December 31, 300 AC through late January, 301 AC
She saw the raven before she heard it.
The sun shone down on lustrous wings, calling iridescent greens, blues, and purples to the dark bird's glossy feathers as it winged its way to the ravenry. Even brighter was the sunburst off the slim glass tube tied to its leg, the light almost blinding Arya as the raven landed on the grey stone sill with a raucous caw. Arya slid Needle back into the sheath that hung at her right hip, her water dancing form abandoned as she reached for the bird.
Please, please, please, Arya prayed. "A raven!" She shouted.
The ravens above her quorked and cawed at the sudden noise. Usually the eight-sided chamber was theirs alone, from the broad stone floor covered in rushes to the arches of the stone windows to the rafters where they perched and made their nests. A great stone bowl upon a pedestal provided them water to drink and bathe their feathers; various wooden troughs stood empty, awaiting the daily ration of seeds, nuts, and meat scraps from the butcher which Pate, one of Maester Luwin's many assistants, was obliged to deliver.
"A raven!" She shouted again, annoyed by the maester's lack of appearance.
"Yes, yes, I hear you, princess," Maester Luwin called up from his chamber below. By the time the maester reached the top of the steps Arya had already untied the tube and removed the cork that sealed the parchment against mud and rain.
"House Blackwood, I think," Arya said as she spied the mottled seal of red and black, a leafless weirwood surrounded by ravens pressed into the wax.
The maester set his mortar and pestle aside, the dried willow bark in the bowl only half crushed. Most of the medicines for Winterfell were mixed under Luwin's keen eye by Berena the herbwife and Artos the gardener, two of his other assistants, but Robb required willowbark tea twice a day for his lingering pain, and any medicine that passed Robb, Arya, or Rickon's lips was prepared by the maester himself.
Good girl, she praised the raven, who preened the feathers of her wedge-shaped tail. In short order Arya learned that the raven's name was Screech, she was tired, and she was very annoyed by the escape of the frog she had hoped to eat for breakfast.
"Screech is hungry," Arya informed the maester, who had slipped the scroll in one of his many pockets and taken back up his pestle. "She wants nuts."
"You should keep them in your own pockets, princess," the maester grumbled irritably as he passed her a handful of hazelnuts so that he might resume crushing the willow bark in peace. Arya shrugged as the maester descended the stairs, unbothered. Her tunics didn't have pockets, and the ones in her breeches were always filled with other things. Besides, she found a strange comfort in annoying the maester as she had when she was younger.
When all the hazelnuts had vanished down Screech's eager gullet, Arya drew Needle and resumed her morning practice. She had already tested her balance on the trees in the godswood and built up her lungs by chasing Rickon around the outer ward, but the ravenry was the best place for water dancing. It was one of the few places she could run through her forms again and again and again without any onlookers besides the disinterested birds. Even Ser Perwyn Truefaith was content to leave her be, guarding the entrance to the maester's tower rather than watching her every move.
Arya's ears twitched at the flutter of wings. She turned, heart in her throat— only to see a pair of hawks returning to the falconer's mews. With a sigh she returned to her form, her thoughts twisting and turning like a bird in flight.
Despite Robb sending ravens from White Harbor to near every keep in Dorne, only one bird had come to Winterfell. Robb and Arya had read it so many times she could recite Sansa's coded message with her eyes closed.
Rumors and truth are not the same. What rumors? What was the truth? I am yet a maid, and I am safe. Robb had turned red, then pale at that part, hope and disbelief warring in his face. Olyvar is as honorable as father, and as brave. Well, he had fought the Mountain, Arya supposed that was very brave, but how did Sansa know he was honorable? Just because he wasn't vile enough to take her maidenhead by force? Arya spun and twisted, the thin blade a part of her arm.
Brienne of Tarth has found me, and sworn me her sword as she once swore to mother. Robb had never met Brienne of Tarth, but mother had told Arya about her at Riverrun, about how the lady was taller than most knights and just as skilled with lance and longsword. Arya grimaced; she doubted she'd ever be so tall. More I cannot say, not yet, but do not fear for me. Had Sansa lost her wits? Of course they feared for her, she was at the opposite end of Westeros, surrounded by strangers who'd sworn themselves to the Lannisters!
