Barbrey Dustin, for all they were on the brink of war with fucking everyone, hadn't been this amused in years. Because Sansa Stark was the single most rigidly controlled man or woman she'd ever met. Girl bloody well breathed propriety. Her manners and icy exterior didn't change from petitions to chopping a head off to dealing with an Umber. It was impressive and intimidating in equal measure. But not even their Queen's ironclad control could hide the fact that that god of hers had ravished the hell out of her before leaving again.
Because perfectly worn, wrinkle free, high collared gown or not; there was a very obvious hickey showing above said high collar. And Barbrey would believe Cersei Lannister was a maid before she believed that was the only hickey the Queen had sucked into her neck. After all the servants talked, and their Queen not leaving her bed chambers for half a day was wildly out of character. In fact, it was unprecedented. And the way her perfectly elegant and smooth walk had been distinctly stiff, still was. Well, the girl was plainly saddle sore.
She looked up from the green cloak she was embroidering for one of the royal guards. Ah, the joys of sewing circles. Though it was faintly odd their Queen was there on a day that no doubt every important Lord was dying to pull her aside for words about the news her god had brought with her, now that said god was gone again. "Which Lord are you avoiding to join us this morning, your Grace?"
"Must I be avoiding anyone?" Sansa's fingers stitched with a speed and precision that was impressive to behold in one so young.
Barbrey noted the shirt was of an odd cut, not that she could see much with how it was laid out. "Perhaps not, but you're not one to stitch when fool Lords could use a hand in minding themselves."
Several of the other court ladies made sounds of amusement. After all, they'd all been spending a great deal of time on turning out an inspiring amount of dress, banners, and general garb for war and winter.
Sansa gave her a knowing look. "Daisy flying all over the place has worn her dress quite notably and needs a few more pieces. I've asked Fitz to attend this morning to advise on what she might prefer as she's not here and avoids the topic like the plague. If we mean to finish the project by her next return, beginning now can take priority."
"That will be a challenge." Mira Lovewell, the first official lady in waiting to the Queen, opened a chest looking at thread. "We may need to make more silver thread."
Barbrey considered the delicate work that would require. Certainly a welcome change from the near-endless direwolves. "What would that mad, god touched fool know about dress?"
"He has eyes, he must know at least what colors she prefers?" Mira pointed out.
Lady Flint scoffed. "A man notice the color of someone other than himself? I'd doubt it of any man save that Ser Loras."
Sansa's eyes sparkled with amusement. "I'm sure we'll manage should that prove to be correct. Even if her Holiness is frustratingly mute when it comes to her preferences."
Bless her, Lady Flint made a dry remark while keeping her eyes firmly on her bit of stitching. "She certainly prefers you, your Grace."
Sansa actually misstitched at that. "Excuse me?"
"Considering you have that god's teeth marks in your neck, you can't mean to disagree." Barbrey could have cackled at the flush that evoked on their Queen's pale cheeks. "Your Grace?"
The Queen, to her credit, held her composure despite her mortification. A thing she really ought to be getting over if she was going to take or be taken as a lover. Whichever the case might be. "Yes, well, I hardly see how that is particularly relevant to her preferred fabrics."
"You must forgive them, your Grace. I do believe the widows in our midst are lonely." One of the Harclay twins said, she delighted in emphasizing the word 'lonely'. "Their beds are rather empty."
There was a chorus of giggles at that.
Barbrey had to give it to the girl, she had a sharp wit. "Do husbands truly add that much to a bed?"
"Depends on the husband," Mira said dryly as she stitched at the gambeson she was repairing. "I find the difference in husband makes all the difference."
The other Harclay twin smirked. "Yes, how is having the new Knight Lovewell treating you?"
Mira was faintly smug as she stitched, taking a few seconds to pick the correct work. "He is quite reverent."
"Reverent?" Barbrey snorted. "You mean the boy came to you a maid and knows he owes you his new fortune."
Mira shook her head. "In part, but I know when a man sees me as a trophy and when one prefers me over the advantages my name might bring him."
"That's just disappointing." One of the Harclay twins rolled her eyes. "If one of us is going to marry a peasant warrior, we ought to get tales of vigorous and scandalous ravishing. Where's the fun in gentle reverence?"
