Here we go, chapter 13 – that's an unlucky number, isn't it? I'm going to piss off a few people with this chapter, but… at least we're not bored. Man, I kinda spent a long time waiting for reviews that were never coming – I'm hoping that changes soon – especially with this chapter.
Not a complaint, just a reminder – rules aren't absolute and nothing is codified. Like, I mean… we can get bogged down in details and legality and try to codify the middle ages, but, like… the world is complex, and people moreso. Like, there have been several famous examples of dukes back-chatting to the king and queen in public and not being executed. I think we need to look at this society with a very flexible mindset (I'm including myself in that – I'm also guilty of trying to codify everything in this world).
Secondly, I'd kindly ask people to stop giving away major details about characters outside of the story – not naming names, but it's happened before, and someone's revealed a bunch of info about their character and so I literally just scrapped a few chapters because… what's the point? Everyone knows it already. I get uber secretive because I want it to be experienced in the right way.
Lastly (this is a fun way of checking who's still reading) – tell me which aspect of the Seven your character follows (if they do follow the Seven).
21st of the Sixth Moon, 152 A.C.
Cassandra
The chamber that Cassandra broke fast in was a smaller one – reserved only for the family. With the last of the guests within the castle, the Round Hall was being filled with garlands and wreaths of crimson dragonsbreath and yellow thunderblossoms. In less than a week, her eldest, Durran, would take the hand of the Princess Rhaenerys. The impetuous, outspoken girl – she was very little like her mother.
The chamber was filled with a very long table of simple wood, with a high-backed chair at the head of it – where her lecherous, foul husband, Arlan, would sit, back when he was in good health. Yet, now, it was Durran that sat there, with the bear-furs spilling over the arms of the chair and cloaking him in great warmth as his bright blue eyes remained on his cup of smallbeer. He wore a black jerkin over his gold woollen cotehardie, fastened with a belt that carried an arming dagger – he had not been without a weapon since the attack. The bandages had been removed from his head, and the upper half of his ear had been severed. Cassandra's stomach twisted into a knot as her blue-green eyes fell upon her son's wound – she wondered if it hurt. She wanted to hug him and shush him, as if he were a child again, but he was Lord now, whether her whoremonger of a husband was alive or not.
As Lady of Storm's End, Cassandra took her place at his left, sipping from a small silver chalice of Arbor gold wine. The heir's place was on the right of the Lord, which meant that, due to Durran's reign as regent, Arrec ought to be sat there. Yet, her younger, more unruly son, had chosen not to break fast with them. It filled Cassandra with no small degree of embarrassment, as she cobbled together an excuse of Maester Rickard tending to her son's leg for her brother and his family.
Durran conversed well enough with his cousin, Erich, who had achieved knighthood at the age of ten-and-nine. Cassandra had asked her handmaid, Lady Leira, to find her daughter, Oraella. Doubtless, she was playing with her friends somewhere in the Godswood. She only hoped Arrec hadn't forgotten himself and lured her to the amoury, like the Bastard used to.
Cassandra sat in a kirtle of pastel-gold silk with a bodice of black velvet, etched with gold-threaded antlers around her waist. Her red hair tumbled down her shoulders in unfashioned waves; she saw the wedding (and attached feasts) as an opportunity to ingratiate herself with the House Targaryen. Much like Lady Jeyne had a dress fashioned in the Valyrian style, Cassandra had not adorned her hair with the braids and buns of the Stormlander women, but instead opted wear her hair like the late Queen Rhaecaera.
In her youth, Cassandra had served as handmaid to the queen, during her father's tenure as Master of Coin. Rhaecaera Targaryen had been a beautiful woman with silver hair, streaked with gold. She had been a paragon of modesty, and virtue. A shrewd woman – Cassandra still remembered how the Targaryen Queen would lend her books, and, more importantly, ask her questions. Not about whether she liked the histories or not, but about why. About what she would have changed, if she could. Very often, she'd urge Cassandra to read the same book again, reassuring her that she would learn more from reading the same words twice. Very often, she was right.
As Cassandra's family ate within the small chamber, making idle conversation about the tapestry of Durran Godsgrief being protected by Elenei, the mythical daughter of a forgotten sea god and the goddess of the wind, the door opened and Arrec entered, leaning on his new cane fashioned from a sturdy wormtree branch.
"Arrec, dear," Cassandra smiled, somewhat pleasantly surprised that he did attend after all, "come, sit with us. How is your leg?"
Her younger son glanced around the room and frowned. "Ella isn't here?"
"No, Lady Leira is looking for her," Cassandra explained, clearing her throat and turning to her brother's family, "I'm sure she's in the sept, praying with Lady Glennys, no doubt…"
Arrec cut her off with a loud scoff. "Ella?"
"Yes, Arrec."
He rolled his eyes and climbed into his seat at Durran's right, leaning his cane against the table and pouring himself a chalice of Arbor gold.
"It's good to see you again, cousin," Erich said loudly, across the table, "It's been some time."
"Before I had a cane and before you had a wife," Arrec nodded. "How fares your Lady Wife?"
"She is with child once more. The maester says it's a boy, from the way she carries."
"Good fortune and health to him, Nephew," Cassandra raised her chalice. Erich gave a stiff nod and raised his chalice of gold wine in turn.
"It seems in time I'll be raising my wine to a grand-niece or nephew," Eddard said, giving Durran a warm smile which he struggled to return. "Have you thought of a name?"
"After his Lord Father, no doubt," Cassandra assured her brother.
"If it's a boy, I'll name him Gareth – after the man who raised me."
Cassandra knew of Durran's attachment to the House of Tyrell – moreso than his own house, it may have seemed from time to time. He'd only ever extolled the virtues and beauty of Victor and Alyssa Tyrell and Highgarden. Still, it was a reassurance to Cassandra that he might seek to emulate a pious and knightly man, and not his lecherous, uncouth father.
"Maester Rickard was sure Oraella was going to be a boy, Mother," Arrec said. "Perhaps it's wise to have a name for a daughter."
Durran opened his mouth, but Cassandra spoke first. "Of course, Arrec. No doubt Durran will name a daughter after your Lady Grandmother. Or perhaps your Lady Mother?" The table fell into polite chuckles – except for Arrec, who sipped his wine.
"Perhaps the woman that'll be carrying this babe ought to name them," Arrec suggested pointedly. "Or at the very least, be asked?"
Cassandra gave a polite laugh and leant across to clasp Durran's hand, turning to her brother and his family. "Excuse us – the weather can make us all somewhat miserable from time to time. But if you-"
The door opened abruptly and in burst Lady Leira of House Trant, flustered and panting, strands of brown hair sticking to her neck and shoulders. Her dark eyes flickered to the Wylde family and she immediately gave a quick curtsy.
"Excuse me, my Lords, my Ladies, Lady Baratheon? Might I have a word?"
Cassandra hid her frown behind a polite smile as she curtsied to the guests and her son before following Lady Leira outside of the chamber. She dropped her smile the moment she closed the door behind her.
"What is she doing, now?" Cassandra sighed. Without Arrec to lead her into the armoury, how might she have got there herself…
"I don't know, my Lady."
"Then why have-"
"I don't know where she is, my Lady."
