Lenna LII
They sent two ravens from the inn at the Kingsroad. One to Riverrun, the other to White Harbor. Lenna was left exhausted and weary, and Wendel prevailed upon her to stay some days at the inn to wait as their wheelhouse and the rest of the guard caught up. Instead of feeling better, she instead felt worse, in a state of constant worry that the raven would not reach Riverrun in time.
Wendel had insisted that only his name be attached to it with no mention of her. This was prudent and she knew it. In all likelihood it would be burned as soon as it was received, but if it was intercepted, her brother wanted there to be as little association with her as possible. She was supposed to be theirs, after all.
It took three more weeks for them to reach White Harbor, and Lenna felt each step in the road like it was a blow to the ribs. She could barely eat from worry, even water making her stomach roil. She didn't even bother to try in the mornings, not wanting to retch from her saddle in front of the men. At midday and in the evenings, she could take a bit of bread and the weak tea Wendel insisted on brewing, and she slept like the dead each night, even when all she had between her and the ground was her cloak. Every bit of her ached, her breath coming short even when she wasn't exerting herself. Her head hurt, probably from the lack of water and food, and every time she dismounted, she had to lean her forehead against her palfrey's flank for a good minute to stop the dizziness from taking her legs out from under her.
It was well after nightfall when they reached White Harbor, Lenna insisting that they continue rather than passing the night in the shadow of its walls. The city glowed lustrously in the moonlight, but the sight of the New Castle and its pale ramparts did not fill her with joy as it had in the past. If anything, it made her more miserable. Sandor was supposed to be riding through the gate with her, but it was her brother at her side instead when they mounted the Castle Stair. In the dark, the mermaids' faces were lit eerily, the oil cradled in their arms licking at their features and making them look almost sinister. Lenna swallowed heavily, leaning forward and gripping her reins tightly. At the castle gate, the red-headed captain of the household guard didn't even greet them before sending a soldier running to fetch their father.
It was shortly before midnight when they halted in the courtyard. Wendel dismounted as quickly as his size allowed, nearly running to her. Lenna wondered vaguely why he was in such a rush, looking down at him in confusion.
"Let me help you," he said, his words sounding as if he was far away rather than at her ankle. She shook her head. She didn't need help to mount or dismount a horse, and she tried to swing her leg over, nearly falling backwards.
"Lenna." She heard her father's voice, then saw him as he rushed toward her across the paving stones. She wanted to laugh to see him in his robe, white hair mussed from sleep. He reached up to her with an expression of concern and fear, not with joy, but she lifted her arms toward him anyways, slipping ungracefully down the side of the horse and into his embrace. When her feet hit the ground, her legs went out from under her as if she had been hamstrung, and the last thing she saw before she slipped into the dark were the faces of her father and her brother, wild-eyed and frantic as their mouths moved but she couldn't hear them.
She woke without knowing where she was. She tried to sit up but failed, rubbing the heels of her hands across her eyes. She was sore, her mouth dry as cotton and her eyes bleary and full of sand, as if she had been asleep for a long time. She let out a little groan at the stiffness in her neck, and someone gasped at her side.
"Oh thank the Seven, you're awake."
She blinked a few times to find Wynna next to her, one of her hands caught up in both of her niece's. Wynna was leaning over her, the long rope of her hair brushing Lenna's face before the younger woman flipped it back over her shoulder. She peered down at Lenna with a deeply furrowed brow, running a cool hand over Lenna's forehead and smoothing her hair, eyes fraught with worry.
"How long," Lenna asked, or, rather, rasped. She tried to clear it, but the obstruction remained even when she tried again. "How long have I been asleep?"
"You came in at midnight and slept all day yesterday and through the night again. You didn't stir, not once," Wynna replied, her voice shaking as she sat down on the edge of the mattress. She leaned her face down close to Lenna's. "We were very concerned, dear."
"Papa?" she asked suddenly. She'd been home an entire day? "Wendel?"
"I'll fetch them," Wynna said, squeezing her hand. "They've been taking turns sitting with you." Lenna made to sit up, but found herself being gently pushed back into the bank of pillows as Wynna tutted. "Don't you move, now."
Wynna was gone for only an instant, and Lenna could hear her speaking low to a servant in the hallway. The younger girl was at her bedside again without delay, taking up her hands and warming them between her own.
"You gave us such a fright," she said, running her hand over Lenna's hair, her face. Wynna's hands were cool, and they soothed her. Her niece tried to smile, but Lenna noticed that it did not warm her eyes.
"I must have fainted. I was so tired," Lenna replied dumbly. She could remember nothing after a few days ago, and certainly had no recollection of arriving in White Harbor. She looked around, taking some comfort in being in her old rooms, the window open to the sea. It was bright out, sunlight streaming in and pooling on the floor. She could hear the cry of gulls, and the harbor breeze made the wispy curtains billow and swell like the sails of the ships on the wharf.
"That's why we let you sleep," Wynna said, her voice soft and musical. She had grown into a striking young woman, nearly as tall as Lenna with the high cheekbones of Adalyn Locke, her rich brown hair glinting with hints of umber and auburn. Lenna smiled at her, catching the other woman's fingers in hers.
"What time is it?" Lenna asked, suppressing a yawn. She was already feeling restless. She wanted to get up, her back aching from being abed so long.
"Almost midday," Wynna replied, bringing her a cup of water. "How do you feel?"
"Groggy, like I slept a long time. Otherwise fine," Lenna said with a perplexed laugh. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"We need to get some food in you." She almost smiled at Wynna's air of authority, wondering where she'd gotten it from. She fancied she wasn't much different when she felt more herself.
"No," Lenna replied quickly. Even the thought of bread made her feel queasy. Truth be told, her stomach was still upset. She didn't think she could eat anything quite yet. "I'm fine."
"Drink this," Wynna said, handing her the water. "And eat a piece of bread."
"I'm not hungry."
Wynna levelled her gaze at her, and Lenna saw something there other than concern. "You haven't taken food in three days. Add to that, Father says you haven't been eating much for weeks, and that you've been ill."
