A.N.: Thank you so much for the reviews – I really appreciate them! This will be the last chapter of this story – the first in the Valyrian Steel series. The sequel will be called Dragons' Daughter.
Valyrian Steel
65
Dawn
Rich laughter echoed on the air with the clatter and resounding clang of hammer and tongs, the grunts and shouts of labourers toiling to rebuild. The joyous birdsong of the godswood created a beautiful harmony. Frost glittered in the sunlight, still clinging to the shattered stone of the broken curtain-walls but elsewhere, where the repairs had long since been underway, seams of obsidian fused the stone. They glowed fiery purple and blue and fuchsia as the obsidian absorbed the sun's heat. Rivers of fire that, instead of eroding the stone, bound it and made it stronger than ever.
The obsidian weapons without those to wield them had been melted down once again, used in place of grout and pointing. Every time someone looked at the northern curtain-walls, they would see seams of obsidian: there would be no forgetting the Battle for the Dawn. Obsidian that had once defended Winterfell now repaired the damage it had sustained and made it stronger than ever.
It had been Gendry's idea, inspired both by the way Northerners used the recourses available to them and by the Qartheen method of piecing together damaged valuables by using precious metals to bind them, adding more value while respecting the object's history rather than masking it, which he had seen demonstrated only twice in a Qartheen jeweller's atelier in King's Landing. The obsidian would forever remain part of Winterfell, part of its history.
The more Gendry had worked with it, the more he had learned and experimented with obsidian, thanks in large part to Brandon sharing his knowledge. Gendry was overseeing the creation and construction of the obsidian gateposts and the gates. The gates themselves were to be made from weirwood, from wood that had fallen from the great heart-trees across the North during storms, saved for the special use of House Stark, weirwood being more precious even than the Goldenheart of the Summer Isles due to its rarity and its continued association with the Old Gods.
Aella squirmed against her chest and Larra glanced down to assess whether she was awaking hungry and likely to fuss, or simply wriggling in her sleep. When she had recovered from her exhaustion and finally left her and Gendry's chamber, Tisseia had taught Larra how to 'wear' her babies the way Essosi slaves did, using swathes of linen knotted intricately, carefully binding the babies to her in their swaddling to prevent hip dysplasia, but allowing them to know her warmth and her scent and the beat of her heart.
She had rarely put her babies down since the Battle had ended.
Larra had refused to let Nestor Maegos tend to her until she had nursed Arthur. And, in her exhaustion bordering delirium, when Aella had fussed Larra had brought Aella to her other breast without thought. She produced more than enough milk to sustain the two babies and saw no distinction – they were both her children. She could provide for Aella as she could Arthur and did so. The Battle had shown them all what was important: to Larra, there was no distinction between Arthur and Aella. They were both hers.
Aella yawned widely, her fine dark eyelashes fluttering open as she squirmed. With a faint sigh she settled, though Larra saw the light sparkling off Aella's open eyes. They had paled since her birth and were now an incredible lilac colour, delicate as a winter dawn yet vibrant, eye-catching in their purity.
In the first days and weeks after the Battle, they had slept and healed and Larra had nursed the babies. Gendry burped them: he was the only one who could settle an uncomfortable Aella after she had nursed, to her former wet-nurse's consternation. Their medicine after the shock and traumas of the Battle was lots of sleep, cuddles with the babies during intermittent feedings, which became fewer and fewer throughout the night as the babies grew bigger and stronger. Aella remained small, which Nestor Maegos said had everything to do with the circumstances of her development in the womb and her trying birth. Arthur grew long, his hair dark and his eyes…his eyes changed to the same deep, rich amethyst as his mother's. Aella was the fussier of the two, and weeks after Arthur slept through the night, Aella still whimpered and cried every other hour. As soon as she was cradled in Gendry's arms, she was content, cooing and smiling. Aella had learned to smile: it was her favourite thing to do: she had taught it to Arthur as they cuddled together in their shared cradle.
Aella's smiles and Arthur's coos soothed Gendry when he tore himself from nightmares: wights haunted his dreams. It calmed him to cuddle Aella and Arthur and take them on slow walks to and from the solar, then the nursery and the ramparts as his leg healed. Nestor encouraged him to exercise his legs, getting out into the sunlight. Day by day, Gendry physically recovered: he still woke nearly every night, gripped by the terror of his nightmares. He had to reassure himself that they were all alive and safe, often stalking to the nursery just to check on Cade, Neva, Briar and the Lannister girls.
Larra suffered no such terror: she told Gendry she had lived with it for far too long. She had defeated the monsters of her nightmares. They had no power over her.
It was not dread of the Night King's armies that gave her sleepless nights now.
Dread of people made her restless.
Despite a broken arm, Larra had remained mobile: she was now frustrated and counting down the days until Nestor would assess her broken arm and remove the cast around it, for it had been weeks since she had allowed it to deter her from doing what she had always done. Until then, she made do, as she always had, finding ways to keep going around the annoyance of the cast. After two weeks and many rich broths and honeyed herb teas to soothe her throat and coax her voice to return, she could communicate verbally again, speaking with the Free Folk and the surviving Dothraki and Unsullied and to her family.
Many of those who had commanded had also lost their voices, temporarily. It was a common side-effect of spending hours bellowing orders across a castle. The surviving commanders communicated mostly in grunts and exasperated huffs as they were tended to by Nestor Maegos' small army of apprentices, who had earned the right to call themselves surgeons with their dedication and practical display of their new skills in the days immediately after the Battle.
They had triaged everyone still living, treating the most obviously injured first. After peering closely at her face, dreading a fractured cheekbone and potentially a broken eye-socket, Arya had to be carried into the castle on a stretcher. Ser Gerold Dayne, while still conscious, was just as concerning to Nestor Maegos, due to the fact that despite his obsidian-encrusted armour, Darkstar had sustained a wound from his left shoulder to his right hip, which had bled freely. Darkstar's hand had shaken as he had waved the surgeon away. One of Larra's few vivid recollections from the sudden end to the Battle was giving Darkstar a raspy, squeaking, barely-audible order to let Nestor help, and the Dornish knight had peered at her through bleary eyes then given in, collapsing against the heart-tree, silently weeping either with relief or pain or a combination of both. The Battle was over: he no longer had to remain on his guard. If he wished to live, he would allow the surgeon to do his work.
There was nothing to be done for Ser Rey Musgood's lost eye, though. Gendry's inner-thigh had been slashed badly and required cleaning and many sutures but Nestor remained highly positive: Gendry's femoral artery had not been severed, or he would have bled out in moments.
As he had healed, Gendry had chastised himself for forgetting Yoren's words of wisdom the day Goldcloaks had accosted them on the Kingsroad: "It's a funny thing; people worry so much about their throats that they forget about what's down low."
Gendry had forgotten but unlike the fierce, loyal, wise, unpolished Yoren, he had lived.
