#❀Have you ever seen a single arrow shoot down two birds at once? ▻ (musings)

[roseofbaron]

/// tag dump

[7deadlycinderellas]

If the summer of our lives could just come again, ch29

AO3 link

 The Kingsroad

The Kingsroad is blessedly quiet, as the ice on the trees twinkles. Once the marshes begin, the path becomes some of the only solid ground to stand and walk on.

Most of the travelers huddle around the small fires they can build under the oil cloth tents for something resembling warmth. The north was cold, they all knew it, but being out and exposed like this, feeling it seep down to your bones out of the protection of stone walls, was very different.

Lady and Summer had both trailed behind the party, loyal as ever to their humans, but uncertain on the water and ice logged ground. Swamps were not places for wolves.

Around the fire one evening, Sansa notices Bran and Meera off talking by themselves. It wouldn’t concern her, but their heads are moving as though they’re arguing, and she’s never known them to be cross with each other.

“What’s going on?” she asks as she approaches. Bran jerks in surprise and when Meera shakes her head at him, he responds with, “we’re going to have to tell her eventually”.

Meera won’t meet her eyes again, but she eventually lets tumble out,

“I’m with child.”

Sansa’s words disappear from her throat, her mouth going dry even as her mind makes sense of her thoughts.

Eventually, she manages a,

“Is it strange I almost want to say congratulations?”

Bran lets out a strange, almost hacking laugh, and Meera shakes her head again. Sansa’s voice softens.

“Is that what you were fighting about?”

Meera opens her mouth,

“No. We were arguing because despite that, I still feel like a coward for leaving.”

Bran reaches out to touch her shoulder, and she jerks away.

“I keep telling you, you’re not-”

She cuts him off,

“You’re not the one who’s been followed by the whispers your whole life. Even after all these years, some of the servants at Winterfell still do it. That we prefer to hide rather than fight, and that when we do fight we don’t fight fair. You told me from your vision that my father stabbed Ser Arthur Dayne in the back....It’s hard not to take it to heart.”

She leaves Bran and Sansa at this point to tend to her horse. Sansa thinks of what she could tell Meera later, to try and console her.

Bran speaks first after she’s left.

“We knew before we left Winterfell. We didn’t say anything because I didn’t want anyone to whisper, to think poorly of her. I know the whispers she’s talking about, I hear them too. One of the maids called me a frog kisser once. She called Shireen the same, and I had to explain to her what it meant, I’ve never seen her so mad.”

Sansa feels a smile creep at the corner of her lips. Bran was always the kindest of them.

“So I take it you do intend to marry her?”

Bran looks at her, upwards through the snowflakes. He tucks his knees up against his chest in an attempt to keep warm.

“Provided her father doesn’t just take my head off first. He could.”

Sansa laughs.

“I don’t think he will," She pauses with a grin, "Arya will be angry if she misses your wedding.”

Sansa’s mouth freezes, and Bran nods. They can’t think of Arya right now, still back in Winterfell.

Up in front of the part, she can hear Jojen pointing out things in the trees to Shireen. She can make out,

“Glad that it’s winter. It’s hard to appreciate the place when you’re being swarmed by biting flies everywhere you go-”

Sansa chuckles. She turns to Bran,

“Arya was right, wasn’t she? We’re all headed our separate ways.”

Bran’s eyes are soft, faraway.

“Is that such a bad thing though? It means we’ve moved out from under the shadow of the past.”

He gets up now, and goes to sit beside Meera again, on the far side of the fire. Sansa can’t hear them from here, but she can see as Meera’s stiff posture softens, and Bran lean to rest his head on her shoulder. She is pleased for them truly.

She should tell Meera that it’s not all cowardly to want to protect someone small, someone who can not protect themselves. That, in fact, it is what she’s spent two lives proving she is very good at.

Though, Sansa also muses, that their mother will still probably be horrified. Bran had always been her favorite. At least they can probably be vague about the timing now.

Shadows of the past, Sansa thinks. Now if only she could.

 Winterfell

Ned approaches the breakfast table, only hearing a little bit of the discussion going on. He hears Arya reply to a question from Ygritte with something about “nice one’s do,” while Gendry turns red beside her, and so he coughs.

“Lord Stark,” Ygritte acknowledges him.

“The Last Hearth has fallen,” Ned tells them, and all at once any mirth is gone.

“So that’s maybe a week,” Arya interjects. “We’ll step up the guards.”

The Night’s Watchmen who manage to flee from the Last Hearth bring with them a single cache of wildfire. No one still seemed to know when it was appropriate to use.

“We had dug a trench,” Arya comments, “that we lit last time, but I don’t think we could keep it contained.”

