A.N.: The real drama starts to unfold…
Valyrian Steel
58
Twice-Damned
Before answering the knock that echoed on the solar door, Sansa glanced at Larra, whose eyes were nearly crossed with exhaustion, following a path through the intricate ledgers brought to them by their newly-appointed steward, a Dustin. She set down her quill and rubbed her eyes, sitting back in her chair and hiding a grimace at the twinge she felt in her back. Her pelvis was starting to bother her, only sometimes – when she was idle for too long.
"Come in," Sansa called. Jon and Theon, murmuring quietly with Lord Royce, Bran, the Greatjon, Lord Lonmouth and Lord Tyrion around the model of Winterfell by the hearth, ignored the sound completely. The door to the solar opened quietly and the handsome brown-eyed sentry dipped an inexpert but earnest bow at Larra and Sansa.
"M'ladies, 'tis Lady Missandei," he said apologetically. The warm-skinned beauty appeared, looking slender in fur-trimmed leathers. She had adapted her unsuitable Essosi clothing, the same way the Stormlords' wives were – with lots of fur, embroidered shawls, felted and embroidered collars, gloves and fur-lined boots.
"Good morrow, Missandei," Larra said, and the translator dipped a curtsy as unpractised as their sentry's bow. Missandei had been taught to bow, to expose the back of her neck to her betters that they may choose whether to be merciful.
"Lady Stark," Missandei said, smiling softly. "Lady Larra." Her smile faded uncomfortably as she glanced at the men gathered around the hearth, still muttering low to themselves, arguing about strategy. "I… I had hoped to ask a moment of your time, whenever it may be spared."
"You can have it now," Larra said. "Come and sit. You look cold."
"I never knew how quickly you could forget what warmth was," Missandei said, her dark eyes shining. Larra grunted softly and frowned over at the men now arguing a little louder about strategy.
"My lords," Larra said gently, "perhaps it would be advisable to test your strategies outside, rather than argue them in here."
"We apologise for the disturbance, Lady Larra," Lord Royce said, bowing his head gallantly. Larra saw the look Missandei cast Jon as he suggested to the others that they take a walk around the curtain-wall.
"Jon…stay awhile," Bran said, as he wheeled his chair toward the fire. "Lady Missandei, please join me by the fire."
"Thank you, my lord," Missandei said courteously. She kept her gaze lowered to the worn flagstones as the man stomped past, already bickering about their conflicting strategies. Larra pinched her eyes.
"We need to ensure, Jon, that we have as many backup strategies in place as possible, that we all know and can implement, no matter where we are or where we end up," Larra said, glancing at her twin. Jon, glowering at the model of Winterfell, nodded distractedly.
"What is it you wish to speak to us about, Lady Missandei?" Sansa prompted gently, her eyes glowing like sapphires in the sunlight spearing through the diamond-paned windows. Lady Missandei flicked her gaze anxiously at Jon before clearing her throat delicately.
"I… I have come to speak to you of Her Grace – I wish to speak to you of Lady Targaryen," Missandei said, correcting herself.
"We have not seen her for weeks now," Sansa said. "Not even Larra and Bran, and she seemed to have so enjoyed her time with them."
"Indeed," Missandei said. "Lady Targaryen was for many weeks filled with enthusiasm to learn about her distant family… However, recently, her rejection as sovereign in Dragons' Bay weighs ever on her mind." Larra resisted the urge to glance at Sansa.
"We have had sparse updates from Essos," Larra told Missandei. "But we know that Meereen is currently fighting a bloody civil war."
"That is…" Lady Missandei sighed softly. "It is good that the Meereenese people shall decide for themselves who rules them."
"It seems your lady does not share your sentiments," Larra said. "She has taken to sulking in her chamber."
"I wished to speak with you on another matter," Missandei said, growing more and more uncomfortable. Sansa glanced at Larra.
"What is it?" she prompted gently.
Larra grunted and kicked aside the dented shield, scowling.
"Keep your shield up unless you wish to have your head rung like a bell!" she panted, her breath pluming around her, sweat tickling her throat. Her opponent, a young squire from the Vale, looked abashedly around him. Dotted around the yard were stern-faced warriors who muttered amongst each other, watching them closely.
"Pick up your shield!" she grunted, and though the lad picked his shield up off the sludge-strewn ground, he did not raise it to defend himself.
Not again, she thought angrily.
This was the fifth person to refuse her spar with her in the last hour.
