a woman born to Artos Stark's second wife Brenda Karstark, and was one of the youngest of the 20-strong brood. The number alone made Camille shudder, but not more than the woman herself: Robyn was slender, pale as milk with dark brown hair and matching eyes with a haughty way of speaking. Worse, she was married to the Lord Waterman that was her father's gentlemen. She watched everyone and told everything and Yadira and her ladies knew it. So did Jon's.
"Lyarra is still not so well to go about court," Yadira retorted, "She should stay in the nursery, as Lord Stark ordered." Camille fought the neck turn to plead to let herself out of this inane prison.
But it did not shock Camille. she remembered that since her accident in the neck, she and her brothers had been closely guarded, and even more so in her father's home: they had been all wrapped up in blankets and hurried almost in secrecy into Winterfell. Ushered into the Pup's Den, the nursery, they lived in a large suite on the floor above Catelyn's rooms, but also above the elder Stark women. Only Robb left the place, but what could a one-year-old appreciate about fresh air?
"The Midsummer festival is upon us, and she must be dressed for the occasion of course. My lady has ordered it." Robyn countered. Camille had snuggled close to Theryse, entertaining themselves with counting the pearls in her hair. There were forty.
"And which lady was that?" Yadira's question was sharp, and Camille had quickly ben chastised for her lack of attention before she sat in deep boredom again. Luwin held up a turquoise triangle. Robb had called it blue.
"My Lady the Stark's Grandmother. She commanded it."
Camille could only chuckle. She had made the mistake of thinking those women her grandmother from earth: frail, sweet women, determined to have the whole family prosper. She was very wrong. Whether they had grey hair, or dark hair, or somewhere in-between; or milky or clear eyes; or wrinkled or smooth hands, there was one common trait: they were all quite ...assertive.
Lord Howland had commented during a brief visit on business that they were called the she-wolves, and Camille had found that to be an apt description of the women who were used to ruling the north and having their say. While she had been forced into long naps in her nursery, Camille had heard the women assure Eddard they would teach Catelyn the 'northern way'. Catelyn only gave thanks to the guidance they would give her, but Camille was confident she would see more if she bothered to look in on her in her private moments.
What Camille saw through the eyes of pets and birds, however, was Catelyn be surrounded in her court, overcome, and divided amongst them, like a rabbit hunted by a dog. When watching the courts or the solars she frequented, Camille saw that her step-mother had little say in the goings-on of the North. Catelyn would make a brave face as all her opinions were listened to, talked over, then promptly ignored. Lady Melantha had her word on the logistics of the castle, Marna had assumed control of her ladies, and the court as a whole; it was who had a hand in the dismissal of nearly all of Catelyn's riverine court. Lady Arya, who was the most quiet and thoughtful, had assumed control of the nursery. A battle Camille had enjoyed seeing, especially as they all thoughtfully and carefully tugged on her father or uncle for influence. It was as close to a telenovela as she would ever get.
The only one she had not seen often was Berena. Berena lead the spiritual aspects of their life: festivals and prayers, and lessons, too, but she had not met her yet through any visit, but she had made sure she went to her nightly prayers. The only time she was ever allowed out of the place. She had quickly decided that she took back her comment on praying for freedom.
"That is very kind of Lady Marna."
"She is quite loving."
While they talked tersely on the schedule, Camille enjoyed the last of her free time. Luwin had departed, and other handmaids had gathered her brothers for naps. She mused how while Catelyn suffered, Camille lived in a more familiar prison of her nursery. Her father was adamant no one be sent away, to the confusion of the she-wolves, as they made up near half of the nursery staff, and adamant she was not sent away either. He would not be separated from any of his children.
Yadira had agreed with the schedule, and after Robyn left, ordered Calluna and Ceridwyn away on busy work for the fitting, leaving her, Essine, and Ypolita. Ernatta would join her in the afternoon.
They had then taken her to change, Yadira watching as Ceridwyn and Ernatta moved quickly. Essine had made her practice her courtesies, and Ernatta had put a fine linen shift on her with silver embroidery on the cuffs and then her cream and gold bed robe and golden slippers with pearls and tiny, tiny gems that sparkled blue, green, and purple.
Everyone was nervous. Essine and Yadira moved in utter silence, their looks and whispers giving more than enough bad feeling. But what could happen, Camille had wondered, at a dress fitting?
