Mid-Late March, 305 AC
Dark and thick, the clouds blotted out the sun, as though it were dusk, not midmorning.
Arya did not mind her name day being gloomy. Sunlight played tricks. It drew the eye to sparkling jewels and shining snow, it blazed off mirror-bright steel and blurred one's vision with shimmering white spots. A clever fighter could use that to his advantage, but not today. The blunted tourney swords were as dull and grey as the armor of the knights who bore them, the yard of the Aegonfort ringing to the clash of steel.
White cloaks flapped and swirled as two knights dueled in the center of the yard. Arya watched, fascinated. Ser Daemon Sand might be older and broader of shoulder, but Ser Loras Tyrell was fast and cunning. One of Ser Daemon's legs was weak from an old wound, as Ser Loras knew full well. He aimed his blows carefully, forcing the Dornish knight to put his weight on his bad leg as the younger knight drove him back. Ser Daemon parried a flurry of hacks and slashes before one finally cut his leg from under him and he fell in the mud and slush with a curse.
That ought to have been the end of it, and would have been, had Ser Loras not drawn closer to gloat. Suddenly, Ser Loras was on the ground too, his sword flying from his hand. However good the Knight of Flowers was with lance and sword, he was no wrestler. In short order Ser Loras lay flat on his back with Ser Daemon astride him, a dagger pressed at his throat. Ser Loras yielded with ill grace, and both men were still red with anger when they stood up and removed their helms.
Arya ignored them. The bout was done; she cared nothing for the arguing that came after as the two knights of the Kingsguard stalked off toward the men's bathhouse. She had much better things to occupy her time, like watching Brienne of Tarth. Brienne sparred two men-at-arms at once, wielding her sword and shield as though they were a part of her. And despite her suit of heavy plate, her footwork was as fast and graceful as a dancer.
Not a water dancer, though.
Arya would never have Brienne's broad shoulders, thick arms, or excessive height. Speed, though, that she had aplenty. Her eyes and reflexes were cat-quick. So were her feet, at least when she wasn't wearing chainmail. Arya misliked the extra weight, just as she misliked how sweaty it made her.
It was the itch of salt clinging to her skin that forced Arya to leave the yard. As it was late morning, the women's bathhouse was almost empty. Of late the fashion was for ladies to rise early and begin the day praying at the Hour of the Crone. Arya shuddered at the very notion, glad that she need not follow their example.
She did not pray to the Mother, Maiden, and Crone like Sansa did. Nor did she need to flatter her way into her sister's good graces. No, Arya kept her own routine. She rose late, broke her fast, then made for the training yard. Today she had sparred with Ser Perwyn Truefaith, a few northmen, and a young knight named Ser Podrick Payne.
For all his stammering and sheepishness, Ser Podrick had proved a surprisingly difficult opponent. Needle had flashed, a blur in her hand, the end tipped with cork, but she could not manage to stab Ser Podrick's eye slit, nor any of the joints in his armor. Perhaps it was because Ser Podrick was fresh and Arya was not, wearied by both her chainmail and by her prior bouts. Ser Podrick had been more embarrassed by his victory than Arya had been by her loss.
Arya made a face as she scrubbed herself with soap. She'd rather lose a fair fight than win the way she always did against Lord Edric Dayne. Arya had seen him spar Brienne of Tarth and other knights; she knew he was fast and skilled. The five years since Riverrun had given Edric height and muscle, even if sometimes he forgot to put all his strength behind his blows. Yet Edric still lost on purpose, even though he watched Arya so intensely during their bouts that she always wondered if she had something on her face.
No one ever pretends to lose to Brienne, Arya thought resentfully as the lady in question entered the bathhouse. No one could deny she had earned the right to guard Queen Sansa. Brienne had won a mêlée and been part of Renly Baratheon's Rainbow Guard. Even a few of the knights who misliked women wielding swords had grudgingly admitted she had an unnatural talent after trying and failing to put her in her place.
Arya, on the other hand... lords and ladies weren't as good at whispering as they thought they were. She'd heard them chuckle about Princess Arya's silly, childish notions, about how her stroke of luck in slaying some untrained bastard had gone to her head. As if Ramsay Snow had tripped and fallen on her dagger and cut his own throat! They said that Queen Sansa was kind to indulge her sister's fancies, that water dancing was useless, a mere idle pastime for bored Braavosi.
Never mind that Arya won so many of her bouts. Some said all her foes were losing to her on purpose, not just Edric Dayne. And when she used her cloak to yank away Ser Perwyn's sword, men had laughed at him for falling for the same trick again. They didn't know or care how long it had taken to learn that technique from Oro Nestoris, or how hard it was to get the timing and the aim just right.
Well, Arya would show them. Today she was six-and-ten, at last a woman grown. Gathering her courage, Arya broke the quiet of the bathhouse.
"Could you spar with me sometime?" Ever since they met, Arya had hoped for the day Brienne crossed the yard and asked to cross swords. She was tired of waiting in vain.
Brienne dropped her soap into the tub, clearly flustered. "Princess?"
"You spar with some of the squires," Arya said. "Why won't you spar with me?"
"I..." Brienne looked deeply uncomfortable. "I did not want to shame you, princess."
"Arya," Arya said impatiently. "What do you mean, shame me?"
Brienne hesitated. "You have skill, I do not doubt. Water dancers are highly esteemed in the Free Cities, as they should be. But a bravo's blade is not meant to fight against a longsword or a greatsword, nor against armor. Let alone a bravo's blade that is far too small."
Arya ignored the insult to Needle. "I hold my own against Ser Perwyn, and against other knights. You've seen me."
"Ser Perwyn is a good man," Brienne said, her shoulders hunched. "But he is neither a tourney knight nor a sellsword. Ser Perwyn's talent is middling at best; he does not shame himself, but he will never win renown."
The fact that Brienne was right only made her words sting more. "So what, I'm not good enough to spar with you?"
Brienne went from pink to red. "No, princess, I... I only meant... I hear what the courtiers say of you, and of me. Were we to spar, half the keep would come to watch, and when you lost..."
Arya sank down in the tub, wrapping her arms around her knees. She knew what they would say. She knew, and she didn't care.
"I still want to spar," she insisted. "It's bad luck to refuse a name day boon, everyone knows that."
Brienne frowned. "I've never heard such a thing."
Bother, Arya had thought that would work. "Have you never been to the North?" Arya asked, already knowing the answer.
"Boons are sacred to the old gods. Didn't Sansa tell you?"