At the moment, Ned decides just to keep it handy.

The days get grayer and the nights get darker.

Jon spends much time in the Godswood, along with Rowan, and occasionally with Ygritte.

Ygritte has found herself in an odd position at Winterfell. It’s not that she hasn’t been welcomed, but sometimes she still feels like she sticks out, a bit of fire against frozen stone.

She had tried to speak with Val a bit about it. Once over supper, she had asked,

“Do you really think you’ll survive here, being a southern Lady and it all?”

Val had shrugged. The white furs she wears already make her look somewhat regal, among the richly dressed nobles of the south. She had spoken to Ygritte a bit about an odd conversation she’d had with Robb the morning after the wedding. She had asked him why, in particular, he was so devoted to Winterfell.

“It’s my birthright,” he had explained, “The north and all the people in it are under my protection, and their lives and livelihoods are my responsibility.”

“But it’s only yours because you were born to the right father,” Val had insisted. Robb had shrugged.

“But I’ve always known I was born for this, and everyone around me too. Everything I’ve been taught has been because it was my responsibility, whether I wanted it or not.”

He had smiled softly.

“I do understand the desire the Free Folk have for freedom. No one telling you what you’re supposed to be. But if not me, the responsibility might fall to someone who’s not prepared for it. Or who only wants it for the power. I don’t want that for my people.”

Val could understamd that.

“They gave me the title and the name, they better accept me as is, cause this is what they’re getting.”

It’s something for her to think about. She has a lot to think about lately. Sometimes she does, sometimes she just shoots arrows and practices with Wild Thing, now with a spear tip made of dragonglass, just in case.

One snowy evening in the Godswood, Ygritte purses her lips and says,

“What are you even asking the trees for?”

Jon looks at her.

“I ask if they have seen anything, it lets us have a heads up on the army of the dead’s location.”

Ygritte cocks her head.

“Why don’t you ask them if they can help us?”

Jon furrows his brow.

“They’re trees.”

Ygritte runs her hand along the carved face of the weirwood.

“You saw the roots of one of these beneath that cave, and that was one that was long dead. Tree roots reach so far, far more than the crown of leaves, and they run straight through the ground underneath us…”

Jon chews his lip in thought.

Later that day, Arya joins him. She sits beneath the weirwood, and rubs her hand in Ghost’s fur.

She looks at him oddly, as though not sure how to say what she’s trying to.

“Do you ever...dream that you’re Ghost?”

Jon is surprised.

“Now and then, but they aren’t always vivid.”

Arya frowns, and continues petting Ghost.

“You should try. Bran can warg Summer as well as he can any of his birds, other animals too. Sansa used to talk about warging Lady so she had eyes in the Red Keep. Sometimes I swear Rickon and Shaggydog are actually one and the same.”

Arya bites her lip.

“I’ve never tried warging Nymeria deliberately...I was never sure if she would even let me in, she’s so wild. But now…”

The wolf pack has been gathering around Winterfell, muzzles clenched and growling in the lean winter.

“If we can get in their heads, it could mean life or death for someone in the vanguard.”

Arya doesn’t have the heart to mention that she’s going to be up on the ramparts with the other archers, she’s too small to be among those on the ground this time. She tries not to think of what Meera told her about chainmail, and finds a set of leather to wear underneath.

Evenings go much the same. Supper, rounds, guard rotations. These are the times when Arya tries to warg into Nymeria.

“I used to dream through her eyes often enough,” she explains to Ned later on that night, “Once, even when I was across the sea in Braavos. But I haven’t in ages.”

Ned pats her on the shoulder.

“I have no doubt you’ll be able to do it if you’re meant to.”

She tries to cling to that, but it’s with the disappointment that she returns to her chamber.

Gendry’s supposed to be up in the early morning to arm the guard, but he’s still awake when she enters.

“No luck again?” he asks when she holds herself stiffly while changing into the shift she sleeps in. All she can do is shake her head in response.

“Is the hammer working out for you?” she asks, sitting on the bed beside him.

“It is. I haven’t been sparring as much as I should have, but smithing has kept the reflexes up.”

Arya’s still unusually quiet, so Gendry grasps her about the waist and pulls her over and into his lap. The night, and the time, and the position remind them both too much of another night and another battle, and a pile of grainsacks instead of a well-worn featherbed.

Gendry rests a hand on her thigh, fingers creeping up under the edge of her shift, seeking her heat and says, “Tell me what you need.” Arya’s heart aches. He’s so strong and gruff and scarred on the outside, that she had never expected him to be so sweet in bed. Sweet, and strong enough to handle her rough edges.

Half of her wants to say, “fuck me until I forget it could be one of our last nights on earth,” and the other “hold me and kiss me and tell me everything will be fine.”