Even with her mind still muddled, Lenna didn't deny the truth. "That's not unusual on the road, is it?"
"In the mornings." Her niece was looking at her pointedly.
"Wynna," she said, reaching for the girl's hand. She sighed. "Give it here, then."
She took the cup of water and forced down a morsel of the bread. It was good brown bread, sweetened with honey. She felt quite green, but also triumphant. She didn't know how to explain to Wynna that she didn't want to eat, couldn't eat until they'd had some news.
"Take some cheese now," Wynna said, thrusting it under her nose.
Lenna's eyes widened and her stomach heaved as she pushed Wynna's hand away. The smell was too much for her, and she barely made it to the basin before she emptied the meager contents of her stomach. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and turned angrily toward her niece, taking a step back to see Wynna smiling softly back at her.
"Why-"
"When did you last have your moonblood?" Wynna asked quickly, cutting her off, hands folded primly as she looked back at her aunt.
Lenna sat down on the edge of her bed on watery legs, deep in thought. The truth was, she couldn't really remember her last moonblood. Sometime on the road, she thought, just before they reached Riverrun. She faintly recalled that she'd been ashamed of it, but it hadn't seemed to bother Sandor, not one bit. In fact, he seemed relieved when she'd stuttered her excuses to him one night when he reached for her, and she guessed she had been, too. They hadn't always been particularly careful.
"Two months," she whispered. "Maybe three. Wynna...Wynna, do you think-"
"Uncle Wendel believes so," she replied quietly. "He was worried. He said you wouldn't eat on the road, that certain things made you ill. If you haven't had your moonblood...I'll send for a midwife, just to be sure."
Lenna nodded absently, still perched on the edge of her bed. She stared at the patch of sunlight on her floor as it imperceptibly shifted. Her feet dangled off her bed like a child's and she felt so small as she waited, scared and hesitant.
The midwife came and subjected Lenna to the most embarrassing examination of her life, but the woman had kind eyes set above chubby, rosy cheeks, and when she smiled and nodded, Lenna wept.
It was what she had wanted, wasn't it? His child growing in her. But he was supposed to be there with her, watching over them both. She didn't even know how she was could let him know. Surely, there must be a way to tell him that he was going to be a father. That she was going to have his pup. It was the worst possible time, and she was torn between despairing fear and a strange, golden sensation of warmth that threatened burst through her skin.
"He's supposed to be here," she said between sobs, clutching Wynna's thin form to her own. Her niece cradled her gently, her fingers running through her short curls.
"Grandmother had Father when Grandpapa was at war," she said quietly. Lenna closed her eyes, feeling foolish but entirely unable to stop the tears that coursed down her cheeks. Wynna let out a soft sound of impatience and turned Lenna's face to her own. She was smiling, her eyes happy, and Lenna was grateful. "You have us, you have your family. He'll be back soon."
"Will he?" she asked, searching her niece's face as if she knew the answer. Lenna had spent weeks asking it, her mind and her heart fighting with each other as fiercely as warriors.
"Of course," Wynna replied, her brow furrowed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Of course, he will come back. What do you think he would say?"
"Nothing," Lenna said, turning back to her niece. "He would say nothing. But he would weep."
"Then let that be enough for now," Wynna whispered, wiping her cheeks with steady fingers. Lenna wondered when she had grown up, their roles so thoroughly reversed. "And let us be glad, hm? A baby, Lenna." Her brows rose and she beamed down at Lenna as she linked their hands and pressed them, biting her lip and giggling like a child. "Do you hope for a boy or a girl?"
"I don't care," Lenna replied, a small, bright beacon igniting in her chest. "I don't care. It's enough that it's his."
"I always knew it was so," Wynna whispered. "I am so very happy for you. So very, very happy."
Lenna returned her smile as Wynna kissed her soundly on the forehead. A knock sounded on the half-open door, and Wyman Manderly stepped cautiously into the room. Lenna had not truly seen him yet, just his face swimming before her eyes before she fainted in the courtyard. She stood and he came to her, gathering her up in his arms.
"My girl," he said gruffly, kissing her cheek. "At last where you are supposed to be."
"Aye, grandpapa," Wynna replied. "And Lenna has news."
Lenna looked between the girl's sparkling eyes and her father's patient and expectant face.
"The midwife says that I am with child," she said quietly. She half feared her father's reaction to such tidings. Part of her felt that he would be anxious, but he surprised them all by going pink with pleasure and laughing as he kissed his only daughter again.
"Didn't waste any time, did you, lass?" The comment made Lenna go bright scarlet. She wanted to sink into the floor. "No, girl," he continued, his eyes dancing as he took her shoulders in his hands. "No cause for maidenly embarrassment. It is the natural way of things. Why, your mother gave me Wylis almost nine moons to the day after our marriage. It will be a good thing to have a babe in this castle again. It isn't the best timing," he said, white whiskers wagging. "But a new life is something for us to celebrate."
Lenna allowed the fear to fall away then, though she wished with all her being that Sandor was there to hear such news. She had only told Wynna the half of it. She was sure that he would weep, but he would also be overjoyed, and she so wanted to see the wonder that would play in his eyes, to see him go still and reverent. More than anything, she wanted to be wrapped up in his arms, his lips pressed to her hair as he took it in. He would sit silent for a while, and when he spoke after it would be of some practicality, but she would be able to hear his joy, his pride.
"Clegane will be pleased, I dare say," Wyman said, still encircling her shoulders with his beefy arms. "We'll certainly being praying for his speedy return, won't we?"
Lenna was trundled back into bed to rest before dinner, a mug of tea made with ginger and mint at her bedside, a slice of lemon floating on top. She lay against her pillows, again exhausted, but her mind too busy for sleep. She stared at the tapestry of the canopy, her eyes tracing the familiar images of her childhood: sea-dragons, whales, schools of fish in silver thread, a mermaid and a merman with the familiar green hair of her family's crest. She'd had this room since her birth, always fascinated by the stories in the canopy, on the walls of the Merman's court, in the books of her father's library, wishing to share them even when there was no one who wanted to listen.
