So, I'm back from California! What a weird place… but, then again, in London, we clip the wings of some ravens, so… maybe we're the weird ones.
I'm actually thinking we could do a lil post-story talk on Discord or something. So, I'll send an invite link when this is finally done and we can talk about the strengths, weaknesses, favourites, least favourites, blah blah blah. So, I'm talking to… like, most of you, so mention if this is something you'd like to see and we'll make it happen!
This chapter got... not dark, but a little dark. I didn't plan for it to, it just did, so... yeah. Bring a torch, guys.
22nd Sixth Moon, 152 A.C.
Myra
Deepwood Motte was not a particularly formidable or fortified castle, especially when compared to the thick turrets of Winterfell, or the mountain-stone that made up Ironrath. But the castle was old – as old as the House of Glover, whom the castle was the seat of, and had been since they had reigned as kings of the Wolfswood during the Age of Heroes.
In the far north of the Wolfswood, set on the crest of where the coast bent into a promontory, was Deepwood – a motte and bailey made up a large, mossy log-palisade of brown wood that surrounded the wide, flat hill like a ring on a stubby finger. In the distance, a longhouse rested atop the hill, crowned with a fifty-foot watchtower – it was the tallest thing Myra had seen, though, she had never been beyond the Wolfswood before.
Below the tall hill topped with the longhouse was a bailey: Myra had been to Deepwood before, thus she know of the rounseys and drays kept in the stables or ambled around the paddock. She remembered the smell of smoke and metal in the smithy, the steam and the smoke intermingling as red-hot steel was quenched in long buckets of dark water. She remembered women at the well and at the sheepfold, which bordered on the wooden palisade, which was then defended via the deep ditches she crossed over. As she kicked Whitemane to amble forwards through the narrow archway with a simple gate, she glanced into the dike below her, much like she had upon arriving at Ironrath. Below, grass had sprouted from the earth, and small robins and finches, bluejays and songbirds, had all landed to peck at the worms in the early morning sun.
A faint blanket of cold mist was draped over the hill, made seemingly thicker by the pink light of the rising sun. Myra pulled the woollen cloak and white wolf-fur mantle closer around her shoulders, some of the hairs brushed against her sharp chin and her small mouth, quickly growing wet from her breath and sticking to her cracked lips.
Lady Jeoranne led the way, her drab, green sleeves the only colour to her as she trotted along with Asher in front. Less than a week ago, they had, at Asher's insistence, buried the body of the old Mormont guard, Bennard; flies had begun to buzz around his body, and the carcass began to reek. And so, Asher had led them to a small clearing on a large road, and they had dug a grave. They removed the man's arms and armour and commended him to the dirt, stripped of steel. The Mormont, her guard, their guide, and the bastard had stood around together, clasping their own hands and bowing their heads as they silently prayed. They never discussed what they had prayed, but all Myra thought was, 'I'm sorry you were here for me.' She tried to put it behind her, though, Benfred has not spoken a word since. They travelled in silence, with only Asher explaining which paths and roads led onwards to Deepwood Motte.
They had stopped at a weirwood that morning and taken time to kneel and pray. In her time thanking the Old Gods for safeguarding her, however, Myra found something beneath the red leaves – something a mouse had been sniffing at. It was sharp and yellow – an old bone. Or, rather, the fragment of one. She found more and more and began to panic – as if this was where some Wildlings had come to sacrifice wanderers.
But as she looked up, she found lengths of rope, hidden in the scarlet foliage, all blackened and crusted, and she remembered the story of the Wolfswood Brotherhood. Bandits had always lurked in woodlands, but two years ago, tales had travelled to Winterfell of the bandits joining together. Her cousin, Corwyn, had called upon House Glover to answer their call in hunting the bandits. All the Wolfswood clansmen had answered House Glover's call: Houses Branch and Bole, Forrester and Glover, Whitehill and Woods – even the Mormont's had sailed across the Bay of Ice to lend their steel to the heir to Winterfell. This would have been near where they had made camp. And the weirwood tree they found themselves in front of had been the one where Corwyn's reputation started: he had impaled the bodies of the bandits upon the branches of the weirwood. The story went that, when he ran out of branches to stick the bandits upon, he resorted to hanging them instead.
It seemed the story was true.
Myra had never truly known him before he left to be fostered in Barrowton with the Dustin's – she had only been a girl of four or so when Corwyn left. She could scarcely remember him – the only Corwyn she could remember was the one who returned: a stern stoic, a proud man. Honourable and honest, like his father, but also extremely sad. And angry. There was so much of the bitter, bitter rage within him. Her Lady Aunt, Gwyn, had oft spoke of how the Stark's had the wolf's blood – rash and impulsive and hot-headed, but Corwyn was never like that. Upon seeing the aftermath of his slaughter, Myra could only remember Corwyn's stiff goodbye to his sister, Torrha. Perhaps the rage inside had strangled any love he may have had.
With the memory of the weirwood tree and Corwyn still ringing through her head, Myra followed Lady Jeoranne and Asher on her palfrey, Whitemane, who was already moving slower. Myra shushed her mare – she was not used to long journeys or being treated like a packhorse. But the end was in sight: the Deepwood lay five leagues south of the Bay of Ice, and naturally traded with the Mormont's often – everything from mead to mounts to minstrels travelled between the mainland and Bear Island.
The Mormont party began their climb up the steep hill, passing through the first ring of palisades. Myra glanced down to Benfred, the Mormont guard at her side. She realised something – something she should have said some time ago.
"I'm sorry about your father," Myra said, just loud enough for him to hear. He glanced over to her.
"He died honourably," Benfred replied simply, but his voice seemed choked, somewhat.
"Aye. But even so, I'm sorry all the same."
Benfred swallowed and bowed his head stiffly.
Lady Jeoranne paused up ahead atop the hill, and by the time Myra was at her side, they were greeted by a man with a balding head of red hair and twinkling dark green eyes. Myra recognised him from her youth as Gage Glover, the Master of Deepwood Motte and head of House Glover. He was older than she remembered, with more scars on his face, his hair greying and face paling.
"Master Gage," Lady Jeoranne called out as she dismounted. The aging man turned around to see her stomping over to him and smiled, bemused.
"My Lady Mormont," Master Gage nodded, "we expected you some days ago. I sent riders…"
"Bandits," she said, gruffly.
"No trouble?"
"Some." Lady Jeoranne glanced over her shoulder to Myra and Benfred.
"A trade ship is expected to arrive any day now. Until then, you're- Chayle!"
Master Gage whistled and one of the younger men that led a dray pulling a cart stopped. Master Gage walked over and leant into the back of the cart, dipping his hand into the crate and pulling out a handful of something. He returned to Lady Jeoranne, and she took one, passing another to Asher the Forrester guide, Benfred and then Myra. It was then that she saw a chestnut in her hand – roasted and peeled. There were slight scratches on the flesh of the nut from where it had been scored upon collection. She took a bite and chewed the soft, sweet flesh of the nut as Master Gage waved on Chayle and his cart, and turned to lead Lady Jeoranne, Benfred, and Myra Snow into the longhouse of Deepwood.
Ardan
The loud clacking of wood sounded out in the training yard: a small patch of dirt fenced by rain-soaked beams and planks. The dirt was harder than Ardan had seen before – storms so rarely passed to the south in the Stormlands. Instead, they would sweep north, across Shipbreaker Bay and up to the Kingswood.
Due to the lack of knights, most of the squires had begun to train with the footmen. After spending the day with shield and spear, Ardan had hoped they might go riding and practice jousting. Yet, Lord Ronard insisted they spar with swords, to 'see who's a dainty storm rose,' as he had put it.
Ardan stood in the centre, with a long wooden sword. Across from him, sheepishly retrieving his own (wooden) longsword from the floor, was the younger Arstan Connington. The boy wore a thick, quartered gambeson, patterned with the red-and-white griffins of his house, whilst Ardan wore the black gambeson that he had worn for the previous few months at Storm's End. Luckily, it had been washed before departing for Blackhaven, and thus, did not stink half as much as before.