And please let Arya keep her Needle and her dancing lessons. She will need them. Arya grinned as she lunged and thrusted. Robb had been torn as to whether to continue the lessons begun with Lord Eddard's permission and continued with Lady Catelyn's, but Sansa's words had been the final nudge. Not a week later Robb had sent a raven to White Harbor, instructing Lord Wyman Manderly to find a Braavosi swordsman, preferably a pupil of Syrio Forel, and obtain his services for the King of the North, the Trident, and the Vale.
For Rickon, the letter had said, and Arya's smile dimmed. The ladies of House Mormont might go into battle, and the occasional Umber or Karstark when the wildlings pressed them hard, but Stark ladies did not.
"The water dance is enough, Arya," Robb had told her. "Gods forbid that things grow so desperate that you must ride into battle." He shuddered, and she wondered yet again about the nightmares that made her elder brother wake shaking and covered in sweat.
Rickon never noticed; he slept like a rock, his little face still scowling. It was Arya who awoke at every small noise, cat-quick, one hand sliding under her pillow to the wolfshead dagger concealed there. Robb never asked about the dagger, nor more than she asked about the nightmares. It was enough that they shared the same bed, three wolfpups curled tightly to hide the spaces missing between them, the brother and sister they had failed. Arya grimaced, and threw herself into her forms.
By the time she paused to rest at mid-morning only one more raven had arrived. The letter tied to its leg bore marbled gold, silver, and copper wax stamped with the chained link seal of the Citadel. Maester Luwin was astounded at Queen Jeyne's success in healing Robb's wound, though Robb was still weak. Every few weeks he wrote to the Citadel, and some archmaester of healing wrote back. It was one of the easier seals to recognize, since Arya saw it so often.
Annoyed by her persistent haunting of the ravenry, the maester was making her learn all the seals of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale, as well as those of the great houses from the rest of Westeros. Every house, no matter how small, had its own seal, its own shade of wax. Maybe Sansa could tell Hornwood orange from Martell orange from the orange used by House Peake from the Reach, but they looked the same to Arya.
Eleventh month had provided her with lots of practice. Ravens had flown to and from every northern house as Robb negotiated the settling of the gift at Lord Commander Jon Snow's desperate behest. The lords were not pleased at the thought of wildlings south of the Wall; almost every meeting in Robb's solar was about how to best placate his northern bannermen, especially those whose lands were near the Gift.
Arya shivered. Wildlings were terrifying figures in Old Nan's tales, brutes who did naught but steal and rape and murder, but there were worse things beyond the Wall than evil men, cold dead things with neither souls nor pity... She had tried to forget the Ghost of High Heart and her gleaming garnet eyes, the way her voice rasped as she told Anguy to fletch weirwood arrows with dragonglass points. The Others fear the frozen flames.
Now it was the end of twelfth month, the last day of the old year, a night for living flames. Down below the servants were polishing every inch of Winterfell until it gleamed, preparing for the festivities to come. The brewers were hauling out their best casks of mead; the kitchens bustled as bakers prepared small honeycakes for the children of the Wintertown. Somewhere a group of chattering maids were preparing rushlights, steeping the long stalks in mutton grease mixed with a dab of beeswax.
A dull clang reached her ears, the sound of hammer and anvil. The smiths were busy too, every apprentice boy and journeyman set to making balls of bronze wire. Gendry would be among them, too busy to spar with a little girl. She wrinkled her nose and swore in her head. Arya had made the mistake of swearing in the maester's hearing only once; she could still taste the handfuls of mint leaves he'd made her chew to "freshen her vulgar speech."
"Arrrrrrrrrrryaaaaa!" A voice cried from below. She sheathed her sword, putting on a grin as she descended the steps two at a time and swept Rickon up in her weary arms. It was nearly time for the midday meal, and that meant northron lessons. Wylla Manderly was already seated, her long green braid hanging over her shoulder as she told the maester how Rickon had spent his morning.
They had finished with courtesies upon greeting a bannerman and were moving on to common foods when Robb appeared, his crown resting on his head. A servant trailed behind him with a tray of food, followed by Grey Wind, who clenched his own lunch, a thick haunch of meat, in his jaws. Nymeria preferred the hot blood of a fresh kill, and hunted for her meals in the wolfswood, but as Grey Wind stuck to Robb's side like a bur, he subsisted on cold meat from the butchers.