The other twin smirked faintly. "Well, one of us here is enjoying vigorous and scandalous ravishing, your Grace."
"Is there nothing more interesting to discuss than what occurs in my bedchamber?" Sansa asked, faint exasperation in her tone even as the light dusting of pink along her cheeks remained.
Barbrey raised a brow as she looked towards the Queen. "Please, what else is there to discuss? The only topic worth discussing that isn't your relations is Lady Lovewell's scandal of a marriage. Which won't be properly interesting till her brother gets around to challenging her new husband to a duel over the whole thing."
"And it doesn't take a great mind to know the new Knight Lovewell might be a handsome boy, but he clearly only knows how to use one of his swords well." Lady Flint said disdainfully.
Mira shot the woman a glare. "I never said he was inadequate. At least my husband cares for more than his own pleasure and is quite…dedicated to that purpose. Although, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised you'd think so lowly of a man. It must be hard to remember what it feels to enjoy such things. Tell me, how long has it been since your husband has thought to visit your chambers, Lady Flint?"
"Once you've given birth to ten babes you can talk to me about wanting your husband pawing at you at all hours of the night." Lady Flint sniffed. "The occasional peak is not worth the effort."
Sansa, bless the gods spoke, her brow furrowed slightly. "Occasionally? How is that possible with how many babes you've had?"
"A man's peak rarely means a woman's." Lady Flint replied flatly. "Well, not unless he has the energy to continue longer than he might wish to."
And Sansa, gloriously, was clearly still confounded. "Obviously, but he has hands and a mouth. Surely he can ensure it is not so one-sided? I mean, only one person experiencing what…one peak? That's ridiculous."
"Fascinating suggestion, your Grace." Mira put in, the girl had definitely picked on the implication about their Queen's lover. They all had. "Tell me, how many times would you say is beneficial for lovemaking?"
And oh, the shade of red their Queen's ears turned was hilarious. Her voice was faintly tight, but otherwise remarkably unchanged. "Counting would be rather gauche would it not? Besides, it all runs together sometimes making it hard to keep track…is that not typical?" She looked around at their faces.
Barbrey barely resisted reaching out and patting the girl's hand. "I do believe we can take that to mean your god is quite divine in more than the obvious ways."
A deeply awkward sounding male throat cleared. "I can c-come back?"
"Fitz!" Their Queen clearly intended to grab hold of her life rope out of this conversation with both hands. "Please, that was terribly rude of us. We were not expecting you for some time yet."
/
Fitz kind of wanted to die. But then, well living in tight quarters already meant he knew far more about every one of his friends' sex lives than he ever wanted to. Had seen so much more than he'd needed to, Hunter and Bobbie. Or like with Lincoln and Daisy…well he'd fitted out her bunk with containment materials the second day after she and Lincoln had become a thing for a reason. Bloody superpowers triggered by emotion. So, he shoved down his sudden desire for moonshine or bleach and set down the wooden box he'd grabbed from Daisy's quarters before coming. "In that case, you're wasting your time. You're not going to make better armor than I've already made Daisy. No one here is."
"Excuse me?" Sansa asked a brow raising.
He opened up the lid and yanked up the top jacket of Daisy's combat suit. "I'm sure your armor is…nice? But this fabric is tougher than any metal you have. It's an adamantium, k-kevlar blend. You can stab or shoot i-it with anything and it's not going through. Crossbow bolts are nothing to it." Fitz winced…maybe he was being too strong? "You could put a coat or something o-over it if you wanted?"
A severe looking woman, her hair tightly pulled into some sort of knot on top of her head. "How have you not died?"
"I did die?" Fitz frowned slightly.
The woman made a sound in the back of her throat. "For curiosity's sake, how many times has her Holiness saved your life?"
He rubbed at his short beard. "Daisy? Er…I don't know probably a lot?"
"Fascinating." The woman replied.
Fitz looked around the woman, and opened and shut his mouth. "If you w-wanted to talk armor why isn't there a smith or something here?"
"Because I didn't ask you here to discuss armor," Sansa said dryly. She gestured to a wooden chair. "I asked you here because Daisy requires some more clothing and I thought perhaps you'd know some of her preferences."
"Oh…that makes more sense." He shuffled forward, hands dropping to his hips. "Why not just ask Daisy?"