She smiled, feeling foolish when she pressed her palm to her abdomen, but not so foolish that she removed it. She smiled again to think that there would be someone to tell her stories to, to catch up in her arms and settle in her lap, a child to cuddle and love here in the same stout walls where she had grown up.
"You can't hear me," she whispered, "or perhaps you can." She stopped for a moment, feeling too silly, but joy burbled up in laughter and she couldn't stop herself. "I'm going to choose to believe that you can hear me, little one. I have so much to tell you."
So, instead of napping, she whispered her stories, describing the pictures above their heads and feeling for the first time since she'd left Riverrun that she was not alone.
The news of what would later be called the Red Wedding was delivered a scant week and a half later. They were all seated in the Merman's Court for breakfast when Maester Loren bore in the scroll. It was like any other morning delivery, and Lenna paid him little heed over the rim of her mug. The mint and ginger tea was the only thing that seemed to help with the nausea, and she was on her third cup. She reached for a pastry as the Maester passed, thinking that perhaps she was settled enough for something bland. She was so preoccupied in choosing between blackberry or apple that she didn't mark the tremble in the Maester's fingers as he delivered the scroll first to Wyman, who read it and, turning ashen, handed it to his son.
Wyman Manderly surprised them all by slamming his fist into the table top with a force Lenna had never seen. Her father was seldom truly angry, peeved perhaps, but not enraged. He had turned almost purple now, all the tendons in his thick neck pulsing and pushing through his skin as he gritted his teeth. It was then that Lenna saw the tears drop from the corners of his eyes, wending their way into his beard, and her heart stuttered and was overtaken with fear.
"It is a good thing you would never have made it in time," Wyman said, mastering himself and rising slowly to walk the length of the great room.
"Oh gods," Wendel said soon after, folding over the table with his head in his hands, the parchment crumpled in his shaking fist. Lenna was shocked to see the heave of his shoulders, a deep throated sob rending the torturous silence.
"What?" Lenna asked lowly, her breath coming shallow and quick, a roaring beginning in her ears. "What is it?"
"Do not upset your sister," Wyman barked, turning sharply to look at his son. Wendel was sitting upright again, but his face was a portrait of despair. "Wendel-"
"I do not know how not to upset her," Wendel replied brokenly. "I...there is nothing for it."
"Give it here," Lenna said, snatching the scroll from her brother. She feared the worst, that the little raven had brought her news of his death, that her child was fated to never meet its father.
She felt guilty at the relief that flooded her at Brynden Tully's words. The raven had been sent from an inn near the Twins, one she and Wendel had stayed in. The old lord's handwriting was shaky and slanting, and she could read his distress in the very shape of the letters. As she read, she was filled with icy dread and despair, feeling her own throat close off and her eyes smart.
Manderly,
The Freys and Boltons are as your son believed. We have been massacred at the Twins. Only King Robb survives, gravely wounded. His mother, his wife, and most of his bannermen were slaughtered at their supper the night Lord Edmure wed Walder Frey's daughter. I am returning to Riverrun to see what may be done, what defense may be mounted. The North and its cause are slaughtered, too, I fear.
Tell the lady that he was not among the dead. Tell them both that we tried, he and I, but the King would not listen. I hope we may rely on you, but know you will act as you deem fit.
He did not sign it, letting his seal speak for him. Lenna looked at it carefully. It had not been intercepted, the seal unbroken and not bearing the dull signs of having been affixed a second time. She let out a shuddering sigh that was almost a sob and passed it to Wynna. She leaned forward, bracing her head with her hands, but she could not cry. She felt so very cold.
"Lenna," Wyman said gently from the hearth. "Are you alright?"
She nodded tightly. "Aye. He lives. It is terrible of me, but I only care that he lives."
"He does," Wyman said quietly. "So many others-"
"Talisa Stark was my friend," she whispered. "Lady Catelyn sewed my wedding cloak not three months ago. These men who were with the King, we knew them all. I do not believe Lord Tully is right, though. The North has not been slaughtered."
"What are we to do?" Wynna asked, and Lenna was dismayed to see true fear in her niece's eyes. They had done such a fine job of protecting her, of protecting Wylla, learning from past mistakes. The girls did not know the flavor of such conflict, such danger, and Lenna tasted the bitterness of bile to see her own old fears written on the younger woman's face.
"Watch," Lenna said, clasping her hand, "and wait."
They gave her no comfort, their words. She was greatly distressed, but despite wanting to desperately, she could not find tears to shed for her dead friends. Only the idea of Talisa and her poor baby made her eyes prick.
"Excuse me," she said quietly, no longer able to stomach sitting there and doing nothing. She rose and fetched her hood, setting off at a brisk walk to the Sept of Snows. It wasn't until she was the top of the Castle Stair and a slim hand slid into her elbow that she realized Wynna had followed her.
"We shall go together," Wynna said. "And pray."
It was all they could do. The two of them went daily, Wylla sometimes joining them, though often impatient with the amount of time they spent there. Weeks passed, then a month. Lenna torn between torment and fear and the riotous joy when she thought of the life growing in her. She had taken to talking to him or her, telling them stories and shushing her own fears with words of comfort. She was quite confident that the baby could hear her, and she sometimes felt the most peculiar fluttering, like moths or sparrow's wings against her ribs.
She was at the foot of the Mother, praying for Sandor and his return, and the child was participating, that strange quivering making her smile even as Wylla paced up and down the length of the Sept, her fingers balled into fists at her side.
"Why can't we do something," she growled, stopping at the feet of the Mother. Lenna and Wynna were both kneeling in prayers, their candles on the floor before them.
"What do you suggest?" Wynna asked placidly, her eyes still closed as she knelt by Lenna's side. "Ride out and slaughter the Freys?"
Lenna sighed, the trembling of the child subsiding. It always saddened her, and her niece's squabbling was making her somber mood even darker.
"Why not?" Wylla shot back waspishly. "It's better than nothing."
"This is not nothing," Lenna said gently, and both of them turned to look at her. "We ask the Seven for justice. We ask them for protection."
"They didn't save our friends," Wylla said.