It were as if something had gripped her belly, twisted and wrenched her guts. It was a sinking sensation. But she fought against it, nonetheless.
"Then why aren't you looking for her?"
"I spoke to the little ladies – Jocelyn Tarth, Shyra Swann – neither have seen her this morn."
"Her chambers?"
Leira shook her head. Panic began to set in, sharp and visceral. Cassandra's mind began to race – she imagined Oraella in the tumultuous and violent waves of Shipbreaker Bay. Or being dragged by Dornish swine to demand a surrender in the coming war. Or taken by a cutthroat and dragged into the shadows…
Cassandra's heart hammered, but she remained still – it would not be proper to shout, to sob, to panic. "Alert Ser Olyver. Bar the gates, have him scour every inch of this castle – twice. Check the Godswood – have the little ladies brought to me…" Leira curtsied and turned to walk before Cassandra grabbed the upper of her arm with a tight grip. "Quietly."
Leira nodded and left when Cassandra released her. She wouldn't have the guests see her lose her wits. Her legs quaked and shook, and she thought she may be sick… but she couldn't – not until her daughter was with her again. 'Please, Mother Above,' Cassandra closed her eyes to pray in silence, 'have my daughter found in her chambers.'
Cassandra marched through the castle corridors until she came to her daughter's chambers. The bed was still made up, the door was unlocked and there was nothing amiss, at least to her eyes. Seeing the room empty of her daughter, she made another prayer to the Seven. 'Mother Above, have my daughter found now'. It was closer to a demand.
"Mother?" Arrec's voice came from the door.
Cassandra sniffed and took a breath to steel herself before turning around to face her son. His brow was wrinkled in concern. "What is it?"
"Oraella," Cassandra said, her voice trembling as she spoke her daughter's name, "she's… surely in the Godswood, I'm worrying too much, I'm sure…" She swallowed, but Arrec came closer, leaning on his cane, the steel foot of it stabbing against the stone slabs.
"Where is she?" Arrec asked, blue eyes burning with focus and determination.
Cassandra felt a tear slip out of the corner of her eye and slide down her hot cheek. "I don't know," she said quietly.
She had hoped her son might embrace her and hug her. She hadn't been hugged by her sons in so long… But Arrec simply turned to look around the room, his eyes flickering from the bed to the windows to the wardrobe, before he returned to the door, examining its hinges and lock.
"The gates are closed?"
"The master-at-arms is seeing to it. And every corner of this castle will be searched," Cassandra assured him.
"We need to question the maid. If the bedsheets were disturbed, the chamberpot full…"
Cassandra began to understand what Arrec wanted to know. Whether the Oraella left of her own volition or not. The breath in Cassandra's lungs began to choke her – the Dornish had tried to murder Durran.
"Arrec," Cassandra said slowly, "the Dornish – what if they've already…" She couldn't finish the sentence. Her hands crept up to cover her mouth, but Arrec marched over, his cane clicking against the stone as he grabbed one of her hands and glared at her.
"No," he said sternly, "don't."
"But what if-"
"No. She's a Baratheon of Storm's End. There's no sense in hurting her," Arrec insisted.
He was right… of course, he was right. She tried to think rationally – all they knew was that Oraella was not in her room. There was no reason to think she was not still in the castle.
"Tell me she'll be okay," Cassandra urged. Arrec swallowed, staring down at his mother's hand, his hand clenching into a fist around hers.
"Nothing's going to happen to her," he assured her.
Letting go of her hand, Arrec walked around Cassandra to open the door that led to the small wardrobe adjacent to Oraella's chambers, and bordered on her own mother's bedchamber. He reappeared a moment later, brow furrowed once again.
"What is it?" Cassandra asked.
"Nothing, just-"
Durran appeared at the door to the bedchamber, led by Lady Leira of House Trant. "What's going on?" He asked.
"Oraella's missing," Cassandra said.
"We don't know that – she could be in the castle somewhere," Arrec reasoned.
Durran's steel blue eyes fell to the floor and disappeared behind his eyelids and beneath his dark brow.
"I told Ser Olyver to bar the gates and search the castle…" Cassandra began.
"Who else knows?" Durran asked.
"Just us and he."
Durran sighed and gave a stiff nod. "We'll send ravens to the nearest castles. Griffin's Roost, Seaface. I'll assemble patrols across the-"
"We can send word to Blackhaven," Arrec suggested. "Tell them to watch for Dornishmen travelling southward, with her in tow."
Durran's eyes began to burn as he looked to his mother. "Whoever did this, we'll punish. We'll gut him, quarter him, crush him and toss whatever remains into the bay," he promised.
"Just bring her back to me."
Durran nodded and glanced to Arrec. "You'll serve as Regent while I'm away. Appease the Tully's. Host another feast."
"We- we won't have-" Cassandra began.
"Dip into the dowry, if you must. Buy all the game, grain, and wine if you must. Host a feast to receive the King and send word if I've not returned. Keep close guards with you and Mother…" Durran began to instruct Arrec. Cassandra could notice the two not rolling their eyes or scowling at one another. Arrec was quiet and astute, nodding, with his eyes fixed on Durran's.
"When will you return?"
"In a matter of days. I'll attend mine own wedding – one Baratheon missing is too much already."
"And shall I tell them? Or simply say you are… on a pilgrimage?"
"Pilgrimage would-"
"We must tell the truth," Cassandra said softly. She remembered the gradual telling of Erich Baratheon's disappearance at Storm's End. They would not make the same mistake as the Stark's and try to solve all themselves. "Everyone must know she has gone. There is nothing to be gained through secrecy."
Arrec nodded. "I'll tell the Tully's. And we'll… we'll hold prayers in the sept for her."
Cassandra nodded, and gave her son, Durran, the slightest of warm smiles as she nodded her thanks to him. He swallowed, give another curt nod and turned around to depart.
Torrha
As Torrha Stark's wheelhouse ambled along the Roseroad, the warmth of the Reach enveloped her like a heavy cloak, a stark contrast to the cool breezes of her homeland in the North. She fanned her face with her hand as beads of sweat dotted her brow, trickling down her temples in rivulets as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Outside, the landscape unfurled in a panorama of verdant beauty, the rolling hills and lush fields stretching out as far as the eye could see. Tall stands of oak and elm trees swayed gently in the breeze, their broad canopies casting dappled shadows across the sun-drenched earth.
As the wheelhouse passed through quaint villages and bustling towns, Torrha couldn't help but notice the curious gazes of the smallfolk who lined the roadside. Little boys, around Smallbran's age, stopped playing with sticks and turned to watch her carriage be escorted by men-at-arms and her Lord Father. Girls darted from doorways, their eyes wide with wonder as they caught the white banner of House Stark fluttering in the humid air.
Children darted out from doorways, their eyes wide with wonder as they caught sight of the noble lady traveling in their midst. She peered out to see mothers and fathers in the apple orchards, hoisting the little ones onto their shoulders, pointing as the wheelhouse rolled by.
As they crested upon a hill, Highgarden rose majestically from the verdant landscape before them, its architecture a symphony of elegance and grace. Unlike the sturdy stone keeps of the North, Highgarden was built primarily of pale limestone, its walls gleaming in the sunlight like polished ivory. Towering spires and graceful arches soared skyward, their delicate lines a stark departure from the imposing fortifications of Winterfell.