Once the servant set the tray down Luwin pointed to each dish and said its northron name. Robb and Arya learned quickly, but it took Rickon several attempts before he managed the northron words. Wylla was even worse, but Arya thought she was doing it on purpose to make Rickon feel better. They continued their lesson over the meal, conversing in very slow, halting northron as Luwin corrected their pronunciation and taught them the words they needed to ask for more butter and so on. Wylla did not mind learning alongside her tiny betrothed, but Rickon did not see the point in the exercise, though he had taken to shouting northron words at Big Walder and Little Walder Frey. In his angry little voice even the word for bread sounded like a curse.
The meal ended when Lady Edythe Cerwyn appeared to take Rickon to his writing lessons. A warm, kind, plump lady in her fifties, Edythe had been Lady Catelyn's closest friend, what with Castle Cerwyn less than a half day's ride from Winterfell. Now Lady Edythe had taken the place of Arya's mother, organizing the servants and running the keep while King Robb pored over correspondence and ledgers and records of preparations for prior winters.
Arya should have been glad, to be spared such work. If Sansa were here, she would be the one in charge of the household; after she turned ten she had shadowed Lady Catelyn every day when she was not at her lessons. But Arya was only nine when they left Winterfell, too old to do whatever she wanted like Rickon but too young to be entrusted with the responsibilities Sansa took to as easily as she took to dancing and singing and needlework.
Instead of running the household or shadowing Lady Edythe, Arya spent most of her afternoons shut up in Robb's solar. That was where they went after the midday meal, down the stairs of the maester's tower and up the stairs of the Great Keep, all in silence but for the click of Grey WInd's claws and the soft bootsteps of Ser Perwyn Truefaith and Ser Patrek Mallister and a small band of men-at-arms. Ser Perwyn was garbed in a new surcoat of grey and white; the Truefaiths had taken Stark colors for their quartered sigil, with bloody Frey towers on grey to represent Lord Walder's betrayal and the Father's silver scales on white to represent their refusal to be complicit in such infamous deeds. Alesander Truefaith had come up with their new words, death before dishonor.
Finally they reached the solar. Robb had brought several small scrolls from the ravenry, along with a much bigger parchment that had been brought by a courier. When he unrolled the parchment on the broad table Arya's stomach sunk into her boots.
Contract of Betrothal
Betwixt Hoarfrost Umber, Heir to Last Hearth, and Princess Arya Stark of Winterfell
She had known the contract would arrive soon, but knowing and seeing were very different things, even if it had been her idea. The Umbers were closest to the Gift, and even Greatjon Umber's steadfast loyalty was not enough to make him bow and scrape and cower to his king's will. If there were to be wildlings south of the Wall, then Winterfell must keep faith with the lords who faced the most danger.
Robb's original plan had been to offer himself. Greatjon Umber had asked for little else thus far, except the honor of bringing Roose Bolton to heel. Though his eldest daughter, Fern, had just wed Torrhen Karstark, he had a second daughter, Cornel, who was Robb's age. But Arya had heard Robb weeping when he thought she was asleep; she'd heard him murmur Jeyne's name to Grey Wind as he stroked the direwolf's fur. For Robb to wed again so soon... he had suffered enough pain.
"It should be me," Arya had said to Robb's utter bewilderment. "Hoarfrost said his little brother is only a year older than me."
"Rime Umber is thirteen," Robb said with a frown. "But he is not the heir. Princesses wed heirs, not younger sons."
Arya bit her lip. Hoarfrost Umber was at least six years her elder, and almost as big as his sire. But Sansa's betrothal had said she wouldn't wed Joffrey until four years after her first flowering; even if Arya flowered now, she'd have years and years before she had to wed. Meri was fourteen and not yet flowered; Jeyne Poole had only recently flowered at thirteen.
"You..." Arya tried. "You can't..." How could she explain? She'd failed to save their mother, or Jeyne Westerling, but at least she could give Robb time to grieve. "Let me?" She finally said, her voice tiny like some stupid little girl. "Besides, if you wed Cornel Umber so soon then Lord Wyman will be very cross."
Days of argument followed, but Arya refused to surrender. Last Hearth was wild and free; she'd be close to Jon Snow; the Umbers already knew about Needle and Nymeria; reason after reason that the betrothal made sense, without ever saying her true intent. Robb knew; she could tell when he mussed her hair and hugged her close the day she finally wore him down.