"They tried," Lenna replied, trying to quell the doubt that had been plaguing her in the months since Lord Eddard's death. She wasn't sure if she believed there was anyone listening herself, one of her few comforts slowly fading away. "I truly believe that they tried."
Wynna reached over and laid her slender hand on her arm.
"You did everything you could," she said quietly. "They didn't listen to Wendel. But you did everything you could."
"No," Lenna replied matter-of-factly, eyes still closed. "I could have slit Walder Frey's throat, and I didn't."
The girls looked at each other as if trying to determine if she was serious or not. Lenna had not told them of Grag Locke, she hadn't told anyone but Wendel. She could barely articulate how terribly guilty she felt about the failure of her courage at the Twins, even though she knew in the greater scheme it would have meant nothing. The Freys would still have turned on them, and their friends and kinsmen would still be dead, with or without Walder. She would only have succeeded in adding her own name to the long roll of the dead.
"My lady."
All three turned to the page that stood at the top of the stairs. Lenna rose to her feet, the lad's eyes on her.
"Yes?" she replied, hugging her torso against the strange sensation of expectation, though she did not know what it was she expected.
"I was bid to bring you back. You've received a raven," the lad said. His eyelids fluttered as he swallowed hard to deliver the rest of his message. "From King's Landing, my lady."
She walked so quickly that the other two struggled to keep up with her. They couldn't go fast enough in her mind, their slippers moving soundlessly over the cobblestones as they made their way through the quiet streets, nodding to the passersby as they went. Lenna kept her feelings of nervousness off her face, not at all looking forward to the message waiting for her, but the people of White Harbor looked to the Manderlys in all things, especially now that tidings of the Red Wedding, the missing King, and the rise of the Boltons and the Freys had broken. It would not do for any of them to appear afraid, even for a moment.
Once inside the Keep, she went immediately to her father's study, the girls still in tow behind her. On his desk lay a scroll, her name neatly written on it. Only, instead of the dreaded lion, there was a rose embedded into the wax seal. Wylla looked at it in confusion, reaching out to pick it up.
"No," Lenna said quickly, herself a mire of confusion, a knot of strange feeling. She had no idea why a Tyrell would be writing to her, but she knew that her nieces could not be mixed up in whatever plotting was afoot. Not until she knew what was in that scroll. "The girls cannot be here."
"Lenna," Wylla said, picking it up and holding it out, her lips pressed together saucily. "We have a right to know."
"You have no such thing," Lenna spat, regretting her tone with Wylla backed away like she'd been smacked across the face. "Go. Now." When they would not leave, instead exchanging stricken glances, Lenna looked to her father in pleading. "I will not endanger them with whatever is in that scroll. Please, Papa."
Wyman Manderly, stone-faced and silent, nodded to the two girls. Wylla nearly stamped her foot in petulance, but Wynna took her sister by the arm and practically dragged her out of the room, closing the door behind. She nodded to Lenna once before she went, and Lenna breathed a little easier for it. Wynna would handle her sister while Lenna dealt with this unexpected business.
"Why would I receive something from the Tyrells?" she asked almost absently, picking up the scroll carefully and tracing her finger above the seal. She was stalling, plain and simple. Once it was broken, it could not be undone, and she did not have a good feeling about this communication.
"Best open it and find out," her father said gruffly. She glanced up at him, sliding her finger beneath the wax and breaking it, the flower splitting in two.
Lady Helenna,
Niece- I will call you so and remind you of the blood that ties you to me. Circumstances being what they are, I have need of you now and do not believe it when they sing about your loyalty and service. None of us has ever belonged to them, nor ever will.
I have gathered that you are like me, like your late mother, and as such, I may dispense with the entreaties for discretion. No need to reply, only accept the parcel that will arrive for you from my keeping. Guard it, keep it safe for me. It has a purpose that cannot be served here, as you will very quickly understand.
I will say no more on the subject now. Seven bless you, my niece and my namesake.
Olenna Tyrell
"Niece?" Lenna said, looking down at the parchment in confusion. "Namesake?"
Wyman Manderly had gone quite scarlet. "Of course," he replied roughly. "Lady Olenna, born a Redwyne. Your mother didn't care for the name, but your grandmother insisted. They bickered about it, but settled on Helenna, then Lenna. After her."
"Grandmother Melleah was her sister," Lenna said, no expression in her voice, just a statement of fact. She had heard stories of the Queen of Thorns with her sharp mind and acid tongue, two things she would never have associated with her kindly, well-bred grandmother. Melleah Redwyne had been beautiful in her day, quiet and celebrated for her gentle nature and good sense, just as Lenna's own mother had been. Just as she had always aspired to be known herself. Her mother and grandmother were her patterns for ladyship, and she could not at that moment determine why this woman, whom she had never met, would think they were alike in any way.
"Aye," he replied, clearing his throat. "They were different as they could be, but still remarkably close they say. Malleah was dedicated to her sisters in their youth, but Olenna was less than impressed by her sister's choice of husband. Broke your grandmother's heart from what your mother told me. Wouldn't even attend out of spite. The marriage drove a wedge between them."
"Grandmother married the lord of Oldcastle," Lenna said quietly. It wasn't a great city, but her grandmother's seat was comfortable and prosperous. "He was not a poor match."
"But Olenna had married the lord of Highgarden. A Lord Paramount," her father replied. "Malleah's match was paltry in comparison. Your grandmother married for love, Olenna for power."
Lenna shook her head. "Be that as it may, why is she writing to me now? I have never heard from her before."
"No," her father said. "But she was rather fond of your mother. Adalyn spent quite a bit of time in Highgarden in her youth. It was Olenna that arranged for your mother to be a lady-in-waiting in King's Landing. She only had Mace. I think she'd always rather hoped for a daughter. After Adalyn died-"
"What?"
"She blamed me. Said I had killed her." Her father's face had gone pale as putty, his whiskers trembling. She knew it pained him to think of her, especially in her illness.
"Mother was sick," Lenna said, laying her hand on her father's papery wrist.