Sansa had an actual flicker of irritation on her face. "Because she refuses to say anything about what she wants."
Fitz actually considered that. "Right…that makes sense." In a horrible sort of way. Daisy either got what she wanted or took what was offered. Unless it was pizza, if it was pizza she got picky, also music…so inconsequential things. And here? It wasn't like they had tank tops. "S-sorry for assuming. Her field suit is the only t-thing I made of her's, clothing wise. I might not be a lot of help."
The twenty something brunette seated nearest Sansa spoke up. "Surely you will have noticed what colors she prefers? Or wears most commonly."
"Purple?" He considered what she wore when she wasn't in well…field clothing. "Greens, she likes greens…er…some blues? She'll wear most colors, lots of plaids."
The older woman stared at him like he was an idiot. "And plaid is?"
"Er it's a pattern in the fabric? You don't really have it…she likes vests? Sweaters, she likes sweaters." Fitz pulled at one ear a bit as he considered it. "I know she likes dresses, they're just not practical for our work."
One of the other women, of which christ two of them were identical, spoke up. "Really? I wouldn't have expected her to choose such a ladylike garment."
Fitz blinked as he saw the lack of disagreement with that statement. "Wait…you all think…she's what? Butch?" He snorted, bending with laughter. "Oh god, that's too good."
The older woman let out a blistering sigh. "Explain."
"You think Daisy dresses masculinely." He grinned, wiping a tear from his eye. "It's too good. I'm n-never letting her live this down." Fitz scoffed at the confusion and held up the top half of her combat suit. "Does this look like something a man would wear? Or, well, anyone who didn't care about what they looked like?"
The pretty looking brunette spoke again. "It looks not unalike to what some men wear?"
Fitz kinda wanted to groan. "Look, our fashion is really different." He sighed. "I mean, because of my country I have a traditional men's skirt that stops at the knees I could wear if I wanted to. It's a kilt and most Scotsmen will knock your teeth in if you call it a skirt." His nose wrinkled. "I don't like it, gets kinda cold. But pants are just…acceptable for women to us. Daisy wears them more than anything because she fights. It's hard to kick a man in the face while in a dress." He shrugged. "But she's considered like not…the girliest looking girl? but quite fashionably feminine in our world."
"That's considered fashionably feminine?" The brunette stared at the combat suit top with some disbelief.
"For armor. N-normal people don't wear them." Fitz sighed, he wasn't sure how to put it…exactly. "Maybe a hundred people…ever were worth the expense of something like this." And fuck doing conversions, a dollar could equal a gold coin. Even if he knew that wasn't accurate in the slightest. But he wasn't figuring out conversion rates when there was nothing to be gained from it. "Look, personalized field suits are expensive, they take months to make. The fabric is an…adamantium kevlar blend. A high-end kevlar like any agent would wear costs…around a hundred fifty gold coins a yard. With layering 6-7 yards. But this isn't high-end kevlar. It's got adamantium, the second strongest metal in existence in it."
Fitz licked his lips. "Just the raw material, has to be kept so hot it's liquid until it's s-set. For the amount in just the suit? Half a million gold." He didn't mention they'd stolen the fuck out of that particular material. Why buy when you can steal it from the bad guys? And such a useful material. What he'd do to have access to vibranium….
"The material is worth half a million?" One of the women uttered in sheer disbelief.
He shook his head. "No, the raw metal in it is. The fabric in this suit alone is…I mean I made it. But about eight hundred thousand to a million. With the e-engineering and work put into one of these? Million and a half at least. Her gauntlets twice that easily." He couldn't help the pride at the gauntlets. "Some of my best work, those."
"How is such a sum possible for a single suit of armor?" The brunette was breathless in horrified awe.
Fitz shrugged. "It's the b-best armor you can make without vibranium, and if it was vibranium it wouldn't play well with her powers. So even at ten thousand a gram, it'd be worthless to her. But that's not the p-point." He lifted the arm of the suit showing the large purple patch of material. "This? This is because she wanted it. Her last one had gold seams."
"More than one." The older woman breathed.
He nodded. "So not what Daisy would wear typically. It's not like…she wouldn't eat dinner in it."
"If the cut of her armor is not appropriate, what would be?" Sansa asked calmly, redirecting the conversation to the original point.
