The Reign of the Wolves - Chapter II - JORY I
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JORY
"The familiar voice of the king echoed across the small council table in the throne room, as icy cold and hard as ever. His lord, his close friend and companion ever since their youthful years, and his king and liege.
"So, my lords, have we got any more points that need consideration?", King Eddard Stark said with a slightly tiresome voice. He was a good king, the best the realm had ever known since Daeron the Good or Jaehaerys the Conciliator perhaps, but he had never liked it, Jory knew. They were still close, as they always had been, and he was sure that Ned would want to take an extra mug of ale in his solar with him that night. He was still a northman, no matter however long he had stayed, and ruled, down here in the south. The North had come down south, taken root here in this sweltering city of snakes and rats and the long summer sun, and stayed on.
Ned sat in the middle of the table, as he had taken to doing of late. Further away at the table, by the edge of the short side, sat Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King. Lord Arryn was a dignified and wise old man, with a large falcon-like nose, noble blue eyes of the finest Andal nobility and hair so light blond and old to almost be white. Around him sat Lord Stannis, Ser Barristan and the rest, decreasing in honour from the eagle Jon Arryn until it came to the true snakes of the bunch. The few honourable men in the council were two great ones indeed, the dutiful and stern Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Laws, younger brother to Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End, and the great knight Ser Barristan Selmy, Barristan the Bold, who had fought for the Targaryens but yielded and been spared by Ned and Robert after the war was over, being personally overlooked by Lord Robert himself out of respect for his honourable nature. The rest were more or less significantly less noble in Yoren's eyes. Lord Monterys Velaryon, Master of Ships, a scheming man with long silver white hair the same as the Targaryens, the ancient and feeble Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Gyles Rosby, the old and sickly, ever lickspittling Master of Coin, and Petyr Baelish, the new Master of Whispers since one or two years back.
They were all southerners, the whole bunch, not a single one from the North. The only northman on the council was the king himself, and all that the snakes surrounding him wanted was to curry favors and try to nestle their way into his good graces for their own sakes. One of the southron snakes, ever disguised as a bird in his brown-and-grey tunic, suddenly took to word.
"Your Grace", said Petyr Baelish, known to all men at court as Littlefinger for his small stature and his hailing from the Fingers in the Vale, "there are grave news indeed that you must hear."
"Grave?" The king seemed upset. "What kind of news are so grave that I must hear them, and yet so small that you could not have mentioned them directly to me before the meeting?"
His icy grey eyes were tired, after the long day of reading and holding court. The king trusted Littlefinger, as most everyone did, but he did not trust him to know when to talk and when not to. In truth, it was a miracle that Littlefinger had stayed on for so long in the small council and at court in the capital when most of what he said seemed to vex Ned to his mind's and wit's end. But that was Queen Catelyn's doing, of course. Littlefinger had always been a close friend to the Tullys, and Eddard could refuse many men many a thing, but not so in this particular thing; no, not in this to his lady wife.
"Go on, Lord Baelish. I am sure that you have not waited this long to sit there fumbling with your tongue for any longer than this. What are these grave news?" the king said.
"I have waited long indeed, Your Grace", said Littlefinger in a solemn tone. "Only the news that I bear are so important that I felt it best to share them with everyone who might benefit from the information. But, of course, Your Grace, I shoud have gone to you first. That is my fault."
Yoren could practically hear Littlefinger mocking his liege in every word he spoke. When the little southron man said "Your Grace", it always came with a slimy, flickering smile as if from a man who still thought "It's not really you out of all people who should be king, though, is it?".
Ned was almost run out with patience now, it seemed like, and that was a rare thing for a Stark. The king's temper had been tested and tempered for nigh on fourteen years on his still itching throne with the empty flatteries and japes of Littlefinger and all the rest in this baking, flea-ridden muckpile of a capital, thought Jory. Yet it was not his place to say. The king held his temper, still now after all these years, as coolly and quietly as ever, and if the king could do it in the face of all this southern scheming and in the sweltering heat, at the end of a long warm summer which seemed never ever to end, then so could he. He resisted once more the urge to lift his swatch of clothing to his neck and dab it with rosewater again. Why had Arya had to run away like that earlier? The stink of his neck was beginning to catch up with his own nose and mouth beneath the fabric of his clothing, but no. He must not lose focus in front of the king for such small things such as that. He was a Kingsguard, and as such must stand alert, helm in one hand and the other hand placed firmly at the hilt of his sword.
