#Rookery Hall wedding

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AFFC: Sansa I (Chapter 10)

My little chicken nugget! 🥰

Once, when she was just a little girl, a wandering singer had stayed with them at Winterfell for half a year. An old man he was, with white hair and windburnt cheeks, but he sang of knights and quests and ladies fair, and Sansa had cried bitter tears when he left them, and begged her father not to let him go. "The man has played us every song he knows thrice over," Lord Eddard told her gently. "I cannot keep him here against his will. You need not weep, though. I promise you, other singers will come."

They hadn't, though, not for a year or more. Sansa had prayed to the Seven in their sept and old gods of the heart tree, asking them to bring the old man back, or better still to send another singer, young and handsome. But the gods never answered, and the halls of Winterfell stayed silent.

But that was when she was a little girl, and foolish. She was a maiden now, three-and-ten and flowered. All her nights were full of song, and by day she prayed for silence.

Is it already time for another 'be careful what you wish for'?

Sansa had prayed to the Seven in their sept and old gods of the heart tree

Such an adaptable young woman.

+.+.+

If the Eyrie had been made like other castles, only rats and gaolers would have heard the dead man singing. 

It's too bad Jon's not a singer, because this would have sent me over the moon.

+.+.+

He sang of the Dance of the Dragons, of fair Jonquil and her fool, of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies. He sang of betrayals, and murders most foul, of hanged men and bloody vengeance. He sang of grief and sadness.

I laughed.

+.+.+

"Please," she begged Lord Petyr, "can't you make him stop?"

"I gave the man my word, sweetling." Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, looked up from the letter he was writing. He had written a hundred letters since Lady Lysa's fall. Sansa had seen the ravens coming and going from the rookery. 

My, what nice titles you have, Daenerys.

Writing all those letters like he's the smart version of Tywin Lannister.

+.+.+

It is better that he sings, yes, but . . . "Must he play all night, my lord? Lord Robert cannot sleep. He cries . . ."

". . . for his mother. That cannot be helped, the wench is dead." Petyr shrugged.

Regardless of what happened, it's a mistake to be talking about her like that in front of Sansa.

+.+.+

Sansa had met Lord Nestor Royce once before, after Petyr's wedding to her aunt. Royce was the Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, the great castle that stood at the base of the mountain and guarded the steps up to the Eyrie. The wedding party had guested with him overnight before beginning their ascent. Lord Nestor had scarce looked at her twice, but the prospect of him coming here terrified her.

I'll give the author a break and assume her hair was dyed at this point, but I'd really like to know when and where that happened.

Am I supposed to believe he's got L'Oreal on hand at his little sheep shit farm?

+.+.+

"What if Lord Nestor values honor more than profit?" Petyr put his arm around her.

I will rip out your heart, and feed it to you.

+.+.+

He smiled. "I know Lord Nestor, sweetling. Do you imagine I'd ever let him harm my daughter?"

I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. 

+.+.+

If not for Petyr Baelish it would have been Sansa who went spinning through a cold blue sky to stony death six hundred feet below, instead of Lysa Arryn. He is so bold. Sansa wished she had his courage.

Shhhh. You do.

+.+.+

Petyr studied her eyes, as if seeing them for the first time. "You have your mother's eyes. Honest eyes, and innocent. Blue as a sunlit sea. When you are a little older, many a man will drown in those eyes."

Sansa did not know what to say to that.

"You have your mother's eyes. Honest eyes, and innocent. Blue as a sunlit sea. When you are a little older, many a man will drown in those eyes." And then that never happened. The end.

+.+.+

"Some lies are love," Petyr had assured her. She reminded him of that. "When we lied to Lord Robert, that was just to spare him," she said.

"And this lie may spare us. Else you and I must leave the Eyrie by the same door Lysa used." Petyr picked up his quill again. "We shall serve him lies and Arbor gold, and he'll drink them down and ask for more, I promise you."

He is serving me lies as well, Sansa realized. They were comforting lies, though, and she thought them kindly meant. A lie is not so bad if it is kindly meant. If only she believed them . . .

It's like Ned, only sinister.

"We all lie," her father said. "Or did you truly think I'd believe that Nymeria ran off?"

[...]

"It was right," her father said. "And even the lie was … not without honor." - Arya II, AGOT

The good news is Sansa knows she's being served lies.

+.+.+

The things her aunt had said just before she fell still troubled Sansa greatly. "Ravings," Petyr called them. "My wife was mad, you saw that for yourself.

Woah, woah, wait a second. Why are you thinking of that? I was under the impression there was no point to you hearing all of those confessions.

+.+.+

Petyr saved me. He loved my mother well, and . . .

And her? How could she doubt it? He had saved her.

He saved Alayne, his daughter, a voice within her whispered. But she was Sansa too . . . and sometimes it seemed to her that the Lord Protector was two people as well. He was Petyr, her protector, warm and funny and gentle . . . but he was also Littlefinger, the lord she'd known at King's Landing, smiling slyly and stroking his beard as he whispered in Queen Cersei's ear. And Littlefinger was no friend of hers. When Joff had her beaten, the Imp defended her, not Littlefinger. When the mob sought to rape her, the Hound carried her to safety, not Littlefinger. When the Lannisters wed her to Tyrion against her will, Ser Garlan the Gallant gave her comfort, not Littlefinger. Littlefinger never lifted so much as his little finger for her.

Except to get me out. He did that for me. I thought it was Ser Dontos, my poor old drunken Florian, but it was Petyr all the while. Littlefinger was only a mask he had to wear. Only sometimes Sansa found it hard to tell where the man ended and the mask began. Littlefinger and Lord Petyr looked so very much alike.

Is she already questioning whether he loves her? Am I understanding that correctly? He's so screwed.

+.+.+

She would have fled them both, perhaps, but there was nowhere for her to go. Winterfell was burned and desolate, Bran and Rickon dead and cold. Robb had been betrayed and murdered at the Twins, along with their lady mother. Tyrion had been put to death for killing Joffrey, and if she ever returned to King's Landing the queen would have her head as well. The aunt she'd hoped would keep her safe had tried to murder her instead. Her uncle Edmure was a captive of the Freys, while her great-uncle the Blackfish was under siege at Riverrun. I have no place but here, Sansa thought miserably, and no true friend but Petyr.

Pretty sure I read this exact same breakdown in the previous chapter, only this time one person is noticeably missing. Again.

Or would she seek her own blood instead? Though all of her siblings had been slain, Brienne knew that Sansa still had an uncle and a bastard half brother on the Wall, serving in the Night's Watch. Another uncle, Edmure Tully, was a captive at the Twins, but his uncle Ser Brynden still held Riverrun. And Lady Catelyn's younger sister ruled the Vale. Blood calls to blood. - Brienne II, AFFC

"They never think about each other!"