The contract's terms were the same as they had discussed. Certain lands and a sum of silver would serve as Arya's dowry; she had the right to her own personal guard of Stark men and a sworn shield of her choosing. There were terms regarding what would happen in case of impotence or adultery, and terms regarding Arya's rights within the marriage, both marital and otherwise. Upon her first flowering Arya would journey to Last Hearth to learn from Lady Marna Umber; there would be no wedding until four years later, as was tradition, to prevent the risk an early pregnancy posed to both mother and babe.
"Is there anything else today?" Arya asked when they'd reviewed the contract top to bottom and once again for good measure.
"Before the festivities, you mean?" Robb asked, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Arya nodded, unable to contain her excitement. She had not celebrated the new year in Flea Bottom, not with her father and sister imprisoned. Last year she had celebrated with her mother at Riverrun, but the traditions were different, the feast small with the peril of war all around them.
"You may, so long as you return in time to bathe and change for the feast. No giving Ser Perywn the slip either," Robb said firmly.
Arya grinned sheepishly. It remained strange, having a knight follow her around all day. Was it her fault if he couldn't keep up when she dashed through the kitchens and the Great Hall, jumping over benches and flipping to walk on her hands? Ser Perwyn had nearly died of fright when she got the idea to practice falling by leaping from low walls, catching herself with her hands before tucking her head into her body and rolling back up to her feet. She could still hear his distraught cry of "Princess Arya, no!"
Well, the eve of the new year was supposed to be a time for kindness. With that thought in mind, Arya descended the long stair and made her way to the smithy, Ser Perwyn at her heels. Piles of bronze wire balls lay on trestle tables outside the smithy, awaiting their turn to be stuffed with oil-soaked kindling by foresters and their children. All the folk who lived within a day's walk of Winterfell would be here by nightfall; already the yard was more crowded than usual.
When she found Gendry he was standing by the forge, watching a piece of steel that shone the deep yellow of a dandelion.
"Is it ready to work yet?" Arya asked.
"No, no, princess," a deep voice chuckled. Master Armorer Theowyle Steelsnow was a broadchested old man, the curly hair on his thick arms the same shade as that on his balding head. "The steel must be a brighter yellow; it must shine like sunlight before it will be ready for shaping."
He spread fists the size of hams above his head, as though cupping the sun between his fingers. Gendry was still watching the steel, but the corner of his mouth quirked upwards; he liked the smith from White Harbor as much as Arya did.
Theowyle Steelsnow was not Mikken, and never could be, but there was some resemblance in his easy smile, in the steady patience that hid beneath his booming voice. It was Theowyle who had found Arya when she hid away in a corner of the smithy because Gendry wouldn't talk to her. It was less than a week since their return to Winterfell, and his gruff refusal to talk to her had made her cry angry tears like some stupid baby.
"Your sworn shield is getting a bit nervous, princess," the old man had told Arya, slipping her a half-finished dagger to fiddle with as she tried to stop crying. She'd tucked herself in the smallest space she could find, between the corner wall and a pile of steel ingots waiting to be used. "Now, what's the cause of all this fuss?"
Between choked sobs Arya told him. How Gendry had drawn away from her on the road north, how he'd sparred with her less and less, how when she'd come to see him today, he'd said he didn't have time for m'lady, he was too busy for m'lady, it was kind of m'lady to think of him—
"My name is Arya," she'd sniffled into her sleeve. "He's ruining everything and I don't know why, why did he even bother coming to Winterfell?"
Theowyle gave a heavy sigh as he squatted back on his heels, an impressive feat for a man with his broad build and big belly. Suddenly Arya vaguely remembered a passel of apprentice boys and a pair of little twin girls with his look, along with a mother with the biggest arms Arya had ever seen on a woman.
"Well, now, princess, why do you think he came to Winterfell?"
"Because he's my friend. He was my friend." She smeared a dirty hand across her face, grimacing when some of the grit got in her teeth. Theowyle eyed her for a moment.
"What's his name again, princess?"
Arya rolled her eyes, too annoyed to be upset. "Gendry," she said, biting her tongue before she called the armorer stupid.
