A/N: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! Also, I will create a Dramatis Personae for this fic, but give me until the holidays to get it done, when I have more time. As a note, this arc will take us to the end of 289 AC.
Lyarra
The Beastling Arc
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nasal. Lacrimal. Inferior Nasal Concha. Maxiallary. Zygomatic. Temporal. Palatine. Parietal. Malleus. Incus. Stapes.
Luwin had gathered them all for their lessons in the numbers. The task was to go up to at least ten. Arecel, Theryse, and Aurelia listened rapidly, but as she could count all the way to one thousand, so it seemed a moot point to take part. Camille instead stared out of the solar's windows to the bright sky and its accompanying chill and continued to recite all of the bones she knew from the head down.
Camille could not go into a bird during her lessons, though she had tried—it had only made them think she was ill, and she would not make the nursery her prison again, or have anymore distrust put on Ceridwyn. Her aunts always regarded her queerly now after the festival, and it hurt a bit to see someone so sweet, so isolated: the women of the court were mannered with her ladies, but there was little affection if they were not kin. Camille felt desperate, however: she did not know how long she could listen to these lessons before she screamed. Yadira had the decency to keep her engaged: here, she was to sit and listen, indefinitely.
Camille would write out a complete book of health knowledge as soon as her writing became decent enough. She instead forced herself to recite the basic protocols at work, symptoms of the flu and skin rashes. Bones. Muscles, nerves. Basic vital testing, and the like. Her handwriting was abysmal, and but it was the only way she could keep the knowledge, for now. It looked alien, her scrawl.
"My lady Lyarra," Luwin's voice came clear, "What is this number?" Camille had turned from staring outside to Luwin, blinking at everyone, Luwin, the children, and their maids, before looking at the two groups of pebbles, smooth and grey, on the mahogany table's carpet. She took the time to count it, as Luwin gave a soft smile. There were forty-seven and she told him so.
Luwin stuttered before considering the pebbles, then her. His maester's chain seemed more a choker, and his grey robes were fine wool, and edged with fur. The children stared off when Luwin took more time to consider.
"That is correct my lady," he said in some shock. It was then that Ernatta entered with a groom of her father's, by the finely made wolf on his livery showed. She was to receive her birthday gifts now. Finally.
It had been an achingly long three years in this world, and she expected more time with her father for her nameday, as they said it. Camille had received plenty of gifts from everyone: Yadira had made her cloth doll clothes; Arya prayer books of runes, and Serena beaded headbands and other jewelry, trinkets came from her household; hats and other finer things from the lords of court seeking her father's approval; plate and other great finery from richer lords living who knows where. Her mother had sent her a maester, Nabar, and a Septa named Zaida, of her own, but they had not settled in enough to teach her yet. Camille would be glad for more focused classes soon.
But nothing from her father. She wasn't pleased with Eddard—Camille expected a magnificent gift.
The groom had then said that the Stark put careful thought into the gift she would receive, and what she needed for her name day. She nodded obediently, intent to see behind the door. To her delight, at the opening of it, two clumsy balls of fur had entered.
Puppies.
"The Stark believes you most clever and caring, my little lady Lyarra, and thought two pets of your own would do you well. He instructs that you clean and care for them yourself."
The words were background to her. Camille and her cousins, attracted to the yelps of the little curly balls of white, had preoccupied themselves in trying to hold and pet them. She cared very little about what he was saying.
"They need collars. Of velvet. One of blue, the other of red," Camille demanded in Dornish.
Her ladies and ushers in the halls laughed. The groom gave a smile too. "My lady, their names?"
"They are the Berry Brothers."
"But their own names?"
"Rasp and Blue," Ernatta had given orders for leather collars to be made, and that she rise and go to her father to thank for her gifts.
Camille would rather thank him at dinner, and play with the dogs, but the stern look told her it was unlikely to happen.
After they took the puppies for measuring for the harnesses, Camille went as fast as she could to thank her father and get back to her dogs.
Ceri and Ernatta to her back, she ignores the nagging, almost poking coming from the tapestries, not tempted enough to touch them again and feel what they had to say. Every day what she could do became stranger, and stronger: growing berries in the glass gardens, moving water, grasping flames. To slip into an animal was a second thought now. Only her ability to read things compared to it in strangeness.
Upon her father's chambers, it relieved her to skip the long walk through his many chambers and courtiers, and entered his solar instead, alone.
She was unfortunately told to wait: her father was meeting with his men, and she instead found a little birdie to spy as she waited.