Yeah, I wonder why, you concrete block.

+.+.+

When she closed her eyes she could see him in his sky cell, huddled in a corner away from the cold black sky, crouched beneath a fur with his woodharp cradled against his chest. I must not pity him, she told herself. He was vain and cruel, and soon he will be dead. She could not save him. And why should she want to? Marillion tried to rape her, and Petyr had saved her life not once but twice. Some lies you have to tell. Lies had been all that kept her alive in King's Landing. If she had not lied to Joffrey, his Kingsguard would have beat her bloody.

Still no cause for concern in Sansa Land. She's trying hard, but she knows it's wrong.

+.+.+

But as the first light of dawn was prying at her shutters, she heard the soft strains of "On a Misty Morn" drifting up from below, and woke at once. That was more properly a woman's song, a lament sung by a mother on the dawn after some terrible battle, as she searches amongst the dead for the body of her only son. The mother sings her grief for her dead son, Sansa thought, but Marillion grieves for his fingers, for his eyes. The words rose like arrows and pierced her in the darkness.

Oh, have you seen my boy, good ser? His hair is chestnut brown He'd promised he'd come back to me Our home's in Wendish Town.

Is this about anyone other than Catelyn?

+.+.+

Gretchel and Maddy were helping Robert Arryn squirm into his breeches when Sansa stepped into his bedchamber. The Lord of the Eyrie had been crying again. His eyes were red and raw, his lashes crusty, his nose swollen and runny. A trail of snot glistened underneath one nostril, and his lower lip was bloody where he'd bitten it. Lord Nestor must not see him like this, Sansa thought, despairing. "Gretchel, fetch me the washbasin." She took the boy by the hand and drew him to the bed. "Did my Sweetrobin sleep well last night?"

"No." He sniffed. "I never slept one bit, Alayne. He was singing again, and my door was locked. I called for them to let me out, but no one ever came. Someone locked me in my room."

"That was wicked of them." Dipping a soft cloth into the warm water, she began to clean his face . . . gently, oh so gently. 

[...]

Robert's lip quivered. "I was going to come sleep with you."

I know you were. Sweetrobin had been accustomed to crawling in beside his mother, until she wed Lord Petyr. Since Lady Lysa's death he had taken to wandering the Eyrie in quest of other beds. The one he liked best was Sansa's . . . which was why she had asked Ser Lothor Brune to lock his door last night. She would not have minded if he only slept, but he was always trying to nuzzle at her breasts, and when he had his shaking spells he often wet the bed.

Sansa, you seem so matured, and good with children.

+.+.+

"My poor Sweetrobin." Sansa smoothed his hair back. "You miss her, I know. Lord Petyr misses her too. He loved her just as you do." That was a lie, though kindly meant. The only woman Petyr ever loved was Sansa's murdered mother. He had confessed as much to Lady Lysa just before he pushed her out the Moon Door. She was mad and dangerous. She murdered her own lord husband, and would have murdered me if Petyr had not come along to save me.

Woah, woah, wait a second. Why are you recalling that? I was under the impression all those confessions went in one ear and out the other.

+.+.+

The slender pillars looked like fingerbones, and the blue veins in the white marble brought to mind the veins in an old crone's legs. Though fifty silver sconces lined the walls, less than a dozen torches had been lit, so shadows danced upon the floors and pooled in every corner. Their footsteps echoed off the marble, and Sansa could hear the wind rattling at the Moon Door. I must not look at it, she told herself, else I'll start to shake as badly as Robert.

[...]

Brune lifted the boy in his arms and carried him from the hall. Maester Colemon followed, grim-faced.

When their footsteps died away there was no sound in the High Hall of the Eyrie. Sansa could hear the night wind moaning outside and scratching at the Moon Door. She was very cold and very tired. 

If that's Bran, I wish he would be less creepy in Sansa's chapters. Like, would a gentle breeze be so hard?

Don't ask me about the footsteps and shadows.

+.+.+

"As oft he did," Lord Nestor said. "The man was craven, but the favor Lady Lysa showed him made him insolent. She dressed him like a lord, gave him gold rings and a moonstone belt."

You won't believe how Littlefinger has dressed Marillion for his questioning!

Marillion by contrast looked almost elegant. Someone had bathed him and dressed him in a pair of sky-blue breeches and a loose-fitting white tunic with puffed sleeves, belted with a silvery sash that had been a gift from Lady Lysa. White silk gloves covered his hands, while a white silk bandage spared the lords the sight of his eyes.

+.+.+

Petyr Baelish sighed. "It was unseemly," he agreed, "and I put an end to it. Lysa agreed to send him away. That was why she met him here, that day. I should have been with her, but I never dreamt . . . if I had not insisted . . . it was I who killed her."

No, Sansa thought, you mustn't say that, you mustn't tell them, you mustn't. But Albar Royce was shaking his head. "No, my lord, you must not blame yourself," he said.

He leaned forward. "If I gave her Jon Arryn's true killer, she might think more kindly of me."

That made Littlefinger sit up. "True killer? I confess, you make me curious. Who do you propose?" - Tyrion IV, ACOK

It's my goal to catch him doing this again in TWOW.

+.+.+

"Mord, take him back to his sky cell," said Petyr.

"Yes, m'lord." Mord grabbed Marillion roughly by the collar. "No more mouth." When he spoke, Sansa saw to her astonishment that the gaoler's teeth were made of gold. They watched as he half dragged half shoved the singer toward the doors.

"The man must die," Ser Marywn Belmore declared when they were gone. "He should have followed Lady Lysa out the Moon Door."

"Without his tongue," Ser Albar Royce added. "Without that lying, mocking tongue."

Lots of hidden Tyrion in this discussion about tongues.

+.+.+

Lord Nestor seated himself beside the fire. "This will not be the end of it," he said to Petyr, as if Sansa were not there. "My cousin means to question the singer himself."

"Bronze Yohn mistrusts me." Petyr pushed a log aside.

"He means to come in force. Symond Templeton will join him, do not doubt it. And Lady Waynwood too, I fear."

"And Lord Belmore, Young Lord Hunter, Horton Redfort. They will bring Strong Sam Stone, the Tolletts, the Shetts, the Coldwaters, some Corbrays."

"You are well-informed. Which Corbrays? Not Lord Lyonel?"

"No, his brother. Ser Lyn mislikes me, for some reason."

"Lyn Corbray is a dangerous man," Lord Nestor said doggedly. "What do you intend to do?"

We'll save the deep dive on Lyn Corbray for another chapter, but I will say I think it's a big deal one of the first things we learn about Ser Lyn is that he dislikes Littlefinger.