When Arya left the bathhouse, it was with a skip in her step and the promise of a bout upon the morrow. So long as Brienne doesn't ask Sansa about name day boons.
The bell was tolling noon as Arya took up her watch outside the small council chambers. Dacey Mormont and Lord Edric stood guard at the door, having taken the morning watch. Dacey smiled at her, and Edric talked to her of horses. When Ser Loras Tyrell came to relieve him a few minutes later, Edric was oddly reluctant to leave. Thankfully, then Brienne arrived to take Dacey's place. When she reminded Edric he was supposed to lunch with Ser Deziel Dalt, the Dornishman finally left.
Fortunately, when Ser Loras began complaining about Ser Daemon Sand to a stone-faced Brienne, Arya did not need to stay and listen. Unlike Ser Loras and Brienne, Arya didn't have to stand in one spot, guarding the door with her life. That was for knights and their men-at-arms, not a water dancer.
Instead, Arya prowled the hallway and the nearby vicinity. By now she knew every nook and cranny, thanks to the tutelage of Syrio Forel and that of the cats and dogs and mice who roamed the Aegonfort. Her keen eyes looked for anything amiss; her ears pricked at every sound; her limbs struggled to grow used to the weight of the chainmail which Sansa had gifted her.
Sansa seemed to take to being a queen like a duck to water. With her husband still in the Vale, and no Hand of the King to take charge in his stead, overseeing the small council's few members had fallen to Sansa. They met almost every day, to talk of securing the Seven Kingdoms and restoring King's Landing and all the sundry decisions that must be made and tasks which must be done before King Aegon journeyed north.
Arya was very glad that she didn't have to serve as cupbearer as she once had for Robb. Dull meetings were not to her taste, not like Princess Rhaenys. She attended every meeting with the excuse that her husband Lord Willas Tyrell, the master of laws, required her to take notes. If that was true, Arya would eat her boots.
When the small council meeting finally ended, Rhaenys accompanied Sansa to her solar. Arya followed, more than ready for a chance to sit down. Avoiding small council meetings was one thing, but there was no escaping the time Sansa set aside for her ladies.
As she took a chair by Sansa and looked around the solar, Arya was struck yet again by how queer it was that she had more ladies than her sister did. Jeyne Poole and Dacey Mormont, Mya Stone and Lady Smallwood, all of them were in Arya's service. Sansa only had Lady Jynessa Blackmont, and she was soon to return to Dorne. Lady Jynessa had not taken her mother's death well; her eyes were as dull and lifeless as her black mourning gown. When Jeyne Poole whispered to her, Jynessa barely responded, nodding or shrugging or shaking her head by turns until Jeyne gave up and came to ask Sansa something about livery for her household and that of the king.
Jeyne Poole was very busy of late. Sansa had asked her to take up the duties Jynessa could no longer handle. Jeyne might be called mistress of the queen's household, but that was just an odd way of saying she served as Sansa's steward, just as her father Vayon Poole had once served Lord Eddard Stark. Meri was not pleased, not that anyone except Arya could tell. Lady Smallwood wasn't very happy either, though she was doing a fine job of running Arya's household now that Jeyne was needed elsewhere.
Arya much preferred her own duties. Being a sworn sword was fun, though she missed having Nymeria with her. The direwolf much preferred the snowy depths of the kingswood to the cramped halls of the Aegonfort, even before Sansa banished her for frightening Lord Staunton. Her sister might be inclined to politely ignore the knights and lordlings whose eyes lingered on their queen's bosom, or who made bawdy jests outside her hearing, but Arya was not. Her sharp elbows and sharper tongue had seen plenty of use of late; the fools had grown especially bold with Sansa's husband gone.
Princess Rhaenys was very upset when she reached King's Landing only to find her brother had just left. At least, Arya thought she was upset, since she'd hidden in her room for several days. Her own ladies delicately hinted that Rhaenys was indisposed due to her moonblood, which made her weep and vomit and take to her bed with violent cramps. Curious, Arya had tried to check by slipping into Balerion's skin. She had promptly been thrown out by the very, very angry old tomcat, who threatened to piss in her shoes and shred all her clothes if she did not leave his poor sick two-legger alone.
His two-legger seemed perfectly healthy now. When Sansa began to tell a story from Mele Nernar, Princess Rhaenys sat straight and tall, ignoring the needlework on her lap so she might pay better attention to the tale. Her ladies followed her example; Obella Uller closed her book of poetry, Megga and Elinor Tyrell ceased their gossiping, and Lady Alys Beesbury put aside the letter she was writing.
Though everyone else listened to Sansa's tale, Arya paid it little heed. She had already heard of the battle with the Brazen Beasts from Edric, who was so proud of how he had earned his knighthood that one night at dinner he had insisted on telling her about it at length. "Although it was not so great a deed as His Grace's defeat of the Mountain," Edric had admitted, with an admiring look at his king.
Arya had barely managed not to snort. King Aegon might awe his subjects with his dragon and his crown of Valyrian steel, but after observing her goodbrother for over a moon's turn, Arya was not particularly impressed. Though almost as stern as Robb, King Aegon seemed far more uncomfortable with giving speeches and mingling with his lords. He was handsome, but not nearly as handsome as Gendry. He was skilled with the spear, but not nearly as skilled as his uncle Prince Oberyn. He was competent with the sword, but not nearly as competent as Ser Loras Tyrell, or Ser Daemon Sand, or Brienne, or Edric, or at least a dozen others, and apparently he wasn't any better at the joust. Come to think of it, her goodbrother was a rather lackluster knight.
Her sister had been very, very offended when Arya said as much. "There is more to being a knight than using a sword," Sansa had flared. "Olyvar is brave and gentle and just."
And odd, Arya had resisted the urge to add.
Try as she might, she could not get used to her goodbrother's insistence on using two different names, nor to how differently he behaved in public and in private. King Aegon was solemn and stiff; Olyvar was boyish and playful and made the worst japes Arya had ever heard. Once, she made the mistake of asking him the difference between unlawful and illegal. Rather than give a sensible explanation, Olyvar had grinned and told her that one was a sickly bird. Besotted as she was, Sansa had laughed so hard she cried, but Arya had groaned and resolved to keep such questions for Great-Uncle Brynden.
Princess Rhaenys was even less impressed with her kingly brother. The moment she emerged from her rooms, she had requested a private audience with her beloved queen and goodsister. It had not gone well, or so Sansa fumed to Arya that evening when they were alone. Oh, Rhaenys had been polite, even affectionate, but beneath her courtesies had been a litany of complaints.