"Bygones be gone by the wind of yore", the king said slowly, his voice icy with the patience only a northman could have. "Tell us the news, if you would, Lord Baelish."
"There is most troubling word from Riverrun", said Littlefinger, lowering his voice. "There has been an attack towards the castle in the night. Four score men of motley color shields appeared from nowhere at the hour of the bat and tried their very best to break into the keep, with swords and shields, nets and grappling hooks, seemingly to abduct the young lady Daenerys Targaryen. The noble lady is safe and hale, however, though admittedly shaken, as the entire castle is, by the terrible event."
The council arose in shock at the news. None so more than the king himself.
"What is this you're saying? An attack, on Riverrun? Now? What type of men were this?"
"Foreigners, it would seem, Your Grace. Their shields showed many a strange sigil, but their banners were all the same, of an unmistakeable color... That of pure gold."
For a moment noone said a word, and Jory turned his eyes and spied the reaction of the others.
"The Golden Company? Here, in this our green land of Westeros?" Lord Stannis said. "And none saw them approaching along the coast? Have they red wine for wits along the Red Fork as well, and not only here in the capital? Or are they so poor for gold that they take it and hold their tongues? If so, I shall have them, and the gold too. We will not suffer this vile treason towards the girl nor us."
Lord Stannis was a stern and coldly weighing man, wise and dutiful in his temper, much like the king, yet lacking his temper when it came to matters such as this. A Baratheon through and through, like his brother Robert, he would oft grit out his disgust at the most menial matters or else shout across the council table at insulting situations as he did now. His was the fury, indeed, thought Yoren, as he had a hundred times before.
"I am told that the force arrived in the black of night and made their way quietly along the river, most likely making camp in the nearby forests during the days before, leading up to the attack itself. There is no report on them having bribed any villagers. Few saw them coming."
"Few... Or none?" said Stannis, with a tone indicating that if the answer were 'few', then those few would be staunchly reduced to none by the morrow.
"This I cannot say", Lord Baelish said. "I only know what Lord Hoster has written to me in his letter."
"Lord Hoster? To you?" the king was incredulous. "Does he still trust you more than me, his good-son of fifteen years, to deliver these news to mine own council?"
"In truth, no", Littlefinger said, and tried calming the king. "I was only the one who happened to stand the closest to the rookery when the news came. The birds are clever, no doubt, but they do not know the master of a keep from its humble servants, I'm afraid. And as you sat at hearing here in the throne room, I thought it best not to disturb you before you were finished, Your Grace."
The king sighed a long sigh and buried his face and hair beneath his strong, northerly hands, the type of hands that might well have knocked Littlefinger's fluttering face out for his quip about birds some fifteen odd years ago, but which had now become all too accustomed to the endless signings of quill and parchment, and which now knew best the smelted hilts of the iron throne as their handle, and not the grip of their own sacred Ice. Yoren felt sorry for his troubled liege, and angry at the sauntering rest of them, as he so often did, wishing they were all gone from his sight with a swift hack of his steel. His liege was far more patient than that, though, as ever, and so must he be.
"No matter", the king said, lifting his face from his fingers. "We must take action as soon as we can. Has Lord Hoster captured these men, or did they escape?"
"Some escaped, but many and more were captured, Your Grace. Those that were questioned swiftly admitted to having traveled across the Narrow Sea, but did not wish to name who had sent them. But their departure was from the Free City of Pentos, I believe. A short journey across for most ships."
"I shall bring the Royal Fleet to the mouth of the Bay of Crabs within a day", Lord Stannis declared. "Then we shall see what these golden men are made of."
"There is no need", said Littlefinger. "All of the ships have already been captured by Lord Mooton, it seems. A raven was dispatched to him by the hour of the eel, and he made good on the time."