Book Littlefinger and television show Littlefinger are very different characters. They're probably the character that's most different from the book to the television show. There was a line in a recent episode of the show where, he's not even present, but two people are talking about him and someone says 'Well, no one trusts Littlefinger' and 'Littlefinger has no friends.' And that's true of television show Littlefinger, but it's certainly not true of book Littlefinger. Book Littlefinger, in the book, everybody trusts him. Everybody trusts him because he seems powerless, and he's very friendly, and he's very helpful. He helps Ned Stark when he comes to town, he helps Tyrion, you know, he helps the Lannisters. He's always ready to help, to raise money. He helps Robert, Robert depends on him to finance all of his banquets and tournaments and his other follies, because Littelfinger can always raise money. So, he's everybody's friend. - George R. R. Martin

I know what you're going to say. You're going to tell me it's all a show, and they're on the same team.

Fam? Fam. You need to trust Sansa's instincts. If Sansa senses something is wrong, then is something is wrong.

+.+.+

Lord Nestor clutched the parchment tightly. "I will not say I had not hoped for this. Whilst Lord Jon ruled the realm as Hand, it fell to me to rule the Vale for him. I did all that he required of me and asked nothing for myself. But by the gods, I earned this!"

"You did," said Petyr, "and Lord Robert sleeps more easily knowing that you are always there, a staunch friend at the foot of his mountain." He raised a cup. "So . . . a toast, my lord. To House Royce, Keepers of the Gates of the Moon . . . now and forever."

[...]

"Do you understand what happened here, Alayne?"

Sansa hesitated a moment. "You gave Lord Nestor the Gates of the Moon to be certain of his support."

[...]

She nodded. "The signature . . . you might have had Lord Robert put his hand and seal to it, but instead . . ."

". . . I signed myself, as Lord Protector. Why?"

"So . . . if you are removed, or . . . or killed . . ."

". . . Lord Nestor's claim to the Gates will suddenly be called into question. I promise you, that is not lost on him. It was clever of you to see it. Though no more than I'd expect of mine own daughter."

"Thank you." She felt absurdly proud for puzzling it out, but confused as well. 

+.+.+

He wants to believe that Lysa valued him above her other bannermen. One of those others is Bronze Yohn, after all, and Nestor is very much aware that he was born of the lesser branch of House Royce. He wants more for his son. Men of honor will do things for their children that they would never consider doing for themselves.

Judging from the comments I read about this chapter, everyone seems to believe this is a reference to Jon. Uh, maybe? Personally, I think it fits a little better with Sansa.

"So what is your answer, Lord Eddard? Give me your word that you'll tell the queen what she wants to hear when she comes calling."

"If I did, my word would be as hollow as an empty suit of armor. My life is not so precious to me as that."

"Pity." The eunuch stood. "And your daughter's life, my lord? How precious is that?" - Eddard XV, AGOT

+.+.+

Littlefinger put a finger to her lips. 

I will boil your teeth, and air fry your liver.

+.+.+

"I know what I know, and so do you. Some things are best left unsaid, sweetling."

"Even when we are alone?"

"Especially when we are alone. Elsewise a day will come when a servant walks into a room unannounced, or a guardsman at the door chances to hear something he should not. Do you want more blood on your pretty little hands, my darling?"

God he's good. I hate it.

+.+.+

"I am tempted to say this is no game we play, daughter, but of course it is. The game of thrones."

I never asked to play. The game was too dangerous. One slip and I am dead. "Oswell . . . my lord, Oswell rowed me from King's Landing the night that I escaped. He must know who I am."

"If he's half as clever as a sheep pellet, you would think so. Ser Lothor knows as well. But Oswell has been in my service a long time, and Brune is close-mouthed by nature. Kettleblack watches Brune for me, and Brune watches Kettleblack. 

Good idea, let's do a random recap of everyone that knows.

+.+.+

Trust no one, I once told Eddard Stark, but he would not listen. 

Oops, oops. He fucked up. He should not have said that. That was a mistake.

You better pray her brother never escapes that tree.

+.+.+

He put two fingers on her left breast. 

I will gouge out your eyeballs with a rusted nail, and drink from your skull.

+.+.+

"Even here. In your heart. Can you do that? Can you be my daughter in your heart?"

"I . . ." I do not know, my lord, she almost said, but that was not what he wanted to hear. Lies and Arbor gold, she thought. "I am Alayne, Father. Who else would I be?"

Looks like Littlefinger taught Sansa how to lie to him.

There goes Sansa. Welcome, Alayne.

+.+.+

Lord Littlefinger kissed her cheek. 

I will braid your veins, and crack your manhood like a glowstick. 

+.+.+

"With my wits and Cat's beauty, the world will be yours, sweetling. Now off to bed."

Ah yes, Cat's beauty. Beautiful Catelyn Stark, who recently visited the Vale, giving everyone the opportunity to see what she looks like.

+.+.+

Sometime during the night she woke, as little Robert climbed up into her bed. I forgot to tell Lothor to lock him in again, she realized. There was nothing to be done for it, so she put her arm around him. "Sweetrobin? You can stay, but try not to squirm around. Just close your eyes and sleep, little one."

"I will." He cuddled close and laid his head between her breasts. "Alayne? Are you my mother now?"

"I suppose I am," she said. If a lie was kindly meant, there was no harm in it.

Everything will be okay, because she's 27.

Final thoughts:

Strange, we have a Sansa -> Asha transition here, and I can't think of any connection.

"Asha?" A shadow stepped out from behind the well.

Her hand went to her dirk at once . . . until the moonlight transformed the dark shape into a man in a sealskin cloak. Another ghost. "Tris. I'd thought to find you in the hall."

"I wanted to see you."

"What part of me, I wonder?" She grinned. "Well, here I stand, all grown up. Look all you like."

"A woman." He moved closer. "And beautiful."

Tristifer Botley had filled out since last she'd seen him, but he had the same unruly hair that she remembered, and eyes as large and trusting as a seal's. Sweet eyes, truly.

[...]

You look so lovely in the moonlight, Asha. A woman grown now, but I remember when you were a skinny girl with a face all full of pimples."

[...]

Of the five boys her mother had brought to Pyke to foster after Ned Stark had taken her last living son as hostage, Tris had been closest to Asha in age. He had not been the first boy she had ever kissed, but he was the first to undo the laces of her jerkin and slip a sweaty hand beneath to feel her budding breasts.

I would have let him feel more than that if he'd been bold enough. Her first flowering had come upon her during the war and wakened her desire, but even before that Asha had been curious. He was there, he was mine own age, and he was willing, that was all it was . . . that, and the moon blood. Even so, she'd called it love, till Tris began to go on about the children she would bear him; a dozen sons at least, and oh, some daughters too. 