He had lived because of Yoren: as had Arya, who troubled Nestor Maegos due to her inability to rest. Larra had to be very strict with Arya in the days after the Battle, ordering her to rest: it was too ingrained in Arya to distrust being able to lie down and sleep restfully, safe and sound. Only Bran sitting by her side by the hour settled her, and even then she woke as often as Gendry, tearing herself from dreams, until Nestor had had to resort to dosing her with milk of the poppy to allow her body to heal while she rested. She was irascible when she woke from her drug-addled sleeps, furious that she had allowed herself to remain vulnerable for so long. But her fury – and the mottled greenish-yellow of her bruises across her face, no longer swollen to twice its normal size – spoke of her continued recovery and growing strength. Bran withstood the worst of her ire with a gentle smile.
Arya's and Darkstar's were the worst injuries to have been sustained by those who survived the godswood, followed closely by Gendry and Ser Jaime, though theirs were by no means the most harrowing injuries suffered by any of the survivors of the Battle. Lord Randyll had received a head-wound and Hoster Blackwood a nick to his clavicle that Nestor had had to set and bind. Nestor reassured Hoster that he was young and would heal swiftly and likely the bone would set stronger than it had been before: but he cautioned Hoster against sustained archery practise for a good long while. Hoster Blackwood had assured the surgeon that he would restrict himself to books.
Prised from Ser Brienne's prone body, something about his own wound made Ser Jaime laugh almost hysterically. Later, they learned that he had taken a wound in the exact same place that, years ago, Ned Stark had sustained his wound in a skirmish with Ser Jaime and Lannister men in the streets of King's Landing.
As the warriors had lingered between life and death, healing and sleeping deeply, it was Lady Sansa Stark who took charge. She had proved that she was adaptable, level-headed, forward-thinking, pragmatic and decisive. She had proved just how much she had learned from her older sister.
Larra had fought because she could not bear the idea of being the last one left.
She had fought knowing that the North was left in capable hands.
She had gone to her death appreciating that her son would be King after Sansa.
But she had survived.
Larra had always dreaded being superfluous – having no place. Not being needed. Being cast out of the castle as unnecessary.
And in many ways, had she been conscious of more than her pain and her need to nurse her babies and reassure the children, Larra would have realised that surviving had proved her worst fears far sooner than she did. And the wound may have been more devastating, its effects longer-lasting and embittering.
Because of the circumstances, Larra did not feel anger or bitterness or grief but pride and relief and a sense of calm that she had done her job and could leave Sansa to do hers.
Still, it niggled at her in the quiet moments when the babies were settled and Gendry slept soundly beside her. Sansa had proven herself a more than capable leader. She had organised the aftermath of the Battle largely alone but following plans laid out by Larra: deploying the healers and surgeons; ordering the kitchens to be busy with restorative soups and stews; sending the skilled craftsmen out to assess the damage and begin preparations to start repairing them. Sansa had made herself the first authority at Winterfell through sheer necessity. Even the King had been bedbound with more injuries than even he had realised he sustained: a broken leg, fractured ribs, a head-wound and internal bleeding that Nestor had leeched before discussing with Sansa her opinions on allowing him to investigate the bleed.
Nestor had opened Jon up, using clamps and all sorts of equipment he had designed himself, and found the source of Jon's bleeding, stitched him up with sutures, closed up the precise, clean wound, and monitored him by the hour to ensure no rot set in. Jon's bleeding had stopped. Nestor Maegos had saved Jon's life. Sansa had come to Larra's chamber, wild-eyed, bursting into tears as she threw her head in Larra's lap, overwhelmed with relief that she had made the right decision to allow Nestor to operate on Jon. It ruffled the maesters – the "grey rats", as Lady Dustin called them uncharitably, though Larra was starting to notice that there was something obscure in the maesters' self-righteous fury about advances in knowledge, skills and practices that did not align with the teachings of the Citadel.
It was as if they feared progress.
They hissed and muttered amongst themselves whenever they spied Nestor Maegos. There were exceptions, a few of them, those men who respected knowledge and bettering their understanding of things, who remained curious and hungry to learn despite their time in the Citadel, which Samwell Tarly reported was "mind-numbing drudgery" – and from someone who had idolised the Citadel all his life, that said everything Larra needed to know about the institution of the Citadel.
The maesters had been up in arms and the people sceptical when Larra had announced her support for Nestor Maegos' programme to apprentice surgeons in the Essosi way: in the days after the battle, the survivors – and their families – praised Larra's foresight. There were simply too many injured, and the few maesters were under-trained and overwhelmed to deal with them.
There was a great difference between castle-based maesters and battlefield surgeons: Nestor had taught them what it was. Surgeons needed to be swift, decisive, clear-headed, creative, intuitive, unflappable and calm, compassionate but firm with unparalleled knowledge of human anatomy, able to assess any injury and its unseen consequences and complications. Nestor relied on knowledge of the human body and how it worked not obscure remedies that were just horrendous concoctions of ingredients that were, in isolation, absolutely vile and unlikely to do anything but hasten death.
In ages to come, people would look back at the Battle for the Dawn as the specific event during which maesters' influence and power in the North, specifically, fractured, heralding the dwindling influence of maesters in general throughout Westeros: it was surgeons who came into prominence as masters of the discipline of medicine, healing and life-saving medical procedures championed by Nestor Maegos. And it was Larra who had championed the first surgeon.
After going about her daily visits to those still recovering from their injuries, Larra had come outside for fresh air and to enjoy the sunshine while it lasted, keen to see the moors for herself after the first snowfall since the Battle. All around Winterfell, the moors had turned pristine white, sparkling beautifully, concealing the bare, charred earth. Snow would disguise the blackened earth until the first hint of spring in the years to come. If not for the gaping holes in the curtain-walls, one could be forgiven for believing Winterfell had withstood no armies: the moors were a sweeping expanse of pure white. Even before the first snowfall, the moors had boasted no bodies. No carrion came to pick over the remains of the fallen. The wildfire had swept across the moors and consumed everything it touched, leaving only ash.
Her wildfire.
Lord Beric Dondarrion had set it alight but it had been her strategy to lay caches of wildfire across the moors. Those caches of wildfire had burned through not just the armies of the dead but the Dothraki hordes.
She felt a twinge in her chest, discomfort at the countless deaths she had caused. Yet she knew she could never feel truly guilty for the sacrifice of the Dothraki: they were the price to be paid for the obliteration of the Night King's armies.
Only death could pay for life.
And their deaths here at Winterfell had served two purposes: destroying the Night King's armies and diminished her dread about Dothraki hordes pillaging Westeros by half. In many of their minds, though, especially as the fairer weather continued and the southerners at Winterfell grew stronger and started thinking of home, they began to consider the Dothraki in their thoughts. How did the rest of Westeros fare with hordes riding rampant, unchecked? Larra wondered how Essos fared, without the hordes to check the growing power of the Free Cities. Were the uprisings and rebellions Daenerys Targaryen had inspired across Essos enough to distract the Free Cities from looking westwards? She dreaded what it meant for Westeros that Essos may draw strength from the Dothraki's absence and take advantage of the weakness of Westeros after so many conflicts.
While they healed, she kept her concerns to herself: they should be allowed time to rest and rejoice.
And though she had come outside to enjoy the sunshine and witness the snow-covered moors and praise those working diligently to repair the damaged castle, making sure to be seen, as their people liked to see the Starks, Larra's gaze returned time and again to the clusters of men she had noticed in and around the yards and godswood and the untouched ramparts and the Unbroken Tower.