"Aye, it is. Gendry the apprentice boy—well, rightly he should be a journeyman, with his skill, but that's beside the point. Someday he'll be a master armorer, if the gods are good. Mayhap he'll grow wealthy enough to take a surname; I only have one because my grandfather was a Manderly by-blow."
Arya stared at the armorer's face, looking for old fat Lord Wyman. They shared the same brown hair, but so did half the north. Theowyle let her look for a moment, as though he knew what she was searching for. "And your name, princess?"
"Arya Stark," she mumbled, dimly sensing where the armorer was going.
"So you are. Trueborn child of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully, Princess of Winterfell, of the blood of Brandon the Builder and Brandon the Breaker and a thousand other kings of winter. Now, princess, what should happen if anyone thought Gendry forgot his place?"
A memory swam before her, of Jon Snow's bitter half smile as they watched the sparring in the yard below. "Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes," he had told her as they watched Bran whack at plump Prince Tommen.
"Oh," she said softly.
"It is a common thing, among noble children," the smith told her gently. "To find playmates among the castle folk is only natural. The trouble starts when the lordlings get older, and realize that they can have a lowborn playmate beaten for displeasing them, perhaps even have them and their family sent away or killed. Even a lordling who forgets his power poses a danger— what if his kin take offense to the playmate's place in the lordling's affections? And with a little lady or a princess involved..."
"Gendry's afraid of me?" Her voice was small.
"No, princess. He fears for his own skin. What if some knight came upon you sparring, and thought Gendry meant you harm?"
Another, much scarier memory came to mind, of Joffrey's sword pressing into Mycah's cheek, and the slow red line of blood trickling down. Mycah only had a stick; when she sparred with Gendry he used a blunted blade or a wooden sword. If some lord or knight thought Gendry was actually trying to hurt her...
Arya clapped her hands over her mouth, forcing herself to choke back the vomit that was trying to burst out of her. Somehow Theowyle pulled a wooden waterbucket out of thin air; and Arya retched until her belly was empty.
"What do I do?" Arya asked when she could speak without heaving. Theowyle nodded approvingly.
"Spar with highborn children, or with that sworn sword of yours. Don't try to talk to Gendry unless there are plenty of folk about to see nothing is amiss." Theowyle's face turned grave. "Never, ever meet him somewhere secret, or without an escort. As you grow older..." He did not need to finish, Arya grasped his meaning by then. The next day she apologized to Gendry, Ser Perwyn watching and listening from across the forge while Gendry worked the bellows.
Since then she had not asked Gendry to spar, but she did come by the forge every few days. Gendry would show her whatever he was working on, or tell her some new trick of smithing he'd learned from Master Theowyle. In exchange Arya shared stories about Rickon's antics with Shaggydog in the godswood, about Jeyne's odd new habit of hovering about the dairy, Meri at her mistress's heels as though a lady's maid had nothing else to do other than pet the fluffiest calves and weave wildflowers into her lady's hair.
Anguy had begun making weirwood arrows; Helly was settling happily into her place as a fletcher's wife, Septon Meribald having wed them before they left White Willow. Helly was already expecting a baby, her belly very round given that she was only six months along. Gendry smiled to himself at that, and Ser Perwyn turned bright red, but neither of them would explain what was so funny.
"Are you ready to celebrate the new year?" Arya asked when she ran out of gossip. Gendry shrugged.
"It'll be hard to match the celebrations in King's Landing. Master Tobho gave us all a silver stag and a night off. You could go down to the docks and buy any sort of food in the world, orange wine from Dorne, Pentoshi pastries, fish fried in the Braavosi style... one year there was an old woman from Yi Ti who had a stall in the fishmarket, selling dumplings stuffed with fish and cabbage and a dozen spices I couldn't name. I ate so many of 'em that I almost got sick." He smiled wistfully at the memory. "One of the other 'prentice boys dared me; he had to give me all his sweets for a week after I won."
"Speaking of which, it's time for you to get ready, Princess Arya," Ser Perwyn said, and with a sigh of regret she made her farewells.
For the new year Arya wore a new gown, soft white lambswool trimmed with grey. Embroidered silver direwolves ran up and down her sleeves; Jeyne gave Arya's dark hair a hundred strokes with a brush before setting her bronze circlet atop her head. What with the siege of the Dreadfort and preparations for winter there would be few lords present, but she was expected to look presentable for those close enough to attend. The only lords of note would be the Cerwyns and the Tallharts, them and a few dozen masterly houses sworn to Winterfell, Castle Cerwyn, or Torrhen's Square.