If anyone has any theories as to why these chapters are back-to-back, I'd love to hear it.

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[gondorosi]

A story of identity, loss and the misplaced children of ASOIAF

Thematically speaking, ASOIAF is one hell of a loaded tree. Even a gentle shake of the trunk is enough to dislodge atleast a couple. But through all these elements, the themes of loss and identity form the foundation, and the children of the saga are inescapably bound to these threads.

In the interest of clarity (and simply because I care about them the most), I’ll focus on Jon, Dany and Arya. And yes, they ARE children. 

Dany 

The shadow of destiny hangs heavy over Dany’s head. She’s almost certainly the centerpiece of the Azor Ahai prophecy (whether alone or in conjunction with Jon remains to be seen). She’s being slowly, but steadily, driven towards a fate much bigger than herself - considering just how many ‘suitors’ are out there vying for her (i.e her dragons) at the point of ADWD it almost seems as though iron pincers are closing in around her. But what brings Dany to this point?

We first come across ‘the house with the red door’ in Dany’s first introduction where she is being prepared for Drogo’s perusal (blech) at Illyrio’s mansion. Dany’s ruminations of home and childhood center around the manse where she and Viserys were sheltered by Ser Willem Darry and the place where she last knew some semblance of carefree joy and childhood innocence.

Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever

Ser Willem’s death signaled the end of safety and the beginning of a long journey of wandering the free cities looking for shelter. Through her marriage to Drogo, gradual acceptance within the khalasar, finding her voice and her strength and her dragons, Dany never stops yearning for that elusive sense of home. 

She was walking down a long hall beneath high stone arches. She could not look behind her, must not look behind her. There was a door ahead of her, tiny with distance, but even from afar, she saw that it was painted red. She walked faster, and her bare feet left bloody footprints on the stone.

We may interpret the red door in a number of ways, but they all boil down to a half remembered memory, tinged with nostalgia. It’s freedom, and safety and a sense of belonging. Its something she desperately wants but which seems to slip further and further away from her, and it seems as though every decision she’s ever taken in her life is pulling her away from it in the opposite direction. 

Dany’s search for home takes place on a blank canvas. She has some memory of what home feels like, but no answer to what it looks like. She’s tried to find happiness and belonging with Drogo and the Dothraki under the stars on an endless plain, but that wasn’t to be. As of ADWD she’s TRYING to feel at home in Mereen, but by now she’s fixated on Westeros as home, even though the place isn’t quite real to her. The Iron Throne is only tangentially associated - in her mind the Throne belonged to Viserys and she’s his heir thus its her duty to recover it. But Dany wants to go HOME - in her mind Westeros is everything she is looking for. 

She’s battling with the specters at the back of her mind going 

“See what you were supposed to have? They took it from you and you will never know what it was like. You will never know happiness.’ 

Jon 

Unlike Dany, Jon knows exactly where he wants home to be and at the same time knows with absolute certainty that it will never be. The narrative wastes no time in showing us that there’s no place for Jon behind Winterfell’s walls, and that Jon knows it, resents it and fears it. 

There was no place for him in Winterfell, no place in King's Landing either. Even his own mother had not had a place for him.

He’s just barely 14 at the beginning of his POV and I don’t want to think of a 6 or 7 year old Jon wandering the halls of his home thinking over Robb laughing at him wanting to be Lord of Winterfell. But it is what it is, and by the time the story begins, Jon has already accepted that his path, if any, will lead him out of the Stark castle. In a way, whatever remains of his sense of youthful hope looks upon the wide world outside the walls with wistful longing, since he’s pretty much sealed himself inside a frozen prison.

Winterfell was down that road, and beyond it Riverrun and King's Landing and the Eyrie and so many other places; Casterly Rock, the Isle of Faces, the Red Mountains of Dorne, the hundred islands of Braavos in the sea, the smoking ruins of old Valyria. All the places that Jon would never see. The world was down that road... and he was here. 

Jon’s search for his own place and purpose in the world is strikingly similar to Dany’s search for home even though we’re looking at two seemingly different objectives. Dany knows exactly who she is, but not where she wants to, or needs to be. Jon knows exactly where he needs to be, but has no true sense of who he is. His entire sense of identity is wrapped up in being Ned Stark’s bastard son - but with the bitterness of being unmoored, unwanted and unseen.

He was who he was; Jon Snow, bastard and oathbreaker, motherless, friendless, and damned. For the rest of his life-however long that might be-he would be condemned to be an outsider, the silent man standing in the shadows who dares not speak his true name. 

Jon’s fate is hurtling towards him at a dangerous pace by the time we reach ADWD, even though he’s now started to take charge of his own future. 

The castle is always empty. Even the ravens are gone from the rookery, and the stables are full of bones. That always scares me. I start to run then, throwing open doors, climbing the tower three steps at a time, screaming for someone, for anyone. And then I find myself in front of the door to the crypts. It's black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream. That's when I always wake.

The specters in his life are grey shadows and stone figures going 

“This is not yours. This will never be yours. See what you covet, not-Stark and weep for you will never know it.”

Arya

Arya’s path is one which enmeshes both Jon and Dany’s yet in a different manner. Her loss of home and identity has little of the unknown - she knows what she’s lost and she knows who she was before she began her commitment to the Faceless Men. Her uprooting and subsequent fugitive journey comes with an extra helping of poignancy - she’s not looking for something she has never known but desperately hopes for, but she’s literally wishing to go back in time to a place she remembers with ABSOLUTE clarity.

It's just a stupid sword," she said, aloud this time... but it wasn't. Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile.

What makes it worse is that we SEE how Arya begins to lose everything dear to her, beginning with Mycah, her notions of justice and fairness and then most heartbreakingly, Nymeria. Prior to the beginning of the story, Arya was the odd one out, but there was no questioning that she was a Stark of Winterfell. post her escape from KL, it is imperative that she sets herself aside from that identity if she is to survive. The road towards Braavos, and No One, begins to form slowly.

But there is no pack," she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. "I'm not even me now, I'm Nan.

“You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you."

"The wolf blood." Arya remembered now. "I'll be as strong as Robb. I said I would." She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

Arya is much younger than Jon and Dany and has horrors heaped upon her in a far shorter span of time. She’s had to watch her father die, get captured by the Mountain and watch Yoren die, serve at Roose Bolton’s side in Harrenhal and arrive just at the time of the Red Wedding and as Nymeria, pulls her mother’s corpse out of the water. It’s understandable that her anger builds up and she begins to reject her father’s words and her mother’s gods.