Torrha was left feeling slightly disappointed. She had expected dragons in the sky – red and blue scales, breathing the sun's flames into the sky. Fire made flesh. She would so love to see a dragon.
She turned to see a young girl, her round, pale face alight with curiosity as her mother held her up. Her golden hair was twisted like rope around her brow, while the rest fell in fell in waves of tresses. She was dressed in a green cotte woven from linen, worn soft and scuffed with soil. She gave a shy smile and, after being handed them by her mother, held out a small bouquet of flowers were unlike any Torrha had seen before, their blossoms small and delicate, with petals that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Each flower was a soft shade of white, tinged with hints of pale pink and yellow, and emitted a sweet, honey-like fragrance. Torrha looked up to thank the woman and her daughter, but both had already stepped away, and waved from a distance.
The wheelhouse drew nearer until Torrha could make out the intricate carvings and delicate filigree that adorned the walls of Highgarden. Elaborate vine motifs twined their way around doorways and windows, while clusters of roses and other flowers were sculpted in stone and marble, adding a touch of natural beauty to the elegant facade. In contrast to the stark simplicity of Winterfell, Highgarden seemed to shimmer with life and vitality.
Torrha still itched with impatience – there were to be Targaryen's at her wedding. Multiple times of each day, she had peered outside of her wheelhouse, forged from
They approached the southern gate at the outer curtain of chalk-white stone, which opened upon their approach. Torrha craned her neck to look up and find that the stones seemed as fresh as the day they would have been laid down by the Gardener's. No turrets or towers were crumbling like in Winterfell.
The wheels of her carriage rolled across the cobbled whitewash stones that wound in a ring around another curtain wall. They turned right, passing by the large seven-sided building that lay to the south-western corner, with magnolia and maple trees standing sentinel on either side. That must have been a sept – was that what she'd have to get married in?
Torrha glimpsed the long hedges with pink and red and pale yellow roses that led out to the west and, on either side of them, a stone archway that led to the godswood. The air was heavy with the scent of roses and lilies and a thousand other blooms, mingling with the sound of laughter and music that drifted on the breeze. They turned left again, climbing the hill upwards and through another portcullis that had been opened.
The clopping of hooves against the cobbled stones disappeared, and there was a soft crunching of gravel used in the inner ward. The carriage slowed, and Torrha peered out of her wheelhouse to see the central keep of Highgarden.
Lining the path leading to the keep were lush bushes of flowers, their vibrant blooms a riot of colour against the backdrop of pale stone. Torrha marvelled at the variety of flora that surrounded her – clusters of roses in shades of crimson and blush, delicate lavender bushes swaying gently in the breeze, and cascades of jasmine vines that spilled over the edges of the stone pathways.
Stone fountains adorned the courtyard, their crystal-clear waters bubbling up from intricately carved basins and cascading down in sparkling rivulets. Torrha could hear the soothing sound of water as it splashed against the smooth stone, filling the air with a sense of tranquillity and serenity.
The sunlight played off the whitewashed limestone, casting a brilliant glow that illuminated the crowd that had assembled to meet her, stood before the massive doors carved with the Tyrell rose.
She watched the black cloak of her father sway from side to side as he stepped out into her view, pulling on his riding gloves. Torrha's stomach churned as she watched the old crone stood at the front, hands clasped in front of her waist. She was dressed in a moss-green kirtle and gable hood, her brown eyes flickering to the wheelhouse door as it opened.
Torrha wiped a thumb across her bow to rub her skin dry of sweat before stepping out. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers and the sound of birdsong, a symphony of sights and sounds. She smiled as peacocks (she recognized from one of her mother's books) strutted proudly through the gardens, their iridescent feathers catching the light and casting shimmering reflections upon the still waters of the ponds.
"Lord and Lady Stark," the old crone said as she came closer, dipping to a curtsy, along with the rest of the women in her party while the men bowed. "Welcome to Highgarden. We thank the Seven for your safe arrival. I am Lady Elinor of House Tyrell, grandmother to Lord Victor."
The Tallbran did not respond to her, but simply began tugging at his riding gloves.
"I trust your journey was enjoyable?" Lady Elinor asked.
"It was long," The Tallbran replied gruffly, tugging at his riding gloves, "but without incident."
"Your Lady Wife is not here?"
"She remains at Winterfell, with my sons."
"A shame none were able to attend their sister's wedding," the crone said in her old, frail voice. There was a pointedness to her words that the Tallbran did not respond to, but his flint-grey eyes locked upon her.
Lady Elinor's eyes drifting back to Torrha, examining her face and form. "You must be the Lady Torrha, sweet child." Torrha nodded and the old woman's wrinkled face stretched into a warm smile, eyes hidden behind her cheeks and brow. "Aren't you a beauty?"
Torrha felt acutely aware of how she was standing – the sweat that had began to form on her brow and beneath her woollen kirtle. Damn her heavy gown…
"Where is Lord Victor?" The Tallbran asked, his eyes dancing across the retinue before them from beneath his heavy brow.
"Attending to his realm, and entertaining a King and his royal issue," Lady Elinor responded. That ought to have been why there had been no dragons in the sky… "Might I introduce my granddaughter, the Lady Alyssa," the crone gestured to a young woman beside her, and Torrha blinked – how had she not noticed her before? She was slender and well-proportioned, with an oval face and high, sculpted cheeks. Her brown, almond-shaped eyes were captivating, her full bow-shaped lips stretching into an inviting smile as she curtsied. Torrha responded in likeness, afraid of seeming rude. The woman was slender and lithe, draped in kirtle of soft green like pine leaves. Her brown hair had been combed into sleek waves of chestnut brown. 'A fair maid with a fair form,' Torrha thought to herself, 'she might be the most beautiful woman west of the Narrow Sea.'
"Seven blessings upon you, my Lady," Lady Alyssa said. "I suppose, from tomorrow, I shall be calling you 'Sister'."
Torrha opened her mouth and found herself at a loss for words. Not from the woman's beauty, but from her warmth. She'd heard southrons were cold and stiff, but the Lady Alyssa was as radiant and as warm as the southern sun.
"I look forward to it," Torrha eventually said.
"Lady Alyssa shall show you to your chambers. Lord Stark, I'll take you to your lodgings for your stay here."
Torrha went to walk, but her father took a step in front of her, resting his arm on the hilt of Ice – his greatsword of Valyrian steel.
"Is… something the matter, my Lord?" Elinor asked.
"It is customary for guests to be received properly," the Tallbran stated. Lady Elinor frowned for a moment before her eyes widened – she realized what the Tallbran meant before Torrha did.
"We will feast within the hour – after bathing and changing… Roasted heron and lemon cakes…"
"I would rather bread and salt now, my Lady," the Tallbran said, his voice cold and hard. Lady Elinor frowned. A moment passed, and the old crone smiled.
"Apologies, we are… unaccustomed." Elinor turned to the servants gathered behind her. "Fetch bread and salt for Lord Stark."
The young girl in a kirtled gown of green and gold dipper her head and curtsied before journeying inside the keep behind her, with the guards in steel plate with arming swords turned to open the gates to the keep and the girl disappeared inside.
Torrha swallowed, her grey eyes following the peacocks that paraded around the fountain.