"And before it seemed like the lady Daenerys was safe behind the walls of Riverrun", Stannis said. "Do not speak of what it seems like. Speak of how it is."
"Enough", said Ned, cutting their nascent argument in two. "You are sure that Lord Hoster has control of this?"
"As sure as I can be with only the proof of a letter written in his hand, and not his words in my ear, Your Grace, though I do still know his voice, just like the slow trailing of the Fork".
"As do we all", said the king, unimpressed. "Thankyou for these news, Lord Baelish. But we must surely do something other than to trust Lord Hoster himself with all of this. How many men can we send to defend the castle for the coming year?"
"The coming year, Your Grace?" Littlefinger seemed taken aback for once, he who never was.
"I am guessing that these foreign men have the patience for games even longer than so, but a year is as good a start as any. Riverrun shall be made safe yet again. We shall place a strong extra force surrounding all sides of the castle to keep watch day and night until we have word of who it is that bears us such ill will from across the sea."
"If I may, Your Grace... I might know a thing or two about that particular fact as well...", said Littlefinger, bowing his head.
"You are certainly one to wait, Lord Baelish. Speak up, and be quick about it! Who wants the princess such harm? Tell us."
The King at times still called the Lady Daenerys "the princess", though he was one of the few who ever did. That was certainly foolish, yet honourable of him, to constantly remind his subjects of the still living line who undermined his right to sit on the very throne he still claimed. But his liege was nothing if not honourable, and this was a great thing in him, which Yoren admired him for with all his heart. Yet regardless of her status as a princess or lady, the question of who had wanted Princess Daenerys such harm was a pressing one indeed. Littlefinger seemed to have anticipated it.
"Lord Varys", the Master of Whispers said. The room became quiet at once.
Ser Barristan shifted in his seat.
"Are you sure of this?"
Littlefinger gave the Lord Commander as truthful of a look as a deceitful, debaucherous man possibly can.
"Upon my father's bones."
"Then it is high time we were rid of him", Lord Stannis declared, clenching his mailed fist towards the council table below. "Send a message to someone across the Narrow Sea with a sharper sword than the steel of his wits and be done with it. As I said most clearly, already back when the bells tolled for his escape the last time."
The king seemed annoyed at the suggestion, as if it was somehow too obvious.
"Lord Stannis, with all respect, we have no way of knowing where Lord Varys currently is. It might well be Pentos, or any other of the Free Cities. Before we can act, we will need the knowledge of his whereabouts."
"I am sure I can have that arranged, Your Grace", Littlefinger interrupted. "My little birds sing the songs even across the Narrow Sea at times, and I have my own suspicions for where the eunuch might still dwell with his schemes."
Grand Maester Pycelle arose from his ancient elbows to say something for the first time, raising a spotted hand and waving it decidedly before his white beard in the air. "Indeed, Your Grace, the eunuch must be dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible. Might I suggest poison once the opportunity arises? I know a certain drink that would do the trick, and leave little traces back to us."
"I am sure that such a concotion would be the most suiting", said Littlefinger, looking towards the king, a content smile on his face.
"Take ease, Grand Maester", said the king. "We will not need such advice before the task is at hand, and mayhaps not even then. I would much rather see him stand a fair trial here in the capital for his crimes and then take his head off myself than to hear the wispers of his demise from across the sea, in yet another shifty letter with no proof to still our minds' fret."
"That can be arranged as well, Your Grace", Littlefinger said, eagerly, and Pycelle chimed in.
"Yes. The traitor must stand trial and face the sentence that is coming to him. For crimes past and present", he decreed.
It was no secret that Pycelle had despised Lord Varys ever since before the Sack. It was Lord Varys who had made the Mad King paranoid with whispers of betrayal and gradually made Lord Tywin and King Aerys II drift further apart until he had been fired as Hand and the seeds for Robert's Rebellion and the overtoppling of the Targaryens were first sown. When Pycelle had argued to let Tywin's army inside the walls, it had been for House Lannister's sake, and perhaps also as personal vengeance towards "the spider", as the Grand Maester called the former Master of Whispers. Yoren had learned all of these things already during his first few years at court, when he was still no more than a northern boy growing up in King's Landing, though few people seldom spoke of them anymore. It was all old news, buried and dusted under seven sorrows and nine joys, covered as if beneath a blanket of snow now, and later these eternal warm golden years upon years of summer grass, goblets of wine and feasts under the prosperity of the wolves' reign.