The old gods are dead, she told herself, with Mother and Father and Robb and Bran and Rickon, all dead. A long time ago, she remembered her father saying that when the cold winds blow the lone wolf dies and the pack survives. He had it all backwards. Arya, the lone wolf, still lived, but the wolves of the pack had been taken and slain and skinned.

I am not entirely sure where Arya’s arc is going to end up since there’s no clear ‘destiny’ guiding her. In that sense her journey is entirely of her own making. 

She’s waging a war against the ghosts whispering 

“See what you had? This won’t ever be yours again. This is what happiness was. It was taken from you and you will never get it back again.”

[gizkasparadise]

Davos POV getting the “were betrowed” letter? Pod and Sansa’s were perfect. Actually all of the Fury-verse is.

thank you!!! set between ch. 15 + 17, mentions ch. 3 and 4

Truth be told, he doesn’t read it fully at first. After he got passed the relief and joy of knowing the lad was alright, his hand works on instinct, a process drilled into his mind over the past few months of being Gendry’s teacher:

He’s certainly improved on spelling names. Davos remembers in particular the tenacity in which Gendry had learned “Arya”– missing vowels then clumsy i’s. He had never understood why he fixated on that particular name, not until the night she came to Storm’s End. Davos sighs at the memory, looking away from the scroll. 

He’d known something was…odd as soon as Gendry almost tripped and fell down the battlements upon her arrival. Davos had watched on, cautiously curious as they exchanged words at the gates and Arya Stark walked past him. Perhaps it wasn’t kind, but he remembers thinking the action was something callous on her end. A feeling that didn’t quite dissipate as they sat and discussed the wedding, although Davos was thankful she took the time to warn them all. Ravens were more easily intercepted than a fast rider. 

But then, Davos began to notice the little things. How Arya’s gaze didn’t leave the boy, even when he caught her staring. Her hand resting on his forearm and how that made his entire body tense up. Her sudden spike in temper when Davos mentioned marriage. 

After Gendry stormed out, Davos saw the way Arya’s chin quivered before she smothered it with clenched teeth. How she left just as abruptly, but in the opposite direction. 

Ah, he’d thought. There it is.

Small things about Gendry’s behavior in Storm’s End began to fall into place. His refusal to meet with Ladies outside of feasts. How he sulked so much at Willis and Jocie’s wedding that Davos briefly entertained he had eyes for the bride. 

When Davos found Gendry later, he was up hiding in the rookery and it confirmed what Davos suspected: the poor boy was in love. After what Davos considered a clear and heartfelt discussion, he proceeded to watch for what happened next. But during the time Arya was at Storm’s End, they danced around each other. Once, even getting into a particularly loud screaming match if the gossip were to be believed. 

Davos shakes his head. Stubborn people were certainly the worst at young love, weren’t they?

Clearing his mind, he went back to the raven. He scrutinized the word he hadn’t been able to immediately parse, speaking it aloud. 

“Betrowed-”

Davos scans the letter again. A smile worms its way onto his face, grows until he feels his eyes crinkle. 

“Dag?” He calls out to the rookery assistant for today.

“Yeah?” 

“Yes,” he corrects him calmly. Dag’s nose scrunches–a truly unruly boy that makes him laugh more often than not. “Prepare the quarters down at the end of the west hall.”

“The ones facing the bay?”

“Aye.”

“Aren’t those the Lady’s rooms?” 

Davos lets out a little hum. “That they are.”

The servant doesn’t seem to understand what he’s saying, but he’s been complaining about the rookery all morning and so Davos isn’t surprised to see him leave without further question.

Davos gently sets the parchment down, and picks up a new scrap as well as a quill. It scratches as he writes out:

My dear Marya,

Seems we have no need for you to send your young cousin Marta here. Gendry’s managed to catch himself a Stark girl.

Love to you and our boys,Davos

After it’s sent, he leans back in his seat and tries to picture what the castle might be like with dark-haired and well-armed children running around it. 

[tacitwhisky]

Jon of the Kingsguard, pt 12

Jon x Sansa - AU where Jon goes to Kingslanding instead of the Wall, there’s no war, and he becomes a knight of the kingsguard even as Joffrey marries Sansa.

AO3 Link

---

A week Jon stays at Castle Black, just long enough to see Joffrey kneel in the sept and spit out an oath to the seven to serve the realm, to forsake all lands and titles, to never sire sons or know a woman’s touch.

“You might take the black yourself.” Benjen says to Jon as Jon saddles Viserion, breath misting in the chill morning air. “If the Lannisters should defeat your Targaryen queen they will take your head for what you’ve done.”

“They’ll try.” Jon looks out at the walls and tower of Castle Black, the black brothers giving him and Viserion a wide berth. In another world this would have been my life. The thought is a strange one: to never have gone south, to never have been knighted, to never have grown to know Sansa. Who would I be if I had stayed? “But it will not come to that.”

 “I hope you’re right.” Benjen studies Jon as he would a stranger, careful and distant.  I am a stranger to him, Jon realizes suddenly, the thought a dull stab. Stranger and turncloak, dragonrider and traitor. “For your sake.”

Jon nods silently and pulls himself up onto Viserion’s back. He turns his voice hard. “If Joffrey deserts I will find him. Tell him that. Tell him that no matter how fast or far he runs I will find him.”

Benjen nods, and then there is nothing else to be said. Viserion spreads his wings and leaps into the sky.

---

All day and all night Jon flies, Viserion’s wide wings coasting along the cold air, and come the dawn Jon catches sight of Winterfell, the sky orange and purple as the sun rises behind it. Around Winterfell a great host of tents has been raised, men already beginning to wake and stumble out among them. All the strength of the North Jon recognize them as, the flags flapping below too small to make out but for their colors: Bolton pink, Umber red, Karstark white on black.

Jon guides Viserion in three long, lazy circles around Winterfell. When he’s sure they’ve been seen, the figures within the castle’s courtyard scurrying like ants from a kicked nest, does he guide Viserion to land in Winterfell’s courtyard, alighting before the figures hurrying back and forth have a chance to do more than gape up at the white winged shape above them.

The gathered Stark bannermen do not flee, though most stumble back and grab at swords and spears. Jon jumps down from Viserion and fixes the nearest with a steely gaze. “Where is lord Stark?”

“Jon?” Tall and broad Robb has grown since Jon left him all those years ago, face that of a man instead of a boy, but his red Tully hair is unmistakable as he strides forward. He glances at Viserion as though he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing, and Jon has the urge to stride forward and embrace him, the brother he has not seen for so many years. But before he has a chance to take a step, Robb’s eyes flick from Viserion to him, a hard distant look in them. “They said you’d broken your vows and turned your cloak, but I didn’t believe it. I told father that it must be a lie, that you would never betray the realm for some mad Targaryen queen.”