More and more, she had noticed that the southerners were beginning to congregate, sometimes in pairs and trios, sometimes in smaller groups. She had heard of meetings of the southern knights and lords in halls. This would not have been noteworthy but for the fact that Gendry had been involved. She had witnessed him walking back from the godswood one day, looking serious and thoughtful, followed behind by Lord Lonmouth, Ser Jorian Gower, Ser Davos and several of the other surviving Stormlords, Ser Jaime and Lord Yomer Lantel, Bronze Yohn and Yara Greyjoy. Hoster Blackwood – freshly knighted by Ser Jaime himself – came lolloping behind them, reminding Larra only too vividly of their direwolf-pups as they had grown, all giant paws and too-long limbs and eagerness. It was odd seeing the only two of the four Penroses. Ser Cadmian, the eldest of the four, and Ser Cedric, the youngest, had both been slain, leaving Ser Castor and Ser Cormac at rather a loose end without their brothers. Larra did not envy them their grief: she knew it far too intimately.
Winterfell was rife with it – grief. And yet there was great joy, too.
While many had been slain during the Battle, in the aftermath babies were still born. Children reached new milestones as they grew. And there was a great rash of weddings before the heart-tree that were presided over by first Sansa and then by Jon once he had recovered and been cleared by Nestor to resume some of his less physically strenuous responsibilities around Winterfell.
Death had gripped Winterfell. Yet life found a way.
And life did not stop. They had defeated their enemy yet the rest of the world remained beyond the snowbanks, ready for them to re-engage and see what had become of things in their absence.
Larra was not alone in worrying about what lay beyond the snowbanks.
She could already sense it: people were preparing. The Knights of the Vale, the Stormlords, the few Westermen who had journeyed north with Ser Jaime to wage the only honourable war.
Though many would look back on the Battle for the Dawn with scepticism – contemporary accounts were regarded with suspicion if not discounted completely for the absurdities they documented – it was the event around which the most important political, military and dynastic connections were made that shaped Westeros forever after. So said Bran, during one of his visits to Larra in the early days after the Battle.
And his words echoed in her mind as she watched a cluster of Stormlords pretending to take in the sunshine, their expressions serious, urgent, casting glances toward the northern gate, where Gendry was working with the stonemasons. Something was happening. She feared Gendry was at the heart of it, whether he intended to be, and pondered whether her admission to him weeks ago – that Sansa's success in leading Winterfell in the aftermath of the Battle had rendered her, Larra, redundant – had anything to do with his involvement.
It had been a dark moment, born of pain, frustration and most of all grief, when she had admitted to Gendry that she did not know that they had any future at Winterfell and dreaded having to take a step back and allow Sansa – or rather, Jon – to truly embrace being the ruler of the North. She would be left to advise, if she was lucky, or relegated to raising the children. Aella had spent the entire night before mutinying against sleep and against any attempts they had made to settle and soothe her: Larra had cried that she was already halfway there. She had already taken Jon's child to raise as her own.
The night she had cried into Gendry's chest and admitted her worries had followed one of the hardest days after the Battle: the day they had interred their dead in the crypts.
Sansa had wanted to keep the crypts beneath Winterfell for the Starks who would come after them – their children and grandchildren.
Larra had argued that every man and woman who had fallen to defend Winterfell and its people had earned a place amongst those honoured dead who had risen to fulfil their oaths.
Jon had agreed with Larra.
Statues had been carved for the lords and knights and chieftains of the Free Folk who had fallen in defence of Winterfell, the stonemasons careful to preserve their likenesses down to the patch over Crowfood Umber's eye and the fierce, wild beard of Tormund Giantsbane and his furs, the fierce fighting bear etched into Lady Maege Mormont's armour and the gentle strength of Dickon Tarly. All who had died defending Winterfell had been interred: those without statues to preserve their likeness had their names recorded, to be inlaid in obsidian in the weirwood gates.
Ser Jaime vowed to have a statue of purest white marble carved in the likeness of Ser Brienne the True, with sapphires for her eyes. Sansa claimed her sworn-shield would have been flustered by the attention, that being knighted – and by Ser Jaime no less – would have been the highest honour for her. Ser Jaime had wept at that, his body buckling with grief. Beyond him, Larra had watched Lord Lonmouth, whose grief was beyond tears, light a candle for his son Rhaegar and then turn down the crypt toward the old graves, where he had lit another candle for Lyanna Stark.
He had told Larra that he had witnessed the wedding of Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar under the heart-trees on the Isle of Faces. He had told her that, as a father himself, he knew it would have broken Rhaegar and Lyanna's hearts to know what their children would grow up to survive. Their hearts would have burst with sorrow – and with tremendous pride at the people they had become.
He honoured Ned Stark for raising two of the most extraordinary people he had ever met. Prince Rhaegar would have been grateful beyond anything for the people Ned had raised them to be: "I can give Ned no higher praise than that."
Prince Rhaegar had believed in the Prince Who Was Promised. He had believed in an ancient prophecy he had read in a forgotten scroll that told of a winter without end and a darkness that brought the destruction of Men.
Larra's heart, already in agony from the sheer scope of their losses during the Battle, had lashed pain through her body, appreciating that Rhaegar's actions, while they had led to the doom of the Targaryen dynasty and the Seven Kingdoms tearing themselves apart, had also ensured that strong leaders were indeed ready to unite armies against the gathering storm with the strength to defy it, as the Conqueror had foreseen. Children of ice and of fire, of House Targaryen, who had the foresight to prepare for the Others' awakening and House Stark, with whom the Others had always been so intimately intertwined and who were best situated to stop them.
"All he did…he acted to fulfil that prophecy, to become the warrior that we needed…or sire them," Lord Lonmouth had said, in his quiet, calm voice that Larra felt always hinted at a lethal promise.
People had clearly overheard Lord Lonmouth's admission – all but confirming that the documents that had circulated months before, declaring her and Jon's legitimacy as trueborn children of Prince Rhaegar and his second wife Lyanna Stark – and word had spread throughout the castle. It was taken for granted now that Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna Stark had wed and that Jon and Larra were their trueborn children.
There was dishonour in being born bastards but there was far more danger in being the true heirs of the Iron Throne.
Larra knew which she preferred to be.
Yet she was also wiser than to believe she now had any choice in the matter. If she did not embrace her heritage, it would be used against her.
Lord Tyrion had warned them of it years ago – wear it like armour and it can never be used to hurt you.
She frowned at the cluster of men watching Gendry work intently.
"Why do you keep watching those men?" Narcisa asked quietly. Her emerald eyes shone brightly as she turned her face away from the sun, the embellishments of her raised collar glittering nowhere near as brightly as her shining golden hair.
"Hm? Oh… I suspect a coup," Larra murmured, half to herself, "though I am uncertain what its outcome shall be."
"What do you mean?" Narcisa asked.
"There are murmurings among the Stormlords."
"Perhaps they're upset so many of their men died. They are regretting it, now faced with the prospect of returning home to reclaim their lands without such large forces to support them," Narcisa suggested, which was a fair assumption. Larra glanced at Narcisa, concealing a smile. Their lessons on strategy were going well.
Narcisa had grown almost overnight: at some point during the Battle, she had become an adult.