"Very well", the king said. "How soon until you can give me the whereabouts of his location, Lord Baelish?"
"This I cannot know, to my sorrow, Your Grace. I am only a humble Master of Whispers, not like the eunuch himself. But a gambling man might stake a hundred gold dragons on the fortnight."
Lord Arryn, the Hand of the King, made a compulsive movement towards the parchment with his quill at the sound of "gold dragons", but then stopped himself when he realized it was one of Littlefinger's empty japes. He seemed befuddled, somehow, and had been sick for nigh on a week before with fever. Though he was old, and growing golder, thought Yoren. It was nothing special. Men became like that, as the years passed, if they did not have the chance to die in battle first.
"A fortnight it shall be then", said the king. "Until such time that the thirteenth day has passed and you awake me in my royal marriage's bed with new tidings regarding such things." The king rarely ever made japes, but just now in this, Yoren sensed, it was all he could do not to smash Littlefinger's teeth out. The insinuation was most strongly felt, and made apologies for.
"Of course, Your Grace, I will understand that this is a most trying time for you and the queen, and as such I shall promise to not overly interfere with neither your nor her hospitality", he said, lowering his head in solemn vow. The king considered his words, and deemed them at last truthful.
That will lighten some of the troubles from his shoulders, at least, thought Yoren. Out of the many things which irked His Grace about living and ruling his life down south here in the capital was the unwelcome presence and constant approaches towards his wife from former suitors. He sensed that his liege would have been well more happy with his entire family locked away safe at Winterfell, where House Stark should always and forever more remain. As the old saying went, there should always be a Stark in Winterfell, and preferably not a Stark and a Lannister, but instead Lord Eddard had taken the crown and the capital in the stead of his homeland, and their life together here had become more and more a constant struggle for some privacy, as the thousand eyes and hands of the court did their best to get a piece of each of the royal wife, children and household, himself included, though he was only a Kingsguard and without a family himself. Fourteen years, Yoren thought, and still not a grateful soul among them, who would treat us with the same grace they treated the Targaryens that came before us, the frenziful fire before the intangible ice. The only thing they want is to nestle themselves into the royal family with their greedy southron hands, and get a hold of Princess Sansa or Prince Robb, further dilute their bloodline with southron weakness, and then take the power that would come with it. The old gods would look on in horror, if they could see through the bark of the ancient oak tree of the godswood. Yoren still, after all these years of praying before a southern replica of his people's sacred source, wasn't entirely sure if they could.
But whatever the troubles of his liege's life here in the capital were, the one that seemed to trouble his heart the most was no doubt the attention that Littlefinger showed towards Queen Catelyn. Every day that she was present at court he would greet her as amiably and lovingly as to his own wife, though he still had none such apart from the whores in his many brothels, and every day King Eddard would pretend that they were only ever life-long friends, like brother to sister, though everyone knew the truth. How Littlefinger, or Petyr, as he had been known back then, had lusted after Lady Catelyn, and wanted her hand in marriage, only to have his spriggly frame nigh on chopped to pieces by Lord Brandon. After that, there had been little peace between House Stark and Baelish, no matter how much Lady Catelyn still revered her young foster brother and took his advice on most many a thing.
Lord Eddard was, ironically, more in love with his wife, and more protective of her than he would have been otherwise, due to this specific circumstance. But love or no, Yoren thought, Littlefinger would have to sate his longing after his king's wife, or else find himself at the side of a Stark's sword again, and this time with an end to it. Yes, that would be the case, he decided, if Littlefinger should ever overreach in his eagerness towards the queen, and revelled in the thought, as the beads of sweat continued assembling on his weary forehead.
