A/N Sorry for the extended delay. I've been ill, and then had a hard time deciding how I wanted to write this. I hope you like it. Please review, it really does help.
Chapter 7
Things were quiet for a while as the caravan made its way slowly through the vale. It wasn't until they had reached Darry that word came to them of a group of bandits that had been terrorizing roads and villages nearby. While the main company remained camped near the banks of the Trident, a small group made up of both Stark men and the King's soldiers rode ahead to find the bandits and take care of them. Serra went as well, relishing the chance to stretch her horse's legs and swing her sword.
The bandits were found not five leagues from the main camp and dispatched quickly. Serra smiled as they rode back to camp, enjoying in the freedom the sortie had granted her. She kept Wraith at a light canter, basking in the warm breeze that blew down from the river, still carrying the faint scent of water and earth. Serra had never felt a truly warm day, and though her heart would always belong to the snowy north, she couldn't help but enjoy the warm sun on her skin.
Her bright mood, however, was darkened upon returning to camp. The atmosphere was heavy, and she immediately knew something was wrong. She quickly sought out Ned, and found him near the stables, cleaning his dagger with a grief stricken look on his face.
"What's happened, brother?" Serra asked breathlessly.
Ned didn't answer, only pointed with his dagger toward Jory and a few other Stark men who were carrying a covered litter. Serra approached the men and bid them halt so she could see for herself what had happened. She noted a white paw had slipped from beneath the cover, and with dread she pulled the rest of it back.
Serra gasped when she saw Lady there, her throat cut and her lifeblood drained away. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the heartbroken sob that threatened there as tears sprang to her disbelieving eyes. "Oh, Ned, what have you done?" she whispered.
"The king sentenced her to die. He sent his headsman to take care of it, but Insisted on being the one to carry out the sentence. Better to die by my hand than a stranger's."
"But why, Ned? What had she done?"
Ned made a growling noice deep in his throat. "Lady did nothing." He said. "There was apparently an incident on the river bank between Arya and Prince Joffrey and the young man that Arya has been playing swords with. During the altercation Nymeria bit the Prince, likely because she sensed he was a threat to Arya. Arya ran away and forced Nymeria into the wild to keep her from being harmed, but the Queen insisted that one of the wolves had to pay for biting her son. So King Robert decreed that Lady should be put down in Nymeria's stead.
"Did she truly hurt the prince?" Serra asked, her hands shaking, tears leaving wet tracks down her cheeks.
Ned grimaced. "The prince is fine, others take him. It's Sansa I'm worried about."
"My poor girl." Serra sighed. "She must be devastated. This is so unfair! I know you love your king, but I'd like to gut him and that hateful wife of his."
"I would almost agree with you, but you should be careful what you say." Ned told her. "As for Sansa, she's beside herself. She won't speak to me or anyone else. And she blames Arya more than anyone, even the Queen."
Serra frowned. She knew the direwolf pups had been gifts to the children from the Old Gods themselves. There was a bond between each of them that would not be easily severed, even in death. Sansa's grief would be that much worse. It pained Serra to think what her niece must be going through.
"I'll speak to her later, when she's calmed down a little." She told her brother. When he said nothing, only stared at the lifeless direwolf that was now being loaded onto a wagon, she put her hand on his shoulder.
"It's not your fault, Ned. Don't blame yourself."
"I cannot help but blame myself, sister." He said, his voice thick with emotion. "I feel like I've failed her. Failed them both." Serra could think of nothing else to say, and so she embraced her brother and offered what comfort she could.
They remained this way for a few minutes before they heard hoof beats coming from the road that led to the village. The hound was riding toward the wheelhouse with something slung across the back of his ill-tempered mount. As he got closer Serra motioned for him to pause. Before she could speak Ned's curiosity caused him to move aside the tarp that lay over the bundle wrapped up across the horse. He stifled a cry when he got a look at it.
"The butcher's boy." He snarled with a note of disgust. "You ran him down!"
Even Serra was repulsed by the Hound's reply. "He didn't run very fast."
Sandor Clegane was sat on the steps of the watchtower farthest from the keep. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and with his Dornish red. His mind was filled with the cries of the young boy he had cut down, and of the look of revulsion on the wild wolf's face when she saw what he had done. He didn't know why he cared about either. He had never before had any remorse for killing. It was simply what he did.