Olyvar should have left Meereen sooner. Olyvar should have begun siring heirs as soon as Sansa came of age. Olyvar should have consulted with his sister, not followed the disastrous impulse to pay homage to High Septon Paul, who could only claim the fealty of a third of the faithful at most. Olyvar should have executed Jaime Lannister the moment he discovered the Dornishmen in King's Landing had been killed; Olyvar should have remained in King's Landing, not jaunted off to the Vale on a fool's errand—
Arya smirked. Sansa had been so, so smug when the raven came from the Gates of the Moon. Not only had Olyvar rescued Robert Arryn, the Lord of the Eyrie had knelt to him, and their cousin Sweetrobin remained in his charge whilst he negotiated with the lords of the Vale. Rhaenys had been both surprised and delighted, not that it stopped her from reiterating her prior concerns, and giving lots of advice about future decisions. Honestly, Arya thought sometimes Rhaenys had a point, not that she was stupid enough to tell Sansa that. And Arya did not appreciate how much Rhaenys fretted over the loss of the Dragonpit, the Great Sept of Baelor, and the Red Keep, whilst remaining indifferent to the continued silence from the Wall.
When it was time for dinner, her brothers still occupied Arya's thoughts. Sansa had put together a modest name day feast. There were to be as many of Arya's favorite dishes as could be had, but the guests were less to her liking. She wanted Jon and Robb and Bran and Rickon, not fine lords and ladies. And she could have done without Lord Willas Tyrell's ginger-headed singer, and the stupid song about some stupid lord who refused to give up his stupid lady which kept getting stuck in Arya's head.
Mercifully, Sansa dismissed the singer as soon as the first course arrived. All Arya had to do was eat, leaving her sister to make polite conversation. She was the perfect hostess, gracious and sweet, happy to lend an ear to every guest. She began by inquiring as to the health of her goodmother, Princess Elia of Dorne.
"Well enough," Princess Elia replied, covering a slight cough. Her face was drawn; her hands gripped the arms of her rolling chair. "My brother was kind enough to keep me company and assist with my plans for the new sept."
"Anything for my dear sister." Prince Oberyn said fondly. He heaved a heavy sigh. "I only wish I might be of more help."
"Our loss shall be Dorne's gain." Sansa smiled. "I pray you have a safe journey, and a warm welcome at the end of it. No doubt Lady Uller shall be a lovely bride."
"Lady Ellaria is a worthy lady," said Prince Quentyn Martell, his attempt at gallantry as awkward as he was. His wife Lady Gwyneth didn't seem to notice, too busy chatting with Obella Uller.
"My mother is more than worthy," Elia Uller put in, her arms folded across her chest. "My father ought to have wed her long ago."
A tense silence fell. Princess Elia raised an eyebrow at her niece; Brynden Blackfish studied his wine; Big Bucket Wull ripped an excessively large hunk of bread off the loaves being served by Gilly.
Then Sansa sailed in, smooth as silk. "Lord Willas, what was it you were telling me about Grand Maester Gerold?"
Lord Willas Tyrell's brown eyes lit up as he smiled, turning away from his wife Rhaenys, who had been murmuring something in his ear.
"Your Grace is good to ask. I did not expect King Aegon to request so detailed an account of the laws of the realm, and I do not have sufficient clerks who are learned enough to aid me in my labors. Nor did I expect the loss of the libraries of the Red Keep and the Great Sept. Grand Maester Gerold may have been born a Lannister, but he could still be of great use to me, if Your Grace would permit."
"I shall consider it," Sansa allowed. "What of asking Septon Jonothor for aid? He must know septons in the city who have enough education to serve your purposes."
"Septon Jonothor." The warmth was fading from Willas's eyes. "I shall speak to him, Your Grace." Behind him, Gilly bit her lip, looking queerly thoughtful as she continued serving the bread.
"Has there been any word of when His Grace means to return?"
Arya regarded Rhaenys suspiciously. There was no word, as Rhaenys knew full well.
"Not since the last raven," Sansa said, looking slightly crestfallen. "Why?"
"Oh, you know how sisters worry." Rhaenys smiled sadly. "It has been so long since I last saw him. It gladdens my heart to hear the city sing his praises; I cannot imagine what they shall do without their king when he sails north."
"My son is brave, but I fear for him," Princess Elia said, her voice thick with tears. "The sea swallows ships as easily as a snake devours a mouse."
"It is too far to march," Sansa reminded her goodmother gently. "The risk is necessary."
"Is it?" asked Willas. "It will be many moons before King's Landing is anything but a shade of her former self. The Westerlands and the Stormlands are in turmoil. So is Oldtown; Lord Hightower struggles to keep order. Then there is the matter of the many lands and titles seized from Queen Cersei's followers. The lands King Aegon took from Horn Hill are choice and fertile; many loyal lords of the Reach will be eager to claim them."
"Not to mention the faithful lords of the Dornish Marches," drawled Oberyn.
"True," Willas nodded. "His Grace will have his hands full; surely his realm must come before aught else."
That was when the penny dropped. Arya gripped the stem of her goblet, wondering what her sister was thinking behind her neutral gaze.
"There is a reason no one goes north in winter," Oberyn continued. He inclined his head at Big Bucket Wull and the northmen beside him. "No offense intended. Northmen are doughty enough to endure the intense cold, the deep snow and thick ice, but we southron men are not bred for such frozen climes."
"Yet the knights of the Vale have endured," Brynden Blackfish pointed out.
"The mountains of the Vale are near as cold as the North," Oberyn said, dismissive. "But I promise you, no other men born south of the Neck will welcome a journey to the Wall. The good will King Aegon has earned is fragile as a newborn foal. To ask men to leave hearth and home to fight monsters out of legend, monsters some do not believe to exist—"
Pushed to her limit, Arya snapped. "Are you calling my brother a liar?"
"Lord Commander Snow sent many accounts of the wights," Sansa added, her eyes flinty. "Accounts which King Aegon believes. Princess Rhaenys beheld a wight herself, the one the Night's Watch sent to Sunspear."
Quentyn shifted in his seat, looking like he would rather be somewhere, anywhere else. "My uncle did not mean to call Lord Snow a liar, I am sure. Though they were never friends, my father Prince Doran spoke highly of Lord Eddard Stark's honesty and his honor. No son of his would be either a liar or a madman."
"That's right," Arya muttered.
"But-" Quentyn swallowed. "Begging Your Grace's pardon, not all men are wise enough to believe as we do. Though the Wall is cracked, that does not mean King Aegon must defend it. King Robb has never lost a battle; let the northmen defend themselves."