The Great Hall roared with cheering and applause when the King in the North made his entrance, Arya and Rickon by his side. Though Robb wore his crown and Arya and Rickon their circlets, the eve of the new year was the one time they would not sit at the high table upon the dais. The lord's high seat and the two beside it remained empty; instead they waited at the foot of the dais for servants to pass them the choicest dishes, then carried the steaming trays of food to the bannermen seated at the high table.
Small as he was, Rickon carried baskets of piping hot rolls stuffed with raisins and nuts and rolled in spiced honey. Almost every dish had some sweetness to it, to bring good luck and a sweet new year. Arya was entrusted with heavier fare, like the mutton chops sauced with honey and cloves and cauldrons of beef-and-barley stew filled with sweet carrots which she spooned into waiting trenchers.
It fell to Robb to present the king's dish, a massive wild boar's head. Servants carried the rest of the boar, which had been prepared in the bourblier style, boiled, roasted, and basted with a sauce made from white wine, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom. The scent was enough to make Arya's mouth water; Rickon was openly shoving an entire roll in his mouth, honey all over his hands, but she was expected to know better. Lady Edythe had prepared trenchers for each of them, and she and Robb ate standing, one at each end of the table so that they could hop to accept the next dish from the servants.
The honey cakes were the sweet for every guest, whether highborn or low. To top them there were plums preserved in honey, pear jelly and blackberry jams... Jeyne and Meri had managed to find dried apple rings, and stacked them high on their honeycakes, while at the end of one table below the dais Arya spied Gendry pouring a dark red sauce on his honeycake, perhaps the sour-sweet one made from dried cherries and lemon juice from the glass gardens.
Finally the feast ended, and it was time to welcome in the new year. King Robb led the revelers from the hall, Arya and Rickon by his side, her little brother's small sticky hand clasped tight to make sure he didn't run off. They marched out of the Great Keep, some of the revelers picking up balls of bronze wire, the rest taking rushlights. They made their way across the yard, past the inner gatehouse, across the outer ward, past the outer gatehouse and down the hill.
For a few long minutes all was quiet. Arya wiped off Rickon's sticky fingers as best she could; children giggled and cheered as they waited. At last the great bells tolled midnight. Only then did the men-at-arms set their torches to the balls of bronze wire. The kindling within the bronze cages took light, their bearers swinging them over their heads using long bronze chains as the fireballs blazed. In the crowd there were drummers drumming and pipers piping; even a few fiddles raised their high sweet voices over the chaos.
When Arya awoke the next morning the scent of smoke and honey still lingered in her nose. She decided Rickon was to blame, as somehow he'd managed to get a blob of honey behind his ear during the previous evening. Perhaps thanks to the vast quantities of honey he had consumed, he permitted Robb to help him bathe and dress for the new year's day blessing.
Now it was Arya's turn to lead, a duty she had dreaded since realizing Lady Edythe had no intention of usurping Arya's place as the highest ranking lady at Winterfell. At her direction servants brought branches of juniper throughout the keep, puffs of smoke filling the rooms as every window had been shut tight the night before. Once every single chamber had been kissed by the juniper's smoky scent the windows were flung open to let in the new year, and the highborn sat down to a formal breakfast in the Great Hall. Again Arya led the way, for it was her responsibility to fill every cup on the high dais with mead and keep them filled until all had drunk their fill.
Only then could Arya finally, finally trade her gown for a tunic and breeches and scurry up to the ravenry. New Year was lucky; surely word would come of Sansa or Bran today. She flung herself into her water dancing forms, she practiced northron with one ear trained on the floor above... all to no avail.
Ser Rodrik Cassel quietly wedded Donella Hornwood on the second day of the new year, tears of joy dripping into his bushy white sidewhiskers. Bran had encouraged the match, before he vanished, and the old castellan was still devastated by the prince's absence. No matter how many search parties Robb sent north, none could find any trace of Bran's trail.