"Come on, Connington, before summer ends!" Lord Ronard spat the words, his cold, blue eyes flickering to Ardan as he walked between the sparring pairs to observe the two of them. Every victory in the sparring seemed to be an offence against the Lord of Blackhaven, and it was something Ardan silently rejoiced in.
Ardan watched the boy pick up his waster and take up a rather simple guard. He bent his knees and hunched forwards – it showed the boy was listening to what Lord Ronard had said. Arstan was waiting, watching Ardan from beneath his steel burgonet. It was telling that Ser Idiot had been a terrible tutor – Ardan had already laid the waster against his right shoulder – a wrath guard.
"Attack him!" Lord Ronard commanded. Ardan wasn't sure who the man was commanding, but the Connington boy took it to mean himself. He stepped forwards tentatively, waiting to see if Ardan would respond. The boy had clearly not spent too much time wielding a longsword – his cheeks were flushed and glistening with sweat beneath his helm. He couldn't be too quick…
Arstan paused as Ardan twisted his body to face his opponent side-face. He gripped the hilt of his waster with both hands and watched Arstan point the blade out to Ardan. Ardan prepared himself to parry – the boy would surely thrust; any other strike would not make sense…
Yet, telling of the boy's inexperience and lacklustre learning from Ser Idiot, Arstan pulled the blade back to take a fierce strike at Ardan's unguarded shoulder. All he needed to do was step to the side and swing for the boy's hand.
As before, Arstan Connington yelped and dropped his waster. Ardan rolled his eyes: he couldn't have hurt the boy that badly, they were both wearing steel gauntlets… Ardan allowed himself a quick smirk before straightening up and resting the point of his sword on the ground – something that seemingly offended Lord Ronard.
"Oh, you're very pleased with yourself?" He asked, his words dripping in contempt before stepping forwards and looking around at the other farmer boys, levied thieves and drunkards, and younger squires. "I find it hard to believe that there is not a single man here that cannot defeat a bloody Bastard."
Ardan's jaw clenched and he glanced down into the dirt. 'Face me yourself, old man,' he thought, 'and call me 'Bastard' once more.'
Disgruntled, Lord Ronard turned around to the two boys sparring a few feet away. Ardan's blue eyes locked onto the boy in a tattered gambeson, quartered with black and purple, unbuckled at the neck. The braggard, Jack of Durran's Town – Ardan would rejoice in vanquishing the boy once again, with a new audience.
Yet, Lord Ronard grabbed the other boy by the shoulder and led him over to Ardan. The boy was similar to Ardan's own age, standing a little shorter. He was of stronger body than the thief, Jack, with broad shoulders squeezed into a dark storm-green gambeson. The thick collar was darkened black with decade-old stains, and small tufts of rags had begun to burst at the seams.
"You, you're a big one. Big enough to take on the Bastard, I'm sure."
Ardan watched as the boy lifted the heater shield of birch planks, emblazoned with the black crow of House Morrigen against a storm-green field, with relative ease and flourished the short wooden blade at his side. He held his shield out in front and the sword low. Ardan watched the boy advance – he was stronger than Arstan, no doubt, but no stronger than Ardan…
He took a wild swing with all his weight behind it. Ardan noticed the boy leading the strike with his hand, rather than the blade. Ardan simply stepped back and whacked the wooden blade down at the boy's hand, like he had with Arstan. The wooden blade clattered to the dirt, but the boy hadn't given up as quickly as the young Connington squire had: he took the opportunity to shove his shield forward into Ardan's chest and force him back a few steps. Ardan quickly regained his balance to see the boy had picked up his waster and advanced again with small, tentative steps.
Ardan swallowed and walked forwards, taking his own waster in both hands and watching the boy wind another strike from above. Ardan made contact to parry the sword before stepping in and binding his wooden blade up the boy's waster: in a flash, he swung around the other side of the blade and smacked the waster hard against the boy's helm that the tip of the wooden blade cracked off upon impact.
"Seven hells…" the boy cursed, taking off the burgonet helm and revealing revealing a thick strip of golden hair from his scalp to the nape of his neck. His blue eyes failed to fix on anything, and Ardan couldn't help but feel a faint burning of pride as he looked at the boy. Lantern-jawed and strong-chinned, and utterly dazed by a single, well-placed crosswise strike – something Ser Edric had taught him at the age of twelve.
"Put that helm back on, boy," Lord Ronard barked, "you won't be taking it off because of a single blow."
"Apologies, milord," the boy responded in a gruff staccato accent typical of a Stormlander.
"You've got a shield, boy. Use it."
"Yes, milord."
Arstan moved forwards to offer Ardan his wooden longsword, but Lord Ronard stepped forwards, holding out a hand.
"Connington?" He asked.
"I was just… his waster's broken, my Lord."
"Swords break in battle. Will you be there to hand him a new one, my Lord?"
Arstan shook his head and retreated with his sparring weapon. Ardan swallowed and turned back to the boy, watching pick up his shield and advance.
Ardan laid the waster against his shoulder again, assuming the wrath guard.
"The sword on his shoulder means he intends to strike downward," Lord Ronard explained. Ardan's hands flexed around the hilt of his waster – of course Lord Ronard would try to cheat…
"Strike low!" Lord Ronard commanded. Ardan watched the wooden blade sweep down towards his leg and forcing Ardan to take a step back. He stumbled as the boy sliced again – wild, untrained. Ardan struck out and the two blades connected. He thrust forwards and, if his waster was still whole, he would have struck the boy again. However, this was effective in making the opponent retreat.
"Do I need to say it?" Lord Ronard growled. "Don't let their blade get near your face!"
The boy moved more aggressively this time – dropping the shield down to his side, he led with his hand again, swinging the blade across to cut at Ardan's shoulder. Ardan responded with the same strike, and stepped out of the way of the shield. Ardan hooked the pommel of his waster around the boy's wrist and put one hand on the boy's elbow. He straightened up and pushed down, forcing the boy to bend over and groan from the pain of joint-lock. His shield flailed in one hand as he tried to twist and turn – the slightest bit of pressure on the elbow had him thinking twice, however.
Ardan looked up at Lord Ronard, who crossed his arms and glowered at the two of them. The Lord ought to have praised him – he'd defeated both opponents put before him. If anything, Ardan ought to have been training them all. What more did he have to learn about swordplay?
"And what do you do next, Storm?" Lord Ronard asked. "Break his arm?"
'If he were Dornish,' Ardan wanted to say. He responded by moving his hand away from the boy's elbow and up to his shoulder, pushing him down further until his face was almost in the dirt.
"Yield!" The boy crowed at last.
Ardan let go and took a step back watching the boy straighten up and flex his shoulder, casting a dark glance at him. Lord Ronard walk between them, glancing between the two of them, trying to decide who to criticise.
"I expected as much from a peasant," Lord Ronard spat the word at the boy, who removed his helm once more, staring down at the dirt. The Dondarrion then rounded on Ardan. "And you… back to the pell. At least you can't break anyone's arm there…"
A fire was lit inside Ardan again – a blazing fury. He was being punished for winning? It wasn't fair – it was vindictive and spiteful and Ardan had not left Storm's End for more of it….
"The pell?"
"Is that an echo, I hear?" Lord Ronard asked, raising an eyebrow. Jack chortled in the background.
"What would you have me learn at the pell, my Lord?" Ardan asked.
Lord Ronard looked at Ardan from head to toe before taking the broken waster from his hands and examining it.
"Very well, Storm…" Lord Ronard nodded. "If you've nothing to learn… you can brush the horses down."
"Brush the…" Ardan began.
"There it is again…" Lord Ronard mocked him. Ardan scowled, hands balled into fists. He was ready to strike at the Dondarrion there and then. It was shameful – trying to treat him as a peasant servant.