The words sting, but Jon forces his voice even. “I did what I had to. Joffrey was a worse king than Danaerys will ever be.”

“And Sansa?” Robb’s eyes flash. “What do you think will happen to her? Do you think your foreign queen will be merciful to a traitor one? Did you think of her at all before you ran off?”

There’s no way for Robb to know: not when he’s never been south, not when all he knows of Sansa is a raven now and again, a formal missive or three, but fury still fills Jon. “ Everything I’ve done is for her,” Jon answers coldly. “You have no idea what I’ve given for her.”

“Was breaking your-”

“Stop it, both of you.” A slim and dark haired figure slips out from the circle of bannermen and moves between Robb and Jon. Arya glares at Robb, then pivots to look at Jon. “I knew you would come,” she says. For a moment it seems like she’s going to run and throw her arms around him just as when she was young, but something bitter flickers over her face. “You have to talk to father, don’t you?”

Jon nods.

“He’s in the main keep.” Arya purses her lips as she looks up at Viserion behind him. “Can your dragon be left alone?”

---

In the warm of his father’s solar Jon tells them of all that’s passed in the years since Ned and Arya left for the north, forces himself to push the words between his teeth. He holds little back: tells of Sansa’s bruises and silences, of Joffrey’s follies and tyrannies, of his own journey eastward and Danaerys Stormbon, Mother of Dragons and first of her name. Ned listens silent and impassive to all Jon has to say, Robb clenches his jaw tight enough to crack teeth, and Arya is pacing back and forth in the room like a cat in a cage by the end.

“The Wall is too good for Joffrey,” she snarls as soon as Jon’s voice trails away. “You should’ve roasted him alive, Jon.”

“Arya,” Robb snaps, but his own face is tight. He glances at Jon, gaze guarded and curious. “Why didn’t you?”

“If I had it would’ve raised every sword from Kingslanding to Casterly Rock.”

“They’ll rise all the same for Tommen.” Robb’s face twists in an ugly expression. “And to think we were to ride to his aid.”

Despite the weariness of flying all day and the lulling warmth of the fire blazing in the far wall, Jon forces his voice strong as he turns to his father. “Wait to march south. A week, perhaps two. That’s all I ask. A raven will come from Kingslanding before that.”

Ned doesn’t answer immediately, eyes studying Jon in the same distant and unreadable way as Benjen’s had, and the same knife as before stabs through Jon, no longer dull but keen and cruel. I’m still your son, he wishes he could plead, I did what I had too. But he is a man grown and it is too late for petty reasons or excuses.

“Do you ask,” Ned says finally, “or does Danearys Targaren?”

Jon draws himself up, uses the last of the strength in him to meet his father’s hard grey eyes. I did what I had too. “I do, father.”

Ned studies him another long moment, then nods. “So be it.”

---

The raven takes less time than Jon thought to arrive, its black wings sweeping over Winterfell’s walls the next day. It bears word from Kingslanding, and in his father’s solar, Jon listens beside his father and siblings as maester Luwin reads out a decree from king Joffrey himself: that in penance for his father’s betrayal and crimes against the Targaryen royal family he has taken the black in atonement, and that Danaerys Targareyn is now the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon studies the red and cracked wax of the king’s seal as Luwin speaks.

All he hears is Sansa.

---

Another letter comes a few days later. It bears no seal, only a few scant words inked in a graceful hand. Kingslanding is Daenerys’, it reads. She’s to wed Tommen. Stay in the north, Jon.

---

Weeks turn to months, and each day brings new word from the south: that Dorne and the Reach and the Stormlands have pledged themselves to Danaerys. Bitter rumblings come from the Westerlands, but Danaerys flies to Casterly Rock to treat with Tywin and his war is done before it is begun. In the weeks that follow one by one the northern lords disband from around Winterfell, folding their tents and returning to their holds and keeps and castles.

Jon stays at Winterfell as Sansa’s letter bade him. It is strange to walk the halls of the castle he once called home, to speak to those he once knew. But it is sweet to speak to Arya again, to muss her hair even though she’s grown taller, to call her little sister and see how skilled she’s become with a sword. To see how tall Rickon has grown and speak with Bran, now a maester of the Citadel, and meets Robb’s Karstark wife and little Rickard, his shy and Tully haired son.

Meeting the boy brings a smile to Jon’s lips, but it is a small, sad thing. It should be you here, Sansa, he thinks silently. Not me.

---

Months pass, and each morning Jon takes Viserion on long, slow flights beyond Winterfell’s walls, pine and oak blurring beneath his white wings, cold wind whipping Jon’s face.

Ned is waiting in Winterfell’s courtyard one day when he returns, long and impassive face tilted upward to watch Viserion’s descent. He holds out a scroll to Jon as he jumps down beside him. “It names the Starks as warden of the north,” he answers Jon’s questioning look. “It pardons me for my part in the rebellion and confirms all my lands and titles.”

Jon nods as he unravels the scroll, fingers still tingling from the whip of wind. “I had Danaerys swear she would.”

“I know.”

Jon raises an eyebrow as he looks for himself over the words inked across the rough vellum. “She said so?”

“She didn’t need to.” Jon glances up to see his father studying him. Whatever he’s looking for he seems to find, gaze moving to where Viserion coils behind Jon. “It’s past time I told you.”

“Told me?”

His father gives him a long, sad look. “Of your mother.”

---

For hours they talk: of a rebellion and a mad king, of a song of ice and fire, of Lyanna and Rhaegar and a tower called Joy. When their words have run dry Jon leaves his father’s solar and crosses to the rookery. He writes a short, swift letter, rolls it tight, and hands it to maester Luwin.

Jon watches the raven take flight, black wings flapping as it speeds into the sky and turns south. He stays watching the sky long after the raven is vanished, the cawing and crowing and chatter of the rookery around him a distant crackle. And who am I now, Sansa? A part of him whispers silently, an aching pang in his chest. Who am I to you? Who was I ever?

---

Danaerys letter in answer is short. It affirms him as her blood and heir until such time as she has issue of her own. Jon gazes down at the scroll for a long time, paper rasping beneath his fingertips as he wonders how many of the words are Daenerys’ and how many Sansa’s.

---

That night, for the first time since he came north, Jon dreams of being a wolf again. The old familiar scents and smells fill his nose, the same thrill as he runs beside his grey sister, the same silver moon dipping to watch them.

Come back to me, it murmurs. Come back to me, Jon.

---

It’s been nearly half a year since he came to Winterfell, Jon aloft on Viserion, when he sees a procession making its way up the Kingsroad. He circles it twice, taking in the red and black snapping pennants of the queen’s colors, before taking a long looping flight back to Winterfell.