They settle for something about halfway in between.

Then the day comes when Jon rushes from the Godswood and tells everyone,

“Before the end of the day.”

No one was exactly full of brightness before, but if possible the atmosphere quiets even more, as everyone rises and bustles about to get to their posts.

Before she can go to climb the ramparts and join the other archers, Jon grabs Ygritte by the arm, and embraces her.

“Don’t die ok?”

Ygritte shifts in his arms, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. She had secretly been feeling a bit self conscious since arriving at Winterfell, and while she feels she’s hid it well, she is comforted by every public demonstration of Jon’s affection.

“I’m not full of rage this time. So hopefully no stupid children will put arrows in me. Unless they’re dead already.”

She stills, and grips Jon’s hand.

“Be careful yourself too. Don’t lose yourself to the trees.”

She leaves for the ramparts, and Jon has a detour before he joins Rowan and the wildling guard in the Godswood.

Robb, Val and Ned are on horseback outside the north gate, riding with the vanguard.

First, Jon asks Ned about Benjen.

“Safely barricaded in the highest intact spot in the broken tower. High up, hard to climb, and difficult to storm. It’s being guarded too, in case they try and go straight for him like the others said they might.”

Jon nods, and after a deep intake of breath, reaches out and offers Robb Longclaw.

Robb’s eyes are wide.

“Jon, this was given to you…”

Jon shakes his head.

“Arya gave me back Dark Sister when she decided to join the archers, she still has the catspaw’s dagger on her just in case. I don’t need two swords, and you’re going to be on the ground in the thick of things.”

Robb eventually relents, accepting the sword, and trading his scabbard with the normal steel one to one of his men. Jon fingers Dark Sister as he turns to leave. A bastard sword for a bastard, he muses. It suits him well enough.

The only other souls in the Godswood with him are Rowan and a couple of Free Folk who have volunteered to guard them, and Ghost. The wolf is the only of them that has chosen to stay by his master’s side rather than join the pack outside the wall. Jon pets his head, grateful for it.

With a nod to Rowan, Jon sits, and touches the heart tree. He asks it about each of the other weirwoods across the north near the other parts of the army, and then, about the weirwoods that grow wild in the forests of the north.

The answers he receives dishearten him.

Deepwood Motte has been overrun, and it is burning. Only a few souls have remained thankfully, the refugees having successfully sailed to Bear Island. Jon imagines that they might be able to see the burning keep on the horizon. He hopes they can’t.

Some of the other armies in the line run across the land have spotted the armies already, and they are prepared. The trenches have been dug, but only one section has successfully been lit. A snowstorm is blowing, though it does not seem to be slowing down the army of Others.

Outside Winterfell, Jon hears a howl.

Up on the ramparts, the archers are in a line, arrows nocked and held, waiting. The archers up here are mostly Free Folk, so thankfully they don’t have to keep to military structure. The squire tasked with keeping their quivers full and their torches lit is the daughter of one of Maege Mormont’s men, and she doesn’t look old enough to have her moon’s blood yet.

Ygritte jumps a bit when she sees Arya’s eyes go white. Arya gasps after a moment and she returns to herself. Just in time, she thought. It took until now, but it was just in time.

“Did you see anything out there?” Ygritte asks.

Arya purses her lips.

“They’ve nearly made it to the trench, but there’s a rider out in front of them.”

She’s not sure who would be riding in front of an army of inhuman creatures. A mad man is all she can come up with, or maybe a hostage or a distraction.

A few minutes later, Ygritte squints at the horizon.

“I think I see someone,” she tells Arya, and turns to the archer on her other side, “do you see?”

The other archer shakes his head. Ygritte squints harder.

“I see a figure in red,” she says to Arya, lighting her arrow. “Should I take the shot?”

Arya’s muscles go stiff, and lets her mind relax and tries to slip back into Nymeria.

The wolves are mostly standing at attention and Nymeria, even through the snow, can spy the rider, only a few hundred yards ahead of the others. The figure and it’s stead stand on the edge of the trench that had been dug. And the bit of Arya that is still human, feels that she recognizes the figure in the red robes.

Well, she was always so devoted to the Lord of Light, she must know her role here.

Slipping back into herself, she tells Ygritte, “Take the shot.”

She doesn’t even nod before loosing the arrow. It sails across the horizon, untroubled by the snow. The flame is visible enough.

Nymeria sees the arrow hit its target, striking the figure in the neck, causing it to fall from the horse. She sees the flame catch, and spread, seemingly by itself, and fill the trench as though it were full of the most flammable oil known to man. The closest wolves retreat a bit, wary of the fire themselves.