"We haven't heard anything from the Wall, not for months." Arya fought back tears; she must not cry. "Anything could have happened!"
"I'm sure King Robb is fine," Big Bucket said gruffly. "Ravens oft go astray in winter. Here, princess, never you fret. When King Aegon flies north, I bet he'll find King Robb has already defeated the Others."
"See?" Rhaenys soothed. "The northmen themselves agree they do not require King Aegon's assistance. And if they should, why, it would not take a host, only a dragon. Viserion would melt those frozen demons away, easy as breathing. And when she did—"
Abruptly, Sansa cut in. "Oh! I beg your pardons. We have forgotten our due to Princess Arya; she ought not wait any longer for her gifts."
And with that, the argument ended. Arya tried not to scowl as she received her presents, some of which she liked far better than others. There was a looking glass, a silver casket studded with garnets, a mantle embroidered lavishly with wolves, earrings and necklaces, gifts of silks and furs. From Sansa there was a grey tunic and breeches made of soft cashmere; from Great-Uncle Brynden, a shrug of apology.
"Gift giving has never been one of my talents," the Blackfish admitted. "You may have a favor instead. Just the one, mind."
When they retired for the evening, Arya was still pondering what favor to ask. She had nothing else to do; Sansa was busy using the chamberpot again. She had gone thrice during the afternoon; Mya Stone had been rather queer about it.
Arya didn't care how often her sister used the chamber pot. She did wish Sansa would stop embracing her so much. And she could do without hearing her sister complain nightly about whatever had happened during the day when she was apart from Arya.
"I'm sorry Prince Oberyn was being a nuisance," Sansa sighed as Gilly removed her crown and put it away. "There is only a sennight until he departs; no doubt he hoped to have better luck swaying me than he has had with Olyvar."
"Could you make him stay? If you wanted to?"
Sansa furrowed her brow. "I am not sure, truth be told. Olyvar can be as stubborn as you are when he believes himself to be right." She yawned. "Alas, Willas was not wrong. There is so much to be done, and so little time to spare."
Arya did her best to sympathize as her sister recounted the small council meeting. Queen Cersei and the Kingslayer had yet to be found. The merchants of Pentos were trying to charge more for grain than the master of coin wished to pay. The Faith was still in an uproar over the destruction of the Starry Sept and the Great Sept of Baelor. There was word of a thrall revolt in the Iron Islands.
"And I've forgotten something important, I know I have, but I can't remember what it is," Sansa fretted as Shirei brought her sleeping shift. "It's been gnawing at me for days. And there's still no sign of Ser Lyn Corbray. Ser Jacelyn Bywater is extremely vexed. There have been a hundred reports from sundry folk, all of them confused and contradictory. Ser Jacelyn believes most like Ser Lyn perished when the Red Keep burned, and these tales come from those willing to swear false oaths for the promise of coin."
Arya frowned. "What do you think?"
Sansa hesitated. "Ser Jacelyn shared all the reports he gathered. There was a porter who thought he saw Ser Lyn leave the Red Keep soon after returning from the parley. He saw neither white cloak nor white plate, nor the ruby pommel of Lady Forlorn, only a dark-haired man in a dark green cloak."
"Ser Lyn could have disguised himself."
"That was what I said, but Ser Jacelyn thinks it more likely the porter saw some household knight. The man was old and squint-eyed, and could not say for sure whether it was Ser Lyn's face he saw. But... I don't know. Ser Lyn might be dead, as Ser Jacelyn thinks. If he is not..." Sansa shuddered.
As she went to bed later that night, Arya was still pondering all that Sansa had told her of Ser Lyn. Arya had taken the measure of every member of Queen Cersei's party at the parley, and something about Ser Lyn had made her skin crawl. Learning how Ser Lyn had behaved toward Sansa during her captivity in King's Landing had only made matters worse.
But what could Arya do about it? She wasn't the Commander of the City Watch, with thousands of goldcloaks at her beck and call. She was just a sworn sword. Her place was with Sansa, not searching for a missing Kingsguard. Arya should be grateful to be with her sister once more, not suffering a belly ache whenever she thought of the brothers she longed to see.
The black direwolf lay beside the fire, cracking a bone in his massive jaws. His boy leaned against him, looking up at old-old-pack-mother. Her toothless mouth moved as she spoke, her gnarled, wrinkled hands busy with two long sticks. The woman beside her was motionless, her hands resting against the slight swell of her belly. She was pack too, the mate of his brother's boy. He had killed to defend her, yet still she feared him—
The white direwolf stood atop the tower, pacing upon silent paws. The men beside him were silent too, his boy all in black, his brother's boy in grey and white with a crown upon his brow. Together they looked down upon the battle, upon the stinking dead two-leggers who knew nothing but slaughter—
The grey direwolf stalked the passage, hearing nothing but the click of his claws. The scent of meat drew him to the kitchen. His boy had finished making dinner; he was feeding the pack-sister-who-is-not-a-sister. She was sitting up now, that was good. Suddenly, the direwolf tensed. He could smell a dead man near at hand, and hear the faint sound of a scream—
The she-wolf raced through the kingswood, howling to the moon. Her prey fled before her, but not for long. The deer was sickly and slow, too slow to keep up with his herd as they raced to save their own skins. There was nothing like the thrill of the hunt—
When Arya woke before the dawn, she knew what favor she wanted. Sansa wouldn't mind; she might even help her persuade their great-uncle. Sparring with Brienne would have to wait; the hunt came first. Ser Jacelyn Bywater had failed her sister. Arya would not. No one would dare doubt her again once she found Ser Lyn Corbray and cut him down.
Not that she was foolish enough to tell Great-Uncle Brynden that. All he needed to know was that Sansa was afraid of Ser Lyn Corbray and that Arya was determined to keep her sister safe. The goldcloaks had a thousand other things to do. Surely it could not hurt if Arya took an interest; there were plenty of other swords who could guard Sansa for the nonce.
"If I am to serve as your escort, you must agree to heed me," the Blackfish insisted. "My indulgence only goes so far; I will not have you put yourself in harm's way."
There was no chance of being in harm's way, not at first. Arya was no longer the headstrong girl who had set out after Ser Amory Lorch with no idea what she was doing and no help save Needle and Nymeria. No, a proper hunt could not begin until one knew one's quarry. That meant staying put in the Aegonfort. Arya was a princess; she need not go out in search of witnesses when she could just summon them to her solar.