Ladron had greeted her, and her ladies, and with two household guards, took them down to the Women's Solar via the family gallery. The floors were dark granite, the walls rough grey stone, but filled from floor to ceiling with tapestries of impossible sizes telling the story of the Starks. There was murder, marriages, and battle victories here. They even had one of the Wall and light blue fairy people. Yadira had to remind her to come when she would stop to look at them all. Camille could not.
Holding her hand out, the tips of her fingers slid against the scenes. The sheer detail and size made them overwhelming and Camille dizzy as she walked down the agonizingly long hall. On instinct, she reached out to one, shining with silver, pressing the pads of her fingers to the threads. At that, a thousand pictures went before her eyes, of voices and laughter and tears of women and girls, a thrilling feeling up her arms, her ears ringing—
"Enough of that my lady," said a soft voice. The noise all stopped when other hands held Camille's, soft and warm. "After your nap and fittings, I will tell you of this tapestry."
Camille is happy to note that the hands belong to Lady Ceridwyn. As one of Lady Arya's nieces, she knew of her strange talents as well, though she had never given her any looks like Yadi did. Ceridwyn had a long face and a sweet smile and grey eyes like her father. Out of all the ladies in Winterfell that were not from Dorne, she had to be the nicest to her. Camille gave a smile in return as Ceridwyn had urged her to take a quick pace.
In the solar there were many, many women. While the great hall was her father's domain, this place belonged to Lady Stark. As they introduced her, she took count: Catelyn in the center, Marna and Melantha in seats not much lower than hers, and Arya dignified too, with Berena gone. Typical, as were the women who sat all around them.
Some sat on stools next to them, others benches and trunks, all busily at work in small groups filling the room with rich fabrics in vibrant colors edged in fur. She dipped into her curtsey, then floated upright. Mother Arya raised a brow, complimenting her, while Catelyn ignored her, and Melantha said nothing but nodded. It was Marna who decided to lead this engagement. The typical mouthpiece.
"You will have your measurements taken by the seamstress today, Lyarra. Do you know why?"
Marna was only one and fifty, shockingly young, with a head of dark hair with only a few strands of silver. Her voice was commanding, and in her little body, Camille felt herself tremble. Only Arya looked on her with care here.
"Yes, the Midsummer festival comes in a month, Lady Marna." Lady Marna, Camille thought bitterly, never grandmother or Mother, like with Arya.
"And what happens on the Midsummer Festival?"
"It is the longest day of the year."
"Is that all?"
Camille fought the urge to yell. Very little sewing had happened after she had entered. A hundred pairs of eyes had all zoomed in on her at once. Camille despised being on the spot, just like in her past life. She fought the memories of embarrassment from work, and let the silence take hold instead.
"I have told you, she is a child." Melantha broke the silence, her tones guttural, and old, waving her hand dismissively. "And so southern," She complained. "Those women of hers, they do not keep her at her proper lessons. Why do they know of our ways?" Camille had felt the shock of that – she understood by listening more than just speaking. Camille felt her stomach drop. Lady Catelyn simply looked to some other place.
"Ceridwyn has been placed with her. She takes to the greetings and lessons as well as any babe her age."
It was Mother Arya then who spoke, her voice raspy and deeper, slower and full of intent. She looked between Marna and Melantha; Catelyn sat in stone-faced silence, still a willfully ignorant of her presence, while sewing slowly.
"Yet," Melantha countered, "She doesn't know the festival rites. Has neither of them told her? My kindred say she speaks only in Dornish in her lessons and dances. They should stop that now, or she shall never understand."
Camille kept her hand clasped in front of her belly as practiced while her blood began to rush and her stomach wanted to leap from her mouth. I am right here, she wanted to scream.
As Arya and Melantha began to debate, Marna sighed and summoned the seamstress and her girls, who took her robe and wrapped knotted cords around her arms. Camille listened as they all worked quickly and silently. As they did, one of Melantha's women came to her and lectured her on the festival: The worshippers of the Old Gods wear yellow and orange, with citrines, jasper and tiger's eye, and give thanks to the gods by leaving gifts on the Weirwood branches. Lemons and honey are needed for meals that day, and the burning of the bonfire all night, and watch the rising of the sun.
All Camille could think of was that it should not take that long to measure a three-year-old. She desperately wanted to leave.