It wasn't that she had grown taller – though she had – and her figure was starting to fill out – which it was, to her constant annoyance, the seamstresses having to make adjustments to her gowns to accommodate – but the fact that Narcisa had developed a sense of maturity. Larra had seen hints of it early on, in the way Narcisa guided, protected and often coddled her younger cousins, but now it was clear for all to see: she had shed her childhood like an old cloak she had outgrown. She had shed the parts of her that belonged to her childhood, to the Lannisters; her pride and her selfishness, her petty jealousy built on insecurities and her aloofness and elitism. Narcisa, the eldest of them and Calanthe, the boldest and shrewdest, had bonded during the Battle. The two appreciated just how much danger Larra and Gendry were in, and they acknowledged just how much Larra and Gendry meant to them.
Overnight, Narcisa had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, and it had very little at all to do with her golden looks. The Battle and its aftermath had polished away the least beautiful parts of Narcisa's nature, leaving only the very best shining brightly.
"Perhaps," Larra sighed, unconvinced. She glanced back at Narcisa, feeling odd about discussing coups and politics with her. It reminded her too vividly of two young girls thrown into the political viper's nest of King's Landing. They had been too young and ill-prepared: it had torn the Seven Kingdoms in two. She decided to deflect Narcisa's attention: "Who are you visiting this afternoon?"
"Ser Hoster," Narcisa said, with a delicate blush. Larra chuckled softly. In the immediate aftermath of the Battle, Narcisa and Calanthe had been especially clingy: they had needed near-constant reassurance of Larra and Gendry's survival. Calanthe had been content with cuddles but Narcisa had needed the kind of attention and encouragement that only Larra could provide, and had, during their private lessons. Larra had continued to instruct Narcisa on history and geography, economics and ancient lore, but when it became too much, she had sent Narcisa to read to the other invalided warriors. She had sent Narcisa off to read to her uncle Ser Jaime, who in turn had diverted her to his newly-knighted squire Ser Hoster Blackwood. He was close to Narcisa in age and had inspired in Narcisa an enthusiasm for learning that was delightful to witness.
Gendry had smiled at Larra's delight that Hoster seemed to be inspiring a love of learning in Narcisa: he had teased that even while injured and nursing, she just could not help herself – she was already thinking how best to coax Narcisa further along her journey toward education.
Young Hoster Blackwood, all sixteen years and seven feet of him, had been a hostage of Ser Jaime's since he broke the siege of Raventree Hall after the Red Wedding. House Blackwood had been the last Stark loyalists after the slaughter of the Northern army at the Twins: Lord Tytos Blackwood, Hoster's father, had yielded only to King Tommen, and only when Ser Jaime had interceded personally – Lord Tytos Blackwood had refused to bend the knee to the ancient rivals of his family, House Bracken. Lord Tytos had convinced Ser Jaime to take his son Hoster as hostage, rather than his only daughter. Rather than leave a Stark loyalist vulnerable at court, when Ser Jaime had ridden north with his company he had brought Hoster Blackwood along as his squire. He had brought a Northern loyalist to the safety of Winterfell, as he had once sent Podrick Payne out of the city as Ser Brienne's squire to ensure his safety after Lord Tyrion's arrest.
The gangling boy – the same age Jon had been when he took the black – was fond of books and possessed a sharp, curious mind and a different way of seeing things that Larra enjoyed; when she had rested and became active in the castle once more, she spent a lot of time checking on Hoster Blackwood, at Narcisa and Ser Jaime's insistence – Ser Jaime, because he felt responsible for the boy and Narcisa, because she enjoyed his company and knew Larra would appreciate his intelligence.
It was from Hoster himself that Larra learned of the circumstances that had led to Hoster being in Winterfell as Ser Jaime's squire. She had brought him books to cure his boredom: he was desperate to hear about Robb and Rhaegal, though she could not tell which he seemed to idolise more. His brother Lucas had died at the Red Wedding alongside Robb, and it was with great satisfaction that he shared the rumour with Larra that either Larra herself or Arya had had some part in the queer happenings at the Twins that wiped House Frey out of existence. Hoster said rumours were running rampant about where Arya and Larra had been in the time between Ned Stark's execution and the fall of Winterfell and their subsequent reappearance years later at the gates of their ancestral home. They fed into the old rumours that Robb Stark could shift his form into that of a giant grey wolf, the embodiment of Winter, hunting any foolish enough to believe they could withstand it. Listening to Hoster recount the rumours made Larra laugh for the first time since the Battle. She had a fondness for Hoster: he reminded her of her brothers, before the gods got their hands on them.
"You had better make your way indoors," Larra told Narcisa quietly, glancing past her to Calanthe, who was arguing good-naturedly with Qhaero. He was soaking up the rare strong sunlight, his furs tossed aside to bare his torso and arms, his scarred bronze skin glowing decadently, a deep contrast to Calanthe's pale skin and shining golden hair. The healing wound from temple to jaw made his handsome face if possible more attractive: perhaps it was the glint of humour and cleverness in his eyes. Larra wondered if she would know it was humour and cleverness had she not persevered with her Dothraki to converse with him and learn that he was shrewd and sharp, learning from everything around him. Qhaero had adapted the best of all the Lannisters' kos; he was curious about their culture and keen to learn. Exposure to Westerosi customs had shifted his perspective about some aspects of his own, specifically how he had been raised – how Dothraki were all raised – to view women.
He had nothing but respect for Larra. They had fought side-by-side, after all. He knew she was as fierce as any ko, and fiercer than most screamers.
He wore proudly, bound to his long braid, tiny obsidian bells Larra had had Gendry make for the few Dothraki that had survived the Battle. As Calanthe played with his long braid, making the many tiny gold, silver and bronze bells chime, the obsidian bells made an entrancing sound. It was an odd sound, at once mesmerising and eerie. To Larra, it was a beautiful sound: it had the same effect to her heart as a dose of fiery whisky. But to the unworthy, she imagined it would be a queer, unsettling noise.
"I didn't know Calanthe spoke Dothraki," Narcisa observed, following Larra's gaze.
"Children absorb new things," Larra said quietly, so that Calanthe didn't hear herself being referred to as a child. Calanthe was ten – nearly a woman grown, according to her: she was almost a warrior. She smiled at Narcisa. "Come, let us leave Calanthe to her mischief."
"Qhaero must be very patient," Narcisa remarked, and Larra laughed as they made their way down the steps into the yard. The cluster of Stormlords saw her and exchanged hasty looks before bowing to her. She smiled tightly and walked past with Narcisa. Glancing over her shoulder as she reached the door inside, she glimpsed the Stormlords approaching Gendry.
What's going on there? Frowning, she tried not to let her imagination run away with itself, and turned instead to the cool dimness of the stone passages, through which she walked with Narcisa, who diverted as they approached Hoster Blackwood's small chamber, smiling and kissing Larra's cheek before departing. Larra heard Hoster – Ser Hoster, she reminded herself – greet Narcisa enthusiastically.
Larra continued down the corridor until she reached a now-familiar door: she had spent a lot of time hovering around this chamber in particular in the days after the Battle, after she had rested and others, who were not nearly as fortunate as she had been in the injuries they sustained, were still bedbound.