He lands in the Winterfell courtyard just as the gates have begun to grind open. With wind numbed hands he drops down from dragonback and stands watching as through the gate a pair of dothraki ride. Jon’s heart pounds in his ears, but he finds himself unable to move as behind them trundles a wheelhouse, wheels churning the frigid ground as it comes to a halt inside the walls.

Sansa does not see Jon as she steps down from the wheelhouse, and for a long moment Jon can do no more than simply stare as she shakes out her skirts: chest too tight to breathe, heart thudding against his ribcage, unable to do more than drink in the rosy flush of her cheeks and muted fire of her hair and wide blue of her eyes, how young and hesitant she looks as she tilts her head back to stare at the high towers of Winterfell above her, here in their home for the first time since they searched for Arya in this same courtyard so many years before.

Behind Jon Viserion shifts, scales rasping, and Sansa’s eyes fly to him. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth on an indrawn breath, face draining of color. Her eyes snap to Jon.

And before Jon can react she is running across the yard, throwing herself at him and he’s sweeping her up in his arms, clutching her to him, the sweet and spring scent of her filling his nose, the shape of her soft and warm and achingly slender in his arms, all the rest of the world lost to him as he buries his face in her hair and murmurs a hundred meaningless words into it, a broken litany of apologies and promises and pleas.

“I’m sorry,” he realizes he’s whispering again and again, throat burning, tongue tangling over the words, “I tried to come back to you, Sansa, I did, but I couldn’t, I-”

“You did what you had to, Jon.” Sansa pushes him back just enough to stare up at him, eyes a blue he’d thought he’d never see again, shining fierce and wet with tears. “You did what you had to, and we’re home now, Jon. We’re home.”

[richardlinnettphotography]

19th August 2020 What price loyalty? 149 in the UK

19th August 2020 What price loyalty? 149 in the UK

POST LOCKDOWN What price loyalty? Day 148

And do you recognise this? A studio photographer might get it, tough one for the rest of you.

AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE I WILL STAY AT HOME, KEEP THE 2m RULE AND WEAR A FACE MASK

Staying at home! – STILL Protecting the NHS – STILL saving lives

I AM STILL Keeping safe

What price loyalty?

I struggle with blind loyalty and capitalised, loyalty,…

[journeyintotheshelves]

Tuesday’s Treats is a weekly blog post dedicated to newly released books that I’m most excited for. (Books are in no particular order.)

All books featured this week will be released: JULY 9th

1. Maybe This Time: Kasie West (goodreads) (book depository)

Sophie works for the local florist in her small town, so she spends her days at every major event her town has to offer, from funerals to weddings. But with those parties comes Andrew, the arrogant, annoying, and entitled son of a chef in town. He’s at every event that Sophie is, but as the more time they spend together, the more Sophie starts to think that he’s not as bad as she first thought.

Kasie West writes the best summer beach reads and I cannot wait to pick this up as soon as I possibly can.

YA Contemporary Fiction, Romance: Point/Scholastic, Hardcover (US)

2. The Shortest Distance Between Love and Hate: Sandy Hall (goodreads) (book depository)

Paisley cannot wait to get to college and everything that that entails: new place, new people, new adventures. In fact, she decides to start early and makes out with the hottest guy she can find at her first college party. But when she learns that her mystery guy is actually her lifelong enemy, Carter Schmitt. Determined to keep her distance, Paisley decides that she’s just going to pretend that Carter just doesn’t exist. Which is a bit hard to do when he keeps showing up everywhere.

YA Contemporary Fiction, Romance; Swoon Reads/Macmillan, Hardcover (US)

3. Spin the Dawn (The Blood of Stars: 1): Elizabeth Lim (goodreads) (book depository)

All Maia wants is to be the greatest tailor, just like her father. But because she’s a girl, all she can expect is to marry, and to hope that she marries well. But when her ailing father is summoned to court, Maia goes in his place, as a boy. She knows that she’ll be killed if anyone discovers her secret, but she’s willing to risk everything for her dream. But, when she arrives at the palace, she learns that she wasn't the only tailor who was summoned, but one of twelve. Court is anything but safe for Maia as everyone fights for the job of being the royal tailor. And there’s also Edan, the court magician, who seems to be able to see right through Maia’s disguise.

The fact that this book is pitched as Mulan meets Project Runway is so fascinating, I can’t wait to pick this up.

YA Fantasy; Knopf/Random House, Hardcover (US)

4. Wilder Girls: Rory Power (goodreads) (book depository)

Hetty’s life was normal at the Raxter School for Girls. It was normal until the Tox hit and the school was put under quarantine. Left to fend for themselves, all the girls can do is wait for the cure that they were promised. But when Byatt goes missing, Hetty can’t wait anymore. So she ventures out into the wilderness that surrounds the school that has been corrupted the forest into something unrecognizable. But when she ventures out, Hetty learns that there is something more to the Tox, and about her school, than she knew.

Ever since I talked to a publicist at BookExpo about this book, I’ve wanted to do nothing but read this book. I’m so excited that it’s finally out into the world. (Also, this cover is the most beautiful cover that I’ve ever seen.)

YA Horror, Mystery, LGBTQIA+; Delacorte Press/Random House, Hardcover (US)

5. The Storm Crow (The Storm Crow: 1): Kalyn Josephson (goodreads) (book depository)

Elemental Crows were an essential part of life in Rhodaire until the Illucian empire invaded. An invasion that caused Princess Anthia to fall into a deep depression, leaving the ruling and all of the pressure on her sister, Caliza, after their mother’s death. When Caliza agrees to a marriage between Anthia and the crown prince of Illucia, Anthia won’t do it lying down. After finding a Crow egg in the destroyed rookery, the sisters devise a plan to hatch the egg and being to take back what was theirs.

YA Fantasy; Sourcebooks, Hardcover (US)

6. The Bookish Life of Nina Hill: Abbi Waxman (goodreads) (book depository)

Nina loves her quiet little life full of books, an awesome trivia team, and her cat, Phil. But when her father — her father that she never met — suddenly dies, Nina is thrown into a chaotic world with more siblings, cousins, and family that she never knew existed. Forced to (gasp) talk to strangers, Nina starts to step outside of her comfort zone and may discover that life is sometimes better than fiction.

Contemporary Fiction, Romance; Berkley/Penguin, Paperback (US)

[omarandco2]

Best Wedding Venues To Hire

Wedding is the maximum vital day in a person's existence, so every body tries to make the wedding day unforgettable. Although all preparations for the marriage play an essential role for making the event a success, but the importance of venues is extra in comparison to all other arrangements. Venue is a place that is distinct and designed to preserve wedding ceremony ceremonies.

A venue has all the required centers and gives sufficient space to a big range of humans correctly. Most of different Virginia wedding photographer ceremony preparations are dependent and prompted by means of the venue, so it can be said that venue is an important factor for making the marriage event a hit or unsuccessful.