"You've stopped to pick flowers," Lady Alyssa observed. "Meadowsweet and mayflowers."
"Oh, I…" Torrha looked down at them. "I… thought Lord Victor might enjoy them." She held them out. Alyssa picked them up, with a look of slight surprise on her face. "We shall… we shall draw a bath with it. And flavour the wine with the bridewort," she smiled.
Torrha nodded politely, somewhat disappointed. She had hoped that the flowers carried goodwill from the smallfolk.
"I should like to pray – and give thanks for our safe journey."
Lady Elinor nodded. "Of course. Every seventh day, we attend the service at the Starry Sept in Oldtown…"
"I don't follow the Seven," Torrha frowned.
"Oh, yes…" Elinor nodded. "I'm sure my granddaughter would be happy to show you the Three Singers."
Torrha knew of the Three Singers – a trio of weirwood trees, planted by the legendary king, Garth Greenhand amidst the Age of Heroes.
The young girl returned quickly, carrying a silver bowl of pink apples. She approached quickly, curtsying before Lady Elinor and offering her the bowl. The old crone took it and held it out to the Tallbran. He picked up an apple and passed the bowl to Torrha. She took an apple and passed it back to the man behind her, Karlon Karstark, who took an apple and passed the bowl along until all the men had an apple each, and but a few remained in the large silver bowl.
The Tallbran took a bite, followed by Torrha. It was sweet and soft – unfamiliar to Torrha. She was used to the tartness and crunch of the apples back in the North, grown on the slopes of the Barrowlands. Nevertheless, she grew acutely aware of the ravenous hunger inside her. Perhaps she could ask for a second…
"Now we have… observed the courtesies, we might you to your quarters?" Lady Elinor asked, raising an eyebrow. The Tallbran nodded, and they were led inside while the servants began unpacking the chests from the wheelhouse.
Torrha gave a last glance at her father before following the Lady Alyssa (and one of her handmaids) down a corridor and up a spiral staircase, where golden rays of light filtered through the glass windows and illuminated the castle better than any brazier or torch could.
"Once you've bathed and changed, we'll sup. Vic won't be back until dawn – he's in Horn Hill."
"He was not expecting me?" Torrha frowned – it didn't seem proper, for a Lord to be absent when expecting guests, let alone his bride.
"He sends his apologies – he'll return for your wedding tomorrow. He intends to make war with the Martell's," Lady Alyssa explained, stopping to bow her head to one of the Lords in court, who swept down into a deep bow, his half-cape of velvet red with gold brocade and long curls of pale gold hair.
They continued walking down the long corridor – they all seemed to be long and wide and high and absolutely filled with light. Nothing like Winterfell, where even the shadows felt thick and warm and comforting.
"Have the Martell's wronged him?"
"They've wronged us. Not to mention Durran Baratheon is a close friend – as a brother to him."
The name made Torrha's blood curdle. Baratheon's. They'd raided her homeland. Killed Stark's and Karstark's, Dustin's and Manderly's. There wasn't a man or woman in the North who hadn't lost friend or kin to the Durran Marshblade's army of southrons. Now she was to wed a Tyrell that called one 'brother'? Would he come to their wedding? Would he stay in their keep? Would she have to serve him wine and meat and protect him as her guest? Would that be a betrayal of her family? Her homeland?
"I'll show you to the Godswood after we dine," Lady Alyssa said, snapping Torrha back to the present. "So you might pray to your trees."
Torrha frowned, glancing to see Lady Alyssa giving the slightest of smirks. Was she mocking her? Her faith in the Old Gods? Perhaps Torrha would have to return with a similar barb against the Faith of the Seven? Or, perhaps it would be better to rise above it?
Alyssa gave a small chuckle and linked her arm in Torrha's, tugging her close. "Forgive me, that was rude. I'm sure that praying to statues must seem rather queer to you."
"I thought you prayed to seven gods?" Torrha asked.
"Well, the statues of the Seven Who are One," Alyssa nodded. Torrha frowned, absolutely puzzled at the contradiction.
"But you just said there were seven."
Alyssa opened her mouth and then closed her eyes, shaking her head. "I'll… send for the Septa. She may explain better than I. After all, there is a reason I am in Highgarden and not a Motherhouse."
Torrha vaguely recalled her mother explaining what a Motherhouse was – a sort of temple that trained women to serve the Faith.
"You'll bathe and spend the night in the castle, then wed Vic on the morrow."
"Lord Victor," Torrha nodded. She felt it again – the twisting in her stomach.
"Do not worry; women always seem to love my brother."
That did not settle Torrha. Of course, she knew he was chaste and noble knight, but… she felt a nagging doubt in the back of her mind. "And he loves them?"
Alyssa looked at Torrha, her deep, brown eyes searching Torrha's grey before growing warm. "Vic loves all – as the Mother teaches us to. Now… we prepared a wedding gown for you…"
"I brought mine with me. It was made by my mother and I… and Alyna."
"Alyna? A sister of yours?"
"Cousin. My handmaid. At least, she was my handmaid…"
"I expect we'll find you handmaidens of your own in time. Lord Tarly has daughters, as does Lord Hightower. I've instructed Lady Helicent to serve you in the meanwhile."
They opened the door to a chamber, spacious and airy, with tall windows draped in rich fabrics that allowed sunlight to filter in, casting warm golden rays across the chamber.
The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of lush gardens and blooming flowers, their vibrant colours adding a sense of life and vitality to the space. A large canopy bed dominated one corner of the room, its posts carved with intricate designs of roses and vines, while sumptuous linens in shades of green and gold promised a restful night's sleep.
Near the windows, a comfortable seating area was arranged around a low table, inviting Torrha to relax and unwind after her journey. Plush cushions in soft fabrics adorned the chairs and settees, their rich textures beckoning her to sink into their embrace.
But the centrepiece of the room was undoubtedly the large bathtub situated in the centre, filled to the brim with steaming hot water. The woman there was soft-featured with large, expressive eyes of brown, her hair a sheet of gold satin. She attended to the bath with a serene smile on her lips, the pale golden pendant of a seven-pointed star dangling from her neck. Torrha couldn't help but marvel at the sight of the tub, its gleaming surface reflecting the flickering candlelight that danced around the room.
"Might I present the Lady Helicent of House Graceford, who has graciously agreed to serve you as handmaid."
"My Lady," Lady Helicent curtsied.
"I'll leave you to bathe," Lady Alyssa said brusquely. "I already picked out a gown for you."
"What is wrong with this?" Torrha frowned.
Lady Alyssa cocked her head to one side, the corner of her lip curling, as if she knew a secret she'd never tell. "It's too warm here." She gave a long smile, pinching Torrha's brown braid with her thumb and forefinger thoughtfully, before turning to exit the chamber.
Lady Helicent stood there, smiling and waiting, expecting Torrha to give her an order. Torrha had only ever had one handmaid, and Alyna was far away. They'd often sit and talk and exchange books. Torrha wasn't used to telling a handmaid what to do.
She peered down into the water, examining the red rose petals, the purple sprigs of lavender, and soft, soddened leaves of mint. The scent of fragrant oils filled the air, mingling with the steam rising from the water.
"Shall I help with your gown, my Lady?"