Darkstar was propped up against a mound of pillows, now, an improvement: in the early days of his recovery, his pain had been secondary to his frustration at being bound to his bed, flat on his back. Nestor had wanted to alleviate any strain on Ser Gerold's chest, which had been stitched shut with meticulous sutures, dressed and bound with clean linen bandages. Those dressings had been changed daily and assessed personally by Nestor Maegos, to ensure no rot set in. Darkstar had slept for much of his early recovery, aided by doses of milk of the poppy which Nestor had weaned him from carefully as Darkstar's pain faded and his healing improved.
Joy Hill huffed as Larra entered the chamber and tossed a book down on the end of Darkstar's bed. He had that familiar gleam in his eye that Larra appreciated more than any other. The glitter of mischief.
"He's being an absolute shit again," declared Joy. Larra liked that she did not curtsey and that, with Larra at least, she spoke plainly. Joy was a bastard born of one of the greatest families in Westeros: they were more alike than anyone else Larra had ever met. Like Larra, Joy had learned to keep her head up high or spend her life gazing forlornly at the flagstones. She was a Lannister by blood, if not by name, and that made her superior to most people she'd ever meet. Even if they'd never acknowledge it. Joy did rise from her chair, though, and swept her long golden braid over one shoulder, shooting Ser Gerold a seething look. Darkstar's amethyst eyes glowed as if with live purple fire, his lips curving into a decadent smirk that he knew compounded Joy's ire.
"Have you forgotten your charm lessons with your septa?" Larra raised an eyebrow at Ser Gerold, whose smirk deepened.
"Never had any," Darkstar said airily. Larra exchanged a look with Joy, who curtseyed and withdrew from the room. When the sound of her soft footsteps in the corridor beyond had faded, Darkstar swept his fierce amethyst eyes over Larra. She lowered herself onto Joy's vacated seat, relaxing against it, relieved to sit. The exhaustion of the Battle was nothing to the perpetual draining exhaustion of motherhood. There were no knighthoods given for the heroic devotion of mothering.
Aella squirmed but Arthur gazed contentedly at her with amethyst eyes identical to Larra's own, his long, beautiful black eyelashes feathery and soft when she kissed them. Larra unfastened the bindings and settled Aella in the crook of Ser Gerold's arm. He accepted her readily, cooing softly and offering her a finger to grab when Larra freed her arms from her swaddling. After a moment, Darkstar settled back and gazed at Larra. "Why a Lannister?"
Larra raised her eyebrows at the query then smirked. "Have you truly not worked it out yet?" she countered. "No true Dornishman of this age would ever suffer to expire in the presence of a Lannister."
Ser Gerold gave her one of his slow, predatory grins. His eyes twinkled with irony. "You worry I shall perish in the night and send a Lannister to provoke me to endure."
"Joy's company cannot be so terrible."
"It is not," Darkstar smirked, shrugging his wide shoulders idly. Sometimes Larra forgot that he was Dornish: sometimes it was unmistakable. There was a looseness, a sensuality to his movements that no other Westerosi could ever imitate. Dornishmen were unique to the continent, thanks entirely to their Rhoynish ancestry. The more time she spent with Darkstar and Lady Nym, the more Larra appreciated that Rhoynish flair. It saddened her that so much of Rhoynish culture had been destroyed by wars with Old Valyria. "I enjoy her. That lioness has fangs, though she shows them but rarely."
"That she does," Larra agreed. For a little while, they sat in companionable silence. Darkstar fussed and played with Aella while Larra remained quiet and contemplative.
"What is wrong?" Ser Gerold prompted after a little while. Larra rubbed her face, exhausted.
"The Stormlords," she admitted. "They plot."
As a Dornishman, Darkstar's first instinct was to scowl with distrust. The millennia-long rivalry between the Dornish and the Stormlords was well-documented. He shifted in his bed, stroking Aella's fine dark hair thoughtfully.
"You know this?"
"I suspect it."
"But you do not fear it?" Darkstar prompted, watching her shrewdly.
"I didn't say that."
Darkstar cast his amethyst eyes over her. She could see his mind working but she was never able to speculate what he was thinking about. He was a shrewd and cautious thinker and though he wore his intelligence like armour, he kept his thoughts to himself.
"There is much that you must fear now."
"Must I?" Larra retorted quietly.
"Why is it that you dread the Stormlords colluding?" Ser Gerold asked.
"I worry they involve Gendry in their plans," Larra admitted.
"He is the son of their liege and king."
"They lived in exile rather than kneel to Robert," Larra reminded him; Darkstar shrugged.
"They rejected Robert but the Baratheons held their loyalty for generations, as did the Durrandons before them," he said idly. "What purpose could they have for you, do you think?"
"Nothing good."
"Not for you. The son of the Usurper and the Last Dragon's only surviving daughter," Darkstar mused. "How many aspiring kingmakers do you think there are in this world? They will kill each other to put you on the Iron Throne. They will kill Gendry to take his place at your side. I wonder which would outlast all the rest. My gold is on Lonmouth."
Larra frowned shrewdly. He spoke too casually of something she dreaded, as if he had spent a long time thinking about it. If he had thought of it, others were thinking of it too.
"The Seven Kingdoms have never accepted a bastard as their sovereign," Larra said, rolling her eyes impatiently. Darkstar should know better than to believe Westeros would accept a bastard on the Iron Throne. He may be Dornish, where bastards were treated better than anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms, but he was no fool. Gendry would never sit upon the Iron Throne.
"Outside of Dorne, the people loved Robert Baratheon. He gave them seventeen years of peace," Darkstar said thoughtfully. "That is not forgotten – in fact I would go so far as to say people hold onto their fond memories of Robert's reign more fiercely than ever. Winter has come, following years of the worst wars our continent has suffered since the Dance…" He gazed at her, his amethyst eyes illuminating with something like irony or delight, or both. "Robert's son and Rhaegar's daughter ruling together from the Iron Throne."
Larra bristled. "Don't even say it."
"I am not the only one to say it: of all those who do, it is I who says it to your face," Ser Gerold said unapologetically. "The idea of you – peace between Robert and Rhaegar through their children, forgiveness of the old wound that tore our continent apart, reconciliation… The hope your son embodies for a future. That is powerful."
"I don't want Arthur to embody anything. He is not the personification of all the wrongs committed by our fathers made right," Larra bristled, holding Arthur closer to her. "That is… That is an awful thing to put on an infant."
"And yet… It will be, by your will or not," Darkstar warned, his eyes on Arthur. "Your birth reveals the truth of things between Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna. Your son's birth will be seen by all to be Prince Rhaegar and his cousin Robert reconciling from beyond the grave. Healing Westeros, as Jaehaerys healed the Seven Kingdoms, as Aegon the Unlucky and his ill-fated brother Viserys healed the realm after the Dance."
"If that is what I represent, what of Daenerys?"
Darkstar's face darkened.
"Her. You are familiar with the Blackfyre Rebellions," Ser Gerold mused. "I like the symmetry. A cadet branch of House Targaryen growing overly ambitious only to be humbled."
"You equate a trueborn daughter to a bastard son?" Larra raised an eyebrow.