As for the girl, his heart sank when he thought about the look she had given him. She was the first person he had ever known who could look past his scars to see the rest of him. She had never once flinched, had never even mentioned them. That meant something to him, though best not dwell on what that might be. Still, to have her hate him was almost too much to bear.
He took a long pull from his wineskin and slumped against the door, disheartened. No way around it, Dog. You are what you are and people will always hate your for it. But he didn't want her to hate him. That was the real problem. For the first time in years he actually cared what someone thought of him, and now he had shat all over it.
Lost in thought as he was, he didn't notice that the object of his musings was standing in front of him until she reached out for his wineskin. He handed it to her, his brow wrinkled in confusion. She took a swig and grimaced. "I don't know how you drink that foul stuff." She told him, as though there was nothing else to talk about.
Sandor shrugged. "I've got bugger all else to settle me when my blood is up." He replied. Serra took a seat next to him on the steps and they sat that way in silence for a few moments before she finally brought up the subject they were both thinking about. "And I suppose your blood is up from killing that boy." She snorted. She took another small sip from the wineskin and grimaced.
"The Queen says kill so I kill. I'm a bloody killer, same as you, I just did my duty."
"Your duty my ass." Serra answered. "Bugger your duty, you killed a child."
"You're no better." Sandor rasped. "You killed a baby."
Serra growled menacingly. It was almost enough to make the Hound back shrink away. He knew he had crossed a line, but he didn't care. "How dare you. I shared that story with you as a comrade in arms, not so you could use it as an excuse to murder and innocent child! You know I had no choice!"
"Neither did I, woman!" Sandor hissed.
"You could have refused." Serra countered, no longer yelling at him, but still with eyes narrowed and flashing, a clear reminder that she was a direwolf in truth and not to be fucked with.
Sandor nodded. "Aye, I could have. Then my head would be on a spike and she'd have sent someone else to kill the boy."
Serra said nothing for a long minute. When she did speak she turned to face him, to look him in eyes. "What if she had commanded you to kill Arya. Would you have killed my niece?"
Sandor didn't flinch, though his mouth was tight and his eyes narrowed as he answered. "I did it so no one would be asked to kill her. The queen got the boy and the direwolf, that's enough blood even for that cold bitch. She'll leave the little wolf alone now.
Serra nodded, and sat back against the door. She seemed to be mulling over that answer in her head while she took a long drink from the skin and grimaced again. Finally she stood unceremoniously and handed him back his skin. "You're right." She told him. "It does settle the blood some." She walked away without another word and Sandor found himself aching in the absence of her, and hoping she understood his meaning. It's up to her now, dog.
Serra was sitting between her brother and some fat lord or other at yet another feast in honor of the new Hand of the King. This was the third she had attended, and there had been at least two that she had begged out of. There was only so much roast pigeon in mushroom sauce a person could eat without going mad, and she was damn close to reaching that point.
Ned was no help at all. If he wasn't being honored he was up to his neck trying to repair the damage his dearest friend had done to the Seven Kingdoms. She would laugh if he wasn't so overwhelmed by it all.
At this particular feast Serra found herself sitting across from the Queen, who had been regarding her with interest throughout the meal When she finally did speak Serra almost didn't' realize she was speaking to her. "What do you think of King's Landing?" the queen asked her.
"It stinks." Serra answered truthfully. "And it's noisy."
The queen regarded her for a moment, her wine glass tipped slightly in her hand. Serra began to feel like a bug under glass. Finally the queen spoke again. "You're very honest." She told her.
Serra thought on that for a moment. "Not as honest as I could be." She finally said. Sandor Clegane was standing behind his charge two places down from the queen. From where she sat she had a full view of his face. At her last words an uncharacteristic smirk appeared there. They had maintained a somewhat uneasy relationship after the incident with the butcher's boy. Serra understood why he had done what he had, but she was still angry about it. However, she had felt lonely without his companionship, and it felt good to think they were sharing a little secret here.
Ned had noticed her words as well, and he had stopped his conversation with Robert to regard her with what he obviously hoped was mild curiosity, but was more like nervousness. He clearly worried about what she would say next.