"What news of the Skagosi?"
"They send their loyalty to the Stark, but complain that their winter was hard on their stores," One man in a large silver chain repeats, looking over a large parchment. The mountain clans ask for help in seed and men against the wildlings as well," he motions with a slip of vellum in his hand. It was so small it must have come by raven.
"War and poor seed. By the gods," Her father's face is dour.
"The king writes for the first tax collection of the year. Tell me that has gone well?"
"The Ryswells are slow for their last payment, and the Lady Dustin's men makes excuses,"
"What now?"
"Her men claim she doesn't leave her chambers and is always in tears-"
"If the woman wants to cry, she should do so on her father's lands. If she is the widow of the Dustin, then she must send her payments," the old Uncle Stark roared. "What makes her think she's the only woman who lost a husband? A great deal more are worse off." Father ignores him.
"Send men to retrieve the payment, and a proper escort. Do not bring more than 150 men, or they shall say I abuse her in this fragile time. We all mourn. Has others sent theirs in?"
Her father sighs over the lists of papers and the comments on his people.
"Robert wants this by ship in six weeks. Send the first payment now. We've the furs, wood, and coin for that."
"Mayhaps my lord you ask for more time?"
"And why would I do that?" Uneasy looks exchanged between the men. The Waterman continued.
"The king views you as a brother. He would understand a delay-"
"An unjust delay. I will not abuse the favor of the king. Which is who he is. To all of us."
A shorter discussion ensues about the upcoming Harvest Feast, and the men depart on orders and further tasks. She smiles at everyone, some who merely acknowledge her, to giving a doting smile, but none stop to speak. She doesn't wait to be announced.
"Daddy, Daddy, I thank you for the Berry brothers," she yells, skipping across the carpet. Her father has on a slate grey doublet and matching pants with beautiful silver embroidery. He wore a mantle with sable lining and edging and navy velvet.
"Come, tell me of these brothers I sent you,"
"My puppies!"
Eddard went from tired to happy to smiling as she kissed most his cheeks after he picked her up. Waving her aunts away, he took her to his great desk, and leaned back as she explained their names. Uncle Benji took her nearly every day to the glass gardens, and they were her favorites to pick and eat.
"It is my hope that your walks through the gardens do not distract from your lessons, Arra,"
Camille hated the chide and hated Luwin's lessons more. They were for babies. "I know my numbers. And my letters, and the beginning prayers, And Aunt Ceri teaches me for the Harvest festival. Would you like to see?"
Eddard didn't but kissed her head, while rustling through parchment on his desk..
"Our aunts write and send their love, Arra."
Two letters, one brief and one long and flowery came from her Great-great Aunt Jocasta, her great grandfather's sister in the Vale, and her great Aunt Branda, her namesakes' sister. Though she hadn't believed him, she saw in both letters her name and sending their love, but she believed it just a general thing. Camille instead smiles, delighted as he told her about them.
Aunt Jocasta had only daughters with a Royce, and they had all married lords in the vale; Aunt Branda was further south to a Rogers, a high lord, with six children, and many grandchildren being born every day. They had sent her gifts, too, for her name day.
Her father told of tales of Aunt Jocasta visiting more when he was a child, and seeing her constantly when with Lord Arryn as a foster, but old age had slowed her; Aunt Branda had grown accustomed to the south, and the last he had seen her in person was in the capital, right before she was born. Her sons were some of Robert's main fighters when he had gone north, her father claimed. All of them and their wives had positions at court.
She had dozed as her father read her poetry when the doors had opened. Unannounced, Camille had assumed it was an emergency until she had saw Catelyn.
"My lord I beg forgiveness at my intrusion,"
Her red hair thick and down her back, she wore the traditional cut of northern gowns but in Tully reds and blues with grey fur edging. None of her ladies had come with her, or any other servant. While her face seemed happy, her skin white stained with pink on the cheeks, the smile dimmed to a more stoic look at her in her father's lap.
Camille tried not to bristle at the sight of her, faking closed eyes. Wasn't she supposed to be holding court with her thirty-something women, and all the women of the she-wolves? The place she was usually unwelcome? Her father nodded off the words, shifting her in his arms, the same question no doubt in his head.
"It must be of importance for you to come to me unannounced and unattended. Speak."
"I have good news from my maester, Berent," Her voice became lower as her father stood with her in his arms.
"Your father brings news of the ships? Or has he agreed to our request of seed for the Flints of the Peak?"