"In this analogy," Ser Gerold shrugged, stroking Aella's hair thoughtfully. "Daenerys is the last-born female descendant of a past king. You and Jon are direct descendants of that king's eldest son. You have the only claim that matters. Whatever claim Daenerys has, she has dreamed up. Besides…cast to Essos, deprived a genuine Targaryen upbringing, isolated and lacking allies strong enough to withstand the true might of their relatives, Daenerys embodies the threat of the Blackfyres."
"History does tend to rhyme, doesn't it?" Larra mused, settling back in her chair, mulling things over.
"At the height of the Dance, Aegon the Elder fell from Sunfyre and shattered his body. Lady Targaryen began her conquest and stole a great victory in the Reach and the Westerlands yet in her hubris she suffered the same fate as Aegon the Elder," Ser Gerold continued thoughtfully. He glanced up at Larra out of the corner of his eye. "Has there been any change?"
Two days after the Battle had ended, Ser Jorah had set out from Winterfell to find Drogon – and Lady Targaryen, if he could. Somehow, he had managed it. Lady Targaryen had been thrown off Drogon's back and lay shattered. Only Drogon's intense body-heat had prevented her from perishing in the snow. But her body had been broken. Both her legs had been shattered, along with her hips, and until she woke they could not determine just how independent her mobility might be. They could not tell if she had broken her back until she woke.
Larra did not wish to be there when she woke. She could not imagine the reaction of the Mother of Dragons were she to learn she would never walk again.
She thought of Bran's saddle, designed by Lord Tyrion to enable him to ride even though he would never walk.
Would he design a saddle for Drogon? Would Drogon accept it? How would Lady Targaryen access it? One had to be able to climb onto a dragon to mount it.
A khal who could not ride was no khal.
Larra held his gaze. Quietly, she said, "She sleeps."
Something flickered across Darkstar's eyes.
"It has been weeks. Yet still she sleeps," he sighed. She could not help but wonder at his choice of words when Darkstar continued, "Perhaps she dreams too deeply."
Larra stared at him.
Bran had told Larra often that when he had slept after his fall, he had dreamed. Terrible dreams that had frightened him. Some he could not remember, others he remembered all too vividly yet had difficulty explaining to Larra in a way that satisfactorily instilled the same dread in her as he had felt while enduring them. That was before: now Brandon had the power to show her.
Lady Targaryen had been sleeping for weeks. She was wasting away, as Bran had after his fall: she was being kept alive with honey and warm milk, kept warm and bathed often, her healing limbs moved tenderly by Nestor Maegos, who visited her routinely and gave instruction for her care. Lady Missandei tirelessly tended to her. Larra and Sansa had had to intervene when they feared for Missandei's health.
It had not occurred to Larra that the reason Lady Targaryen had been asleep so long was because she was drowning in dreams.
Now that Ser Gerold had inadvertently pointed out the obvious, Larra was filled with a strange sort of dread.
It is beautiful beneath the sea, but if you stay too long, you will drown…
Darkstar sighed. "It would be kinder were she to drift away rather than wake from her dreams if indeed they are so lovely."
Larra glanced sharply at him. She understood the implication. Fiercely, she told him, "Guest-right will never be violated under the roof of this castle."
Darkstar was boldness itself, to suggest to a Stark that they violate guest-right.
"By you, perhaps," Darkstar murmured, his eyes glinting. "There are many more residing beneath Winterfell's roof who have a stake in the Stormborn's survival. After the Lion Culling… I never thought I would ever have it in me to find sympathy for Lannisters…but now all the world knows what Daenerys Targaryen does when she does not get her way."
"She is under the protection of guest-right," Larra repeated firmly, and sighed, "Even if she was not, she is the mother of my niece."
Darkstar gazed down at Aella. There was something soft in his features as he gazed at her. Darkstar was rarely soft. But Aella was innocence itself, too fresh and new to know any evil.
"The child she fell pregnant with after raping your brother," Darkstar said, his voice a soft, low growl. His eyes indeed glinted like dark stars, the violet swallowed up by shadows. "The child she rejected… You know better than any what it feels like to be rejected by someone who should love you as a mother."
She hated that he was right. She hated that she was filled with righteous fury on Aella's own behalf for being rejected just for being born. "And for that I should allow Daenerys to be murdered?"
"No. For the good of Westeros, she should be allowed to drift away as nature intended," Darkstar sighed, wincing slightly as he adjusted himself on the pillows. He picked absently at his bandages.
Larra sighed heavily, and admitted, "It's not that I don't have the stomach for it. I have done plenty in my life that fills me with shame, but in the moment it was necessary and I know that if I had to relive it, I would make the same choices." She fell silent. She knew everything she had said was the absolute truth. She would repeat it all again. Every choice she had made. Even the horrendous ones. Even the ones that had cost her Rickon and Osha and Jojen and Summer and Hodor. She rubbed her face. "It would be the easiest thing in the world to smother her and be relieved that the threat was dealt with… I choose not to dishonour myself any more than I already have."
"Then you must live with what comes next," Darkstar said. He sighed heavily. "Let us play cyvasse. We can discuss what you shall say when you confront Lord Lonmouth."
Larra frowned. "You believe he is the ringleader?"
"You do not?" Darkstar challenged. "Lonmouth is loyal to the Last Dragon, still. Rhaegar's son is already King in the North…but his daughter…" He gazed at Larra so intensely that Larra started to fidget. "The Stormlords need a ruler with a steely will, whom they respect and admire, whom they would die to defend and who they know would fight to the death for them in turn."
Larra swallowed under the intensity of his gaze.
They played a game of cyvasse. Darkstar won. Larra was distracted, thinking of the conspiracy of Stormlords.
She did not seek out Lord Lonmouth to confront him, nor did she seek out any opportunity to do so. Not for weeks: she wanted to get her own thoughts in order about the whole debacle – claiming Storm's End. She mentioned it to no-one but Darkstar, who left the confines of his chamber weeks later with Nestor Maegos' blessing and could now irritate Joy Hill wherever he found her.
And he did often seek her out: Larra suspected he had grown fond of her and missed her now that she was no longer duty-bound to visit him.
Larra wandered to the Great Hall to dine with the rest one evening. Irritated by a fresh bout of nausea and sleeplessness despite Aella now sleeping through the night, she was in no mood to be in company, and if she had she not been so grumpy she would have cautioned herself against confronting anyone, let alone the elusive ringleader of a potential coup. She spotted Lord Lonmouth purely by chance.
Without the burden of her children bound to her chest – she had on her grey, black and red bridal gown – she stood upright, shoulders thrown back, and levelled Lord Lonmouth with a dangerous look, cutting off his path.
"Do not ever conspire to use Gendry to manipulate me," she warned him. Lonmouth's eyes gleamed. "If you want something, ask it of me directly. I promise you, you'll find more satisfaction trying to convince me than conspiring against me. What is it that you want, Lord Lonmouth?"
Something like delight glittered in Lonmouth's pale eyes. Appreciation, perhaps, but sorrow as well. What did he see when he looked at her? Who did he hear when he heard her voice? She waited for his reply. He chose his words carefully, trapped in a wolf's den.
"The Stormlands are in chaos. All the men are dead; those left have seen too many winters, or too few. They are last-born sons, distant cousins, lads who never expected to inherit, who have never been taught to rule. They are dominated by advisors with their own agendas. Or there are no men left. Women must rule for their infant sons and they are left vulnerable," Lord Lonmouth said grimly. "The Stormlands need someone to unite them, to lead them. To rule them."