Ardan wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being outraged. He simply clenched his jaw and said, "Yes, my Lord."
Ardan spent the next half of the hour in the stables, brushing down his own courser: Godsgrief had been a gift from his father, two years ago, as a nameday gift, given late, as they often were. Ardan had never actually been told his nameday by his father, he simply knew that before the Ninth Moon finished waning, Ardan had grown another year. He couldn't wait for training to end. He could have a bowl of goat mutton stew with torn bread and two cups of beer. The food was a change from Storm's End, and he often found himself gagging with the first few mouthfuls.
The highborn knights and lords and commanders ate together in the great hall, were they were served by cupbearers and squires, who would later eat after them. Ardan had sat with them, both found himself not saying a word. The squires had complained about the knights they squired for, swapped advice (Robert Morrigen explained that pissing on armour was the best way to clean it of blood, mud and sand – something that almost put Ardan off eating his stew), and shared stories. None asked, and Ardan took some comfort in that; it allowed him to drink his beer and eat his food and return to the chamber he shared with the rest of them.
Still, at least Ardan ate inside the castle. At least he slept inside the castle. He couldn't fathom being a footman, sleeping outside in the tents… and not even marching anywhere…
Ardan had moved to brush down the white and black destriers of Prince Aemon Targaryen and his sworn shield, Ser Connas Corbray. He wasn't sure if they had been brushed down already, but he could imagined Lord Ronard lecturing him if he had not done so. The larger, white horse kept stepping to gently lean it's body into the brush, meanwhile Prince Aemon's black mare seemed to barely notice he was there.
The Kingsguard knight had entered the courtyard shortly before Ardan had finished with the horses. He was on the other side of the yard, sliding a whetstone over the edge of his Valyrian steel longsword. Ardan dreamed of one – he was lucky enough to have a sword as fine-forged as the one Arrec had gifted to him, he knew that, but what boy didn't dream of a longsword like Lady Forsworn? A two-handed greatsword like Heartsbane? Or Blackfyre, the blade of kings? Ardan dreamed of finding one in one of the shipwrecks in shipbreaker bay when he was a child.
Ardan turned around to pick up the wheelbarrow of horseshit he'd filled, only to find it being kicked onto the ground straw-laden stone. Ardan's jaw clenched as he watched a crumbling ball of horse dung roll onto the toe of his boot. He took a step back, shaking his foot and looked up to the sniggering, lowborn cutpurse, Jack of Durran's Town was stood there, rubbing his thigh.
"Sorry, Lord Storm, left me cane north in Durran's Town."
Ardan's hands balled into fists. He was ready to wipe the smile from the vagrant's face.
"Don't forget what happened last time," Ardan growled. "You're here because you were rotting in gaol."
"You're here too, Lord Storm. Difference is, I don't play with wooden swords like a child."
Ardan wished he had Arrec's longsword with him – the lowborn burghler wouldn't say that to him if he did. It took a moment, but Ardan finally had a response. "You don't play with any swords – that why you're so shit with them."
Jack wasn't offended in the slightest – the boy laughed at Ardan's attempt to frustrate him, his lips spread out into the widest smile like a child with candied rhubarb slices. It made Ardan's ears burn red hot.
"You're stuck here with us – don't act like you're better, Lord Storm…"
"Shut up," Ardan marched forwards, kicking the upturned wheelbarrow out of the way while Jack just chortled to himself, stepping back. Ardan didn't know what he'd do when he was close enough – try to grab the boy by the throat? Maybe try to bloody his nose? He was going to do something.
Ardan was pushed back – not by Jack, but by Ser Connas Corbray. The knight was lean and quick. While the rest of the squires and knights and levies were sweaty and grimy, he stood with fair skin barely misted by the heat, with clean dark curls tumbling to his shoulders.
"Easy, boy," Ser Connas said, though Ardan was not sure who he was speaking to. He kept a hand on Ardan's shoulder and pushed him back, turning to face Jack. Ardan saw the boy's face change – no cocky grin anymore. He looked up at Ser Connas, slightly confused. No doubt he'd never seen the white cloak of a Kingsguard knight before. But he must have heard of them.
"That's my horse he was tending to." Ser Connas said to Jack.
"So?"
Ser Connas raised an eyebrow. "What's your name?"
"Aegon Targaryen," Jack scoffed.
Ser Connas gave the slightest of smiles as he looked around the courtyard before looking back at Jack. "Do you know who I am?"
"Some knight."
Ser Connas nodded. "Do you think it would be easy for me to kill you?"
Jack froze, unsure of what to say next. It was due, most likely, from the fact Ser Connas held a smoke-grey longsword in one hand. "Run along or I'll have you clean this up with your hands."
Jack opened his mouth, and Ser Connas stood up taller, staring down at the boy. Jack thought better of doing something – perhaps the boy had a brain after all! His bright green eyes flickered over to Ardan. "Until next time, Lord Storm."
Ardan's arm was no longer shaking with rage. Instead, he was embroiled by the majesty of the most famous knight living. Ser Connas Corbray sheathed his blade in the wooden scabbard at his hip, keeping his dark brown eyes on Jack as he crossed the yard.
"Fine friend of yours," Ser Connas muttered.
"No friend of mine…" Ardan muttered, his voice darkening as he watched the thief. He didn't have friends in Blackhaven. He stood the wheelbarrow back up and made his way to retrieve the pitchfork from the wall of the stable.
"Not what you imagined, I take it?" Ser Connas asked as he watched Ardan scoop up shit, once again, and plunk it down in the handcart.
"Lord Dondarrion sees this an important task, elsewise I would not be doing it," Ardan repeated the line he had learnt from the previous few months at Storm's End.
"Clearly," Ser Connas glanced down at the mess Ardan cleaned.
Ardan could trust him – Ser Connas was the most knightly man in the Seven Kingdoms. He would understand – he'd see that Ardan was being held back. "This is Durran's doing," he admitted, "I'm sure of it: he's always hated me…"
"Yes, well, people are protective of their mothers that way…"
"I never did anything to Lady Cassandra-"
"You were born," Ser Connas stated, "that's enough, I'm afraid."
It was not the whole truth – Lady Cassandra hated him because he was raised in Storm's End. He knew that, logically. He knew that she hated how his father liked him so – she'd said as much. Yet, at times, it did feel like Ser Connas said: that he offended her by being born.
"A sin I'll never stop paying for," Ardan agreed. "But I already wanted to leave – I wanted to fight, and he just… sent me here with all the footmen and squires…"
"Well, yes, but, you are a squire." Ser Connas said, smiling slightly. Was he amused? Ardan wasn't explaining himself properly…
"I'm Ser Edric's squire. I ought to be travelling to Nightsong, with the other warriors. I can't make a difference from here."
Ser Connas actually chuckled this time. "But you could at the Prince's Pass?" He raised a dark eyebrow. "I'm sure other boys feel the same…"
"Other boys aren't as good as I am!"
"True enough, perhaps, but… striking a pell does not make you battle-ready. I'm sure every young boy thought he was the one to win the war, right up to the moment he was struck dead by an arrow or had his heart pierced by a lance." He brown eyes locked onto Ardan. "Men die in war. Whether you're young and brash, old and wise, highborn, lowborn, or a bastard named 'Storm', death shows no favour. 'Tis the great equality."
But Ardan wouldn't die – he was the best swordsman his own age – the sparring earlier had been proof enough of it! "You didn't die. You liberated Seagard. And you stormed Pyke, with my father."
Ser Connas looked over at him. "Did he tell you that?"
"He didn't have to – everyone knows about it."
He nodded. "Then perhaps you might believe me when I tell you that you are not ready for war, yet. And you're lucky – there's thousands of boys younger than you that have no choice in fighting."
"Why aren't I-"
"Because you're not a good soldier," Ser Connas said firmly, walking over to his white destrier and rubbing her neck.