Talla Tarly and Grand Maester Gerold had seen much more of Ser Lyn Cobray than her sister had. So had the few servants who had fled before the destruction of the Red Keep. All of them said Ser Lyn was a vain, impulsive man, prone to sharpening his tongue on those who displeased him. Though he once had a serving man beaten for spilling wine on his doublet, he otherwise paid little heed to the servants, save to give orders, or to give the customary coins upon holy days. He paid far more attenton to his squires. They had been some of the most promising in the city, thanks to his tutelage.
That did not surprise Arya. Ser Mychel Redfort had once squired for Ser Lyn, and though he misliked the man's pride and hot temper, he still revered his skill at arms. Even for a Kingsguard, Ser Lyn was a very dangerous man, one armed with Valyrian steel.
And King's Landing was the perfect place for such a knight to vanish. The city was immense, crawling with thousands and thousands of people bundled up in cloaks and scarves and hats. If Ser Lyn wished to go out, no one would think it strange if a man covered his face against the biting wind.
Or Ser Lyn might have gone to ground, to hide in the household of some friend or ally. Both the city nobles and patricians had quickly sworn fealty to King Aegon, as had the guilds, but that was because no one fancied arguing with a dragon. Some of them had surely thrived under Lannister rule; they could be plotting treason already.
Brynden Blackfish certainly seemed to think so. Arya had hoped when they rode through the city it would be just the two of them and perhaps a few men-at-arms. Instead, she somehow ended up with not only her great-uncle and a dozen men-at-arms but Ser Perwyn Truefaith, his brother Lord Olyvar Rosby, Elia Uller, who was eager to escape the scolding of her namesake Princess Elia, and, for some reason, Lord Edric Dayne.
Arya would have rather had Ser Deziel Dalt. She liked the Knight of Lemonwood, even if he spent more time fussing over plants than sparring in the yard. He wouldn't have interrupted her thoughts to make conversation. She had no idea why Edric thought she would care about his Aunt Allyria wedding Lord Morgan Dondarrion.
"That's why I have to go home," Edric explained. "Because my aunt's leaving for Blackhaven. I have to look after Starfall myself, for a time, at least. I barely know my vassals, and it has been too long since I saw my lands. The Torentine is the loveliest river you'll ever see, and there are so many places to ride—"
"Elia!" Arya called. "Race you to the ferry!" And with that, she kicked her horse to a gallop.
The ground was well trampled, clearing a path of hard mud which ran through the snow. Thank the gods there was no ice, or Arya wouldn't have dared try racing. Not that it proved a very satisfying race. The distance was too short, and despite her head start, both horses reached the ferry together.
"That was subtle," Elia snorted. "Fuck the Crone's wrinkled arse, I would have had you if I hadn't tired my mare out yesterday."
"What's your excuse for last time?"
Elia glared. "What's your excuse for the time before that?"
"Princess, my lady." Ser Perwyn reined up, looking beleaguered as usual. "You are both accomplished horsewomen, and you both know racing ahead is unseemly."
United in their irritation at being reproached, Arya and Elia stuck together on the ferry. As the ferryman poled the boat across the Blackwater, Arya listened to Elia brag about the Hellholt, the seat she would someday inherit from her mother Lady Ellaria. She did not seem concerned by the Uller cousins who threatened to claim the Hellholt for themselves; they were no match for the Red Viper. Arya had heard a Rowan man-at-arms say half of the Ullers were half-mad, and the other half were worse. As Elia did not seem mad, Arya supposed the unlucky cousins must be both mad and worse.
But Arya could not possibly imagine any Uller could be as awful as Queen Cersei and the Kingslayer. The stink of ash and death filled her nose as they landed on the northern shore of the Blackwater, the scent so strong it overcame the fishy, salty smell of Fishmonger's Square. Above the city loomed the three high hills, their tops blackened and flat.
Men said there was naught left atop the summits, only rubble and craters where the Dragonpit, Great Sept, and Red Keep had once stood. Beneath them were the gutted shells of roofless manses, their stones dark with soot. Here and there the fire had spread down the slopes of the hills, devouring timbered houses and leaving behind naught but the crumbling skeletons of their frames. As they rode toward the Street of Steel, she saw smallfolk with bandages and with ugly burns; in the alleys crouched ragged beggars, huddled down away from the wind.
Her great-uncle had noticed her staring. "There is a reason King Aegon discouraged your sister from visiting the city until he returns," Brynden Blackfish said. "The gods only know how many are homeless; Ser Jacelyn cannot get an accurate count. Still, we should count ourselves lucky that the entire city didn't go up in flames like Flea Bottom did."
The Street of Steel had fared better than most. Armorers and smiths were no strangers to fire; their guilds had water wagons and men trained to use them. When they reached the high end of the street, they found Tobho Mott's huge house almost unscathed. The plaster was freshly whitewashed to hide the stain of smoke; the small section of roof which had burned already boasted new timbers.
When Master Tobho Mott bustled out to greet them, Arya had to hide her disappointment that he was alone. She ought to have expected nothing would tear Gendry away from his forge, not after daring to refuse King Aegon's offer of knighthood. Knights wore armor, they did not make it. Mya Stone was less stubborn than her half brother. She had gladly accepted the honors and incomes King Aegon bestowed upon her, his thanks for showing men the difference between a bastard child of Robert Baratheon and a bastard born of Queen Cersei's adultery and incest.
"Queen Sansa's crown is not yet complete, I'm afraid," Master Tobho told her. "Finding suitable garnets has proved difficult, but His Grace was most insistent that rubies would not serve."
"I'm not here about that," Arya said impatiently. "Ser Lyn Corbray bought all his armor here. What do you know of him?"
Perplexed as he was, the master armorer humored her. Ser Lyn had often honored his shop with his custom; nothing satisfied him but the very best. Alas, Ser Lyn was not prompt in handing over the sums he owed for such costly work. He had grown very wroth indeed when Master Tobho refused to let him commission a new helm until he paid his debt.
"Ser Lyn warned me not to make an enemy of him. He smiled as he said it, his hand upon the hilt of his sword." Master Mott grimaced. "I dared not cross a Kingsguard, not one so high in Queen Cersei's favor. Not after what she did to the Silversmith's Guild."
Why Queen Cersei had fined the guild a ruinous sum, Master Mott could not say, only that Ser Lyn had been involved. But he gave her the name of a master on the Street of Silver, a cousin of his recently deceased wife. He also recommended a reputable inn where they might find a good meal after Arya's stomach gurgled so loudly she turned pink with embarrassment.