Only Nymeria sees the figure disintegrate before she even hits the ground.

 King’s Landing

Queen Margaery was not having a good day.

Sometimes she wonders why she wanted the throne so badly. Some days she could barely restrain herself and her true thoughts.

True, Joffrey was easy enough to control. Though often frighteningly sadistic, he was still quite childish. Stroking his ego and distraction both worked quite well. Cersei was quite another story, and Tywin Lannister was a volume to himself.

Thankfully, Margaery had discovered an unexpected secret; they could be played against each other quite easily.

The seeds had been planted for months, Margaery’s comments regarding Cersei’s involvement with the growing Faith Militant sect growing in the city having inflamed Tywin, who had ended up ordering Cersei to return to Casterly Rock.

Margaery had almost thought the former queen looked happy to be leaving, and privately, Joffrey had been ecstatic to not have his mother still hovering over his shoulder. Perhaps she should have had him make the suggestion himself.

But still…

Margaery made her way in the early morning light to the nursery, for a few moments alone with her son before the nurse awoke. Nearly a year old, Gerold Lannister looks more like her than his father. While his creation had brought his mother no joy, the same could not be said for his existence. She hopes that his life can be his own.

She rocks her son and thinks about the news that had come over the past few days.

The dragon sighting had been enough, many of the smallfolk across the land swearing to the seven that had seen it crossing the winter sky. Easy enough to dismiss as a flight of fancy.

Then the letter had come.

Joffrey had exploded in rage during the small council meeting, and in their chambers later, he had wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed, and for a moment, Margaery had been certain she wouldn’t be able to talk him down. Even when she managed, she could still feel his fingers.

She really felt that they should take the contents of the letter more seriously. Joffrey had occasionally over the past years huffed and puffed over Danaerys Targaryen still living. Even Margaery had often dismissed the claims. Then the raven came, laden with the message that Danaerys Targaryen, first of her name, would be returning to King’s Landing to reclaim her throne, but not right away. She wrote of a conflict in the north, of creatures of myth returning, and of a need for all of the kingdoms to prepare to aid the north, or else there would be nothing for anyone to rule.

It was too much, really.

Not that she was even sure she believed anything about the rumors of the Others...but still.

Some days in the capital she missed her grandmother dearly.

She finds an unexpected ally though.

She was in the royal solar, writing a letter to Loras back in Highgarden. She knew that the Dragon queen had sent ravens to all of the seven kingdoms, with the same message and the same plea for aid, and she needed to write to him.

The guard outside that day was none other than Jamie Lannister, and when she asked him to walk with her to the rookery to send it, she looked at him.

“Ser,” she greets him, “Could you accompany me? I’m sending a letter to my brother.”

Pointed. The Kingslayer had been missing his sister dearly, and Margaery knew from whispers that he had had not a single bit of communication since she had left.

“Are you still at odds with your father?” she asks, trying to sound conversational.

“Still doing his best to convince me to leave my post, return and become Lord of Casterly Rock.”

“Nonsense,” Margaery insists, “Appointment to the Kingsguard is life long. Your only duty is to your king,” she squeezes his arm. And by extension, me, she does not say out loud.

She makes a show of selecting a raven and petting it’s head.

“I do wish there was a more secure way to send messages,” she says, “Ravens get shot down so often.”

She turns to Jamie.

“You served King Aerys, what do you think about the words sent by this Dragon Queen?”

Jamie’s face twitches.

“I would fear the possibility of the return of a Targaryen monarch, as I have seen the damage one of them could bring.”

“So you would consider if part of your duty to discover the threat this, so called, Danaerys Targaryen might pose?”

Jame looks at her strangely. She smiles, and presses her message to his chest.

“Deliver this message to my brother in Highgarden. I have asked him to raise a hundred men and ride north. The king has no army of his own, of course. Go north, find if there is truth to this threat from this so called army of the dead...and find out if there have been any more of the ‘dragon sightings.’ we have seen ahead of this queen’s message.”

“My duty is to the king.”

Margaery smiles widely.

“Of course, kings before have extended these protections to their queens, their children, even their mistresses. Though I imagine Joffrey has never done this?”

Jamie shakes his head. Margaery nods, subtly moving her hair off of her shoulders. She wonders if the little purple bruises are still on her neck.

“But…” she starts, “Has he ever specifically told you that you were not to extend this to me? I mean, after all, you performed these duties for the last queen.”

Jamie stands frozen. Margaery passes the paper to him.

“Take this to Highgarden. Do what I’ve ordered. This may be the best thing you can do to keep your king safe.”

She turns away from him, and returns to her chamber. She can only hope that attempting to keep the king safe could also keep her and her son safe.