"'Pologies, m'lady," he stammered, his gaze flicking to her torso. To her belly. The midwives said she had "popped". Whether it was because she now had knowledge of her pregnancy or because she was farther along, Larra did not know, but either way, in the last week her belly had become pronounced. News had spread through the castle like wildfire. She could not move about the castle for people congratulating her, wishing her well, praying to the gods for a healthy and speedy delivery. They took her impending motherhood as a symbol of Northern strength: the Starks had returned, and were strong – and were starting to reproduce.
The first Stark child of its generation…she had heard some already calling her unborn babe the heir of the North, the future king – or queen.
They seemed to adore the idea that it was Larra's child that would inherit. Their fierce she-wolf, who had conquered not only the True North but a dragon.
It upset Larra more than anything, made her anxious to hear such things. No small amount of horror accompanied thoughts about this child's future – whether it would have one at all, what it would look like. How long until the Night King marched his armies south?
Even if the birth was easy, and swift, and they both came out of it healthy and strong, what would this child's life be like – short, and brutal?
Children…made everything harder. More terrifying.
More and more, her anxiousness about impending childbirth and her dread of the Night King's coming gave her sleepless nights. Not even Gendry's intense lovemaking could exhaust her enough to sleep dreamlessly now. The only thing that soothed her was drifting off with her hand curled around Dark Sister's hilt.
And less and less was she able to find anyone willing to spar with her, to keep her training fresh, to keep her agile and quick on her feet despite her growing belly. She was not large, and the midwives said this had everything to do with her being slender as a whip to begin with: her belly was elegant, Sansa said.
Her belly was small and neat.
Not like Lady Targaryen's.
The tiny young-woman had grown almost as round as she was tall, the illusion not aided by the heavy quilts and furs she swathed her body in, trying to conceal what her mind denied.
Fury and grief fizzled through her veins, and she glared at the squire, jerking her chin in silent dismissal. She was panting from exertion but also from anger – and confusion. Devastation for Jon.
Missandei's words echoed through her head.
"Her Gr- Lady Targaryen is heavy with child," Missandei had said softly. Jon had frozen. Sansa's eyebrows had risen; Larra stared at Missandei, willing her to keep speaking, to drown out the rushing noise roaring in her ears. "She has always insisted that she can bear no children yet she has not bled in months, not since Dragonstone. She sleeps ill, and has queer dreams. She is getting large. I asked the maesters to examine her for fear she has a tumour… They confirmed she is with child."
"And what do you expect us to do about it?" Sansa had asked coolly.
"Lady Targaryen refuses to even speak on the matter," Missandei said apologetically. "She has forbidden me from doing so."
"Yet you are here," Larra had frowned. "Why?"
Lady Missandei had glanced at her, her brown eyes dipping to Larra's small belly. Larra had frowned. Oh.
"I do not know why she is frightened," Missandei had said, "but Lady Targaryen is… I worry for her health – and that of her child."
"Why?" Sansa had asked quickly. Jon was staring at Missandei, his expression stark. Larra had glanced at her brother, knowing him well enough to know that he was panicking, no matter how well he hid it.
"She refuses to believe she is with child and ignores our pleas to take care of herself. She will not eat for fear of getting fatter," Missandei had said. "Lady Targaryen ordered special stays to be made, sewn with laces tightened to make her waist smaller. She even sleeps with them on, convinced she can force herself to be slender."
"What is it you wish us to do about this?" Larra had asked, frowning at Missandei.
Missandei glanced apologetically at her. "Lady Targaryen has…been in the habit of taking advice from no-one for far too long to listen to her servants. But I believe you may be able to get through to her. She respects you."
She respects you.
Those words ricocheted through her head, making her scowl, grinding her teeth, as she swung her sword idly from one hand, her wrist loose. She was itching for a fight – desperate for any way to rid her body of this feeling, this itchy, uncomfortable, too-big feeling scraping at her insides.
Daenerys Targaryen had no respect for anyone but herself.
She had certainly had no respect for Jon the night she had conceived his child.
And it was Jon's child.
They all knew it. Even Missandei.
They all knew that at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, when Daenerys had invited herself to Jon's bed, she had taken him as she desired. And she had conceived, against Jon's will.
Yet Daenerys Targaryen had convinced herself that she was barren – because she had taken a witch's warning as prophecy. Absolutely refused to believe she was with child – no matter how fiercely the child in her belly kicked, making her gasp, even as she fiercely denied to Larra that she was expecting.
Daenerys Targaryen carried Jon's child in her belly.
Worse, than that – worse than the fact she carried Jon's bastard in her belly – worse than the fact that Jon's child had been conceived during Daenerys' assault of Jon – was that she refused to acknowledge it.
Larra had consulted with the maesters, asking what harm the child may be suffering due to its mother's negligence.