The innkeeper nearly fell over himself to welcome Princess Arya and Ser Brynden Tully, babbling how honored he was to serve the queen's own sister and great-uncle and their noble friends. Arya did her best to politely accept the innkeeper's fawning, mindful of her great-uncle watching. Ser Perwyn and his brother Olyvar had the freedom to be amused, and Elia Uller rolled her eyes as she claimed a bench by the fire. As for Edric Dayne, he made for the singer in the corner.
When the singer burst into yet another song about King Aegon, Arya was not surprised. There were a lot of them. Sansa had even written a few of the better ones. She was surprised by how downcast Edric seemed when he returned.
"I'm sorry, princess," Edric apologized. "I asked the singer to play The Beautiful Bane of the Boltons, but he didn't know it."
"Thank the gods," Arya muttered, taking a gulp of cider.
The inn's cook was as good as Tobho Mott promised. The bread was soft and light, the roasted chicken tender with crisp, golden skin. Once their bellies were pleasantly full, they made their way to the Street of Silver.
When they met Master Osmund, Arya wished she hadn't eaten quite so much. His tale was as gruesome as it was sad. Another master silversmith, Master Tristimun, had wrought several pieces for Ser Lyn Corbray. When it came time to pay, Ser Lyn had found fault with the work and offered only half the agreed upon price. Refusing to be cheated, Master Tristimun demanded to be paid in full. Ser Lyn had paid, but promised vengeance.
A sennight later, Master Tristimun's wife was found slain upon his doorstep, her throat cut. Master Tristimun named Ser Lyn Corbray as her murderer, as did the Silversmith's Guild. Arrogant fools that they were, they had appealed to Queen Cersei for justice. Instead, the queen had punished them for daring to defame a member of the Kingsguard. For the guild the cost of insolence was a hefty fine; for Master Tristimun, the hangman's noose.
That night, Arya tossed and turned, plagued by worry. Great-Uncle Brynden thought it most likely Ser Lyn was dead or fled, but she could not agree. The Kingsguard was in the city, she knew it, just as she knew she must find him before his blade found those responsible for his downfall.
Over the next several days, Arya scoured the city. Whilst Ser Edric Dayne and Lord Olyvar Rosby visited inns and taverns in search of gossip, Arya and the rest of her escort rode through the streets, searching for the other merchants to whom Ser Lyn had given his custom. The Street of Gems, the Street of Velvet, the Street of Spices, they visited them all, though they learned little.
Arya was frustrated beyond measure by the time they circled back to the harbor. Only the sight of a pair of bravos dueling on the docks beside a Braavosi galley gave her some cheer. She cheered up even more when her great-uncle let her spar with them the next day. Arya wasn't as fast as the bravos, not with her chainmail on, but she didn't shame herself too badly either. Although she could have done without the bravos making fun of Needle's size. Needle was a part of her, it was Jon and her father and Winterfell; so what if it was a little small?
"You know, it seems rather a waste that you weren't born a boy," Olyvar Rosby said as she climbed back onto her horse.
"Thank you?" Arya said, baffled. He had meant it as a compliment, she knew, yet somehow it felt like an insult. Why should she want to be a boy? Having a manhood wouldn't make her better at water dancing, it would just make other people act less stupid about it.
Rather than bite Olyvar's head off as part of her wanted to, Arya rode along the docks. With the harbor reopened, there were dozens of ships riding at anchor, their holds filled with goods from across the Seven Kingdoms and from across the narrow sea. What would it be like, to sail off and see the shores from whence they came?
As the time drew near for Prince Oberyn and his retinue to depart, Ser Edric grew more and more determined to be gallant for no reason. He recited poetry whenever he was riding within her earshot; he commented on the loveliness of her hair, short and messy as it was. Arya supposed he must be practicing on her. Sansa had mentioned Edric needed to get married soon so he could start siring heirs for Starfall.
And so, after dinner, when Edric begged the honor of accompanying her to the tiny weirwood sapling which Sansa had planted by the Aegonfort, Arya saw no harm in letting him. Great-Uncle Brynden wasn't very good at hiding his indifference to the old gods, and she was tired of his hovering. Of course, she went nowhere without at least a few men-at-arms. Ondrew and Porther trailed at a respectful distance, bickering quietly.
"Do weirwoods always grow this fast?" Edric asked, eyeing the knee-high sapling.
"I don't know," Arya shrugged. "Why?"
"Did you know King Aegon gave your sister seven weirwood cuttings as a wedding gift? They were planted in Sunspear. Thus far, all seven have survived."
"I know. The folk of the hollow hill won't shut up about them."
Sansa had mentioned the weirwoods while Shirei was gathering her shifts for the washerwomen, so of course Shirei had told the rest of the queen's household. They had lit candles to the Mother, Maiden, and Crone for the next seven days, and made offerings to the little weirwood too.
Edric seemed to struggle with himself, then took a tentative step closer. "If seven weirwoods can grow in Sunspear, maybe one could grow in Starfall. If you liked."
Arya gaped at him. "What?"
Edric looked at her, his eyes soft. "If my lady would do me the honor—"
"I'm barren," she blurted, before he could make matters worse. "I, uh- you need heirs, and I can't- I thought you knew? Everyone knows that was why my betrothal was broken."
"Not everyone, it seems," Edric said, red-faced. "I- I must beg your pardon, my lady. I had only heard the match was ill-suited, and did not think it courteous to pry."
"Oh."
Edric looked like he wished to say something else. Instead, he made a bow and took his leave.
Arya let him. She did not need an escort, nor company for her prayers. She knelt before the sapling, her knees pressing into snow already dented by the prayers of others. Sansa prayed here too, her and the folk of the hollow hill and the more pious northmen. The weirwood her sister had planted in the godswood of the Red Keep was not convenient; it was all the way across the river, and barely clinging to life besides.
The sapling was another matter. Its branches shone silver-white in the light of the waning crescent moon, its crown of bloodred leaves rustling softly. The tree did not yet have a face; she could only hope that the old gods would still hear her prayers.
That night, Arya dreamt of Robb's wedding. Again she watched from the dais as lords and ladies gathered round the bride and groom. The men shouted bawdy jests as they tugged at Margaery's clothes; the women giggled as they tugged at Robb's. Arya looked away, back at Margaery. Her pretty goodsister was flushed and breathless as she threw witty barbs at the men unlacing her bodice; Arya could feel her own face turning red with embarrassment as she ducked her head.
In the morning, Arya was weary and waspish. She could not avoid getting up early to bid Prince Oberyn and his party farewell, but nothing could have made her enjoy it. Edric would not look at her, occupying himself with Ser Deziel Dalt instead.