"I'm what?" Ardan scowled and he followed the knight. "I beat Arstan Connington and-"
"Yes, I saw. Ser Edric would be proud – you wield your sword well."
Ardan was almost distracted by the compliment. "But you said I'm not a good warrior."
"I said you're not a good soldier. You could have left those boys with a shred of dignity about them."
"It's not my fault," Ardan shrugged, "Ser Edric says fighting better opponents helps you learn."
"What exactly did they learn? They've walked away no more learned than before – only more bruised."
Ardan glared at the knight. "It's not my responsibility."
"And that is why you're not ready," Ser Connas said, turning back to face the boy. "In war, all you have is each other. You're brothers. You're not fighting for your own life, but your family's."
Ardan remembered what Lord Roland had said, 'Every man here is… a Son of the Storm.'
"It's not my-" Ardan began, but Ser Connas rolled his eyes.
"You've been raised in Storm's End, the son of a great lord. I'm willing to wager you've been training with a sword since you could walk. How many other boys here can say the same?"
"Arstan Connington!" Ardan answered, somewhat petulantly. "Robert Morrigen. Staffard Errol. Bryce Lonmouth-"
"All those boys are smaller and far younger than you are," Ser Connas replied. "A knight is meant to protect those weaker than himself. Yet, you chose to humiliate them. What would your Ser Edric think of that?"
Ardan remembered the praise in besting Jack in Durran's Town. The pleasure at besting Arstan Connington without breaking a sweat, at disarming the blond peasant boy earlier… perhaps he had been a bit overzealous, but…
"You said it yourself, war isn't fair," Ardan tried to defend himself. He'd been taught to fight back – he shouldn't have to let them win – it was dishonest, and wouldn't help the others. At least Arstan Connington would remember not to lead with his arm.
"It doesn't mean you have to be,"
With a stern look, Ser Connas stepped away, pausing in the sun that rose over the Sea of Dorne. He seemed to bask in the sunlight, heaving a long sigh before stroking the dark hairs on his chin, and turning back to Ardan.
"They're not learning anything from you," Ser Connas continued, "and you're not learning anything from them." And with that, he stepped away, leaving Ardan in the stables with unsaddled war horses, idly chewing on hay.
Cassandra
Cassandra Wylde had spent many days in the castle sept since she had taken the name 'Baratheon'. She had prayed to the Mother to spare her son after the Tourney at Bronzegate. She had thanked the Maiden for the blessing of a joyful marriage, and asked the Father and the Warrior to watch over her Lord Husband twice a day (with the rising and setting of the sun) during the Ironborn Rebellion. Following this, she had instead lit a candle and made a silent prayer to the Stranger – one almost answered.
The castle's septon, Betrand, had convinced her that the Seven tested men and women to ensure their love and loyalty. Since then, she had visited the sept less and less, only praying to the Maiden and the Mother on holy days.
Now, she had fasted half the day, and had spent hours beneath the statues of the Seven: She prayed for the Smith to right the wrong, and return her daughter to her. She had sought the Father Above to grant justice to whoever stole her daughter, and recanted several prayers to the Mother, as she always had: to keep her children safe. To grant her lost daughter protection.
Casssandra would not light a candle beneath the Stranger. She returned to the Maiden, and once again asked forgiveness for her transgressions. 'Safeguard my daughter's innocence,' Cassandra prayed, 'and I shall spend what remains of my life in service. As a Silent Sister, or a Septa. Whatever is the will of the Seven.'
As she sat down at the pew to resume weaving her prayer wheel for her daughter, a thought echoed in Cassandra's head. Perhaps it was hers, or the Father's: 'The Seven shall never accept another oath from you. You failed to keep your first.' Cassandra was filled with shame. She knew why the Seven would refuse to answer her prayers… but she was only a woman. She was not divine, as they were. The Seven would forgive her sins, if she only confessed them. But her sins were outshined by her own husband's. Perhaps his punishment was dying in the sickbed. Would Oraella's abduction be Cassandra's punishment? Surely the Seven would not be so cruel…
'They would be, to you.' A voice echoed in her head. 'Your own cruelty transcends this world.'
"My Lady?"
Cassandra looked up to see the auburn-haired Tully girl stood beside her, dressed in a pastel-blue kirtle over white linen. A thin braid was wrapped around the crown of her head, and her blue eyes glinted from the candlelight in the dim crypt. She gave a warm, pure smile as if she were the Maiden herself.
"Lady Glennys," Cassandra tried to give a poised nod of greeting, but her voice was cracked.
"I just wanted to ask if you would like me to pray with you," she suggested. Cassandra eyed her carefully – was she sent by her mother, the Mistress of Laws?
"The Seven shall protect her, my Lady," Glennys assured her. "If she prays, the Seven will answer."
'The Seven ought to answer whether my daughter prays or not,' Cassandra wanted to say. She bowed her head and returned to her prayer wheel. Little straw dolls of the Seven were fastened to the wheel. She had made them before – the last being after Arrec's joust at the Tourney at Bronzegate.
She could see it still, standing in that tent of rich gold fabric, her son's breeches cut open, his leg bloodied as a Maester frantically wrapped bandages around the wound. A Septon stood nearby, silently muttering prayers to the Seven Who are One. Durran paced around nearby, muttering about how he'd take Aerion Targaryen's head – how he'd call on each Storm Lord and their knights present at Bronzegate and kill the man. He'd demand satisfaction from the King, he'd kill the Black Prince himself. Oraella was just crying – she may have been a child, but she was old enough to understand what enough blood meant. And the Bastard – she refused to let him into the tent. He had done enough.
"My Lady," a voice gently rang across the sept. Cassandra turned to see Maester Rickard Corbray standing at the small arched doorway, hands hidden away in his robes as he bowed his head. It was time.
Cassandra stood up, followed by Glennys, and the two of them made their way through the corridors of the castle until they came to the Round Hall: the cavernous chamber for assemblies and audiences. Her youngest son, Arrec, was sat upon the Storm Throne, dressed in a black jerkin over a quilted doublet of gold wool. Finally, he had dressed like a Lord of House Baratheon ought to. It made sense to Cassandra – he had always been the smartest boy in Storm's End. He knew his courtesies (although, not to her or his brother, Durran), and he knew the order of things.
In front of Durran were two separate parties: on the right stood Prince Jaeghar Targaryen, his scarred face glowing in the flickering torchlight as the storm raged on outside. His jerkin was closed, the clasp just below his jaw unfastened and showing the black silk beneath. Beside him was Ser Harwin of House Mooton – the sworn protector of the prince. Left of them, on the other side of the Storm Throne, were the Tully family: Garrett in his leather jerkin fashioned to look like fish-scales, his auburn curls sprouting from his scalp. He was abruptly joined by his sister, Glennys. Cassandra had heard she was the spitting likeness of her late aunt, Elys Tully. The maid that had married Durran Baratheon and had been widowed by a Stark almost a month later. Cassandra didn't know whether that was true – she'd never met Elys, but she had met the mother of Garrett and Glennys Tully, Lady Jeyne, the Mistress of Coin. Looking at the two of them, Cassandra couldn't help but think that Oward Tully had left nothing of himself in his daughter, except perhaps his zeal for the Seven.
"Now that we are all here," Cassandra said, "perhaps we might hear this… proposal of yours."
"Proposal?" Prince Jaeghar frowned.
"The Lady Oraella was to marry my brother, Ser Tristifer," Garrett explained. "A wedding is hard to be had without a bride."
"It is," Cassandra said. "My son, the Lord Regent, has been raised to keep his word. As was I." She felt a pang of guilt – she had broken her word twice since wedding Arlan Baratheon, and the wounds of both still felt as fresh. "Which is why I offer my son's hand to wed your daughter, Glennys."