Torrha nodded, and the young Reachlander lady walked around to begin to pull up the hem of her kirtle, bunching it around her waist. Torrha tried to help, pulling her arms out through the sleeves and helping Lady Helicent pull the blue gown from over her head. Next off came her skirts, until Torrha was left in her shift, stained with sweat down her back and under her breasts.
"Sorry," Torrha muttered, somewhat sheepishly as the shift came off. The silence made her feel cold – Alyna would have made a jest. Something about not needing a bath, perhaps.
Lady Helicent simply smiled and offered a hand as Torrha climbed into the bath, sinking into the warm embrace of the water and immediately washed by a wave of relaxation, melting away the tension that had accumulated during her journey. The hot water enveloped her body, soothing her muscles and easing the weariness from her bones. With each breath, she felt herself surrendering to the tranquil atmosphere of the chamber, allowing herself to be carried away on a tide of pure bliss.
Lady Helicent Graceford, walked across the room to pick up a silver carafe and pour honey-gold wine into a shining chalice, bringing it over and offering it to Torrha. She took a sip, unfamiliar to the sweetness of the wine, thickened by lemons and honey. She had never grown a taste for the wine, having only had two cups at most at feasts, but she heard her mother's voice, telling her to be polite and grateful. And so, Torrha took another sip before gently holding the cup with both hands, letting the silver foot stand beneath the water and on her pale belly.
Lady Helicent moved with quiet efficiency, untying Torrha's hair from its braid and gently brushing out the knots and tangles with an ivory comb, patterned with ornate silver. Her skilled hands worked deftly through Torrha's locks, massaging her scalp with gentle fingers.
With each stroke of the comb, Torrha felt herself slipping further into a state of relaxation, the cares of the world falling away as she surrendered herself to the soothing sensations washing over her. The warmth of the water, the indulgent taste of gold wine…
"Do you usually wear your hair like this, my Lady?" Lady Helicent asked, unbraiding Torrha's hair.
"Yes, it's… it's easy," Torrha admitted.
"It's beautiful, my Lady. Like your mother's?"
"No, not at all," Torrha shook her head. The memory of her mother filled with a complex feeling – warmth and happiness, yet a hollowness. She remembered her mother's words: 'If you're not happy there, you jump in that wheelhouse and come right back here.' Perhaps she could find happiness here – sweetwine and warm baths… maybe life in the south would be even better than she thought. And she could always visit her mother and father and brothers – maybe Smallbran could even be taken as Lord Victor's ward? She reminded her younger brother wrapping his arms around her, clutching her tightly. She missed all her family – the brash and crude Cayden, the soft and curious Smallbran, her warm and kind mother. Even Corwyn – though she remembered how he would look at her, filled with cold anger and shame. He'd been different since his trip to the Barrowlands to visit the Dustin's that had taken him to ward. He was just… angry. Angry at everyone except their parents. And when he'd found Torrha… she shook off that memory. Locked it away – no good would come from revisiting it.
Lady Helicent, her touch gentle and reassuring, continued to untangle Torrha's hair with practiced ease, her fingers deftly working through the strands with a soothing rhythm. As she combed, she poured warm water over Torrha's head from a nearby basin, rinsing away the soap and leaving Torrha's hair soft and lustrous in its wake. The sensation of the water cascading over her scalp was both invigorating and calming, the warmth seeping into Torrha's very bones and chasing away the memories.
With her hair clean and shining, Torrha leant back against the edge of the tub as the rose petals, mint leaves and lavender sprigs brushed against her pale skin, now glistening with scented water and oils that cleansed her of her journey from the North.
Ardan
Blackhaven was nestled beneath the imposing shadow of the Red Mountains in the Stormlands of Westeros. The weathered black basalt walls rose from the jagged rocks , as if it had grown out of the mountain itself. All Ardan could think of was how small it was compared to Storm's End. His father's castle was ancient and formidable – a towering fortress that had never once fallen.
As Ardan Storm traversed the courtyard, his boots crunching against the wet dirt, the scent of wet stone mingled with the tang of woodsmoke, carried on the crisp and fresh mountain air. Above, the sky brooded with heavy clouds, threatening rain that would only add to the castle's air of sombre grandeur.
The buildings within the castle grounds huddled together like a grove of trees, their slate roofs sloping steeply to shed the rain. Some were constructed of sturdy black basalt like the walls, while others boasted timber frames and thatched roofs, giving the courtyard a patchwork appearance. That was surprising – even in Durran's Town, most buildings were built of stone. And, with such mountains the castle walls rose from, why would anyone build with timber? There ought to have been miners and stone masons out in force.
The great hall, at the heart of the castle, loomed large and imposing, its massive doors of dark wood bound with iron and studded with rivets. There were no statues, but a carved man, holding a sword with both hands, the pommel in front of his face. The Warrior. Like most boys his age, he had prayed to the Warrior for courage and strength in the war to come. But he made another secret and silent prayer – for the Warrior to grant him battle. He had dreamt of it the night before – of being a hero.
Around the courtyard, soldiers and squires bustled about, their movements purposeful and efficient. Some tended to the horses in the stables, their voices low as they murmured soothing words to the skittish animals. Others sharpened their swords and axes, the rhythmic scrape of whetstones against steel a constant background hum.
The men wore doublets of sturdy wool, their colours muted and practical – it felt more familiar after seeing the teeming crowds of Lords and Ladies that graced Storm's End. Gambesons padded their chests and shoulders, offering protection against the blows of battle, while leather boots with hard-boiled soles ensured sure footing on the uneven terrain.
Ardan made his way across the courtyard, towards where some of other squires – most of whom were younger than him, stood before a n older man in a black jerkin over a dark purple doublet. He was more than twice the age of Ardan and cut an imposing and tall figure against the black basalt staircase that he descended, his cold blue eyes flickered across each of the young men that assembled before him, a motley group of black leather, red wool, quartered white gambesons and scraps of rags for the levied footmen found in dungeons and gaols.
"As Lord of Blackhaven," the man spoke, "you all are my guests. And for this guesthood, you will each repay me with service by protecting my castle. While Lords Caron and Selmy shall ride forth and earn glory, you mean shall remain here… as defenders of the realm…" He gave a short, scornful laugh that left a bitter taste in Ardan's mouth. The old man was full of spite and self-importance – something Ardan had seen enough of in Storm's End.
"I saw you," a small voice said from his right. Ardan turned to see a young boy there – perhaps a year older than Ella. He had thick, bushy red eyebrows and rosy cheeks. A slight boy, dressed in a quartered gambeson of red and white, with a red griffin on his breast. The sigil of House Connington – it was as telltale as his hair.
"What?"
"At- at Bronzegate. You rode against Prince Jaeghar," the young lad told him. Ardan remembered the day – the sweat on his brow as he turned around for a third pass and saw the prince being pulled to his feet by his brother, Aerion. Aerion the Black… his assault against Arrec had tainted all glory, acclaim, and joy that Ardan had won that day.
"You unhorsed him," the boy carried on, "and then the Black Prince unhorsed Arrec Lame-Leg, and then Edric the Ancient-"
"Don't call him that," Ardan snapped, still bristling at the moniker some had given to his brother. "And Ser Edric hates that name."