"I know," he replied, his forehead troubled. "I know that. But I do regret not bringing you home. Olenna was very vocal about your going to King's Landing, going to them. She mentioned it in every letter she wrote, until your mother stopped responding. There was nothing we could say to appease her. We certainly couldn't disclose our suspicions. She accused your mother of being ambitious," he scoffed. "As if Adalyn ever took after her in that way."
"That was a long time ago," Lenna said, trying to dispel the sudden gloom in the chamber. "I'm sure you and mother did what you thought best. She is rather cryptic, isn't she? What could she possibly wish to send me?"
"I'm sure we will find out soon enough," he muttered, squinting as he looked out the window, the deeply carved grooves about his eyes turning his face into a desert of worry. "Olenna always managed to dig her nails into things. I have been trying, and failing, to keep us out of all this business. There is nothing for it."
"What is wrong, Papa?" It was not a graceful question. There was too much turmoil, but she could almost see whatever it was weighing on him, pressing him down into the soles of his own boots.
Wyman sighed heavily, wiping a hand across his face. "I do not wish to trouble you."
"You trouble me by not keeping me informed," she said baldly, her temper spiking. She let out a little laugh to quell it. "I'm with child, papa, not feeble-minded."
"Sit," he said, and Lenna did as she was told, settling into the chair before his desk. Wyman continued to pace back and forth behind his table. "Walder Frey has been named Lord Paramount of the Riverlands by Joffrey. Bolton has been made Warden of the North."
The news was not shocking. She more or less expected something of the like, but still, she took a deep breath, doubling down on the anger that boiled in her chest in response.
"Go on. That is upsetting as it is, but I have a suspicion you have more to say." She folded her hands in her lap, one on top of the other so she could press her fingers together. The child fluttered against her ribs and she found calm.
"Aye," her father replied. "News from King's Landing. Joffrey has set aside Sansa Stark."
"Of course he has," Lenna replied succinctly, wondering if he thought she'd be taken aback. "We knew that. We knew he was going to marry Margaery Tyrell long ago."
"Yes, but he has betrothed Sansa to his uncle."
"Jaime?" she blurted in confusion, only realizing the mistake in saying his name so when her father looked at her sharply.
"No," he replied shortly. "Lord Tyrion."
"Is that all?" Lenna replied, looking up at him. If anything, she could describe the loosening in her chest as relief. "That is not so dreadful as Frey and Bolton."
"Is it not?" he asked flatly.
"Tyrion is a far-sight better than Joffrey," she replied. "He might not be what Sansa wanted, but considering the alternatives, she is better served being under Tyrion's protection than no one's."
"Yes, his protection did so well for you." Her father's face was shuttered and bitter. "It is not only that," he said slowly. "The Lannisters are spreading word that Robb Stark is dead, killed in the massacre at the Twins."
"But he escaped, and we have heard nothing different from Lord Brynden," Lenna replied, her breath coming short. "He lives."
"Aye," her father said. "We pray that he does, but they are hunting him, surely. And aim to find him and kill him before word that he survived can be spread. They are moving quickly to consolidate their power here. I am expecting an envoy from Walder Frey any day now."
"You will not welcome them, surely," she said lowly. "You will turn them away at the gate."
Wyman cocked his head to look at her, hands steepled across his gut.
"How would you propose that I turn them away, daughter? While King Robb is in hiding and his army scattered to the winds, I am bound to safeguard my people. If I do not at least appear to acquiesce to them, to welcome them beneath our battlements, who is to say they won't return and do to us what they have done to the Starks? To the Hornwoods? No, daughter, you are too smart to be so petty."
"And why are the Frey's coming?" She knew the answer well enough, but she didn't know if her did.
"You know why they come," he said shortly. "Perwyn Frey wishes to bid for you. A pretty solution for an ugly problem. Remind me of my place, my responsibility, and take you from me again."
"And you will tell him no," Lenna said acidly.
"Of course, but how I can possibly reject him out of hand I do not know."
"Offer me instead."
They both turned. Neither had heard the door open, but Wynna was standing in the doorway, her shoulders thrown back and her chin up.
"Wynna," Lenna said, shaking her head. "This isn't for you to bear."
"Why not?" she asked, her blue eyes meeting Lenna's green with a streak of stubborness she'd never displayed before, a thread of hot courage. "You have borne our troubles for far too long. It is about time one of us took on our share. Accept Lord Perwyn's suit, but on my behalf instead of Lenna's."
"Wynna, I can't-" Wyman said in a bark, his temple pulsing behind the white wisps of his hair.
"Why not?" Wynna asked. "How is offering me in a sham betrothal any different than offering Lenna? She won't go through with it. Even if she was free to do so, you'd never let that happen."
"They have made a suit for you already," Wyman said through clenched teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And Wylla, too. Ramsay Bolton and Little Walder Frey. They want all of you, all of me. But you are right, I will not let this come to pass. I just haven't figured out how to slither out of it yet."
Lenna and her niece exchanged a look of concern. Lenna was not worried, not for her own part, not even for Wynna. It was her father that she ached for. He was weary, and growing so old before her eyes.
"Papa," she said gently, rising and laying her hand on his shoulder. "All will be well. We will think of a way to handle this. All will be well."
He didn't look up at her, but he did noisily rub his hand over his face, as if wiping his worry away.
"Aye, girl," he replied dully. "At the very least, all will be."
Sandor LII
It was impossible to ride hard through the bracken in the dark, and he settled for picking their way through the underbrush at a steady pace. The child eventually relaxed her grip on his neck, sagging against his chest. He guessed she'd gone to sleep, and pursed his mouth wryly at that. It was all for the better. He had no idea what to say to her.
He couldn't think of the night before. There was nothing he could do. Brynden Tully had been right. If the King refused to listen, this fall was on his head. Why the boy would continue to ignore not just his warning, but that of Wendel Manderly, he couldn't fathom.
His mother, he thought bitterly. Tully had said it was his niece who had insisted on making the match despite the warning signs. He chased the thoughts away like banishing cobwebs. It didn't matter whose fault it was. The damage was done.
