Tales of Westeros Chapter 7

Season1 Episode 9

Ned Stark sat in the darkness of the dungeons. Under the fowl castle where his father, brother and best friend had all perished. Varys had visited him not long before, he expected no one else. The door opened but he didn't care who walked through, it wasn't one of his daughters and so he did not care. But the one who sat next to his bars and waited patiently for him to notice was a person he had very little interaction with. A southern Maester, with lively blue eyes.

"Maester Ryden," he croaked.

"Lord Stark." He offered a hidden flask of water.

The Lord took it, drank, and gave it back.

"What are you doing here?" Ned asked.

"To tell you that my youngest storyteller has heard a story of a street urchin. A little girl with brown hair, wolf's eyes." He said softly. "An urchin not such an urchin."

"Arya."

"Possibly. Her face is said to be the same, though she is covered in filth."

"I imagine she would be," the smallest of grins came to his face. But it didn't last long. "Any word on Sansa?"

"No." He shook his head. "They kept us away from her. Afraid of Florentine's influence."

Ned felt his heart drop. She was all alone. Surrounded by lions and liars.

"Try. Please."

"She does, best she can manage."

Silence followed. Ned had nothing else to say or ask. He knew Flowers had fallen with him, it was only natural. But being the cousin to the crown through blood, falsely so -which he gathered Cersie must exploit and protect- she would only be put under house arrest.

It was Ryden who spoke. "Did you ever wonder? Like everyone else."

Silence.

"About the eyes. Don't you see it? Those foreign eyes..."

He meant Flowers. Those purple eyes of a light shade, eyes he had seen in his youth, in Ashara. . . eyes she shared with her brother. The man everyone thought he murdered. He remembered a conversation he had had with Selmy at the Tourney of the Hand. It was similar in subject.

"I never. . ."

"No one ever does. No one who lives today, besides the Dayne family, ever got close enough to see Arthur Dayne's eyes. I was once, at the tourney of Harrenhall."

Ned was about to speak but Ryden interrupted.

"Yes you were there, I saw you too. As a young man then. I know very well the story of how you slew Arthur in battle at the Tower of Joy." His voice was low in respect to the memories of the lives lost on that day. "I never could believe she was the child of dragons, but that of a falling star. . .made sense."

"Why tell me this?"

"To remind you that you still have an ally, and who that ally is."

"Does she know?"

"I cannot allow it, it would undo our alliance."

"HEY! YOU IN THERE. TIMES FINISHED." The guard shouted at the door.

Ryden hurried. "We will look for Arya, we will be at your trial today."

The Measter left in the same darkness he had arrived in.

Florentine sat in her chambers as ordered. Before the mirror, Heather brushed her long, silver tipped, hair. Florentine never gave much thought as to the silver part, she looked into her own eyes, those odd colored eyes. Blood, blood is what kept her safe now, not alliance, not treaties. Her blood to Robert, and through Cersie's lies, to the Crown, kept her and her brood alive. She knew who her mother was, but her father was never spoken of.

Her eyes, eyes of the dead. Were they as many said, Targaryen? Besides the defunct dragon family, the Celtegars, Valeryons, and Daynes all bore this color. But not a single other Florent had ever had lavender eyes. Who had her foolish young mother fallen for? She hardly ever wondered, but she couldn't help it now as she thought about Sansa's pain. Her father was imprisoned, with Joffrey as King his fate was uncertain.

Rylene never spoke to Florentine. Mother and child were separated at birth, Rylene then sent off to marry some secluded lord far from the reach of her bastard. Her own father, she knew, was dead. Either dead or didn't know nor care. But why lie? Why hide? Was he married? A royal? She never could guess it.

Ryden entered the apartment and Floren's eyes looked at him in the mirror. The only father she ever knew, an old Maester. He seemed distracted, his eyes downcast, his movements swift. She turned her chin.

"And where did you run off to I wonder?" She asked.

"I managed to see Lord Stark."

She sat up straight. "What did you say?"

"Told him that Helen has eye son Arya and we're doing what we can to allow a meeting with Sansa."

She stared at him. His voice was off.

"That was all? Of the Stark girls?"

He nodded. "Yes my lady."

She grinned and down cast her gaze. "Heather, please go find your sister. Inform her, Arya Stark will be drawn to the event."

