Alyce III

At dawn, she had been roused from her sleep by a kind-looking servant who had taken every pain to avoid her gaze. The early morning cast a soft glow over the room and Alyce had been grateful for the light, hoping it would chase away the memories of the night. It had been well into the night before she had been able to sleep, and exhaustion clung to her frame.

The servant girl had mumbled a few words of greeting and brought with her a change of clothes that fit Alyce well. The material was of a far softer material than she had ever worn, with the sky-blue cotton resting against her skin instead of scratching at it like some venereal rash. The girl had also brought with her a basin of water, drawn apparently from the Tumblestone itself judging by the biting cold. Still, it had served its purpose in waking her up and banishing her slumber, even if the latter had been unnecessary. In truth, the events of the previous night, and the sheer weight of having to release her dreams had kept Alyce from her sleep for near half the night.

Thus, it was with shaking hands that she dressed herself upon hearing of the Lord's invitation to share the morning meal. The girl had offered her assistance, but Alyce had categorically refused no matter what. One night in a castle chamber did not a noblewoman make.

Despite Alyce's continued reassurances, the girl stood at the corner of the room, hovering, fidgeting for something to do. Eventually, she had taken pity on the poor thing and had asked for some water, at which the girl had turned bright red before bowing as low as physically possible while still dashing out. From what Alyce had been able to parse from the garbled stream of words rushing from the girl's mouth, she had forgotten to bring the water meant for consumption.

The little chit had returned with a pitcher of water near spilling over the sides of the clay, overfilled as it was. Thankfully, none of the water had gotten on the dress, though a small, perverse part of Alyce had wanted to see the girl's reaction at having drenched it.

Before leaving the room and after having wettened her throat, she had scrubbed at her teeth and gums with a rough strip of linen that had come with the basin.

The linen had been coated with an inoffensively smelling green paste that freshened her mouth. Upon completion, the cloth had been tossed in the basin to soak.

The girl had initially provided Alyce with directions before thinking better of it and electing instead to take her to the destination. They had walked along long corridors and at times had taken sharp turns, the timing of which led Alyce to suspect they were merely about in circles. She had tried to keep track of her surroundings and the various twists and turns, but her exhaustion and the early morning chill had not helped. And while the dress had most certainly been appreciated, Alyce would have much preferred the old coat Tom had stolen for her from a passing merchant.

Sweet boy.

The girl abruptly stopped before a set of doors, all but causing Alyce to collide with her. When once again steady, the servant had gestured to the doors, mumbled something under her breath, and rushed off as though terrified of Alyce. She frowned but decided that the case of a nervous servant girl could be investigated at another time. The ordeal was upon her.

Alyce knocked, time slowing to a crawl between the taps.

A vaguely familiar voice called out.

"Come in!"

Her breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to swallow and still her expression. It would not do to appear unbalanced. While the prospect of a meal alone with the young Lord was a most unwelcome one, that was the choice that had been made and she would see it through. She pushed, and the door swung open.

Alyce froze, not having expected the Lady Roslin to be in attendance. Too late, she realised, the voice that had beckoned her in had not been the Lord's.

Her stillness was mirrored in Lady Roslin, who too had frozen upon her entry. The impasse was shattered only when Lord Rickard spoke, cheer filling his every syllable.

"Ah, Alyce! How good of you to join us. Please, sit."

Roslin III

Roslin's lips tightened imperceptibly, and she dabbed at the small clump of jam on the side of her mouth with a napkin to mask her displeasure. The thick spread had stained her lips on mornings previous and Roslin had no intention of being teased by her cousins about it. Again. She reached for the cup placed before her and took a deep draught of it, swirling the water in her mouth to wash away the debris and clear her mouth of the near-cloying sweetness of the jam.

The saccharine flavour still stuck to her tongue.

She breathed in, deep, and tried to ignore it in favour of paying attention to the conversation taking place before her. The conversation between her husband and his... her new attendant.

His whore.

Roslin did not like to think unpleasant thoughts, particularly not of other women with whom she had exchanged not a word. But exceptions could be made, and circumstances could be considered. And the circumstances of her discontent were perfectly reasonable, thank you very much. Was a woman not perfectly within her rights to be unhappy when her husband bought home his paramour?