An awkward pause as she says she is confident her father will fulfill their request, but no, that is not it. A heavier pause lays between them as she feels Ned hold her tighter, and she resists the urge to wake up and ask for her to finish. Today was her birthday. Eddard was hers for now. She had so little time with him lately.
"As you know, I took ill at the lamprey pie..."
"Bad lamprey, yes, I have asked for it not to be served so richly again—"
"My lord, I am with child. It was not the eel."
Her father is motionless and silent.
"After Lord Vypren's feast...when you came to me..." Silence again. "I had been fearful at our Robb's celebration. And then the pie….But this morn, I felt the babe move."
Still silence.
"My lord, I beg some words from you. Does this not delight you?" Catelyn's words were soft and in the insecurity of it, her words in the Old Toungue seemed garbled. "You have stayed far from me...I had hoped…"
"My lady, this news is most welcome," Her father's words seemed automated. "Please. Give your duties to your ladies and rest. Send your maester to me as well." Catelyn gave quiet words of agreement and left.
"My lady?"
The door creaked as she held open the door.
"I shall send words to the court and my lords, as well as your father. This is cause for great celebration,"
The door shut at the last word. At her departure, Ned sighed and kissed her cheek, smoothing her hair. Calling for her ladies and usher, he demanded her back in her rooms, while he called for his men to come to the room. There were great preparations to be made.
Back in her room, she faked waking up, and felt angry. As all the women in the nursery gossiped of the news, she felt angry, the joy in her puppies gone as quick as it came. Through her sewing and singing lessons she barely took part, and in her dance lessons, complained shews tired. Taken to her room, Essine, Yadira, Ernatta and Ceridwyn did all they could for her mood.
"At least she is herself again," Essie had commented, giving a look to Ceridwyn who raised her chin in defiance.
"She is always herself, but today, there is no control," She retorted. She bent down to talk to her. "Tells us now the injustice done. Do not hold it in."
"Lady Stark does not like me," her complaint almost sounded as if she were going to cry, which she was not.
Her ladies all had different faces of blankness, concern, or a look of obvious agreement. Yadira ever tactful, prodded more.
"What makes you say that my love?" Camille wanted to shriek. How many times had she frowned at her at meals, or tried to make her wear ugly clothes? It was not just the festival. She had stopped Essine several times from using the silks her mother had bought her. She knew it.
"Today was my day," she complained. "It's my...nameday. But she told daddy today about the baby. She knew she was pregnant. Why couldn't she have said something tomorrow? Why on my day?"
Her ladies had no immediate response. "I hate them. I want my mamma," she yelled then in Dornish. Rage had filled her then as she climbed into her bed and began to scream more. "She did it on purpose. I hate her. I hate those evil old women. I hate them, I hate them I—
Ceridwyn had taken her harshly and shook her, stunning her. "You must never speak those words again. Do you understand?"
She didn't look at her other aunts. She agreed, but Ceridwyn kept Camille in her grip. "It is in a woman's nature to be jealous of another. And make no mistake, the Lady Stark has jealousy of your mother. You will hold your tongue and keep your feelings to yourself." She mumbled agreement and only then did she let her go, and she cried.
Ernatta did not disagree, but soothed her, her face one of confusion with Ceridwyn.
"The she-wolves are vicious women," she murmured then, deflated on a stool. "Catelyn Tully is becoming one of them. Her breeding is a duty as his wife. But the Stark has not forgotten you. If you openly scorn her, you will bring punishment only to yourself."
Essine and Yadira nodded, quietly retrieving her bed robes and shift—she would eat in the nursery tonight, Camille supposed. In silence they left her with Ernatta, and in the solar of the nursery, Ceridwyn pleaded with them both by the fire.
"If it is easy for a babe to see, he sees it. We must not let her show her temper with such things."
"He will think we set her to it, yes," Yadira agreed.
"No. The she-wolves have no tolerance for natural-born children. They guard their rights viciously. Let Lord Stark see her ways on his own, and decide what to do, on his own. It is the best way. Many children have been lost in this castle."
Yadira and Essine only nodded. It was the same as any other place, they had agreed. Or maybe worse, they discussed, when Ceri had gone off.
In her dreams, it did not feel so. She was angry and fitful. In her dreams she sat on her father's right, and Catelyn sat far to the back left corner. Looking up in the hall, then, was a singular raven who made his way to her.
"It is time for us to speak , Lyarra."