"And you think Gendry can do that?" Larra asked, testing him.
"Gendry is a good man. People respect him, they follow him," Lonmouth replied carefully. She narrowed her eyes at him, waiting. If he did not say it, she would know he could not be trusted to speak his mind to her, and she worried about someone who conspired to use her but did not trust her to know the truth of it. Lonmouth sighed heavily, his expression almost regretful. "But he has not been raised and educated to rule. When I asked him about claiming Storm's End, he told me he'd likely do more damage through his inexperience. He advised we looked instead to his lady."
Gendry had not said a word to her.
And that worried her.
After dinner, she sought out Bran. He had not come to the hall: Jon said he had been practising his handwriting in the solar the last time he saw Bran.
Irritated by her confrontation with Lord Lonmouth, annoyed that Gendry kept quiet about his part in arranging a coup around her, she sought out Bran, desperate for familiarity. For simpler times when it had been just them and all they'd had to worry about was wights and wildlings.
Nothing was simple now.
It should have excited her. Her mind was whirring with possibilities, waking up – as if she had been sleeping for a very long time, her muscles aching. Her mind ached because she had not had to use it for so long. Years spent under the great weirwood, she had learned the Old Tongue and how to smith obsidian but that was the extent of her learning. Every day had been stagnation.
She entered the solar, rubbing her belly, and had to do a double-take before she realised what she had stumbled upon.
Darkstar loomed over Bran, a dagger unsheathed in his hand.
Without thinking, she pinned him to the wall, Fang at his throat. Bran sat serenely in his chair, his pale hands folded on his lap.
He spoke gently but firmly, telling her, "Larra…leave him be."
Larra glared at Darkstar, fire burning through her veins. Fury ignited her mind. Rubies glittered at Darkstar's throat: she eased the pressure of the blade against his throat and Darkstar gasped. She blinked and assessed what she was seeing.
Darkstar looked flustered, bright-eyed and almost haggard – shocked. Not because of her, she knew instinctually.
"I meant the boy no harm, Lady, I swear it. He…startled me," Darkstar said, gulping. Larra had never seen him rattled before, not even when duelling the Night King. She released him, and Darkstar fled the chamber.
In the dark corridor beyond, Ser Gerold paused, pushing his hair out of his face with a shaking hand. He let out a shuddering breath, his heart thundering uncomfortably in his chest.
Larra turned to stare at Bran, who sat complacently, unruffled.
"You've got to stop doing that," Larra said shakily, scowling. "Frightening people. One day, someone is going to hurt you."
"Aren't you going to ask what Darkstar and I discussed?"
"That's your business. I've enough secrets; I don't need anyone else's," Larra snapped, too angry about the Stormlords' conspiracy.
"A secret may be shared," Bran breathed, gazing into the firelight. Then he smiled, and turned to Larra. "How are you feeling?"
"Irritable," Larra snapped. She felt nauseous and bloated and could not get comfortable. She took a seat near Bran. His eyes glittered warmly. Larra gazed at him, as Bran smiled at her.
He leaned in and reached for her hand, clasping it gently in his own. Larra was struck again by how large his hands were, how long and clever his fingers were. He had a man's hands, a warrior's hands. Unlike Jon's, they were unblemished by callouses. She read the soft smile and the glitter in his dark eyes. Gentle joy seemed to radiate from them, and she frowned. "It's time for you to go, Larra."
She blinked, confused. "You wish me to leave?"
"Long have you have sacrificed your life, Larra. You set yourself aside for me, everything that you were and could have been, you tucked away," Bran said softly. "For me… You let me fly. Now it is your turn. Embrace all that you are and become who you were born to be… Journey south and claim Storm's End. That is your future."
Larra felt herself close up as hot fury suffused her body. Heat pricked her eyes despite her anger. Hurt lashed through her. "My family is here."
Bran sighed softly. "Father raised you to rule. And you have taught Sansa magnificently. You could remain here, as a Stark of Winterfell, with your husband and your children…and as time wears on, you will be consumed with dread and discontent. You will find yourself without purpose. And the greatest fear you have always had, Larra, is to be useless."
Larra wiped her eyes, and said hoarsely, "That's a delicate way of telling me there is no place for me."
Bran squeezed her hand, and she glanced up. Bran's eyes blazed. "There will always be a place for you, Larra."
"But?"
"But if you stay here, you will wither and crumble to ash. The fire that sets your blood alight will cool and you will resent the choices you did not make."
"I love you. After all that we have endured, I do not wish to be parted from you." She wiped her eyes again, startled by how upset she was, how quick to tears. She sniffed and Bran's expression gentled softly, his gaze filled with understanding and deep love.
Bran leaned closer, cradling her face in one of his large, soft palms. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, his eyes enormous and adoring. They glittered wetly. His voice was hoarse, thick with love and sadness, as he said, "There is nowhere you can go that I will not be with you."
Tears slipped down her cheeks, burning. Bran rested his brow against hers and breathed deeply, calmly. She mimicked him, taking his calm into her with every breath. "This is how we set each other free…" He kissed her brow tenderly. "The Stormlords conspire to install you as their Liege. Let them. For that is where you need to be."
She raised her gaze and wiped her eyes. "Need to be?" She frowned. Then she was filled with dread. "What has happened?"
"Nothing, yet," Bran said softly. His eyes twinkled appreciatively. "Though I am gratified to know you have already anticipated more troubles to come."
"How could I not?" Larra said quietly. "The entire known world has been thrown into chaos."
Bran nodded solemnly. "A false dragon flies across the Narrow Sea," he said dreamily. "It sets its gaze upon the Seven Kingdoms, gold following wherever it goes."
"You've been cryptic since meeting Bloodraven but this is ridiculous. Speak normally," Larra growled, and Bran's eyes twinkled.
"A young man believing himself to be the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell has contracted the Golden Company to claim the Iron Throne for himself," Bran said simply.
"Believes himself to be?"
"They have every reason to believe he is the child of Rhaegar," Bran mused.
A thought niggled her about the Golden Company and an alleged Targaryen. How had this false Aegon survived walking into the midst of the Golden Company let alone contracted them? The Golden Company had been founded on the principle of removing the Targaryen line from the Iron Throne and installing the heirs of House Blackfyre to it.
Bran snickered delicately to himself, as if indulging in some private joke. Larra assumed that he was. "The Sun blinded the Spider."
"You are doing it again."
"It is a rare thing to keep a secret from Lord Varys," Bran smiled. "And Elia Martell did not lack for guile." He glanced at Larra. "Before the Sacking of King's Landing, Lord Varys removed the infant all had been led to believe was Aegon from his cradle, switching him with a babe from Pisswater Bend in Flea Bottom… Varys was not to know that Prince Aegon was never in King's Landing. Clever Elia secreted her son away from Dragonstone the moment she received summons from King Aerys."
Larra stared. "So the babe murdered by the Mountain…"
"A nameless infant from Flea Bottom," Bran sighed.