She had not been under any illusions when the marriage had been agreed, and any vestiges of her childhood fancies had long since vanished in the time she had been married to Rickard Stark. While paramours and mistresses were hardly to be accepted, they certainly were expected, and Roslin was not so foolish as to think their marriage would be one of deep fulfilment and love. They had married for duty, and that most onerous of responsibilities placed itself before all other impulses and desires.

Still, for a man to parade his whore before his wife was beyond the pale, breaching every precept of noble etiquette that had been drilled into her as a child. Of course, she thought bitterly, different rules applied to Princes.

To make the matter worse, the girl was hardly any divine beauty. She was pretty, true enough, but hardly exceptional. Shiera Seastar she was not.

So absorbed she was in her thoughts, Roslin missed the question directed her way. It was only when her husband touched her hand did she rise from her contemplation.

"I beg your pardon, my Lord."

He grinned at her then, and it was such an unexpected sight that it was all she could to contain her eyebrows from shooting up in shock.

"There is nothing to pardon, my dear lady. Alyce here was just wondering about her duties."

Roslin's eyes shot at the girl, who had studiously avoided every attempt at eye contact throughout the meal. A pregnant pause ensued.

"Is that so?"

The girl, Alyce, all but leapt from her chair at being addressed. When she finally answered, her voice was meek and fearful.

"It is, My Lady."

"Well," she pretended to muse, while secretly plotting her husband's demise, "I do hate to disappoint you Lady Alyce, but I have sufficient ladies-in-waiting to fulfil the necessary tasks. Unless... Well, I suppose you could help me in composing my letters? I do find it ever so tedious."

The peasant girl blushed fiercely, ducking her head and burying it into her lacey collar. Her reply was muttered and barely audible.

"I cannot write, My Lady."

Roslin felt a palpably sadistic thrill run down her spine and she shivered at the girl's obvious shame. Her face, however, retained its perfectly polite mask. She even managed to force a glimmer of faux sympathy in her features, pretending to look mortified.

"Oh! Lady Alyce, I did not mean to... Oh, I am sor-"

"Enough."

Any measure of joy she had extracted from the conversation shrived and died a quiet death in the recesses of her mind. For the terror had returned, and Roslin Frey did not need to look at her husband for it to thoroughly pervade her being. His madness had not returned, but it was on the edge, teetering. She could not anger him further.

"My... apologies, husband."

And just as it had come, the storm had lifted, and the faux smiles had returned.

"You do not need to apologize, dear wife. Now, enough of that. Alyce, have tried the jam?"

Her hands did not stop shaking.

Rickard XIII

I did, at times, ask the Seven and the Old Gods for their mercy and beneficence. Alas, those cruel Gods of Westeros knew not the concept of mercy, and my sins were mine to bear alone.

The most I ever asked for divine deliverance was in dealing with the trifling complaints and grievances of the Northern lords under my all but nominal command. My command, if it could be called that, was nominal because despite my brother, their King, having placed me in command, the petty lords of the North seemed to see fit to test me at every turn. Every day, I would deal with conflicts and quarrels that while still small had the potential of destabilising the entirety of the camp. For instance, one issue involved a Wells man stabbing a Locke man to death over a 'friendly' game of dice. The Wells man had lost, repeatedly, over the course of an evening and had accused the Locke man of cheating. The latter had not taken the accusation well and in the ensuing fight, he had died of an opened throat.

When the issue reached my attention, both sides swore to the Old Gods that the other had been at fault. In the end, the Wells man was executed, and the groups were strongly discouraged from encountering the other. Soothing the tensions between the two Lords had also been a most unenviable task, with each man needing hours of reassurances and threats before the situation resolved itself.

Even still, the tension would need to be considered for any future battles and subsequent deployments.

The amount of time required in the continued supply and organisation of the army left me with little time for my interests. My pet project with the pikemen had also ground to a halt, with my attempts at implementing the science of manoeuvring falling on incapable ears and I had also begun to hear grumblings about the significant cost of maintaining the formation. I had planned all along to ensure that my pikemen were to be among the most effective units in our Northern army. As such, the unit required a constant supply of resources that were increasingly hard to come by and being the man in nominal command, I was in large part responsible for the allocation of such resources. Unfortunately, my favouritism was regarded with ill-concealed envy and condemnation from the lords under my command. It would have to be resolved.