Fitz rubbed at his beard, still wasn't used to the thing but it was fucking cold here. "This is your w-world. What she would normally wear would look ridiculous to y-you. I mean she owns a few shirts made of nets. And I don't know how to explain tank tops to you." He figured he best tell them to figure it out. Well, with knowing she liked colors? "If she hated what you made for her she'd have t-told you." He missed his workshop.
The older woman looked him up and down. "You are a clever man, likely the cleverest I shall ever meet. But for all that you are a fool. You live because you are useful, and somehow endeared yourself to a person powerful enough to keep you alive despite your appalling lack of manners and arrogance."
"Excuse me?" His voice pitched up as he leaned back in his seat.
"You are smart enough to know how to behave with manners. Yet you choose not to because you know none shall harm you for failing to adhere to them. Manners are too far below you. No doubt if you wished, you are quite capable of answering exactly what you understood was the point of this meeting the moment it was first asked of you. But you chose to ignore it to brag about your work. Because simple clothing is beneath your notice, yes?" The woman stood. "I believe you should leave boy, go play with your tools and your intellect."
Sansa spoke, her voice sharp. "Lady Dustin, need I remind you that you are as much a guest in this place as he is?"
"Not at all, your Grace." Lady Dustin gave Sansa a dip of her head, before turning her razor sharp attention back to him. "But as Fitz here prefers to ensure we are aware of his intelligence and not think him so unmanly as to have noticed dress at all, rather than assist in making his 'friend' happy, I see no point in his remaining here."
The words stuck at the back of his throat because he could see the agreement on the faces of the women. They agreed with Lady Dustin. And…he wasn't entirely sure she was wrong. "Her favorite color is purple, she wears it all the time, but she likes colors in general, she likes fabrics that are soft and that drape. And vests, she's fond of vests. While she will wear higher collars I've seen her wear necklines much more daring than that weird dress she was wearing the other day had." He held the woman's sharp eyes. "Daisy knows she's beautiful and knows how to use it to her advantage if she wants to. And tight, our clothing was fitted much more tightly to the body, especially the pants. But if she cannot move freely in what you make her she won't wear it."
Standing up, he stepped to the crate with Daisy's gauntlets and the rest of her battle suit in it. He neatly laid her upper jacket in it, shut the lid and picked it up. "If that's all I have other things t-to be doing." He considered Sansa for a moment, but he was not going to bow to anyone, ever. Even if she was Daisy's girlfriend and seemed a decent sort of person. "I hope that helps you."
/
Lord Tytos Blackwood was making the trek to the weirwood of his ancestral fortress. He would not be long at Raventree Hall, the Riverlands required pacification, and he was required to ride out to do so. Their tree may be dead, but there was still peace to be found in its ancient, and giant presence. He frowned at the sight of a man standing before the tree. "Who goes there?"
The man turned, but it wasn't a man at all. Instead, a pretty enough woman, dressed in fine men's clothing. In the fading light of the day looked irritatingly cocky. She didn't reply, just casting an eye up and down his frame.
Tytos pulled himself up to his full height, one hand falling upon his sword. "Answer me, I will not ask again."
"The Winter Queen sends her greetings." The woman's lips twitched up. "There's a letter in your bed chamber from her. Probably a lot nicer and more polite than me. Your kids are safely at Winterfell."
He didn't lower his sword's hilt. "Why should I believe you?"
"Your tree is singing again." The woman grinned. "You're welcome, though really you ought to thank your son Edmund. He asked your Queen to intercede for you." Her knees bent, and then she vanished in a gust of wind straight up.
Tytos cried out in alarm, jolting forward, drawing his sword, head bending backward, but she was gone. His heart thundered in his chest. What magic was that?! But then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye. Red. His eyes widened, his fingers loosened, and his sword dropped to the ground.
Because of the weirwood tree of his ancestors. The tree whose death had weighed on their House for generations. Ever since the fucking Bracken's had poisoned it. The tree which had been white and dry as bone for longer than he'd drawn breath, was coated in red buds of new growth. His gaze turned to the face, carved into the tree's bark. It was bleeding red sap as only a living tree could.
Dropping to his knees he felt tears upon his cheeks. It was alive. Gods be good and great, the tree was alive!