Cassandra gestured to Arrec, whose jaw and fist clenched. He let out a long sigh and glanced up at the ceiling. He clearly had no love for a pious girl like Glennys.
"Would you, my Lord Baratheon?" Garrett asked, an eyebrow raised.
Arrec licked his lips, shaking his head slightly in disbelief and scowling at Cassandra. "It would preserve the alliance between our Houses, my Lord," Arrec recited the words he had practiced that morning.
Garrett placed a hand on his sister's shoulder (Glennys looked somewhat perplexed by the offer) and opened his mouth, but the next voice heard was his mother's.
"No."
The word rang out across the Round Hall. Cassandra was sure she must have misheard her.
"No?"
"This is nothing short of a slight," Lady Jeyne explained. "An offence; your daughter would sooner vanish into the night like a cutpurse than wed my son? Perhaps your Uncle Erich was not killed by the Stark's, but also fled his duty. Who is to say Lord Durran has not also done so- that you, Lord Arrec, would also?"
"Careful," Cassandra replied curtly, "remember where you are before questioning the honour of my family."
Garrett glared at her, but Arrec ignored this.
"We suspect my sister may have been taken by the Dornish."
Cassandra was not irked at her son telling this to the Tully's. After all, they already knew that she was missing: the Black Prince and his sister had ridden out that morning on their dragons, with the express intention of finding Oraella, just like Durran.
"Who is truly bringing my son this offer?" Lady Jeyne asked, glancing between Cassandra and her son. "The Lord Regent's brother, or his mother?"
Cassandra didn't move her eyes from Lady Jeyne. She remained fixed on the woman in her gown of silk that wrapped around her in the Valyrian fashion. It was exactly how Cassandra herself used to dress in her youth in the capital.
"If we have caused some offence," Arrec cleared his throat, "how best would we… salve such a wound?"
"My Lord…" Garrett began, but Lady Jeyne placed a hand on his shoulder and he fell silent.
"You are right, my daughter is of marrying age. And we do desire the alliance my late Lord Husband made with your Uncle Durran some years ago." She paused, glancing around the Round Hall. "I do not believe your brother would be quite so flippant about his own marriage."
Arrec frowned, glancing up to Cassandra. Of course the boy didn't understand – he most likely believed that Lady Jeyne was only just thinking of this.
"My Lord Brother is to be marrying the Princess Rhaenerys," Arrec explained, confused, "that is… why we are all here."
"In light of recent events, arrangements may be altered."
"Arrangements?" Arrec muttered. "Shall we speak plain, my Lady? Since returning from Bronzegate, I've tired of dancing."
"Very well, my Lord: Your brother, Lord Durran, the heir to Storm's End, should be the one to wed my daughter, not you. She is pious and well-read, and would serve him well as Lady of Storm's End."
Cassandra had to intervene – Arrec could not agree to it…
"We've all witnessed the virtues of your daughter, Lady Jeyne, that is not the issue…"
"Agreed," Arrec said, filling Cassandra with a warm sense of calm. "My brother is already betrothed to the Princess. Lords must keep their words."
Prince Jaeghar seemed pleased with another showing of Baratheon loyalty.
"Does the crown still have faith in your betrothals?" Lady Cassandra asked, glancing over to Prince Jaeghar. "It is the second time in living memory that a Baratheon has failed to marry a Tully…"
"If I know my histories, my uncle Durran did marry Elys Tully," Arrec pointed out.
"And died before the Seven could bless them with a child." Lady Jeyne clasped her hands together and stepped out in front of her family. "I wish you good fortune, my Lord Baratheon."
She began to leave, followed by Glennys. Garrett stepped forwards, addressing Lady Cassandra.
"Ser Grover and I shall seclude ourselves in prayer for the safe return of your daughter," he promised. An empty sentiment to most – Durran would surely have burned with fury at the mention of the man who had killed Lord Garth Tyrell. But the sentiment was something Cassandra could appreciate the prayers – only because they were in earnest. After all, Oward had been a pious man, and Glennys had inherited his zeal. Perhaps Garrett had, also.
"Maester Rickard has assured me the storm shall pass, and it will be safe to travel with the new moon," Cassandra made sure to use her Lady's voice. "You may remain as our guests until then."
"Most gracious of you. Seven blessings upon you, my Lady… my Lord." He gave a curt bow to Arrec and followed his family out of the hall. Arrec looked up at his mother, slightly puzzled. He knew that storm would wane within a day or two. He just needed to trust her.
Prince Jaeghar's violet eyes still on the open doors the Tully's had passed through. It was lucky he were there and not the Black Prince or Princess Rhaenerys: either may have taken the proposal as an insult. And the former was shown to be mercurial and vicious – Arrec's ailiment was a constant reminder.
"I'm touched by your commitment to my sister," he stated.
'Poor fool,' Cassandra thought, 'the commitment is to your House, their throne, and the dowry we've already begun to spend.'
"Our family has been loyal to yours since the Conquest," Arrec said, standing up and leaning on his cane. "Your family is ordained by the Seven to lead us. Our commitment is never beyond question, Your Grace."
Prince Jaeghar nodded and, after Arrec bowed, they all began to part and go their separate ways. However, Cassandra called over to Prince Jaeghar, crossed to him and took his arm when it was offered.
"You are very different to brothers, Your Grace," Cassandra observed, making sure her voice was sweet. "A knight, I believe?"
"I am," Prince Jaeghar said, feeling quite proud of himself.
"And you serve the Small Council?"
"Cup-bearer," His voice seemed to dampen slightly at the prospect – was he another young man hoping to be a hero? How wonderfully banal.
"Seems a waste of your talents: you did save many lives when the Rhoynar heretics tried to murder us."
Prince Jaeghar didn't even try to hide his smile. "Ser Harwin is just as deserving of your praise."
"Of course. I am just… I'm sure your mother would have been very proud of you." Prince Jaeghar's mouth was agape. He was pleased, and Cassandra had found the bait for a hook.
"Would she?"
"Of course! Do not forget, I was a handmaid to her for some years. There was even talk of me wedding your uncle Maelor, in my youth."
"Yes…" Jaeghar seemed to fall silent upon the mention of his uncle. Jealousy? Spite? Pain?
"It seems my bloodline was always fated to be joined with the crown's. And your mother would tell me of House Baratheon – the bond between the dragon and the stag that built this realm. How many marriages have existed between your family and ours?"
"Some," Jaeghar nodded. "The House of the Stag has long been steadfast and true friends to us."
"And your sister, the Princess Rhaenerys? Does she share in your view?"
"I- of course." Jaeghar was lying – Cassandra could see it written across his face and could hear it in his stammering words.
"She rejoices at her coming marriage?" Cassandra played along.
"A… a cup overfilling with joy," he tried to smile to convince her.
"Alas, I confess I've not glimpsed this cup."
Jaeghar nodded, clearing his throat – he was clearly trying to find a good excuse. "She… ah, she misses Aegorax."
"Aegorax?"
"Her dragon. She would often ride him."
'And who else?' Cassandra thought to herself.
"Of course. And your own dragon, Your Grace? Is he… well?"
Jaeghar nodded. She wasn't sure whether he still had a dragon – there'd been no talk of Jaeghar dragon-riding for some time. And, like Prince Aemon, Jaeghar had arrived on horseback.
"Please, come, let's take the air together," Cassandra urged him, looping her arm in his, "I grew up in the capital, you know. There was talk of me wedding your uncle, Maelor, if you can believe... And your father! He is to be attending soon - tell me, how has he fared since your mother, Seven Smile on Her, passed? I remember when she was crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty - I was too, in time..."
Torrha
Torrha's dress didn't feel as comfortable as it had back when she'd first worn it in Winterfell. She felt too hot, and constantly wanted to retreat back to the chamber and soak in another bath. She had been attended to by Helicent Graceford, who had spent some time trying to fashion her brown hair into elaborate curls and braids but it just felt too much. She supposed that, on her wedding day, it was all meant to be a bit much.