Following another tedious meeting with a Lord that left me with a light headache, I nursed a warm cup of mulled wine, savoured the subtle spices, and enjoyed the breeze from the open window. The view from here was spectacular. Thousands of torches lit up the night, with some patches brighter than others. I simply sipped at my drink and relaxed. Before the campaign, alcohol had never been among my choice of drinks. It impaired one's sight and dulled the mind. In the days of my youth, my mind needed to be sharp. But the pressures of command and the lack of company had driven me to the drink. Not in a ruinous manner, of course. Simply enough to calm me at the end of the day.

"You need to stop that."

Even as every instinct in my bones commanded me to turn and draw my blade, I stilled myself, having recognised the voice.

"It's good to see you too, mother."

I turned away from the window, forcing a placid expression on my face. Even as I turned, I shot an irritated glance at Fenrir at him not having warned me of her arrival. The damnable beast just looked back without a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"I am serious, Rickard. The matter is now concerning."

Walking over to my desk, I gestured to a chair, which she took. Taking my own seat, I set down my cup of wine and focused my full attention on my mother. Sighing, I asked, "And which matter is this, mother?"

She shot a pointed look at the cup and answered, "I have been watching you for some time yet, Rickard, and as I have said, this new habit of yours concerns me."

I groaned, leaned back in my chair, and rubbed my wrists.

"There is no habit, mother. It has simply been a long day and-"

"What of yesterday? And the day before that? What of the fact that you have not appeared at dinner for the last week, choosing instead to remain enclosed in your chambers with drink?"

I had opened my mouth to answer but she affixed me with a glare all sons are familiar with. My mouth swung shut and I simply stared back at her, feeling all the exhaustion of the day press down on me in that very instant. There was nothing to say, in truth. While I certainly had not been drinking myself into a stupor for the last week as she alleged, it was true enough that I made increasingly more use of wine to help me sleep. There was no point in pursuing an argument here for there was no more I could do.

I shook my head, trying to clear it of my fatigue.

"I... Very well, mother. I had not realised what had happened. If it has gotten as bad as you say it has, then I say, no more. No more of this."

Her hand crept across the desk towards the cup of wine which I eventually just pushed into her hand. She took a sip of the drink and raised an eyebrow in question; which I ignored. I remained silent as took another sip of the wine, seeming to gather herself.

"I worry about you, Rickard. You and Robb both. You are too young for this."

A brief infantile jealousy rose in my breast, which I suppressed with some difficulty. Why had she mentioned Robb? Why did she always mention Robb? I cast those thoughts in the deep recesses of my mind where they belonged with the other unworthy thoughts. I noted then that she was looking at me, clearly awaiting some sort of response or other.

I smiled.

"You do not have to worry about me, mother. I shall be perfectly fine."

My attempt at reassuring her evidently had the opposite effect. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked upon me with a most unimpressed gaze.

"I have been your mother for yours, Rickard. Do not try and lie to me now."

I barely suppressed a grimace. This was why I hated the effects of alcohol. Had I not been under its most insidious influence, my ability to lie would have been much improved.

"I know, mother. I just don't want you to worry about me."

She smiled then, a sad thing which elicited some strange warmth within me.

"A mother always worries, child. Even when my hair turns grey and I am bent with age, I shall worry."

This conversation was verging dangerously close to emotional territory, and I knew that conversation would have to wait for another time, for a time when I was more prepared. And so, I laughed, sweeping my hand across the air in a dismissive gesture.

"You have some time yet before that, mother."

She smiled again, and it was not sad. I grinned then, and I do not believe it was false.

The door flung open and this time I rose dagger in hand. One glance at Fenrir assured me that the beast was ready. In the doorway stood a man I recognised, breathing hard with his hands on his knees. He carried a note in his left hand which he waved at me.

"I assume you have a good reason for this behaviour, Artos," I said, my voice calm and still, allowing the slightest hint of my rage to shine through.

"Sorry, milord, but Lord Edmure's called a council, and he's asked you to attend."

I exchanged a glance with my mother, both of us having understood the urgency of the issue. She spoke then, with my voice.

"What is it?"

A long pause ensued, one in which I felt the threads of fate weave themselves around my very person.

"Lord Tywin is on the march!"