And, if he wasn't mistaken, it was fatal. He very much doubted Robb Stark would survive the night. The boy had lost too much blood, and more than that, he'd lost his will to live. Sandor had seen men die like that, their wounds not necessarily mortal but becoming so when they no longer cared about surviving. He'd seen his own entrails as a young man through a slit in his belly, but it hadn't occurred to him to die, so he didn't. Robb Stark was carrying a grievous injury, and his wife and mother, all of his bannermen, had been strewn bloody around him.
If he'd been there, and it had been Lenna lying dead on the floor and he'd been wounded, Sandor doubted he'd had made himself survive the night, either.
It didn't matter. The King in the North was no more, at least, not as he was, but Sandor was still bound by his agreement. He'd deliver this child safely to her aunt in the Eyrie, then make his way back to White Harbor. He'd do it, and be done with the lot of them, even if it meant running to Essos with her in tow. He was done with bleeding for anyone else.
The child woke and stirred at dawn, by which time he'd found a path through the trees. She sat up a little straighter in front of him, rubbing her eyes.
"Are you really going to take me to the Vale?" she asked, squinting up at him.
"Those were the orders," he replied, wondering if she was going to start talking. He didn't much feel like conversation just now. He was tired and it would be a long time before he rested.
"And you always follow orders," she said, a child's derision in her voice. He pulled Stranger up sharply.
"Say your piece," he growled.
"What-"
"Say it, wolf girl."
She took a deep breath. "One day, I'm going to take a knife and stab you in the eye until it comes out the other side of your head."
"Won't bring your family back," he barked. "Won't bring your friend back. Right now, child, I'm the best thing you've got. You wouldn't last a fucking week in these woods by yourself, let alone get to safety. You want to be angry with me? Fine. You want to hate me? Been hated my whole life, it doesn't bother me. But I said I was taking you to safety, and that's what I aim to do if I have to throw you in a sack and tie you to the saddlebow, do you understand?"
She was looking back at him sullenly.
"You have a lot of anger in you, child. I know what that feels like. I have it, too. But you want to survive, and that's what I know how to do. Do you want to know why I killed your friend? Because if I didn't, he'd have been tortured. If I didn't, I'd have left someone else exposed to the Lannisters without any protection."
"Who?" she demanded.
"None of your business," he said, snarling at her with a flash of teeth. "You don't get to decide what is right and wrong when you don't know all the details. When I killed your friend, it was a mercy. I didn't give a shit for the boy, could have easily knocked him out just as I did you last night, but I couldn't face-"
"You don't have a conscience."
"I have a code," he growled. "Man has to have a code. I don't torture, I'm not my brother, and I don't steal. If I'd brought the damn butcher's boy back alive, he'd have wished he was dead many months before it was finally granted to him. And you know what? Joffrey would have probably made you watch. You made an enemy that day, child, and he might have just been a boy, but that boy became a king, and it didn't matter that he was the worst shit in the Seven Kingdoms. He was still the king. What he did to your sister-" He stopped himself, lest he go too far.
"What did he do to Sansa?" Arya said, looking up. Then she scoffed. "She probably deserved it."
Sandor couldn't stop himself from seizing her by the front of her little tunic.
"No lady deserves to be treated the way your sister was," he said. "You are so angry for your butcher's boy, but you don't care that your sister was beaten and stripped, paraded about Joffrey's court like some Flea Bottom whore? That he threatened her with rape, with death? He made her visit your father's severed head. Made her stand and look at it. And you know what, little wolf, she did. She let him crow over her, didn't squeak when Meryn Trant backhanded her with his gauntlets on. She knew what she had to do."
"She just wants to be queen," Arya whispered, her face pained.
"No," Sandor replied, releasing her. "I wager she doesn't want that. Not anymore. And now she never will be. As you said, Joffrey's to marry Margaery Tyrell, and your sister has been put aside. She doesn't even have the safety of being his betrothed any more. Who is to say what will happen to her now?"
That shut the little wolf up, just as he hoped it would. He wished he could explain to her that his anger wasn't on her behalf, or even on her sister's. He didn't care about them, not really, but these damned Starks dealt collateral damage beyond their ken or their control. He doubted they had any idea the pain and destruction they left in their wake, rippling outward from their damn pride.
The child might have fallen silent, but she practically vibrated with anger. Sandor didn't care. He was too intent on getting them across the river and on their way southward s soon as possible.
He heard the men before he saw them, smelled their cooking fire. One of them was making fun of the child's mother, his reedy voice making exaggerated gurgling and choking sounds like his throat had been slit. Sandor had never minded killing, fuck, he enjoyed it, but he never made light of the lives he took, or the manner in which he took them. There was something about it that didn't sit well with him, and he was quite sure that this pimply-faced lad had had as much to do with Lady Catelyn's death as he had.
The child had perked up like a pup on a scent. He tightened his grip on the reins, intending to pass them by without incident, but the girl wriggled free and dropped to the ground, her arms straight down by her sides as she marched toward them.
Sandor cursed under his breath, getting Stranger out of sight and looping the bridle around a low-hanging tree branch before making his way back in the direction of the camp.
"I have money," he heard her say, proffering a coin. He had no idea where she'd gotten it, but he didn't miss how she dropped it purposefully. The lad reached out to grab it, and she fell on him in a frenzy, a knife in her hand as she stabbed him again and again, his blood covering her hands and face.
He groaned, glad that he was carrying his sword on his hip rather than strapped to his back as he sometimes did on long rides, unsheathing it as soon as the first of the lad's companions managed to get to his feet and go to his friend's aid.
It wasn't hard, even against three of them. The lad Arya Stark had taken was long dead, and his fellows followed quickly behind. He couldn't even enjoy it. There was no fight in them, and they had no idea what they were doing. He'd wager they'd all been farmers a few weeks before, their Frey armor too new to have seen any action.
He was barely winded when he came up behind her. She was staring down at the boy she'd killed, her face oddly blank.
"Where'd you get the knife?" he asked. He didn't bother asking why she'd done it. He knew why. Same reason he might have if it had been his mother, if it had been her.
"From you," she replied, handing it back to him by the hilt. He checked his boot ruefully, rolling his eyes.
"Next time you're going to do something like that," he said, "tell me first."