She felt some relief in this awful situation when Heather and Helen regained contact. Helen was to remain in hiding with the rest of the Red Keep's servants. When she was gone, Florentine stood and faced Ryden.

"I can tell when you do not tell me everything." She said.

"And I am a grown old man who does not need to tell you everything." He began moving off to his own chamber.

She followed him. "Ryden, you can keep whatever you spoke to Ned about. I have other questions."

"Too many questions, I have had enough. DO not ask any of me."

"Not even who my father is?"

He stopped and leaned against his door frame. "Please Floren, tis a hard day before us, let an old man rest."

"I have never asked before. Just this once please tell me Ryden. Surely you found out."

He refused to look at her. "Never Florentine. I never have." He pushed away and closed the door in her face.

She stood there, slack jawed. She didn't believe the old man for a moment. Never had he denied her a question. She stormed away and looked back into the mirror, all she saw were eyes of a stranger, hair of a family she didn't know. She frowned and grabbed her silver hair brush, smashing it into the mirror. She picked up a shard and held it to her silver tipped lock. She wanted to cut it, oh on those horribly lonely days as a child when she yearned for a real family she had done the same thing. Dreamed of cutting it off, to be free of a family that didn't want her.

But she couldn't, as she could never hide her eyes so she could never truly hide the silver. As her thumb began to bleed from the sharp edges of the broken glass she set it down. Blood smeared on the surface of her vanity but she cared little. She cried then, not for a lost father, but for Arriatny and Clement, Sansa. She sobbed a few times and then cleared her throat and dried her eyes. She pet her hair down, smoothed her dress and readied for the trial.

Helen was watching Arya in the streets. Following but not wanting to scare her. After all, none of Flowers' followers had been able to sway her. Fearing she would run away, Helen trailed behind at a safe distance. Suddenly there was commotion near the court yard. The spy heard and looked over. When she looked back at Arya, the girl's attention was drawn the same way. When the Stark went that way, the Pommingham girl followed. They went into the courtyard and Arya hopped up on a statue of Baelor.

Something was happening. . .

Flowers, having been forced to bend the knee to Joffrey, had been allowed to walk beside Varys as a member of the council in this matter of jury. Littlefinger followed behind her, she could feel his grin through her back. As if to taunt her, the King had Stark's former ally be his judge. She was quiet as she focused on the footsteps of those around her, the faces of people she treasured flashed behind her eyes.

Sansa, Ryden, the Pommingham girls, her shields. Sandor. . . .she cared about that belligerent, deformed, brute void of any reason. She knew who he was hiding within himself, a man who cared.

They came to the block, standing far to the side, Littlefinger was closest to Sansa and it made Flowers sick. Ned was led out like a common criminal, her throat went dry. His hands were tied, his head up, eyes looking out into the crowd. Floren wanted to speak to him, but could not. Near herself to the side, guarding the blade called Ice, was an executioner.

As soon as she entered the light of the sun, she saw him. His stormy grey eyes smoldering at the world. His frown seemingly permanent, his hair covering his scars. She wanted to brush that hair away and see into his face. She hadn't seen him for so long. . . .But her eyes darted away from him before his could meet hers.

Joffrey and Cersie were on the block where Sansa stepped up beside them. Floren looked at her feet, to her hands clasped outside her sky blue outer gown with its brown flowers, looked to the crowd, wandered. Her people had been allowed to stand in the crowds of nobles in the balconies above, she was alone besides Varys. Sansa was right by her and yet she could not say a thing to the girl. Her heart beat hard as she heard the degrading sound of the bastard King's voice, heard the heart breaking sound of Eddard Stark lying, the annoying voice of Pycell.

The words of her cousin are what shocked her most.

"So long as I am your King, treason will never go unpunished."

Death, Ned's release was death? As Sansa started screaming, Varys and Flowers rushed forward to try and talk to the royal family. Sansa was screaming, Flowers was trying to get over to them but unlike as they had with Varys, they held her back. Varys was trying to talk to Cersie, Littlefinger just stood there, smiling.

Florentine turned her head and stared at Ned, he did not look at her, he looked outward, then to Sansa, then away. He closed his eyes, the blade came down. His head rolled towards her in a final taunt, coming to a stop at the hem of her dress. His blood splattered her sky blue dress, staining the darker flowers. His eyes looked for his body behind him, her mouth gaped open.

Eddard Stark, was dead.