"Are there any other important matters we need to discuss?" said the king, dreading the reply.
Noone at the council table spoke. Lord Arryn looked over them all with his falcon gaze, somewhat blurred by old age yet still alert, seemingly wondering the same.
"Does anyone have anything else to add?" said Lord Arryn, clearing his throat and peering over the protocol one last time with tired yet concentrated eyes.
"I believe we are finished", said Littlefinger.
"Very well then", said the king. "I announce this meeting to be at an end. We shall convene again in two days' time. Take care, my lords."
Everyone rose from the table, the king first, then Littefinger quick on his heels after him, after that Ser Barristan, Lord Stannis, Jon Arryn and all the rest. Finally Grand Maester Pycelle steadied himself and pushed off from the table, walking with sagging steps and an aching back.
Yoren followed one step behind after his king, the two of them walking as a single man and his constant shadow companion in determined strides forth towards the Iron Throne and the great door leading into the corridor behind it, and Littlefinger soon followed suit as a third and unwelcome.
"Your Grace, forgive me for telling you this once more but perhaps it would be necessary to talk to Lord Velaryon for funding of ships across the Narrow Sea." His tone was still unbotheredly free.
"Surely the Royal Fleet will suffice." The king was short in his words, hard in his brows.
"It will indeed, Your Grace, but it would not be so discreet to send your own painted ships to find the eunuch. He has spies in every crevasse of the coast, I'm sure, and will be much more the wiser should you give away your intentions before he sees you approaching. Better then to have the alibi of a smaller and less well-known house, who does trade with Essos regularly and always has. To take away any suspicions of what is in the making."
Ned of House Stark, the king, was ice cold, slowly warming up to a steam, Yoren could tell, but somehow managed to control his anger like the abidement of a winter wind, and stopped himself, and breathed deep to hinder his mailed fist from reaching into Littlefinger's slender bird's neck and taking out the source of the constant chirping.
"Why did you not say this just a moment ago, at council? Are you so desperate to make me wroth?"
"Believe me, Lord Stark, making you wroth is the last thing I would do. But any man would be wroth if confronted with the sinking of two or more of his finest trading ships."
"Sinking? What is this mad talk? Now you will tell me, and tell me all there is to it. There is noone else here. If you cannot tell Yoren, you may take the advice you have for me to your grave before you tell it, or to mine, gods forgive." King Eddard finally stopped in his tracks, and fixated his hard icy grey eyes on Baelish's light green, fluttering and regretful, yet still somehow ever smirking ones.
"I have hatched a scheme, Your Grace. To catch the eunuch with few casualties."
"Then you have hatched it in the wrong company, my lord. I am not a man for such treacherous notions as sinking my own ships and men to their deaths, or the Velaryons', for that matter, and any man would know as much."
"Forgive me, my lord but the notion of honour means nothing to a eunuch without lands or children. He has no allegiance other than to his own web of spies and his quest for power. If we should wish to beat him at his own game we will need to have less qualms than him, and move quickly."
Littlefinger just kept spilling the words out of him, dastardly, foolishly, brazenly even. The fool.
"Should the world only be run by such men as Lord Varys, my lord, then there would indeed be not much of it left. As good fortune would have it, however, that is not the case, and I do believe that honour still has a purpose in this world. That is how I rule over my many kingdoms."
"A purpose indeed, my lord, but what of the purpose at hand? If we catch the eunuch we will have annihilated the biggest threat to your rule once and for all. If we do not act, then...-"
"Then someone else will. Aye. I know the song as well as anyone, better than you perhaps. … Most like. But here is my song: If there should ever come a day when my rule is challenged, I would not stand idly by, but neither will I stand in fear and plot to avoid such a day until my last. I believe that each ruler should do his best to care for his people, his subjects and the men of high rank and birth and power who would swear him fealty. But the game of thrones played by whispers and betryal is not one for me. I am content as is, and will not sully the honour of me nor my house by taking part in this for a smidgeon's chance to catch the eunuch, as you say."