They didn't bother to hide the bodies. It didn't matter, he doubted they'd be found. Instead, he wiped his sword and the knife down, returning them to their proper places and retrieved Stranger. The child was still standing in the clearing.
"Is that the first man you've killed?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"The first man," she replied. She half turned to him. "I suppose you're angry with me."
"Why would I be angry?" he responded. He was a little aggravated, but not because of what she'd done.
"They didn't do anything," she said.
"Of course they fucking did," he replied. "They're Frey men. They were mocking your mother, child. Even if he didn't wield the blade, he killed her as surely as Black Walder did. He's an enemy soldier. No need to feel guilty about it."
"Good," she replied lowly. It almost chilled him. "Because I don't."
He didn't say a word as she walked past him and waited for his help climbing up into the saddle. He swung up behind her and pointed the horse northwards once more.
She was a good travelling companion, he'd give her that. Never complained, though she did ask for a horse nearly everyday. He rebuffed her just as often.
"Why would I put you on your own horse?" he asked.
"I won't try to get away," she said huffily. "Like you said, I'd never last on my own."
"Where do you think I could even get one?"
"You could steal one," she suggested.
"I'm not a thief," he shot back.
"Right. You have a code," she said tersely. If the sarcasm had been a blade, it would have slid beneath his ribs and punctured his lung.
Still, when it came time to make camp, Arya Stark did not stay idle. They'd established a routine. He'd hunt for dry wood and she'd lay the kindling and tinder. If it passed his inspection, he'd retrieve the fire-flint and hand it to her. He hated striking it, and the child was strong enough. She never said a word.
He reached beneath his breastplate for his pouch to grab the fire-flint. As he did, his fingers caught the handkerchief that lay against his heart and it came fluttering out.
It seemed to him that time slowed as it fell to the ground, but he could not grasp it in time. The girl beat him to it, seizing it from the ground and holding it up.
"What's this?" she asked, looking at it closely. The fabric was filthy, stained by sweat and worse. He'd not taken his breastplate off in what felt like weeks. There had been no time to bathe, and he'd almost forgotten it was there.
Bollocks, he chided himself. You know it's there.
"Give it back," he said, holding out his hand with his heart in his throat, swallowing thickly to see it in the child's grasp. He lunged forward and she leapt back nimbly.
"Wait," she said, her eyes narrowing, examining the blackened embroidery. "I know this sigil."
"I said give it the fuck back," he growled, taking a step toward her. She countered by moving back two more.
"The white merman, at least he was white once- that's the sigil of House Manderly."
He did not respond, just looked at her in increasing agitation. He'd been able to control himself thus far, but she was testing what little patience he had left.
"Wolf-girl," he warned.
She started to unfold it to look at the merman better. He wanted to strike her, to wallop her across the face as she drew out the lock of hair tied with red silk.
"A lock of hair," she said dumbly. "Why would you carry a lady's handkerchief and a lock of hair?"
"Give. Them. Back," he choked.
He saw something flash across her face, a memory, or a realization.
"Wait. I heard something about her in Harrenhal. From Tywin."
He grunted.
"And Tywin was angry, he was telling the Mountain something about it," she paused and he felt like he was being strangled. "Gods, I remember now," she said, her eyes wide with shock. "He'd been out raiding, raiding and looking for her. Dondarrion, you two spoke of her. I was listening. He wanted to know what you'd done with her, had seen you with her. You kidnapped Lady Helenna."
"No," he said emphatically.
"You did," she said, her voice a squeak. "You abducted her and she hasn't been seen since."
"She has," he replied reasonably. "Just not by them."
"What did you do with her?" Arya asked lowly. "Why do you carry her handkerchief. Is it...some sort of trophy?"
"What kind of shit do you think about girl?" he demanded in revulsion. The child was strange. The way she'd stabbed that Frey soldier, over and over without so much as a grimace or a grin. "Why does a man carry a woman's handkerchief?"
"You can't mean- is that why you stole her?" Her eyes had narrowed with disgust, revulsion evident in her face, in posture, as she looked down on the scrap of cloth in distaste.
"I. Did. Not. Steal. Her." His voice rose with every word until he was yelling.
"Right, you're not a thief," she spat back. "So what would you call it then?"
"I took her home," he replied, his voice shaking. "I took her back to her people. Sent her to White Harbor so she would be safe."
"If that's all you did, then why carry-"
"She's my wife," he roared, spittle flying. He was panting hard, fists raised to his ribs and his heels grinding into the clay.
That shut her up. He had no idea what had possessed him to tell the girl that, knowing as he did that it would do neither of them any good. It certainly wouldn't do Lenna any good if that particular fact was spread around.
But who did the girl have to tell?
"Vows made by force aren't binding," she said flatly, looking up at him with inscrutable dark eyes. She blinked, her stance softening, and he felt his own shoulders lower.
"No one forced her," he said, his eyes still intent on her somber face. "Or me, for that matter," he replied. "Though I didn't want-" He stood up and looked away, flexing his fingers.
"Lady Helenna was beautiful," Arya said, confusion in her voice. Sandor wanted to laugh. One moment, the girl was indignant at the idea, the next defending his lady's virtues. "And kind."
His throat closed off and he struggled to clear it. "Aye."
"Why wouldn't you-"
"Didn't want to fucking tie her to the likes of me," he said quickly, glaring at the child. "No woman deserves that. Especially not now."
The girl's face had gone somber, her brow knitting together as she looked back at the cloth in her hands. She carefully tucked the curl back into the handkerchief and handed it out to him.
"Sorry," she said quietly.
He didn't reply, sliding the little parcel back under his breastplate with a sharp breath through his nose. Some of the pain that had erupted beneath its customary spot abated. Abated, but didn't disappear. He knew she'd noticed that he placed it on the left.
"Do you love her, then?" she asked flatly.
He grunted.
"And she loves you?" she asked. A lancing pain cut through him and he gritted his teeth against it.
"Aye. Said so. Insisted on a fucking marriage."
"In the godswood?"
"No, the Sept at Riverrun."
"Her family?"
"Wendel Manderly fucking walked her down the aisle, is that what you're asking? If it's a secret?"