Earlier that day, Torrha had stepped into the dimly lit Starry Sept in Oldtown. The first thing that had confronted her was the heady scent of spiced incense. She had looked up at the vaulted ceilings that soared above her, adorned with intricate carvings and stained glass windows that cast colourful patterns of light upon the marble floor below. Torrha's footsteps had echoed softly against the polished floor as she made her way towards the altar, her eyes drawn to the figure waiting for her there.
Victor Tyrell stood tall and resolute, his features obscured in the flickering candlelight that illuminated the sacred space. She could feel the weight of his gaze upon her, his brown eyes trying to discern who exactly she was.
The gown Torrha still wore was a simple yet elegant creation, crafted from the finest white silk and adorned with delicate embroidery. Red weirwood leaves danced across the fabric, their intricate patterns a stark contrast against the purity of the white. The gown had flowed gracefully around her, trailing behind her like a ghostly veil when she had moved towards her intended.
Her hair was pulled back into a simple braid, adorned with crimson, red, and white roses that nestled amidst the brown tresses like drops of blood and snow.
The ceremony had passed in a blur of ritual and tradition, the words of the septon washing over Torrha like a distant echo. She had been taught the words to say in Highgarden: the vows before the Seven. It made her feel uncomfortable – she didn't believe in the writings and statues. The Gods were found all around her – the leaves that fell from the branches of trees, the mountains that rose up in the north… the pomp and circumstance of it all had been stifling. The robes the Septon had worn were as bemusing as they were amusing.
Victor Tyrell had pulled back her veil, his eyes rolling over her features. He had smiled – and looked very pleasant while doing so. For a moment, Torrha was quite relieved upon gazing at him, but, in the candlelight, she saw something in his smile – something less like Cayden and Smallbran, and more like her father. More like her brother, Corwyn.
His eyes were empty of warmth. In a land of summer and sun, his eyes brought no warmth to her. His visage was pleasant, and his touch soft, but she did not melt beneath his hands. Her heart did not quicken at his gaze.
It would come in time, she was sure. Love was a flower, and no flowers could grow without patience and care.
Victor and Torrha had spoken the final words of their ceremony, binding themselves to one another with unwavering voices, and Torrha could feel her arms itch beneath the heavy green-and-gold cloak that Victor Tyrell had draped over her shoulders. It matched his cotehardie of vines and roses perfectly. They turned around to face the guests that stood behind them, at the bottom of the stairs. They all broke into applause – her new sister-by-law, Alyssa Tyrell, even her father, though he clapped his hands reluctantly, his dark, grey eyes resting upon the boy.
Torrha knew that the wedding was a good match, but her wedding to the handsome young lord had been born not of desire, but of duty. Still, she could hope that it may grow into love.
But, as the day continued and became evening, and they settled into their wedding feast, Torrha began to wonder: how could she grow to love a man she barely spoke to? They had exchanged some words – he had complimented her gown, and inquired about the leaves, telling her their godswood had no less than three wierwood trees named the Three Singers. That had been the last they had said to one another, as her new husband set about talking to the King and his son, to a golden-haired boy and red-haired woman, and Torrha was left to contemplate.
She found herself with a hollowness to her chest. She was surrounded by women with bare arms and elaborate, ornate tresses of gold and chestnut brown. There was so much gold – on the fingers and wrists and necks of men and women alike. Even the old Gardener Hall of Highgarden was awash with sweet-smelling wine and flowers. She yearned for the scent of spices and cinnamon back home. She missed sitting next to Alyna, talking about books and dragons and histories. She missed Cayden, rough and rowdy and raising their father's ire. Her mother, braiding her hair and reminiscing about her youth. Even Corwyn, though he wouldn't look at her. He'd barely spoken to her in months, yet… she missed him. And Smallbran, how he would pull at her dress for her attention.
In a hall of smiles and curtsies, Torrha was filled with a feeling of loneliness.
"Sister," came the soft, crisp Reachlander accent of Alyssa Tyrell, walking around to occupy the seat beside her. She was dressed in a kirtle of gold and teal silk, her hair falling softly against her rosy cheeks as she lay her dainty fingers on Torrha's hand. "I trust you're enjoying this joyful day?"
"Of- of course," Torrha nodded, "so very much."
Alyssa's deep, warm eyes flickered across to her brother for a moment. "It's expected of him to entertain the guests. After all, the King himself has come to bless the union."
Torrha glanced over to watch Victor talking with the King, his hands clasped behind his back as he listened attentively, an easy smile on his lips. She saw it again – the emptiness behind his eyes. She thought of Corwyn again.
"Of course."
"I know it must seem strange, being here… but I hope I can, at least, help you settle into your life here."
Alyssa had a strange quality to her – she would smile and Torrha would believe every word. There was so much warmth to her – as if she were the reason why the sun shone so brightly in the Reach. Perhaps that was because she was far more beautiful than any other woman in Highgarden, but… perhaps not.
"…war with the Rhoynish heathens," the gold-haired man said excitedly to Victor, thumping him on the shoulder, as the two of them returned to the table.
Torrha turned to her new husband.
"War?" She frowned. There'd been a steady peace in Westeros over the last twenty years or so.
"Durran Baratheon has declared war against the Dornish," the man explained.
"Lord Rowan means that Lord Arlan has declared war – Durran is simply serving his father's wishes, and that of the Seven."
Torrha's blood froze in her veins at the mention of them: the Baratheon's. They had butchered her grandfather, thousands of her countrymen. They had put the Neck to the torch as they marched north, after the Tully's had betrayed the Reed's and turned Theo from a ward to a hostage. How like a Baratheon – to forego their oaths and honour whenever it might please them.
"Of course, though, it is our duty to lend our swords to the Faith," Rowan said, taking his seat beside Victor.
"Perhaps we might put aside such talk for tonight," Victor suggested. His brown eyes settled upon Torrha as he spoke quietly to her, "I'm aware there is… bad blood between your houses."
Torrha frowned, bemused. "Bad blood?" She asked. It was like calling the war between their houses a marketplace squabble.
Victor licked his lips and leant back in his chair, bringing his silver chalice of wine to his mouth and drinking it heartily. He set it back down on the table with a sigh, drumming his fingers along the wooden table. Torrha was not the only one who had noticed this – she looked back down to see her father raising an eyebrow. She was representing him, and her family. Her mother had told her Victor was handsome, knightly, and honourable, and she had seen little to prove otherwise. She had to… she had to be a good wife to him.
"My Lord, this… war. It is for the Faith, you said?"
Victor's eyes moved away from his wine and fixed on her. "It is."
"How so?"
"We aim to bring them into the Light of the Seven."
"I believe they do already," Torrha frowned. She knew her histories. "You cannot be a knight without following the New Gods, can you? Yet there are knights of House Dayne, of House Yronwood, Fowler and Wyl, Blackmont-"
"Yes, but the Martell's," Victor said quickly, "they praise River Gods – their followers worship a Fire God…"
"And that is… wrong?" Torrha asked.
Victor took a moment before answering, his voice clipped and proper, as if he were about to give a speech. "Of course; there is only the Seven Who Are One. All who do not follow them are wayward and lost."
"I do not follow the New Gods. Am I wayward and lost?"
Victor did not respond. His mouth opened, but he seemed to catch the words in his throat, looking up at the vaulted ceiling and the carved roses and hands that looked down upon them.
"Perhaps the Seven have…" Victor began, though he would not finish answering.
"Oh, look," Alyssa's gleeful voice rang out as she stood up, "look, Victor, it's your wedding gift."
Torrha and Victor glanced down from their table to a trio of minstrels that approached them, clad in green and gold silks as they brought their instruments closer. The hall quietened down.
"I- yes, my Lady Wife," Victor stood up and gestured to the musicians, "in honour of your coming here, and joining our two Great Houses, the moment has been commemorated in song!"