"Your Grace, with all respect, you are as much a part of it as anyone. I believe it were high time that you noticed, and perhaps also did something towards it. It is around you, my lord, that the vultures circulate, waiting to get their chance of tearing your house to shreds while you go on about honour."
"Vultures? Are we speaking of Dorne now as well?"
"Dorne, Essos... Foreign lands with foreign peoples of meddling loyalties and many a traitor in their midst. What is the difference, really?" Littlefinger smiled his slimiest smile.
"Enough. I am the king, believe it or not, of this incessantly squabbling land, and this scheming captial and throne room, and I do not have to listen to your talk more than I like. You will be quiet now or else be taken off the small council, and this time for good."
Littlefinger quieted, and almost looked taken aback. The king went on.
"I will have my supper now, and you will stay away from me and my lady wife the queen until the next council meeting, and speak not about these ill-made schemes of yours with this to me or to anyone else before such time. Is that understood?"
Littlefinger stood flabbergasted for a second, then bowed deeply out of respect. "Of course, Lord Stark."
"Good. That will be the end of it."
The king walked staunchly off, leaving Littlefinger to stand by the steps of the Iron Throne with a look that lingered somewhat, but then trailed towards the enormous jagged blades of the seat, and they could finally be rid of his serpent's tongue. The walk to the dining hall was not far, and the royal family would await them there, safe from any perverse persuasions by the sly Master of Whispers.
Yoren walked silently alongside his king, and tried considering what had transpired. Littlefinger had been wise to surprise him in his speech and call him Lord Stark, as if it were nothing more than an extra honorific to the worn-out "Your Grace", as it also sometimes indeed was. But it was more than that. After fourteen years of rule as king, the royal title still didn't fully sit right with Ned, though he did his best to axle his cloak of rule. Yoren knew him better than most anyone, including Queen Catelyn, and he could tell. Everyone in the capital with more than empty flattery in their heads knew that the king would much rather return home to The North and be the Lord of Winterfell like his younger brother Lord Benjen, who had taken his place in the aftermath of the war against the Targaryens. Littlefinger was wise, or else deliberately acting intimate, like family, to use the title he so achingly had held before, and still nominally did, albeit only in name and buried potential, the title that should have passed to him had the entire realm's burden not landed on his shoulders instead, by the grace of Jaime Lannister on that fateful day all those years ago. Now that title sat with Benjen and the disgraced Ser Jaime's sister, the beautiful golden-haired lioness from The Rock, Cersei Stark, née Lannister.
It was folly, in truth, both the way that the seat had been divided up among the two brothers and the way in which Lord Eddard – no, King Eddard, he had to remind himself once again after Littlefinger's words – still acted around the topic of the Targaryens. They, the true living heirs to the Iron Throne of Westeros, were his biggest weakness, and everyone knew it. For some reason Ned seemed to hold some sort of deep, more than precarious regard for them both, especially the girl, Princess Daenerys, and watched over them almost like a sort of father from afar. He supposed that it was natural, since he was the father of all the realm, and the one ultimately and intimately responsible for their survival, but it seemed simply very strange indeed to think that the man who had pardoned them from certain death like the fate of their cousins would be the one to talk so well about them at every turn of mention that he in doing so threatened the stability of his own family's rule.
Yoren grumbled inside, and let his thoughts go wandering, the way they always did. He would think about a woman, or the girl he knew the night before, as he made his way along the long striding corridors of the Red Keep, smaller than Winterfell by a lot but still a large enough castle to be an experience on patrol, and then he would think upon all the present dangers which threatened his lord, his friend, his liege and king.
Everyone knew that Lord Monterys Velaryon was close with Prince Viserys Targaryen, having married his [daughter/niece/[ ]] off to him some four years past. He was one of the most important people who might be thought to still hold strong loyalties to House Targaryen, no matter the fact that he had lent his ships to help catch them all those years ago. Lord Stannis had promised on behalf of Lord Eddard that the children would be spared, and House Velaryon had done their duty to the new conquering army of Ned and Robert in due course. The snake Littlefinger suddenly wanting some ill business with his already small fleet of ships did not bode well.