After the small wedding the new year proceeded much the same as the old. Every afternoon found her in Robb's solar, hearing the news of his three kingdoms. The Brackens and the Blackwoods were still besieging the Twins, supported by the Mallisters. Lord Blackwood's son Lucas had never gotten over his winter fever, dying a few months after returning to Raventree Hall.
Lord Bracken was, if possible, even more enraged than Lord Blackwood. A dozen Bracken cousins had perished at the Red Wedding defending Robb, and the Mountain had raped his eldest daughter, Barbara, when the Lannisters burned Stone Hedge. To Robb's vast confusion Jonos Bracken sought his king's leave to send one of his best stallions to Dorne as a gift to Ser Olyvar Sand, who had slain Ser Gregor Clegane. Robb was inclined to grant his (bewildered) approval, depending upon what word Robett Glover sent from Sunspear.
Glover should have arrived in Sunspear in the middle of twelfth month, but for the autumn storms churning across the Narrow Sea. The ship carrying Robett and his envoys had been blown into Gulltown and required repairs before it continued sailing south; the raven from Gulltown noted that they had seen more than one shipwreck as they passed the Fingers, the hulks shattered against the jagged rocks.
While Glover journeyed south, other lordlings were planning to send their sons and daughters north, either to foster or to serve in the court of the King of the North, the Trident, and the Vale. Lord Blackwood was sending a son, Lord Bracken a daughter; other lordlings and ladies would be coming from the Vale. Robb spent many an afternoon with Lady Edythe and the maester struggling through old records of Torrhen Stark's court, the last court of a King of Winter before the conquest, trying to figure out all the courtly positions that would need filling.
To the east the siege of the Dreadfort continued just as uneventfully as it had begun. The Greatjon wanted to smash the walls to rubble and sow the land with salt, but Robb had commanded him to take the keep without such drastic measures. The Dreadfort was built atop a small hot spring, in pale imitation of Winterfell, and would be needed to shelter Bolton's smallfolk when winter came.
Though there might not be any Bolton smallfolk left by then, if the reports from the Greatjon were true. After silently ignoring the siege for the first few months, the smallfolk had finally decided that Lord Bolton would not be receiving any sort of pardon, and their tongues seemed to grow looser every day, with wild tales of Roose Bolton exercising the long forbidden right to first night, and Ramsay Snow holding perverse hunts where smallfolk women served as prey. With Bolton holed up in his keep many smallfolk were making their way to the lands of neighboring lords; there were even rumors that Lord Bolton still kept serfs, a practice outlawed in the North since the days of Torrhen Stark, who had abolished serfdom in defiance of Aegon the Conqueror.
None of that made any sense to Arya, and she struggled to remain awake one morning during Maester Luwin's very long, very dry explanation of the slow push away from serfdom and toward peasantry across the Seven Kingdoms. After his conquest Aegon the First had made a futile attempt to reestablish full serfdom, which lords feared as a step toward the vile slavery of old Valyria. Dorne had abolished serfdom long ago; Nymeria and her people hated anything that halfway reminded them of Valyria.
"Although," Luwin said, "the rights of Dornish peasants and serfs in other kingdoms were still rather similar, and varied by fief besides."
At any rate, when Aegon the Conqueror decided to push for a return to serfdom, many of the great lords decided, nearly simultaneously, to preempt him by abolishing serfdom within their lands. Some of the lords or their heirs eventually changed their minds, but within a hundred years even the poorest serf or peasant had a few more rights than his grandsire.
The North still banned serfdom entirely, as did Dorne and the Vale; in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms it depended upon the fief. Gerold Lannister had abolished serfdom at Casterly Rock, but Lannister peasants had no more rights than the meanest serf in the Riverlands; the Tyrells kept serfs, but were reputed to give them more rights than some lords gave their peasants; every lord of Harrenhal had kept serfdom, no matter which house held the cursed keep.
It was a relief when the squawking of ravens above interrupted Luwin's lecture, even moreso when she darted up the stairs to find that there were two parchments on the raven's leg, one in red wax pressed with a mailed fist, the other in white wax pressed with a direwolf. Her hands shook as she removed them from their glass vials, her voice high and sharp as she cried for Maester Luwin.
Pate was closest at hand; he ran to fetch the king while Arya nearly wore a hole in the maester's rug with her pacing. When Robb and Rickon finally appeared, Rickon was grumbling about Shaggydog under his breath, angry at losing even a moment of his time in the godswood with the half wild wolf that shared his nature.