"Right…" the boy nodded. "I'm Arstan of House Connington. I'm a squire too – to Ser Steffon Inkwell…"
"Quite the honour," Ardan said stiffly, glancing over to watch Ser Idiot trying (and failing) to dismount his horse. The courser, instead, continued around in circles while the corpulent knight cursed his mount.
"He mostly just… shouts…" Arstan murmured. "He says I hold my sword like a girl with a flower."
"Ser Idiot has never fought a real battle in his life…" Ardan murmured – he'd never heard of one. Ser Idiot claimed to have been responsible for routing the wolves at the Battle of the Causeway. Though, he'd never heard his father or Ser Edric even mention Ser Idiot having been there. "Nor a tourney…"
"Mayhaps you can show me?" Arstan asked, his green-blue eyes glinting with excitement. He reminded Ardan of Ella – the way she'd get excited when he'd happen across her in the amoury, failing to lift up their father's greatsword or their grandfather's battleaxe. "You-"
"How old are you?"
"Ten-and-three."
"You should know how to hold a sword," Ardan told him. He wasn't there to educate Ser Idiot's squire. And, more than that, looking at the boy made him think about Ella. How many years would pass until he saw her again?
The boy's eyes dulled as his face turned downcast in disappointment and shame. "I know…" He muttered.
"You should know that before you ride off to war."
"But we're not going to war – we're staying here."
It was Ardan's turn to grow disappointed. "I know…" he sighed.
"… not see you until the end of this war. And many of you may die without knowing them again. But here, in the Marches, we shall form our own kinship. What connects us all is our land. We are Stormlanders. Whether you've an ancient name, noble and proud, a bastard name or none at all, we are united by this harsh land that only we may survive in. Every man here is not just a Defender of the Realm, nor a Sword of the Seven, but a Son of the Storm!"
There was a long silence that followed. A footman nearby covered his mouth as he tried to hide a snicker. It reminded Ardan of himself and Arrec – hiding their laughs as Ser Idiot made his grandiose and proud proclamations.
"…and the Vellum Coast shall set up camps outside my walls. Levies under House Connington and House Grandison, you shall approach the Boneway and dig ditches every forty yards – I want them deeper than a Dornish longspear. Get to it – Squires!" Ronard walked down the steps of the staircase to look over the dozen boys that came closer. Ardan was easily the oldest amongst them. Ronard pulled out half a dozen ravenscrolls from the inside of his jerkin and began to unfurl them before issuing commands to the squires.
"Robert Morrigen, you'll serve me personally – I've need of a squire – start by telling the kitchen I'll take food now. Steffard Errol, you can serve my son, Brus – go to him and prepare a bath. Arstan Connington – you're to continue your service to Ser Steffon, here at Nightsong – he's asked that you scrub his armour clean. Bryce Lonmouth, you are to assist the Maester…"
Ardan was glaring at the floor – they were little better than maids, here. Deemed too young and unimportant to even dig ditches. It wasn't fair. 'What is fair?' Ardan asked himself. 'Nothing. I learnt that more than most at Storm's End.' He remembered Prince Aemon's words: 'Arrec will bed a highborn wife, hold a keep like Castle Seaface, and bear sons with the name 'Baratheon'.' Both boys had been born by the same man, tutored by the same maester, the same master-at-arms – they were the same, but Ardan's mother was not Lady Cassandra, so they were not. 'Nothing is fair,' Ardan thought to himself.
"… to it."
Ardan looked up and glanced around to watch the small group of boys dispersed and began walking in different directions. Ardan frowned, looking around over his shoulders in case someone was gesturing for him to follow. Seeing no-one waiting for him, Ardan approached the Lord Dondarrion, bowing his head.
"Apologies, my Lord…"
"Ardan Storm…" Ronard nodded. "Something the matter, bastard?"
Ardan bristled at the word. "I was just hoping you might… direct me. To where I'm supposed to…" he trailed off – admitting he wasn't listening would doubtlessly raise the already sour man's ire. Ronard turned towards him, hands clasping each other, his lips pursed into a thin line.
"What is it you're meant to do, bastard?"
Ardan cleared his throat and opened his mouth. "Whatever… my Lord dictates."
Ronard's cold blue eyes searched Ardan's – Ardan didn't shy away. Only a liar wouldn't meet his eyes. Ronard's lip curled slightly, and he glanced down to a small ravenscroll he held between his thumb and forefinger.
"The pigs need mucking out."
Ardan scowled. "What?"
"You did not seem so outraged when I mentioned this a moment ago."
"But you didn't say that!"
"Oh, didn't I? What did I say, bastard?"
Ardan licked his lips. He wasn't going to admit he wasn't listening – not to Ronard Dondarrion: When he was a child, Ardan had spent many a time in the Round Hall with his brother, Arrec, listening to the petitioners that came before his father. He remembered Ronard Dondarrion appealing for a sanction to declare war upon the Dornish – something that Lord Baratheon had always denied. Perhaps that was the reason he disliked Ardan.
"I'm Ser Edric Bolling's squire," Ardan informed him.
"I know perfectly well who you are, bastard…"
"Well, then, perhaps it's better I go instruct men on how to dig ditches, and you leave mucking out a sty to one of your peasants!" Ardan's voice was loud and harsh – made no softer by Ronard's use of the name 'Bastard'. He had wished to leave that behind him at Storm's End.
"Your ancient Ser Edric had asked me to instruct you personally," Ronard sneered at the boy, "so go and muck out the pigs, bastard." Ronard began to walk up the steps that led to the castle walls, but Ardan's legs moved of their own accord. He would be damned if he were going to stand there and let another person look down on him because of his mother.
"What should I do after that, my Lord?" Ardan asked. "Shall I… brush the horses down? Feed them too?"
"Very helpful, thank you," Ronard said, raising an eyebrow and chortling to himself. It made Ardan's blood boil. His hands balled into fists as he climbed up the staircase.
"I am not your stableboy!" He hissed.
"No, a stableboy would be more useful," Ronard replied. "But if you'd prefer to sit around and sulk instead, then by all means, indulge yourself."
Ronard turned to continue climbing the staircase, leaving Ardan standing there, seething in anger. He clenched his jaw, entire body shaking – he had to hit someone. Or something.
He turned around to look at the far end of the castle, where the small, rickety fence of wooden planks kept the long-legged, small creatures. Long-snouted and lean, dotted with black and brown spots. He wasn't just being treated like a maid, but like a peasant. Ardan walked over to the pen, picking up the shovel and glancing down to the dried shit that caked the cutting edge of the blade.
Ardan remembered his talk with Prince Aemon Targaryen – how he was sent here as an insult, as a means to get rid of him, not to win glory. But Ardan wouldn't return home to Storm's End as a deserter. He wouldn't let Lady Cassandra or his half-brother, Durran, laugh and shame him for that. Whatever it was that was required of him, he would do it. He would do his duty.
With a deep breath (that filled his nostrils with a foul stench), Ardan picked up the shovel and entered the pen, stepping around the largest pig to scoop up the thick putrid piles of shit. The stench was unbearable – the flies buzzed around, and Ardan grimaced as parts of the slop began to slide off as he carried it over to the wooden wheelbarrow on the other side of the pen.