"I guess," she said uncertainly.
"It is, but not from them. It was done proper, cloaks and all. Even a feast. Your brother was there. Your mother sewed her maiden's cloak, stood with her."
"Where is she, then? Why are you here?"
"She's where she's safest, as you will be if you keep your fucking mouth shut and do as you're told. As to the other...there's a war on, or haven't you noticed?"
"Why would you care?"
"Because," he ground out, not knowing how to finish it. He'd thought about it many times. Why did he care? He had no stake in these petty games of lordlings. But she does. Marriage or no, they had no future unless she came out on the right side of things. And he so badly wanted a future, one that was more complete than merely breathing another day.
"I want to see her again," he said at last. "Is that good enough for you? I want to see her and have a fucking chance. Not going to happen until this mess is fucking sorted out. Your father's fucking mess."
"Don't you talk about my father." The little pup had a bark in her.
He had plenty of his own. "Why not? If he'd just kept his mouth shut-"
"Joffrey would still be king," she protested, her face contorted and turning red in rage.
"Aye," he replied. "But your sister would be the next queen, and you'd be a great lady."
"Not for me," she spat, and he got the impression she was no longer talking to him. She calmed as quickly as she'd boiled over, a wistful crinkle in her brow.
"No," he said wryly. "Not for you, little wolf."
"My sister-" she breathed.
"Lenna tried to protect her. We both did," he said, thinking about how he'd asked Lenna not to bother with the Stark girl. To save herself. They had come so close to being caught because she couldn't abandon the girl. "When we left...your sister wouldn't come."
"Lenna," Arya said, arching a brow at him.
"Aye, Lenna," he growled. "Allowed to speak my own wife's name, aren't I?"
To his surprise, Arya smiled at him, her crooked child's grin. It made his cheeks flush. She shook her head in delighted surprise, a giggle that reminded him of how young she was bubbling up, a sharp report of mirth.
"I'd never have thought-" She was holding her sides, nearly pissing herself.
"Shut it," he murmured, his heart not in it.
The girl took a long time to sober, seizing the fire-flint and stoking the flame. She would glance at him from time to time and giggle anew. He eventually tired of it, hunting down some rabbits and bringing them back, skinning them more roughly than he needed to before spitting them.
They didn't speak for a long while, but after the rabbits had been reduced to bones and skins, Arya folded her knees up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs. She leaned her cheek against her kneecaps and turned her large eyes on him. The child missed little, and he felt bare under that gaze.
"What do you mean, Sansa wouldn't come?"
He sighed, torn between explaining and telling the girl to shut it again. He settled for explaining. She'd know he was lying anyway.
"Lenna and me, we ran. During the Blackwater." He stirred the coals to avoid having to look at her.
"You deserted."
He shook his head savagely, jabbing at the embers until they sparked. "I saved her," he said, rearing back from the heat, remembering the wildfire. "Tried to save your sister, but she wouldn't listen to reason."
"Is Sansa...is Sansa dead?" she asked, her voice growing weak. Sandor closed his eyes.
"Not that I've heard. And I would have by now. The crown won that battle by a small margin. She's still in King's Landing from what I know."
"Safe." Such a fucking useless word.
"There's no safety, wolf-girl, only some places less dangerous than others," he said. "She's in the safest one for her, I would think. For now."
"At Joffrey's mercy."
Sandor snorted. "No such thing."
He regretted it instantly when he saw how the child's face clouded.
"Is the Eyrie the safest place for me?" she asked.
"Your brother and your uncle think so," he replied. Truth was, he didn't know. He'd always thought Lysa Arryn was crazy, her wild eyes and tight face watchful, suspicious. He hadn't missed her when she left King's Landing after her husband's death. The child might be safe, but she surely wouldn't be happy.
"I don't want to go to Aunt Lysa," she said at last. He chuckled, but he didn't dare tell her it didn't fucking matter what she wanted.
"Where would you go, then?" he asked, curious.
"Braavos."
"What the fuck would you do in Braavos?" he demanded with a laugh.
"There's a place there, where I have a friend."
The girl was crazy as a fox, too. He cleared his throat, "What kind of friend?"
"A Faceless Man."
Sandor laughed, but it was an uneasy mirth. "They don't exist. Just in tales."
Her eyes were flint when she looked back at him. "Not tales."
He cocked his head. "She'd have my head if-"
"Does she know?"
He felt his heart plummet. He'd not written, hadn't known the words to say. He shook his head.
"Then help me. Please. And I'll take you off my list."
He'd heard her each night, rattling off their names as he tried to sleep. He'd asked her about it, the annoyance when she'd spoke his name vaguely tinged with trepidation. The child was strange, and even if he scoffed at her, she was serious for her part.
He looked at her. "I'm under orders."
"You want to see her again, your wife, don't you? You won't if you don't help me. By the gods, I'll kill you."
He chuckled, but found that he still half believed her.
"I can't. I'm taking you to your aunt on the king's orders. Do you want to defy your king? Your brother?"
"Robb didn't know what he was saying," she replied stonily. "He was hurt." Her voice cracked at the last.
"Aye, wolf-girl," he said quietly, gentling his tone. "But your uncle agreed, and they gave me orders. You say you'll kill me, and I don't doubt you, but I have to follow my orders."
"You don't think for yourself-"
"I don't think of myself," he said in sharp retort. "You only think of what you want, what you need. All your Starks are the same. Your sister, she put Lenna in harm's way more times than I care to remember just from being thoughtless, only looking after her own skin. Not even that, her own comfort. And your brother. He brought this on himself, backing out of his deal with the Freys, didn't he? Only thinking of himself, of what he wanted. You want me to disobey my orders? I will never see her again if I do what you've asked me. Never. I won't sacrifice myself to do your bidding, Lady Stark."
She fell silent, looking at her hands. They were grubby, the nails close-bitten and ragged. He sighed.
"Go to sleep, wolf-girl," he said, retrieving the forgotten flint-stone and proceeding to unpack Stranger's bags.
It was going to be a long trip to the Eyrie.
A/N: Another one down. See you next week, I hope.