The king reached the hall and came in to the large dining room of the castle. The queen and the children were already awaiting them there, and the servants were putting up plates of bread, cheese, flagons of ale, hardbread, fine peppered sausages, honeyed leeks and figs as the first course.
"My lady", said the king and bent down slightly at Queen Catelyn's hand, kissing her fingers with duitful tenderness.
"My love", replied the Queen and looked up to her husband. "You look tired. Are you well?"
"Am I ever truly feeling well down here?" said the king, sighed, walked away to his chair and sat down. Sansa and Arya sat fighting and fidgeting with each other as always, Willam was picking through his cheese with his fork already and Robb was waiting politely for his father's leave to eat, which the king gave, and then started on the bread and ale.
"We have roast pig for supper", the queen said.
"Roast pig... Robert always likes a good pig", said the king, seeminngly tugging at old fleeting memories from simpler times. He stopped himself. "Where is Septa Mordane?"
"She is away in Sansa's chamber just now, to fetch a book for Sansa."
"A book? We are to eat supper, are we not?", the king said but stopped himself yet again. "Wait, do not tell me. My head is like a spider's web already." He grasped his forehead with his right hand and closed his eyes.
"Take ease, my lord husband. We are all here together now. The council meeting is over. Supper is on its way." Lady Catelyn reached over with her hand across the table with loving eyes, though fifteen feet of wooden table and embroidered Stark table cloth still separated them from each others' touch.
They ate of the bread, cheeses and figs and sausages and much else, and the king took a large swallow of ale the first thing he did. The children soon became quiet and orderly with the food in their royal mouths. The servants brought over more cheeses, and the king's squire, the young Blackwood, held his horn of ale for him from next to his seat, and then it was time for the main course. Two servants rolled in a large roast pig, all dark golden reddish brown, like caramel or burned brownish butter, thought Yoren. It was all great food of the finest quality, but it was not for him. Not now, while he was on duty. He would usually eat with his sworn brothers in their hall once or twice a day, at the end of his shift and just before the next one, but there they would also get courses of almost the same fine regard. Ser Barristan had once ordered a large roast swan clad in honey, butter and rosemary, clad in a tiny suit of armor and with the white wing feathers still intact, for the aptly named Ser Balon Swann for his twentieth name day. He had heard that Barristan himself had gotten a cake with wheat selmies in it by Ser Arthur Dayne, and that was where it had all begun many years ago. Arys Oakhart had received an acorn and honey pie full of sweets and decorated with pastry oaken leaves. Yoren wondered in his still mind whether he would one day get a casserow with a knight's glove floating in it for his.
The king ate properly, efficiently and silently, as did they all, with the possible exception of Arya, who was fond of throwing her food at her older sister. Right now she was considering the projectile journey of a single large mushy green pea towards Sansa's white cheek, and acted upon it. The mushy pea hit its target on poor Sansa's face, and then later down onto her light blue-grey dress, which made the young princess scream in horror at the farce.
"Arya!" Lady Sansa was horrified. Arya only laughed, and tilted her head back in thrilling excitement. Queen Catelyn was quick on her feet and lifted her younger daughter up with a stern face and even sterner, coldly grasping hands.
"That is it. Now you will go to your room, Arya! You will stay there all night. As punishment for your beastly behaviour towards your sister."
"But Mother!" cried Arya, as she struggled with her tiny nine-year-old frame to break free from her mother the queen's hold. "I haven't even tasted the dessert yet!"
"No, that is right. And now, after you did that to your poor sister, you won't. Take note of it.", said Queen Catelyn, and dragged the screaming Arya into the hands of two chamermaids who took care of her.
"Do you not think that a bit too harsh, my lady?" said Ned, lifting his face from his mug of ale and brushing a frothful of ale from the corners of his dark bearded mouth with the side of his hand.
"Not at all. You coddle her far more than she deserves at her age", said the queen. "If she is to ever grow up into a princess of the South, she will need more tutoring, and rules, not the sort of wild wolf manners that comes from the blood of your family. By the Seven, my dearest lord husband... Take my word. It is the Stark blood in her that is responsible, I can promise you that, not my own calmly flowing Tully."