He had unlaced his doublet as his skin began to turn slick with sweat when he had finally finished. No sooner had he closed the pen then he'd watched the pigs walk over to the same spot he had just shovelled. He hung his head. Ardan had left Storm's End… for this? Damn his brother, and damn Lady Cassandra. They must have been laughing and complimenting each other on their brilliance. Arrec probably did think Ardan was learning to be a commander.
The worst part was that Ardan had hoped to believe his dreams were a sign from the Seven – that morning, he'd awoken from his return to Storm's End with his brother's sword, Stormbringer, which had rung out across the deserts of Dorne as he had fell Dornish heathens. He returned to his father's keep on a path of roses, and there, wed a highborn beauty with a garland of blue roses. Alas, he knew it would always be a dream. He would not fight in the sandy wastes of Dorne, nor would he spill blood in the name of the Seven as a noble knight would. He wouldn't return to Storm's End as a conquering hero, nor would he wed a Queen of Love and Beauty. He felt annoyed at himself – he ought to have put such childish notions aside.
Ardan finished shovelling the last of the shit into the wheelbarrow when he leant the shovel against the pen and wiped the sweat from his brow. He needed to bathe – and to cut his hair.
He looked up to see a window in the tallest tower. Most had curtains open and the windows slightly ajar, but the highest window was wide open. Against the chequered purple curtains, he could make out the distinctive silhouette of a person, clutching their arm as they stared on down. Ardan could not make out anything distinctive about them – they were shrouded in darkness. For a moment, Ardan was unsettled with a disturbing thought – it could be the Stranger, looking down on the soldiers before they march for battle, trying to select one. A designated sacrifice to himself.
Ardan's blood chilled as the figure's head peered out of the window, and he felt their eyes heavy upon him. They remained completely still, staring down at him.
"Well, well!" Someone said loudly, "A most highborn pig farmer…"
Ardan turned around to see a familiar face – but not one he welcomed. The boy was close in age, with messy, unkempt brown hair, thick brows and bright green eyes. He was still dressed in the rags Ardan had seen him in last, that night in Durran's Town. Though his yellowed shirt sleeve was rolled up on his right arm, it fell all the way down on his left, tucked into the same black riding glove the boy had been wearing back in Durran's Town. It were as if he fancied himself as a Braavosi water-dancer. Yet, Ardan remembered the boy slipping and falling in the mud – he couldn't imagine any Braavosi swordsman being that blundering.
"Of course, you're only half-highborn, aren't you, Lord Storm?" Jack asked.
With a shake of his head, Ardan rested a hand on the shovel. "I didn't recognise you without your face down in the mud."
"I was drunk," the boy tried to explain, "and you had a better sword, that's all…"
"I'm also better with the sword."
"How about without it, Storm?" Jack asked, advancing forwards. "It's a very pretty one, isn't it?" He peered around to examine the golden stag that was the pommel of Stormbringer. "Wasted on a pigfarmer, wouldn't you say-"
Ardan took a sudden step forwards, letting the shovel fall into the dirt. Jack stepped back. "What happens when a thief, levied to the army, continues to thieve?" Ardan asked. "Is he hanged in the yard like a common criminal, or is he beheaded, his head displayed on a spike as warning?"
Jack shrugged, biting his lip in thought, seemingly unphased by Ardan's words. "What happens to you, bastard, if you threaten a… fellow valiant defender of the realm? Son of the Seven and Sword of the Storm?"
"You're just a dreg found in a gaol and chose to fight to save your own sorry neck," Ardan spat the words at him.
"And you put me there, Bastard," Jack responded, "I don't aim to forget that."
"Good."
"Storm!" The two boys looked over to see Ser Edric approaching, dressed in a thin, brown doublet with his longsword at his hip. His hair was combed back from his pink, wrinkled face, and his pale blue eyes rested heavy upon the levied thief, Jack.
"Until next time, Whoreson…" Jack murmured as he moved away to skulk elsewhere. Ardan wanted to swing his fist into the back of the boy's head right then and there. He even may have if it was not for Ser Edric stepping in front of him.
"Prince Aemon was right," Ardan said, deep blue eyes still on Jack. "Lowborn thieves and levied footmen…"
"It's a war for every man in the Stormlands, not just the highborn," Ser Edric explained.
"Durran couldn't have just been happy that I was leaving? He and his mother had to send me here? With scum like them?"
"Hardly scum, Storm," Ser Edric replied in his gruff voice as Ardan leant down to pick up the shovel.
"He's the one who attacked me in Old Tom's-"
"A fight you won, from how you tell it," Ser Edric responded. "Do you expect him to fall down on his knees and praise you? You wounded the boy's pride."
"Good," Ardan spat the words. "He shouldn't have picked a fight with a man better than him."
"Oh, you're a better man, now?" Ser Edric asked, crossing his arms. "The boy's a peasant. How many times do you think he's actually held a sword?"
It wasn't something he'd thought about. It made sense – the boy had tried to wield it more like a club. His footwork had been a mess, at best, and his guard was… well, non-existent. And Ardan had taken his time to beat him – he'd enjoyed it. Revelled in tripping up the boy.
"That isn't my problem," Ardan insited.
"No, you made it your problem the moment you drew steel." He placed a hand on Ardan's shoulder. "If you draw your sword, you use it to kill someone. Not to… shame a man."
"There's little chance of me drawing steel again in this castle…" Ardan lamented.
"It's an honourable thing you're doing here, Ardan." The corner of Ser Edric's mouth pulled up into a half-smile as the man tried to speak quietly. "A knightly thing. If we fail to take the Prince's Pass, then Nightsong and Blackhaven would be next. The Wyl sits too close to our borders. And it fills me with great comfort to know that you're here, ready to fight. There's more than titles to knighthood, Ardan. You may be a Storm, but make no mistake: you represent your father's House in this war."
Ardan nodded. It made him feel as if being there had more purpose. As if he wasn't just a bastard boy that had to look after pigs – he was to be a guardian. Warden of Blackhaven. Though, this idea was tarnished yet again – Arrec had tried to convince him he would be a commander at Blackhaven. Perhaps this was just another empty attempt to cool Ardan's head?
Ser Edric ruffled Ardan's hair. "And cut your hair. You're not a bloody Reachman."
Tion
As the sun set on Westeros, a tranquil stillness settled into the corridors and halls of Riverrun, broken only by the soothing rush of the Trident that flowed tirelessly outside the castle walls. Amid the stillness of the long corridor that Tion Rivers walked down was a soft silver glow that filtered through the open windows to let out the humid air.
His entire body ached from a day in the training yard with his cousin, Emmon. He couldn't wait to have a hot bath run so that he might rest his sore legs. He'd taken a hard hit from Emmon's waster: the wooden blade had bashed him hard on the shoulder and knocked him face-down into the dirt. He wanted to wash the dried mud and sweat from his brow and be clean enough to fall into his bed and surrender to a deep and long slumber.
After his father had been called away in the afternoon, the rest of his training had been overseen by the captain of the household guard, Ser Hendry Bracken. The man was miserable and curmudgeonly, and always found something to criticize – that Tion was either too aggressive and put too much weight into his strikes, or he had trouble committing. It was nothing short of infuriating – even moreso when he noticed Emmon delivering weaker strokes and Ser Hendry praised him for it. He knew it wasn't Emmon's fault he was favoured – though they were encouraged to wear the same colours as his trueborn cousins, there were certain things that only a bastard could realize – the occasional glance, the shared whispers… under advisement from his father, but moreso his grandmother, Tion had learnt a simple fact – it was not just that he was a bastard, but that he would always be a bastard. Regardless of whether a Targaryen king did decree otherwise or not – it was a stain that would never be washed away. A wound that would never fully heal.