She had consulted with Gendry about when specifically they had returned to Eastwatch. How far along Daenerys Targaryen was. She was due earlier than Larra, certainly – by at least a month.
That poor child had as little as a moon-turn left before it would be brought forth into a world where its mother had conceived it during the rape of its father, and its own mother denied its very existence.
The unfairness of it was bitter on Larra's tongue and her eyes smarted. One thing about her own pregnancy was that she had noticed how changeable her emotions were. One moment she could be calm and delighted, the next filled with dread, only to laugh until tears ran down her face – or fury consumed her, so fierce that she needed to exhaust herself with training.
There was no opportunity to talk to Jon: he was consumed by guilt, shame and dread. Shame for the assault he had endured; dread for the life this child would face; guilt that he could not bring himself to do anything about it. He could not face Lady Targaryen.
And Larra…she was so angry she could have hit her. Furious about Jon's assault, furious that Lady Targaryen denied his child – was potentially harming his child as it grew inside her. The child grew inside her; how could she…? Larra frowned and reached down, grimacing as she rubbed her belly where it itched, the skin stretching to accommodate her child's growth. She felt her child, more active now that she was further along but also because Larra knew what she was actually feeling – her child, thriving, growing. She felt it kick, felt its hiccoughs, felt it squirming after each meal as if it was as revivified by a dish of hot stew or soup as she was. In the evenings, the babe was calm, because she was calm; the moment she opened her eyes, it started to squirm. The babe was active all through the day but especially after meals. The children were intrigued, watching her belly move beneath the fabric of her dress, as her babe stretched and kicked. Calanthe was not impressed: the others were filled with anticipation, though Narcisa's was somewhat more reserved. Aware, perhaps, that pregnancy was the most dangerous time in a woman's life.
There were times Larra forgot that the Lannister girls had ever belonged with anyone else. They were so much a part of her life, and they had built a life for the girls here, that Larra sometimes forgot that they had had lives before they arrived at Winterfell, that they had families. She sometimes wondered what the girls had experienced before life at Winterfell. Still mute, the lovely Crisantha loved nothing more than cuddling up with Larra, and Larra couldn't help wonder why she was calmed by her belly. Narcisa had told her that Crisantha was the only girl in her family but that she had had many brothers – most of them younger.
It explained why Crisantha was soothed by sitting with her: it reminded her…of sitting with her mother.
Small wonder Larra had had to have it spelled out for her: she had had no mother, after all.
Just as her niece or nephew would not.
She was filled with dread for the babe now, growing inside the womb of a woman not just hostile to its existence but denying it could exist at all. And she was filled with sadness for the life the child might endure, an unwanted bastard. To Lady Targaryen, the child was, well, proof that everything she had built herself up to believe was based on a lie she had convinced herself was the truth. To Jon, the child would always be a reminder of Eastwatch, of the imbalance of power, the advantage Lady Targaryen had held over him, taking what she wanted from him. She had taken so much more than they realised. She had taken a child from him.
Jon's worst fear – to father a bastard. To condemn an innocent to the life he and Larra had been forced to endure.
His poor child had been twice-damned the moment it was conceived.
She rubbed her face, snarling in irritation and wishing Rhaegal was nearby to take her to the skies. Nothing cleared her head quite like the incomparable views she experienced from Rhaegal's back.
"Give yourself rest, Larra," someone grunted, and she glanced around to see Gilly, with Little Sam clutching her skirts as she doled out soup for ancient spear-wives who had been teaching drills to young squires.
"If I stop training now, it will make it all the harder to go back to it after," Larra said, grumpy and agitated. She needed to go flying. She needed to hit something. She was denied flight; someone would train with her. And yet, more and more, the men refused to train with her. She carried the heir to the North; they would not risk her. And she was furious. "And that is one less sword against the Night King's army… If I have to make a choice between dying so that my child will live, and sitting safely inside when one extra sword could make all the difference…I am going to fight… Training is keeping me healthy. It is keeping me sane." Gilly watched her carefully, as Larra's voice grew low and soft. Frightened. "I know the Night King is coming. Until he is here, this is all I can do to stop the feeling of complete terror and hopelessness from consuming me."
She hadn't seen Darkstar, sparring with some of the Umber and Dustin men. Not until he carried a bowl of soup over to her, offering it to her. She could smell the leek and potato wafting on the sharp breeze.
Larra gave the bowl of soup a dubious glance, frowning. Why was he bringing her food?
"Eat, lady," he said softly, his exotic accent warming the air between them. "You are snarling and scaring the men."
"Am I?" Larra grumbled.