A lute began to play, followed by a harp and a soft, rattling drum as the shortest man began to sing.
"'Would you send me a Lord', the She-Wolf sang,
'To serve and adore, and take my hand?
She would sing to the moon, only for soon,
A rose would gleam and bloom…'"
There was a small smattering of applause that rippled through the hall as Victor raised his chalice of wine.
"The Wolf treaded down, the Rose glowed gold,
And the Stars thread to Bind their Souls,
Pulled by the Roads, and Pushed by the Wind,
The Wolf soared on with Wings.
The Moon, it wept, for the Wolf was gone,
Away from the Snows of its Dawn
The Wolf became the Lady Among
The Golden Rose and his Winter's Song."
The hall burst into a loud applause, and the minstrels bowed their heads as Victor stood up. One of the minstrels approached, placing his lute under his arm and giving a deep bow to Victor, then to Torrha. He reached into his coinpurse and gave them several coins – more than she'd seen her father give to minstrels back home.
"Marvellous," Victor remarked as he sat back down, watching the minstrel retreat to strike up a song in honour of King Aeric and his two children.
It was… well, frankly, it was sweet. Torrha had never had a song written about her before. She was fairly sure it was about her… and perhaps the North might weep for her. She was sure that, at some point, she might weep for her homeland too.
"Did you enjoy that?"
Torrha smiled gently. "I did," she said, genuinely. The song was… well, not exactly to her liking, but it was kind. Surely her mother was right – Victor would undoubtedly be kind and lordly to her. Maybe she may even love him like her mother did her father. Maybe she already did – maybe she just didn't know it yet.
"I'm glad," Victor said, leaning back into his chair.
"Did you write it yourself?" Torrha asked.
"Did I- write that?" Victor asked, gesturing to the minstrels.
"My brother is a little shy," Alyssa chimed in, "he's a poet at heart, though he does not show it."
Torrha smiled – a poet? Would he write her poems every day? Like the Knights in the songs? Would there be a tourney, and would he crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty? She'd heard Alyssa Tyrell had been named as such in the past two years, and Stormlander woman, and a Riverlander, and then, years before that, Margerytte. A woman that was supposed to have been so beautiful, she was named Queen of Love and Beauty for four years before she died. There were still countless songs of her – some that would doubtlessly be played throughout the wedding feast.
Some time passed with Torrha talking to her new husband and his sister. King Aeric had stepped up and blessed the union, promising to host a tourney in the capital to celebrate the birth of their first child. Torrha was then confronted with that: she was going to have to lay with Victor as his wife. It was something she was quite excited about – she was no stranger to pleasure, as a woman of ten-and-six, but she had yet to feel the embrace of a man who loved her, who cherished her, who would whisper poetry into her ears as they fell into a sleep beneath the stars that cheered for them.
The daydream was interrupted as the Drunkard Prince, Vaegon Targaryen, stood up from his seat, swaying, holding a glass chalice of golden wine. "I too…" he paused to hiccup, "I too would like to bless this union…" he stumbled, almost falling over, if Victor had not stood up to hold his arm. Vaegon waved away the Tyrell and stifled another hiccup.
"Marriage is the… happiest day of your life. So if you waste the rest of your life trying to stay this happy…" He swept hand across, whistling, and accidentally knocked a glass carafe of red wine onto the floor. It shattered and wine began to wind through the groves between the stone slabs like rivers of blood. Vaegon's violet eyes found Torrha and he raised his wine once more.
"I shall hope you don't die on the birthing bed," he slurred before raising his wine even higher. "To the Lord and his Lady Wife: may the Seven smile upon…"
Vaegon hiccupped again, but it was not just that: he turned around and began to retch, expelling a violent gushing of pink sludge. He was hurried away and servants quickly began to mop up the mess as a band of men, all bearded and clad in dark drab wool and fur approached. Torrha looked to Victor, who raised an eyebrow inquisitively. He wasn't worried – that did ease her, some. They carried between them a chest. A man walked out in front of them and bent down onto one knee, bowing his head.
"Rise, rise," Victor gestured to them. The man did as he was bid.
"My Lord of Highgarden, I come bearing a wedding gift from Lord Durran Baratheon."
Torrha worried there would be something hiding within that chest – perhaps Durran himself? She imagined him as any Baratheon – bloodthirsty and wild, leaping out with a sword, ready to take her head. Her grey eyes moved over to her father, who was still sat next to Eddon Poole, a man who drew on the ironwood hilt of his dagger.
"He regretted not being here today," the man said as he moved around to pull on the lid of the chest, "and wished you to know that, for the love he bore you and your family, he would send a gift to your wife."
The man reached down into the chest and withdrew his hand, tossing a series of grey and black wolf pelts upon the stonefloor.
All eyes in the hall fell on Torrha and her father. It was a threat, surely. But… the man said he loved the Tyrell's? Torrha's head began to become cluttered with confusion and questions.
Suddenly, there was a single hand clapping quickly. Torrha glanced to her side and saw Alyssa stood up, clapping happily, a beautiful smile pressed upon her bowed lips.
"A most generous and kind showing, Ser. Of course, our Lady Torrha is now a Tyrell, but this gift fitting of her ancestry is one she will surely treasure. We shall fashion a winter cloak for my Lady Sister, as Stark's are always right: Winter is Coming."
They rest of the hall began to applaud in turn, except for the Northmen, that is. Torrha looked down and saw the crone, Elinor Tyrell, grab Rowan Hightower with a tight grip and, though Torrha could not hear her, she could very clearly make out her words from the movement of her lips…
"Get those fucking pelts out of here."
Before Torrha could fixate on this, she noticed Lady Elinor whisper something else to Rowan, her dark eyes locked onto Torrha. Rowan nodded and pushed back his chair before standing up to raise his wine chalice.
"We stand here to witness the union of two Great Houses, and a match that the Gods, Old and New alike, surely smile on. But words do not a marriage make; a wedding needs a bedding. I would ask His Grace, King Aeric, the First of his Name, if the time has come for us to bed them?"
Torrha looked for the King, along with everyone else. He had been sat next to the bright-eyed and dainty-bodied Falia Fossoway, far away from where he was supposed to be sat, which was beside Victor. His eyes were alive with excitement and he rose to his feet, knocking over his chalice of wine before quickly scooping it up and raising it high.
"Yes, yes! Oh, let us bed this little Northern lass," he chortled, slurring a terribly poor imitation of a Northman's accent.
The hall became alive as men and women began to swarm the table. Hands began to grab Torrha and lift her up high and she yelped. This- was this a bedding? She thought she would be led down a corridor with people bowing and kneeling before her. Instead, her gown was pulled at. A shoe came off, a hand closed around her braid, fingers fumbling at the roses that had been tied in.
"Set a looking-glass beside the bed!" One man shouted at her.
"Use wine! Wine!" Another said as a hand began squeezed at her thigh. She tried to bat it away, but another grabbed her wrist as they tried to pull at the thin white straps of her gown.
"A candle and wax will help any lad," one of the crowd crowed.
She felt a hand slip up her dress and along her thigh, and she kicked again. The straps suddenly became limp, and rough, calloused hands began to tug at her white linen shift, tugging it down her body with the white wedding gown she and her mother had spent weeks threading. Both were thrown off behind her, and Torrha was carried, trying to cover her pale bell-shaped breasts, and the dark mound of hair that sprouted between her legs.
She didn't know which way they took her – she was carried below lit torches with hands that pushed her and turned her. It was hard to keep her balance – she made herself small and kept rocking from side to side, hoping she wouldn't capsize like a ship in a storm before she reached a safe harbour.