Turning the corridor, Tion found Ser Hendry Bracken again, talking with another lord. Eager to avoid another lecture, Tion quickly pressed on the panelled door beside him and slipped into a small solar, (mostly) closing the door behind him. He backed up against it and waited, listening for them to pass.
"… and drew steel against us," a voice Tion didn't recognise, aged and angry, sounded through the corridor, "it's a disgrace – an insult."
"You'll find no argument from me, my Lord."
"If the wolf marches back through my lands, rest assured, I shan't be offended once again."
"I'm sure the Thorned Stag would rejoice at your words, my Lord of Whent. Perhaps they might even stir the Strongarm from his bed."
"And have him finish the job Marshblade started…"
Their words disappeared down the hall. Tion pressed back against the door, and saw the shadows of Ser Hendry and Lord Whent begin to retreat. Tion frowned – he had no doubt that they were not talking about literal wolves: the Northmen were no friends to the Riverlands. Even after the brutal pillaging of their land at the hands of the Ironmen, the Northmen had remained in their frozen wastes and left the Riverfolk to their fate. It had been the Valemen that had rode to relieve them – it had been the joint force of Westermen and Stormlanders that crushed the raiders. All the while, the Stark's, the Reed's, the Mormont's, the Dustin's and Manderly's – all the Northerners remained in their keeps. No banners were called, no armies levied.
And now they drew steel against the elderly Lord Whent? It was worrying, to say the least. The last time wolves drew steel against the Riverlords, all families lost a father, a brother, a son.
The occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of leaves in the breeze punctuates the stillness, adding to the nocturnal symphony that fills the air. But, words fell down onto the balcony on the other side of the chamber, where the long doors had been left open by some absent-minded servant, no doubt.
"…join with the Baratheon's," the clear, clipped Crownlander accent of Tion's aunt, Saera, was unmistakable. "They're fighting a war themselves. If the Hightower crone and her dope of a nephew crow for help, who will Garth Tyrell's second son ally with?"
"They'll support their brother-by-law," responded the familiar voice of his father, Tristifer, yet there was a softness to his voice – it was nothing like the voice of the master-at-arms in the training yard.
"With what men, exactly? If the crone or Arthor Hightower moves against us, would they settle a truce with the Dornish?"
Tion crept closer to the doorway, peering outside to make out the auburn hair on his father's bare arm as he leant against the wrought iron railing.
"The Tyrell boy is to wed a Stark," Tristifer responded. "Do you think a Stag will forsake an opportunity to gouge the wolf?"
"Whether the Baratheon's answer our call or not, our land will once again be the battlefield."
"On that much, we can agree…"
Tion waited for them to speak again, but there was a long silence. He glanced up to see his father's arm had disappeared, and the balcony was now vacant. Though he knew it would be best to return to his chambers and soak in a bathtub and sleep in his bed, he still had that urge – to continue to listen. After all, if there was a war, he was to take part in it. He was old enough, as a man of fourteen, and a squire, at that.
Tion pressed forwards and slipped out onto the balcony, putting a foot on the iron railing and hugging the wall, grabbing onto the stone ledges of windows above and swinging his tired legs until his feet found purchase against the arches of windows. 'Just as when Emmon and I were children,' Tion thought to himself, trying not to look down at the hard dirt. The thought of him ending up like the simple-headed stableboy, Mudge, turns his hands clammy.
Tion gripped onto the iron railing of the balcony – the bedchambers of the Lord of Riverru – when he heard his Aunt Saera speak again. He froze, his hands clenching onto the railing he hung from.
"Brandon Stark will be travelling back north, soon enough."
"He will."
"Invite him here. Explain things to him – suggest he remain in the North as before with his wolves, and let us resolve our own issues with the Hightower's."
Tion began to hoist himself up and pull one of his heavy legs over the iron railing, so that he straddled it and could rest his aching arms.
"A Stark will never step foot in Riverrun again. None of the Northmen will…"
"Then meet him on the kingsroad. Tell him that you are not your father – that you bear the Northerners no ill will."
"And if they refuse to talk to us? Would you have me draw steel and take Brandon Stark's head?"
There was a long pause. Tion was scared to peep through the window, half-obscured by deep, red curtains that had been tied to the sides of the chamber. Tion was not excited at the prospect of killing.
"You're a warrior, Tris. You're not your father, you're not your brother. Meet with him – talk to him. And if he will not listen, make him listen."
Tion leant forwards and peered through the window to make out the distinctive figures of his father and his aunt. But his father did not wear his usual gambeson and brigandine. Aunt Saera did not wear her usual sky-blue silken kirtle. Both were bare-skinned. His father's broad ruddy shoulders, a tapestry of half-healed scars that stretched across his torso. His auburn hair was untied, falling below his neck. His bare waist was covered with the slender, pale legs of Saera, her platinum hair sweeping around her curvaceous form, one of her milk-white breasts visible beneath his father's thick arm as he pulled onto the bed.
If it were not for his grip, Tion could have fallen from the railing right then and there. Surely it was a dream – brought on by the stresses and physical turmoil of the day. His father loved his brother. Ser Tristifer was true and loyal – to his Lord and brother, most of all.
Tion's jaw clenched as an unsettling realisation sank in. Laena. Emmon. Lucius… they couldn't be his father's bastards as well? His father was honourable – respectable. He wouldn't do that. 'He has two bastards,' Tion reasoned against himself. 'How honourable is a man with bastards?'
In the strangest of ways, Tion felt as if he were the one betrayed; Tion had been instilled with the Tully words, 'Family, Duty, Honour.' His father had betrayed all three. And Tion – would he tell his father? Keep that secret? What was his duty, as a bastard son of Ser Tristifer, but a nephew of Lord Garrett, who was at that time, petitioning the King to legitimize him? What was his duty as a squire of his father, but a soon-to-be knight of his uncle? Which path forward would be the honourable one? It was in these moments he might have thought to himself, 'What might Father do?', but would that still be the honourable way forwards?
So… that's all for now, guys!
There's quite a few unexpected twists, and I was a lil nervous about posting this, but, like… I dunno, I stand by it – I think you can tell when twists are thrown in just for the sake of surprising the audience, and these ones have been in the works for a long time, so… yeah. Drop a review, tell me if you love it, or tell me I'm awful – either way, drop your thoughts! Also, I can't wait to hear more outrageous theories – that's easily what brings me the most joy (shout-out to Winters Warden and their tin hat).
Lastly, I've noticed people pitch a character and just… go silent for months on end, so, I'm gonna give everyone a month or so to get those characters in which I think is a pretty fair time limit.
Anyhoo, I'm now going to relax now – I'll crack on with another chapter, but I'm away in 10 days, so, I doubt we'll see another update this month, but I'll try my hardest, and I'll have my laptop with me in the States, so, never say never, right?
Okay, this is getting long now – see you guys soon! Check out Dragon of Valyria's story if you haven't already!