"They displease you and they know it," Darkstar said. Larra pulled a face. "They would rather take your displeasure than take the risk of hurting you."
"Bold of them to assume they'd be able to get past my blade," Larra sniffed, and Darkstar's beautiful lips twitched.
"Indeed," he sighed. She accepted the soup with a quiet word of thanks and took her time, savouring each mouthful. It was thick and creamy, scalding her throat on the way down; she could feel it in her belly. After a long moment, Darkstar punted the tip of her boot with his own. She looked up, an eyebrow raised. His expression was intense, his eyes deeply violet. "I will train with you."
"You will?"
"Mm."
"You do not share the others' concerns?" Larra asked, her tone nettled.
Darkstar smirked. "I trust that I have enough skill with a blade, lady, to avoid such a large target – trim as your lovely little belly is," he said. Larra perked up. Everyone else refused to spar with her for fear of hurting her.
She frowned. "Why?"
"Why do I trust – "
"Why do you want to train with me, when all others fear the babe in my belly?" Larra asked.
Darkstar's eyes shone. "I have been at Winterfell and observed you long enough to know that you spend all of your time taking care of everyone else. If this is how I may take care of you, my lady, then so be it."
"Why would you care to take care of me?" Darkstar gives her an enigmatic smile.
"I've taken a shine to you."
"I didn't know dark stars could shine."
"Oh, it's a rare thing," Darkstar smirked. "I usually despise everyone I meet."
"I know," Larra rolled her eyes. "You hate Gendry."
"I thought I did. I believed I should," Darkstar nodded. He shrugged. "I gave it up very quickly; it was no use. He is a very decent man. I would go so far as to say one of the best I have ever met. He's afraid to lose you. That's a good thing. It means he appreciates just how precious you are."
Every day that it was fine, Larra met Darkstar in the yard. They continued to spar: he was excellent. Not just with a sword but with adapting her training to her needs. She had to learn to hold her sword a little differently, to accommodate her belly. But, as pregnant spear-wives amongst the Free Folk could attest, there was nothing stopping her fighting. She just had to take care not to fall; Darkstar was always cautious never to land a blow to her belly. But the opportunities to do so became fewer the longer they trained together. Darkstar was an exceptional swordsman and a gifted trainer: Larra not only adapted to fighting whilst pregnant but actually improved.
And she proved to anyone watching that though she was pregnant, that was not all she was. By necessity she had been forced to become a warrior; to support Sansa and Jon, she had become a leader.
It was the leader part that caused the arguments with Gendry.
For weeks, Larra had been training daily with Darkstar. It never interfered with her other duties. But the implication – that when the time came, Larra would be ready to fight – was what upset a lot of people. The idea that she would put herself – and her child – in harm's way.
Gendry had scowled at the sight of a bruise on her shoulder, where Darkstar had landed a blow. It was mottled purplish-black, the edges tinged with green.
Somehow, his concern had turned to ire. It had turned to an argument.
"Would we be arguing over whether I should be fighting if I wasn't pregnant?" Larra burst angrily.
"Yes!" Gendry fumed.
"Why?"
"Many reasons. You rule the North. Sansa is learning how to rule from your example. Jon…it's as if you've brought him back to life," Gendry said heatedly. "Arya is gentler than I have ever known her because she feels safe with you. And you're not just a mother to that little one…you're a mother to all the others. Ragnar and Neva and Briar and Calanthe and –"
"I am not their mother," Larra interrupted quietly.
"Yes, you are. Think I haven't heard Leona calling you 'Mummy'? And you don't correct her – because you don't know what to say," Gendry said, his face softening, his anger drifting away, replaced with sorrow. "With or without this baby, there are plenty of people who will be devastated to lose you."
"I can't. I can't sit back and do nothing, waiting," Larra said, her eyes stinging. "I did that for far too long and it almost killed me."
"I know. And I can't sit inside knowing you're out there commanding armies trying to save us." Gendry sighed and nodded when her eyes widened. "I know – you wanted me to stay behind because of my skill… I came to Winterfell for the same reason you refuse to sit by while others die to protect you. We're both fighters… I'm sorry I asked you to change who you are out of fear of losing you. You wouldn't be the woman I love and respect if you refused to fight… Whatever comes, we'll face it together, side-by-side."
She had no use for her anger; she let it melt away. When he held out his hand to her, a promise, she accepted it. "Always."
He gathered her up, sighing heavily as he rested his cheek on the top of her head, arms wrapped around her. "I love you."
"I know."
A.N.: The next few chapters will be shorter, I think, because I'm trying to get us places and we've got lots to get through.