The ceiling changed: she looked up at a chandelier of lit candles, hanging from the stigma of a golden rose carved into the ceiling. The whole room seemed to be bathed in a warm glow of candlelight. Torrha was half-thrown from the crowd into an empty bed. She quickly dived beneath the cotton sheets and glared up at the men who chortled and chuckled, patting each other on the back as they returned to the door. The group of men quickly split apart as a crowd of women carried in Torrha's new husband: she'd seen what a man looks like without his shirt, but Victor was different: his skin was more sun-kissed. She supposed it was normal, growing up this far south. He had the look of a man who had tilted a lance near-every day of his life. And his long hair of hazel curls fell over his face as he was placed down by the women at the foot of the bed. He didn't seem shocked or abashed, but rather had the smallest of grins on his lips as he climbed into the bed beside Torrha.
The doors closed and Torrha was suddenly put ill at ease by the silence: she would have preferred the raucous laughter inside. At least then, they may have not needed to talk. Torrha kept the sheets close to her body, trying not to notice Victor playing with his own hair. Torrha hated silence. She just needed… she knew Victor was as noble and honourable and virtuous as Mother had told her, she just needed a moment to breathe.
"Do they not have bedding ceremonies in the North?" Victor asked, pushing his long locks of hair back from his face.
"We do," Torrha nodded, "I just… I don't know…"
Victor softly chuckled, "Yes… their hands have a mind of their own, don't they?"
Torrha was quickly put to ease at the joke. Her shoulders slumped as she shared his chuckle. She knew what she had to do – and she was excited to feel all the feelings she'd been told would be there. She reached her hand out to touch her new husband's neck and pressed her lips to his, softly. She jumped back at the banging at the door.
"Bite her nipples!" A man said from outside.
"Stroke his cock!"
"Suck his toes!" That suggestion was cut off by a loud groaning, followed by more laughing.
"Are… are they going to stay?"
"It's tradition," Victor nodded. "A wedding without a bedding is sometimes… looked down on."
Torrha nodded. It was tradition – and she wanted a true marriage. Her mother had found much happiness in her own marriage, in being a mother and a wife. Maybe she could too?
Victor kissed her again, moving on top of her and parting her legs. Torrha felt his hot breath on her neck and the banging at the door made her jump, every muscle inside her tense. She felt like they were going to walk in at any moment, and hurt her.
"Could we…" she said, so quietly she barely heard herself: it were as though she'd given up saying the words as she opened her mouth. Victor hadn't heard, because his waist pressed against hers, his brown eyes on her grey…
Pain. Sharp. She looked away and winced, and Victor relented, pulling away from her. She winced, her eyes screwed tight. Others take her – she thought a man was supposed to fit in there. Was she different?
Victor spent some time kissing her body – her shoulders, between her breasts, her hips. But all Torrha could see was someone else – a man with beautiful, pale skin, and light blue eyes. His silver-gold hair tumbled down his shoulders as he had kissed her, pulling up her grey woollen gown as he unlaced his breeches, whispering Valyrian poetry in his Lyseni tongue.
Torrha was brought back to her wedding night with a sharp stabbing pain between her legs as Victor tried to enter once again.
She couldn't hear the words being shouted through the door anymore. She couldn't even hear their voices. Instead, she heard the voice of her brother Corwyn, barking at Lazello, grabbing him by his beautiful silver-gold hair and throwing him to the floor and beating him bloody until his pale blue eyes were bleeding. She remembered the way Corwyn had scowled at her, after her had taken the man's tongue and ordered him gelded and sent to the Wall.
Another fiercer, sharper pain flooded from where Victor's hips met hers. It was like a hot knife sliding through her, to the applause of however many dozens of nobles waited outside. This was what her brother had been so keen to defend?
Torrha wasn't aware how much time passed – eventually, she felt a wet spilling of warmth inside her and Victor rolled off her, his brown eyes closing gently as he let out small pants, his neck glistening with sweat. She supposed that was it, but… that was not two halves of one whole melding. She had not been carried like leaves upon the wind out of her own body. There had been no waves of pleasure washing her back to her body like sand to the shore… Or maybe that was it? Maybe it had been… Maybe she had been…
"Are you okay?" Victor asked, brown eyes on the lace canopy of the four-poster bed.
"I'm…" What was she? 'Disappointed' didn't sound right, and felt awfully rude, and yet… what else was there to say?
"Not quite what you imagined?" He asked, turning to look at her. "Oh, Seven Hells, did you not know-"
"No, it's… it's just not how Mother…"
Victor nodded and sat up, swinging his legs out of his bed and walking across to the table, where a carafe of gold wine was waiting with two glass chalices. He ignored the wine and picked up a silken cloak of shining gold and draped it over his shoulders, walking towards the doors. Torrha's heart began to beat faster and faster – where they going to come inside? Grab her knees and spread her legs and make sure they'd laid together as man and wife? She looked down to her legs and found a mess of blood rubbed into the sheets. She sat up and watched as the milk-white, goo began to seep out of her – she had thought it would be more like a seed. Otherwise… Why call it such?
Victor opened the door, and they crowd let out another loud cheer, applauding him. Some stepped forwards to clap him on the shoulder, and caught sight of her, raising a glass and cheering her name.
"Yes, you vagrants, leave us be and let us sleep," Victor half-chuckled, waving them all goodnight and closing the door before retreating to the bed, where Torrha already feigned sleep, but she would not for some hours. She remained in the new, soft bed, feeling the mess of blood and life seep out of her, terrified the door would be burst down once again.
Man, this took a while to write. Like, the better part of a month. California was fun – though people do kinda… forget to say 'thanks' or 'excuse me', I noticed…
Yeah, this chapter was a little challenging in parts, there was a lot I stripped out. There's only a few more chapters, y'know? Like, 5 or something – if you guys wanna do a post-story talk on Discord or something, let me know.
Anyway, feel free to review, it's always greatly appreciated, and does impact the story. In fact, there's a few people I wanna shout-out yet again because goddamnit, I will acknowledge their effort!
Dragon of Valyria gave me the idea for 'Valonqar' being used by the Targ's, and has been nothing short of a font of knowledge for the more Valyrian-style stuff. Please, get over and submit a character to their story! It's very unique and I'm excited to see it happen!
My man Lawrence Cartwright always gives me honest feedback and points out some plotholes – whether I'm retconning or building a mystery, it really challenges me and makes this story better!
LadyLannister01 is actually a major help in a load of stuff – I actually find myself consulting her pretty regularly on the weirdest stuff. Ever sent a message at 3am saying "Hey, what shape are so-and-so's tits, do you reckon?" It's wonderful and weird.
Winters Warden is also my favourite tinfoil-hat-conspiracy-theorist – it's always a great day when I see a new 'Pepe Silvia' theory. And let's not forget the immeasurable depth and diversity of his characters!
ZenoZen – goddamn, dude, you read, like, everything I write – the day you stop reading is the day I'll realise I've lost all talent. The fact that you can make time for each chapter genuinely means so much to me – you are, without a doubt, one in a million. A lot of petty people only review if they have a character, but you're just… honestly, a bit of an example to us all.
BlueJay019 – Dude, like… goddamn, you've been supplying characters for a while. Kinda crazy… Here's to another however-many-years-it's-been. I really love workshopping characters with you and getting that "Yes, this is an amazing character" moment.
nevershout – I think you're the veteran here – you submitted characters to the first bash at Game of Thrones. A… Tyrell daughter, if I remember correctly? God, you remember those days? Tell me honestly – this story or the old one?
Outcast001 – Damn, I'll admit, I was surprised to see you interested in this story, but you gave me the wonderful Alyna – you can expect a new portrait of her soon, by the by.
A Terrific Acorn – Another vet! Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you the dude who coined 'Rouge R. R. Martin'? Not because I'm anywhere near his level, just because I have an insatiable bloodlust when it comes to writing. I mean, dude, remember in the West series – that fucking bloodbath I wrote? I need to get back to that at some point, man, it's planned to end so tragically…
There's undoubtedly some people I've missed, but these are the guys who came to mind – so, mad props to y'all and I'll see you guys in the next chapter!