Arya did not like the thought that Brienne and Ser Deziel might be leaving soon too. Lord Selwyn of Tarth was very ill. More than once Sansa had encouraged Brienne to go home to her father, to wed Ser Deziel and then to assist the Penroses in securing the Stormlands. Brienne would have none of it. She had sworn her sword to her queen, and refused to leave Sansa's side until there were more than two Kingsguard and a few trusted knights to defend her.
That was true, no doubt, but Arya wondered if Brienne had other reasons. Being a queen's sword shield seemed like much more fun than getting married, even to a decent fellow like Ser Deziel. And marriage meant the messy business of bedding and babies. Meri might have enjoyed staring at Margaery, and Jeyne at both Margaery and Robb, but Arya did not see the appeal of seeing people naked. She saw naked people all the time, women in the bathhouse and men through the eyes of cats as they roamed the keep. There was nothing exciting about it, nothing at all.
Arya huffed. Great-Uncle Brynden had been very displeased when she tried to ride toward the Street of Silk. Nor would he allow her to summon Bel to the Red Keep to sing, even though Sansa said Bel had been invited to sing for Prince Oberyn and for Queen Cersei. The Blackfish said something about how there were different rules for maidens than for princes and widows, and that was the end of it.
Well. Her great-uncle could stop Arya, but he couldn't stop her from sending Ser Perwyn Truefaith to visit Bel in her place. The day passed with agonizing slowness as Arya guarded her sister. By mid morning she was restless; by noon she was impatient.
When Ser Perwyn at last returned in the late afternoon, Arya was amply rewarded for her waiting. Frightening as he was, even Ser Lyn Corbray could not prevent whores from quietly gossiping amongst themselves. Bel knew much and more of Ser Lyn, more than Arya had dared hope of.
Ser Lyn Corbray favored boy whores, but never the same one for long. Ser Lyn Corbray was generous with his coin when pleased and stingy when angered. Ser Lyn sometimes slipped into the city to enjoy himself. He watched mummers perform plays, but only the ones with lots of wit or lots of fights. He gambled on bear baitings and cockfights, or sometimes at dice and tiles. He grew very ill-tempered if he lost too often in the same sennight; a few patricians who'd dared humble him had been found mysteriously slain months later.
Sansa acted as if she was the one who had been stabbed when Arya shared what she had learned. "That was what I forgot," her sister said, horror-struck. "Bel must be generously rewarded. If she had not warned us of the wildfire...if she had not helped us flee the city..."
While Sansa set to the task of sorting out a proper reward for Bel, Arya pondered over all that she knew of Ser Lyn. Wherever he had hidden, he had hidden himself well. He would not reveal himself until he saw his chance. King Aegon had been well guarded when he went into the city, too well guarded for Ser Lyn to risk attack. Queen Sansa had not entered the city at all, not since her husband left...
Two days later, Arya had the makings of a plan. It had filled her thoughts for every waking hour, even now, as she listened to Bel sing for Princess Elia. The little solar was empty save for the royal family. Ser Woth of the goldcloaks might receive a public show of thanks before the court, but not so a brothel keeper. Queen Sansa, Princess Elia, Princess Rhaenys, and Princess Arya expressed their gratitude with no one to bear witness save Jeyne Poole and Meri, both of whom wept when it was their turn to thank Bel for all that she had done.
Then it was time to present Bel's reward, such as it was. Sansa had wanted to give her lands and incomes, the sort fit for a prosperous landed knight. Princess Elia had quickly dissuaded her, saying such a reward would soon turn sour. Even the queen's favor could not convince highborn lords and ladies to welcome a former whore amongst them. A year, perhaps less, and Bel would happen to choke on a chicken bone, or tumble down a flight of stairs, or meet some other mishap.
Instead, Bel was to have a purse of coin, a fat one, and another just like it at the turn of every new year whilst she lived. Should Bel marry, the crown would dower her. Should she have sons, the crown would pay for their apprenticeships, or find them places as pages with the chance to become a knight.
"I'm already wed, Your Grace," Bel said. "And I've a daughter, Wren, if it please you."
"She was with you, in the Old King's Square." The memory almost made Arya smile. Bel had been frantic, but the little girl beside her had been calm, staring in awe as though Arya were a proper princess. Of course, Arya had immediately forgotten about the little girl, what with the city going up in flames.
Nor was there much time to talk of Wren now. Septon Jonothor had begged an audience with the queen, and Sansa was too courteous to make him wait past the appointed hour. After that came needlework with some ladies from the crownlands, then dinner, then finally, finally, Arya had her sister to herself.
To Arya's relief, Sansa readily agreed to her plan. "Septon Jonothor requested more aid for the city almshouses; visiting them myself will please him. Good Queen Alysanne held women's courts; surely it would not go amiss to permit the poor a chance to be heard. But are you sure we should keep our true purpose between ourselves?"
"Yes," Arya said firmly. "Great-Uncle Brynden doesn't even think Ser Lyn is in the city, and if he did, he'd try to stop us from leaving the Aegonfort." And if everyone knew they were on a hunt, everyone else would try to steal her prey, to snatch the victory that belonged to her.
"You know the Blackfish better than I," Sansa said. "Very well; I trust you."
That trust sat heavily upon Arya's shoulders when they crossed the Blackwater a few days hence. She watched like a hawk as she rode through the streets beside her sister, keeping an eye out for men of Ser Lyn's size amongst the cheering smallfolk. Arya doubted he would try to attack in the open, but she stayed vigilant nonetheless.
The front of the almshouse was surrounded by smallfolk when they reined up. Ser Loras Tyrell barked orders for goldcloaks and men-at-arms to clear a path; Brienne of Tarth helped Sansa dismount. Arya swung down from her saddle with ease, careful to keep close behind her sister as they entered the enormous hall of timber and plaster.
Throngs of smallfolk packed the almshouse. As the herald cried Queen Sansa's coming they sank to their knees, only rising once she had reached the low rough dais prepared for her. Ser Loras and Brienne took up their places between the crowd and the queen, leaving Arya free.
While her sister heard petitions, Arya slowly circled the almshouse. She watched the septons in their cowled robes, the merchants and guild masters in their furs, the poor folk in their patched and faded wool cloaks. Hair might be shaved or covered with a wig; height might be changed by crouching or bending. If he kept his face covered, Ser Lyn might even pose as a woman. However he had disguised himself, she meant to find him.