"Sunspear," Robb breathed through pale lips, breaking the seals with his knife. The wax crumbled, fragile as Arya's heart, and Robb unrolled the parchments.
The sloping, graceful handwriting was Sansa's; the blunt, smooth hand was Robett Glover's. Maester Luwin took Glover's letter; Glover had written using some code devised back at White Harbor, and Luwin had the key.
Sansa, though... Arya knew that code. Arya was the faster reader and the better speller; while Robb tried to soothe the still sullen Rickon, Arya grabbed quill and parchment, her handwriting sloppy as she pieced together the message. At last she finished, the cuffs of her shift stained with ink blots, and stared at what she had written.
"What the fuck."
"Fuck?" Rickon echoed, one hand wound tightly in Grey Wind's fur. "Fuck!"
"Arya, language!" Robb snapped.
Wordlessly Arya gestured; he leaned over her shoulder, his brow furrowed, his lips moving slightly as he read. His eyebrows crawled up his face, his eyes widened, and it was the King in the North's turn to completely forget himself.
"What the FUCK?"
NOTES
1) In canon, Maester Luwin's cluttered turret has books and jars and charts and maps etc everywhere, "and all of it was spotted with droppings from the ravens in the rafters." AGOT, Bran VII. This is one of the stupidest things I've ever heard. So here, the ravenry is a separate floor from the room full of precious artifacts and expensive parchment etc. No one wants raven shit in their medicines!
Also, the small glass tube that contains letters was my addition, because otherwise, every single time it rained all raven messages in transit would become illegible.
It is also absolutely batshit that in canon, maesters act as personal physicians, tutors, and like ten other jobs for a lord. So here, Maester Luwin has like ten assistants. No, this isn't the Pate from the AFFC prologue, Pate is just a super common name.
2) Let's talk about communal sleeping in medieval Europe! Beds were EXPENSIVE. Even nobles had limited numbers of beds in their castles!
"Communal sleeping was not restricted to the nuclear family. Mistresses sometimes shared their beds with female servants to protect them from the unwanted advances of male members of the household. Many servants slept at the foot of their master's beds (no matter what bedtime activity was happening in that bed)."
What I'm saying is, my Starkling cuddle piles have a historical basis
3) Solstices are not mentioned in ASoiaF, but they should exist, as solstices are based on the earth's orbit, tilt, and its distance from the sun. Since seasons make no fucking sense on Westeros, I'm taking solstices for their new year, dammit.
The end of year solstice celebrations are based on Hogmanay, the Scottish new year. Although these traditions date to the mid-1500s, which is technically the early modern era, I thought they were neat and I didn't feel like looking up older traditions. Look, even I hit my limits sometimes.
I still find it very weird that we don't see any major holidays/celebrations in ASoiaF besides the Winterfell harvest feast, Joffrey's name day, and a side reference in AFFC to praying on Maiden's Day. What???? People love to party! Medieval people, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or otherwise, had tons of religious holidays and feast days and so on!
4) In canon, all we know is that the Greatjon has sons and daughters other than the Smalljon. Fern, Hoarfrost, Cornel, and Rime Umber are the names I gave them. Because I'm a dork, fern, hoarfrost, and rime are all types of frost/ice. Cornel is a mountain flower.
I invented a Westerosi tradition of maidens fostering with their betrothed's family upon their first flowering, and marrying four years later. It's a sensible tradition when you're trying to forge alliances that will last decades! No one wins if the girl immediately gets knocked up and either dies or is rendered infertile. Plus you get four years for the bride to learn her duties at her new home, and to find any compatibility issues that might lead to a broken betrothal. However, like most traditions, it can be disregarded depending upon circumstances.
5) I cannot stop writing poor Ser Perwyn Truefaith as the world's most beleaguered babysitter. Please enjoy his suffering.
6) Winterfell should have more smiths and armorers than just Mikken and a couple helpers. Well, guess what fuckos, I'm fixing it.
7) Bourbelier is a real dish, though I changed the obscure spice "grains of paradise" to cardamom. Making the sauce with white wine is a brick joke back to Deziel complaining about the Yronwoods serving Dornish sour red with boar.
8) I made the executive decision to expand on serfdom. Yup.