"What about Princess Rhaenys?" Larra asked, something leaping in her chest. Bran's eyes dimmed, sadness radiating from him. He stroked his thumb against the back of her hand, for this was Larra's sister.
"Rhaenys was already known at Court. Any switch would have been found out immediately," Bran sighed. "Elia made a terrible choice." He glanced at Larra. "One you can respect." Their eyes went to the small portrait of Rickon on the mantelpiece.
Larra's heart ached. "I miss him."
"I know… Me too," Bran sighed miserably.
"You get to see him whenever you wish." Bran's smile was pained.
"It does not do to dwell on dreams," he said softly, and Larra thought they were both thinking of the Bloodraven when Bran continued, "I shall not waste away, lingering in the past."
"You turn your eye to the future. You believe mine lies to the south," Larra prompted. Bran smiled at her, as if they were sharing a secret.
"Listen to the whispers in the deepest part of your heart, the part you have been trained all your life to ignore… What does it yearn for?" Bran smiled. "I know what it cries out for. To be useful. To embrace your ambitions and utilise your honed mind, to lead. To unite men and build great cities. To be able to protect and provide for, not just one crippled brother, but realms."
Larra sat back and thought about all Bran had said, quietly wiping her eyes on her sleeve. He wished her to leave Winterfell, to embrace her potential that would otherwise be squandered. He had frightened the unshakeable Darkstar. And he warned of an invasion to the south.
An hour later, Larra sat in bed watching Aella and Arthur cuddle as they slept in their cradle. She heard Gendry's footsteps and sighed. She waited until he had kissed her in greeting and stripped off to join her in bed. His movements were freer; his leg no longer pained him except on the days he had worked too hard.
She curled up against him when he opened his arms to her. He relaxed into the bed, cuddling her close to him.
"You didn't tell me about the Stormlords."
He sighed heavily. "The day we buried our dead, the night you wept in my arms… You told me you feared you'd have no place here… I wanted to know what the Stormlords were offering before I came to you. I should have known no distraction could ever prevent you from noticing. You're too cunning."
"I have been distracted," she admitted, "but not so distracted that I didn't notice what was before my eyes. The Stormlords could learn a thing or two about the art of subtlety from the Dornish.
"I don't think it's in Stormlords' natures to be subtle," Gendry chuckled. "Except Lonmouth… He scares me."
"He scares me too," Larra admitted, sighing heavily. "Darkstar's convinced Lonmouth is loyal to Rhaegar's memory. He'll do anything to see me… I don't know. Jon is King here but I…"
"D'you think he'd try and put you on the Iron Throne?" Gendry frowned.
"I'd like to think Lonmouth knows the Iron Throne has only the power we give it," Larra mused. She curled against Gendry. "He is cunning. The same way Darkstar is… Jon told me that your uncle Stannis confessed he realised his mistake almost too late – Ser Davos convinced him that he was trying to win the Iron Throne to save the Seven Kingdoms but what he should have been doing all along was trying to save the Seven Kingdoms. The Iron Throne would then have been his by virtue, not inheritance."
Gendry frowned thoughtfully at her.
"I only saw Stannis once," he said, and Larra glanced at him, startled. He gave her a rueful look. "Before he fled King's Landing and the Hand of the King died – they both came to Tobho Mott's shop. To see me. The same way your father came to see me a few months later… Your father was stern and kind. Stannis was stern… Donal Noye says my father was the true steel; Renly was bright copper… Stannis was bitter iron. He'd break before he bent."
"Donal has a keen instinct about people," Larra said. She watched Gendry carefully. He spent a lot of time in the forges, working alongside Donal Noye. Noye had built Robert his great war-hammer for the Rebellion, had grown up at Storm's End. She knew Gendry respected the old armourer. "Does he know about this?"
Gendry nodded. "He said if we're to go south, we're to take our own men with us. Him, and others. Men of the Night's Watch are Jon's brothers – their blood runs black, same as his. That makes you their sister as much as Jon's."
A memory stirred, something Bran had shared with her…Yoren. The reason he had nearly killed his horse to get to King's Landing, and Father, and deliver the news straight to Benjen Stark's brother that his wife had taken the Imp. Loyalty. The Night's Watch were brothers. They rewarded loyalty in kind. They were loyal to Jon; she had proven she was worthy of their loyalty too, fighting side-by-side with them during the battle.
"They'll fight for you, because they love you," Gendry said. He was not upset that other men might covet her; he knew it was love born of respect. "They know you've fought for them."
"You've been thinking about this," Larra said quietly. Gendry sighed heavily.
"You love your family."
"But?"
Gendry's lip twitched. He knew everything before the word but was horseshit. "But you won't be happy here. Bran told me that if we stay here, it'll be like you're back under the great weirwood. You'll put yourself last, tuck yourself away, until there's nothing left of you." Larra stared at him. "Tell me you've not been thinking of it, too."
"Of course I've been thinking of it," Larra murmured. She admitted, "I don't want to leave my home, Gendry. I don't want to be separated from my family, not after what we've all been through to get back to each other."
There is nowhere you can go that I will not be with you…
She would carry them all in her heart, as she always had. They would be tucked there, safe, like Rickon and Robb and Osha and Hodor and Theon and Father. Always with her. Always safe.
Eyes burning, she admitted hoarsely, "But I know I will not survive staying here."
Gendry squeezed her to him, kissing the top of her head.
"I know," he said gently.
She sat up, wiping her face. "I have the strength to leave this place behind… But if we agree to leave, everything we will face, was must do so together. We must appear united in all things."
"Even when we're not?"
"Perhaps that is something we must agree on, too: we work things out together in private, before we ever declare ourselves to others," Larra said, grasping his hands and gazing earnestly at him. Gendry's expression was fierce as he nodded.
"As we do already," he said, smiling at her. She smiled back but her tear-stained skin pulled taut, scratchy.
"And if we go south…it is not to seek out power. It is not to stake a claim on the Iron Throne," she said carefully. "I've no interest in it and that must be understood from the outset. I will have no part in conspiracies to place me on the Iron Throne. If we go south, it is to give our children a home. We will unite the Stormlands to safeguard everyone in those lands from invasion."
Gendry blinked at her.
"An invasion – from who? Who's left?" he asked, almost indignant.
"Westeros is more vulnerable now than it has been since the Dance of Dragons," Larra said sombrely. "Without the Dothraki to check their influence, the Free Cities will rise in power and wealth – unless revolution takes hold and the slaves rise up. Bran told me that the Golden Company threatens to invade Westeros led by a false dragon."
Gendry smiled softly and leaned in to kiss her. "A good thing we have a real one to guard it."
Was he referring to Rhaegal or to Larra? Did it matter?
He sighed and gazed at her, suddenly serious, almost apprehensive. "To Storm's End, then?"
Larra reached up and stroked his face. She would leave her brothers and sisters behind. To guard the realms of men. "To Storm's End."
A.N.: I wanted to make a huge distinction between Larra's motivations and Daenerys'. Daenerys wants the Iron Throne because she wants it: Larra knows that Westeros is vulnerable and if people are already conspiring to unite under her leadership, that's a good starting point to galvanising support against invaders. Larra's learned from the past: her mentioning Stannis' philosophy is important – as is the fact that it originated from Ser Davos.
Larra's story continues in Dragons' Daughter.