He needn't have worried, of course. She would say nothing to jeopardize him or his position, and she was a little saddened that he didn't' realize that. AT the same time, she could only be herself. She had the concept of diplomacy, but it felt like lying and was unnatural to her. Still, she would try for Ned's sake.
After another long moment of scrutiny the queen's next statement surprised her. "I like you, Lady Stark." She told her. "You're not like other women."
Serra scrambled to find an appropriate answer. "I….thank you." She said, then added hastily, "Your Grace."
Down the table, next to the Prince, both Sansa and her septa nodded approvingly, making Serra inwardly cringe. She hated sounding like a kneeler, but it was necessary for now.
"I haven't had a chance to thank you again for saving Myrcella from those horrible mountain men."
"That's quite alright, Your Grace." Serra answered, cursing herself that the words were coming more easily. "I merely did what any of your guards would do."
"I disagree, you did what none of my guards did." The queen answered, and Serra had to concede that was true. "Myrcella says she asked her father to knight you and he declined." Serra had no idea where this was going but she wasn't sure she liked it. To her right she could see the Hound frowning, To her left both her brother and the King were frowning. Serra had no idea what to say, but she was spared the trouble when the queen spoke again.
"Unfortunately, I cannot rectify that oversight." She said with a pointed look at the King, who pointed looked at his potatoes. Another moment passed before she continued. "Have you found ways to pass the time here in King's Landing?" she asked, her seemingly abrupt change of subject almost confusing.
"Well, Your Grace, I train in the yard in the mornings, I spar with any who don't mind being beaten by a woman. I also go riding in the afternoons. Everything here is different than I'm used to, and I'm still learning the animals and plants of the area. And of course, evenings I spend in the godswood at prayer."
"Yes," the Cersie nodded. "I have heard you're quite devout to your old gods. Tell me, do they answer your prayers?"
Serra nodded, feeling more surefooted on this terrain. "The Gods always answer my prayers." She said. "I just don't always like the answers I get."
Cersie smiled, "How marvelous." She mused. "Tell me, do you ever get bored here?"
"From time to time." Serra answered.
Again, the queen seemed to mull her answer over for a moment before leaning across the table in a conspiratorial gesture. Serra found herself leaning across to meet her. "I have a proposition for you, Lady Stark."
"I'm all ears, Your Grace."
"I would like you to act as guard for my children." Cersie said simply. "Not all of them, of course. Clegane has Joff well in hand. I mean for you to guard Myrcella and Tommen. What say you?"
Serra was taken aback. "Surely someone in the Kingsgaurd would be better suited…" she started but the queen cut her off abruptly.
"The Kingsgard," she sneered, "did nothing to save my daughter. None of the guards helped my daughter. Her own father didn't save her. You saved her, Lady Stark, and it's you I trust to watch out for her now."
"Your Grace, I don't know what to say." Serra spared another look both left and right, but was met with shocked faces on both sides.
"Say yes, of course." Cersie said, leaning back again and taking a sip of her sweet arbor gold. Serra reached for her own goblet and drank it down in one gulp. It was weak and too sweet for her taste, but she felt a bit fortified, though she longed for mead just now. "I've already had a suit of mail made for you. I cannot knight you, but at least you can dress the part, and I can't have you guarding my children in leathers."
Serra's head was swimming. This night had certainly taken a strange turn. "Thank you, Your Grace that is most generous."
"Keep my children safe, Lady Stark. They are the most important things in the world to me, and I am trusting you with their lives."
As if there wasn't already enough weight on her shoulders, Serra felt this responsibility settle there uncomfortably. "I will see to them as though they were my own blood, Your Grace." She said solemnly, and this seemed to please the queen, who smiled brightly.
"Then it's settled." She told her. "I will see you on the morrow in my chambers and we will discuss your new duties. Now tell me, will you be riding in the tournament next week?"
From there the conversation turned to more mundane things, but Serra's mind was elsewhere. This appointment was completely unexpected, but it must play a part in her journey. It was true what she had said about the gods answering every prayer, and true that sometimes she didn't like the answer. In this case, however, she didn't even know what the question was.
"