The king chuckled a bit at that. Arya was indeed the one of all their children who took after her Stark father the most, though the slightly younger Willam was a close second. Robb was a Stark in name and the laws of men, and perhaps also in his heart, but a Tully in his face and hair, with his mother's and uncle's auburn hair, slight freckles and blue eyes. There were even some who whispered that he had not been sired by the king at all, but rather by either [Ser Marq Piper] or by Lord Edmure, Catelyn's own brother. But such talk was merely the vile talk of the poor bastards in Flea Bottom and the like, not taken seriously by anyone higher than that. Anyone who had met the young crown prince could still see that he was his father's son in his eyes, most of all when he was contemplative mood or coldly angry, which he sometimes was. He had much kindness in him, but even more severity, from his father and the life he had been forced to lead.
"I would say the opposite, my lady", he replied. "Perhaps she would be better for it if she were to see Winterfell again with her own eyes. Perhaps all the children would. I know for a fact that Robb would benefit from it, if he is to rule as I have. He will not gain many lessons of true governship of his people here in the capital."
"Are we still talking of this? What has your brother Benjen said?" The queen was clearly not amused. She did not like to think of the possibility of going north, whether it was for the North and the unruly Stark blood itself, or for the long journey it would mean. She was content in the capital, as she had been ever since Ned took the throne and she had moved in with him in the Red Keep only a time of two or three moons after his final return from Winterfell after the long end of the war, and had only ever brought the children to her own home of Riverrun twice in their fourteen years of marriage.
"Benjen has said that we would be welcome at any time. Winterfell will always have a place for us.", the king replied.
"Are you sure that Lady Cersei would not mind, then? It would mean a terrible upkeep to have and to hold accomodations for the entire court, I'm sure. And I do not think that the children would be on their best behaviour, if set loose in that particular manner."
Ned began feeling annoyed at that, and took to word.
"It would ge good for them to meet their cousins. And I have not met Benjen in far too long. Blood should mean more than to see each other only once in a generation. To tell you the truth, my lady, I have been away down south here for too long already. I have been meaning for quite a while to return somehow..."
His mind trailed off, and his look became lost with aching longing, the longing of the red weirwood trees and the cold northern wind, as it gazed out of the window towards the warm yet greying sky above the castle walls outside. Somewhere out there, far to the north, awaited his homeland, and he thought about it more often than he would care to ever admit to her, Yoren knew.
"Indeed you are born and brought up at Winterfell, my love. But you have also been fostered at the Vale. And I can only be certain that Lady Cersei will have fostered her children into Lannisters, to honour her father Lord Tywin's legacy. If Arya were to meet them I am sure that she would be horrified by her manners, and our standing would scoop lower than it already is."
"Our standing is fine, my lady. I am the king and you are the queen. I am sure Benjen and Lady Cersei will be glad for all of us to come. It can get lonely up in the North, just as it can down here, and I am sure that they would appreciate a visit, the Lady Cersei not the least."
"If you say so, Your Grace", the queen said, and took another cup of wine to numb her qualms about the situation. The king still stared out of the window, and Yoren stood waiting without knowing where to put his gaze. He wanted to follow the king's out towards the windows, but he knew with the knowledge almost bored into his back by Ser Barristan's many teachings that a Kingsguard should always stand still when at his post, irrespective of what his surroundings did, so long as there was not possibility of a threat nearby. The most threatening thing in the room, as it so happened, was at the moment Queen Catelyn's tiny, almost invisible yet present furrow between her eyebrows, threatening as the feelings of all noble and royal ladies did, to somehow grow slowly but surely over time into something far greater of rage and blood and grief, but Yoren knew his place, and so he did not move to lighten her mood. He was not even allowed to talk to her at dinner, to try and lighten her sense of worries at going to the dreaded far away, cold North. The king will sort it, he told himself.
And so he finally, at long last allowed himself to dab just slightly at his neck with his rosewater swatch of cloth, in the summer evening heat. I pray tomorrow will be a cooler day, with less sun, he thought quietly to himself.