Yet though she looked long and hard, her nerves on edge, Arya did not find Ser Lyn. There were plenty of men near his height, but none whose face resembled the one she had seen at the parley. A mummer might change his seeming with powders and paints; she could only pray Ser Lyn did not know such tricks. Though even if he had, his disguise might have melted off. Every hearth boasted a blazing fire, and with so many people clustered together, the hall was hot and stifling, the air stale.
When she heard shouting coming from outside, it was almost a relief. Whilst Ser Loras and several goldcloaks made for the front door to find the cause of the commotion, a septon escorted everyone else to a side door that led to an alley.
"I shall send a boy to have your mounts fetched from the stables," the septon told Sansa. She was oddly tense, as if she wanted to fidget but knew she mustn't. "Is there aught else I can do for Your Grace?"
Sansa turned pink, then asked after a privy in a low, quiet voice. His ears just as pink, the septon pointed the way. Her sister was much less tense when she emerged from the privy, though Arya wished she had not had the task of assisting with her skirts.
When they returned to the side door, the septon was glad to tell them that their horses were ready. He was less glad to tell them that there were some beggars in the alley, no doubt hoping to benefit from the queen's largesse. Sansa reached for her purse as a pair of goldcloaks went out first, then Brienne, then Sansa with Arya close behind, followed by more goldcloaks.
As she stepped into the alley, some instinct made Arya pause. There were more than a dozen men huddled against the wall of the almshouse, as if sheltering from the bitter cold. But beggars did not wear chainmail that peeked from beneath their ragged cloaks, nor sit strangely to conceal their swords, nor dart their eyes around as they looked for some signal.
Everything seemed to happen at once. As Arya cried out in alarm and yanked her sister back, one of the beggars stood. Ser Lyn Corbray smiled as he drew his sword, the ruby pommel gleaming red as blood, the blade the dark smoke of Valyrian steel. He was looking at Sansa and Brienne, at the goldcloaks forming a circle around them, not at the girl standing behind the queen. Arya was almost used to her chainmail; if she could be quick enough, she might be able to thrust Needle through his throat before he saw her—
A bravo's blade is not meant to fight against a longsword or a greatsword, nor against armor, Brienne had told her.
I trust you, her sister had said.
And so with gritted teeth, Arya let the moment pass. It was Brienne who charged for Ser Lyn, Brienne who crossed swords with him as the other beggars attacked the goldcloaks. Arya stuck close to Sansa, forcing herself to ignore the duel. Nothing else mattered, only keeping her sister safe. When a goldcloak fell and the beggar who had killed him surged forward, Arya was ready. Her cloak yanked his sword away; her blade slid through his throat, blood splattering on her face.
Then, just like that, it was over. Ser Lyn lay on the ground and Brienne stood over him, her sword thrust through his face. The beggars turned and fled the alley, but they did not get far. One of the goldcloaks pursued them, shouting "Treason! They attacked the queen!" as he ran. The alley led to the front of the almshouse; Arya could hear the mob roar their fury as they echoed the goldcloak's call.
In the end, only two of the false beggars survived the mob. As Arya suspected, they were sellswords, hired only a few hours before the queen was to arrive at the almshouse. None of them had known their employer was Ser Lyn Corbray, just as none of them had known he meant to attack the queen. All they had known was that some of them were to start a brawl in front of the almshouse whilst the rest waited in the alley.
Or so they claimed, anyway. Arya didn't believe them, just as Great-Uncle Brynden did not believe her attempt to deny using Sansa to bait Ser Lyn into the open. Nor did he approve of her plan, even though it had worked, if not quite as she had intended.
"I don't care if Her Grace agreed to it, it was still foolhardy beyond measure," the Blackfish snapped. "What were you thinking? Or were you thinking at all? I warned you against idle whims—"
"It wasn't an idle whim!" Arya protested. "It wasn't my fault Ser Loras ran off—"
"If Ser Loras knew the queen was being used as bait, he would not have left her side," her great-uncle snapped. "Lady Brienne ought not to have had to duel Ser Lyn by herself."
Arya gaped at him, bewildered and offended. "Brienne didn't need Ser Loras! She defeated Ser Lyn all by herself."
"Aye," the Blackfish said. "And now Lady Brienne is not fit to stand guard, not for a moon's turn at least. Had she known to expect an attack, perhaps she would not have been injured."
"I couldn't tell anyone but Sansa, because Ser Lyn Corbray was supposed to be mine," Arya insisted, wiping away angry tears. "If I slew him, that would prove I was a real sworn sword. Not a helpless maiden who only wins bouts when people lose on purpose."
Great-Uncle Brynden stared at her. "Gods be good," he swore. "Child, if men underestimate you, it is for the best. You are no knight, no Kingsguard. You are your sister's shadow, her last defense at dire need. But you are not her only defense, just as Nymeria does not hunt alone."
"The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." Her father had told her that once, long ago. What would he think if he could see her now? Arya would never know, just as she would never know what it was like to feel like she belonged.
Fuck yeah, Arya! Can't wait to see what y'all think in the comments
December is a crazy, stressful, busy month, but I finally got this done. Woohoo! I hope all of you have had a lovely holiday season, and wish you the very best in the coming new year. My deepest thanks to PA2, Wiverse, SioKerrigan, and Erzherzog, who helped me figure out the logistics of the Lyn Corbray manhunt and confrontation.
Thank you so much to everyone who supported The Weirwood Queen in the r/AsoiafFanfiction awards!
r/AsoiafFanfiction Awards Results
•Best Overall Fic- WIN
•Best Author- WIN
•Best Original Character in a fic: Sister Edythe- WIN
•Best Canon Ship in a Fic (Jaime/Cersei)- THIRD PLACE
•Most Interesting Plot- WIN
•Best Overall Prose in a Fic- WIN
•Best Worldbuilding in a Fic- WIN
Jesus christ, you guys Thank you so, so much for reading and supporting the fic!
The Weirwood Queen has also been nominated for awards over at at r/TheCitadel. TWQ is up for 5) Best Ongoing Fic Updated in 2023, and for 13) Expanded Lore and Worldbuilding. Please head over there and vote; the voting post is pinned to the sub.
Up Next
165: Sansa II
166: Cersei II
167: Bran III
168: Olyvar III
Fun fact: I wrote 355,008 words in 2023. Christ almighty, what.
NOTES
1) My source on customary gifts was this archive entry on New Year's gifts presented to Queen Elizabeth I of England. Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out how to view the 1559 roll which the archive entry is about.
2) Bel was essentially awarded a yearly pension. Pensions did exist in medieval Europe. One amusing example is that of the poet Geoffrey Chaucer, who was granted a daily pitcher of wine by King Edward III.