The women all went back to their needles, and Melantha had made other decisions. Her boots and hose for the day, and the fabrics. Velvet undergown of cider, and a brocade overgrown of marigold and green. Cider? A brown? Camille heard Ernatta rustle just a bit in the far back, and knew she was right. That was an ugly combination. Arya did too, as she began to debate on what fabric should be used. Marna insisted that as natural born, she should not have a brighter hue. Arya argued that brighter colors were appropriate for a child, with Marna insisting they did not have brighter clothes for her. They had already chosen the fabric she was to wear.
That had stopped Catelyn.
"The colors are appropriate for her station," She stated. Catelyn was now all watery blue eyes and thin lips at the words. Camille had looked at their faces–all now focused on Catelyn, who looked at them all in turn. I hate being here as much as you, Camille thought. She turned around to Ernatta and Ceridwyn, ready to leave. She opened her arms for Ceridwyn to redress her in her bedrobe.
"Lady Arya, should brighter colors be desired, there are many bolts of fabric in various hues that came with the Lady Lyarra."
Ernatta's bold words took the air out of the room, as everyone looked to her, in a bright pink gown and gold jewelry. She looked calm, and focused her eyes only on Mother Arya. It was unusual for her to do such a thing.
"The Lady Ashara was quite thorough in preparation for her daughter," Marna answered slowly. A household of forty servants for two babes, and enough cloth for a princess? No Marna, thorough is not quite the word, Camille chuckled quietly. Catelyn seemed quite still at the words. Her hands sat in her lap folded, needles done with.
"The Lady Lyarra and Lord Jon had appropriate households for their ages," Ernatta responded, "According to their age and dignity. Lady Lyarra thirty-two, and Lord Jon the rest."
"I fail to see what dignity a bastard could have." Catelyn stared at Camille's gentlewoman, who only gave her courtly smile.
"Lady Lyarra is of two ancient houses of the First Men. As Lady Stark, you know that your house were Kings of Winter—"
"For eight thousand years. Yes, all in Westeros knows our history," Melantha cut in. Ernatta continued her court smile.
"And the Daynes can trace their line back to the Dawn of Days. Ten thousand years of history. Of Royal First Men blood, honored the highest by the Princes of Dorne. Lyarra is the decedent of kings and princes, of lords Paramount and Great. Her dignity as an inheritor of such legacy demands a full household. Lord Stark has agreed to that."
"She is still a bastard." Catelyn's counter was firm, and Ernatta nodded, still keeping her smile.
"What has Lord Stark decided for her again? He is who insisted on her presence at the festival. What did he suggest?" Marna's disdainful face soured at Arya's question.
"He said she was to attend, but the details—"
"Let us speak with Eddard then, and put this to rest," Melantha called. "You have finished your business have you not?" The seamstress and her women curtsied in agreement. "Good. Leave." They scuttled out.
"And what of the boy?" Catelyn's voice was soft, curious, and almost wounded; in the Old tongue, it was near garbled sounds. Camille wondered how often she took to practicing the language. Ceridwyn had curtsied and moved toward her on the wave Arya had given her and gathered Camille in her arms. No doubt she was anxious about this whole debacle.
"The boy," Catelyn said.
"My Lady?" At Catelyn's words, Ernatta seemed perplexed.
"What of his mother?" She lost her smile for a moment, her head moving to the side in curiosity and some other look Camille couldn't put her finger on.
"Of his mother," she responded slowly, "I do not know. Lord Stark did not tell me of her, nor did I ask such."
"Your kith Yadira provided that woman as his wet nurse," Catelyn said, her voice finding strength. She had switched to common, the women tittering.
"My calling is healing and midwifery." Ernatta stayed in the Old Tongue — Melantha's wrath would be harder on her than the current Lady Stark.
"She was found quickly." Catelyn accused. Ernatta had lost her court smile.
"She was found for him as Lord Stark requested, I was told."
"Then there is no dignity to be had for him then. With no mother." Ernatta held Catelyn's eyes.
"Lord Jon," Ernatta emphasized, "Is son of the Stark of Winterfell. What other dignity is needed?"
They were all dismissed from the solar then, Camille and her women first, then the women of the chamber. Lady Ceridwyn had scolded Ernatta for speaking so plainly in the room. She looked as if she couldn't care less.
Camille was laid down for her nap, Ypolita watching, as the women furiously spoke on the upcoming events. What could they do about her gown? They had asked, and the worst was unspoken, the question of her father and uncle. What would they say?