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There is no doubt that people need to remember their budget before deciding on a marriage venue, however it ought to be considered that the wedding venue provides sufficient area for the quantity of visitors invited in a marriage. A wedding venue that is very small or too big for the range of visitors isn't always appropriate for making the occasion excellent, however it can smash all wedding arrangements.

While searching out wedding venues to lease in the UK, humans can search special web sites which are aimed toward supplying info of wedding ceremony venues in special regions of the sector. There are so many reasonably-priced and luxurious venues within the UK that can be employed to make the marriage ceremony different. To make the bridal ceremony trouble loose, people can use directories that provide lists of venues. In the UK, there are many inns, restaurants, golf equipment and different forms of venues like castles, ancient homes and churches.

Some famous wedding ceremony venues to lease in the UK encompass Ramada Maidstone, Winslowe house, Hilton bathtub city, Ramada London Gatwick, Menzies flitwick manor, rookery corridor and spa, Ramada Glasgow city and Ramada Bowden hall. Some different wedding ceremony venues to be had inside the UK are Alea Casino Leeds, Abode Manchester, Apex City Quay Hotel and Apa, Chesford Grange Hotel and Hendon Hall Hotel. All these wedding venues have many superior facilities that can play an critical function in making the wedding ceremony a memorable one. There are many different venues available within the UK as well that can be selected according to necessities.

There are many groups that can be very useful for making the decision of the venue selection. Wedding services finder and directories can be very helpful for searching the maximum suitable wedding venue easily. By finishing the quest criteria, a listing of available venues can be determined that may be very useful for selection of the great venue. The assessment of different venues could make the decision easier. Internet may be the satisfactory source of locating not most effective the nice venues but available centers in those venues as properly.

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 46 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: Language! Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Never A Moment

She had to tell Cullen.

What a fun conversation that would be. How do you tell a devout workaholic with past trauma issues operating under too much stress and an honorable streak a mile wide that you're carrying his illegitimate love child? How the hell is he going to react? She couldn't even process how she was feeling. Panic was reasonably high on the list, closely followed by shock and abject terror. This couldn't be happening. Whose bright idea was it to make her give birth in a place where epidurals and proper surgery didn't exist?

"Evy," she called to her friend, ducking out of the tent once she'd tidied away the evidence. "I need to talk to the commander about something. Are you all right to hold the fort here for a little while?"

Evy looked up from her work, a faint flicker of concern crossing her face as she took a good look at Rory. "Of course," she answered easily enough. "The nurses have everything under control - I just have to show the new healer around. Are you all right?"

Right, so I look as pale as I feel. Great. "I'm fine," Rory promised her with a weak smile. "Just a little tired, but what else is new?"

The younger woman didn't look convinced, but she knew when not to push. "Take your time," she told her friend. "It's just recovery care right now, anyway."

"Hopefully I won't be too long," Rory assured her, though she had no way of knowing that.

It wasn't as though she could knock, walk in, drop the news, and immediately skip out. If she was lucky, his response wouldn't be audible all over Skyhold or hazardous to his continued health, but whether luck was with her or not, this wasn't a quick conversation in the making. Should she even take this to him now? He was swamped with work; this was just another headache to drop on him, and it wasn't even a headache he had any power to influence. It was a fact. And while there was a way to make it go away ... Rory didn't want to do that. She couldn't imagine Cullen pushing for her to do it, either. So that was that. She was a mum, for better or for worse. Holy crap, I am so screwed. A world of what ifs were open ahead of her, too many to make coherent sense. The panic was simmering - it, at least, was going to be with her in some capacity for the next, oh ... twenty years or so.

The nearest gatehouse tower was still closed off while workers toiled to make it safe. She could have passed under the stone arch and used the steps up to the battlement there - it was the fastest route to Cullen's office. Her feet, however, took her up the stone steps to the upper courtyard. It seemed as though her panic was enough to make her delay this inevitable conversation, even if it was only for a few more minutes. Her mind was racing. Now she thought about it, how could she have missed the symptoms? She was more tired than usual; her toilet breaks more regular; her sense of smell more acute; she did ache in some very specific places. She hadn't had any morning sickness, but then, some women didn't, did they?

So how long do I have, she wondered, lost in thought as she climbed the steps to the main hall. The only mistake had been that night, and that was ... Rory frowned, counting the weeks in her head. Seven or eight, so two months ago, give or take. Seven months to learn as much about midwifery and babies as she could. That really wasn't long enough.

"Looking very serious, Cupcake," a familiar voice drawled nearby.

She blinked, finding herself by the hearth in the hall, with Varric eyeing her from his table. "Hmm?"

"Serious," the dwarf repeated, laying down his quill. "You, looking very. Problems?"

"When aren't there problems?" she asked evasively, chuckling a little in spite of her turmoil. "No, I'm just thinking. Sometimes it hurts."

"Last thing we need is you and Curly with headaches," Varric commented mildly. "Just him is bad enough."

Great, he's having another bad day without telling me. She sighed wearily. "How bad?"

"He's just cranky," her dwarven friend assured her. "Pretty sure a visit from his girl would clear that right up."

"I'm not making any promises," she answered, feeling her anxiety ratchet up a notch. If he's already cranky, this isn't going to go well. Yay. "What are you working on?"

"Huh? Oh, this?" A very nearly evil smile crossed Varric's face. "His illustrious Inquisitorialness wants the next chapter of Swords and Shields for Cassandra."

Rory's eyes narrowed warningly at the mischief in his face. "Varric ... don't you dare muck up their relationship just to get a petty jab in at Cassandra."

"Would I do that?" he asked innocently.

"Yes. Yes, you would."

He chuckled, conceding the point. "Well, I'm not," he promised faithfully. "If only because I think you and Ruffles would hold me down and stab me with my own quill if I did."

She snorted with laughter. "You could be right."

Josephine had worked out that Kaaras liked Cassandra when he'd asked her to explain his book of Antivan poetry to him. The ambassador was a staunch defender of the drive to give the Seeker and the Inquisitor alone time in the hope that one of them would crack and just admit to being in love. She'd even expressed a certain frustration that they didn't even argue properly, unlike Cullen and ...

Rory's smile abruptly faded as she remembered why she was here in the first place.

"All right, Cupcake, what's hurting?" Varric asked, his face creased in a worried frown. "I've never seen you lose a smile that fast before."

Rory sighed, shaking her head. "It's nothing you can fix, Varric," she told him reluctantly. Wish you could. "I'll deal with it."

He eyed her for a moment with vague suspicion, but managed to suppress his natural desire to help with whatever it was. "Here if you need a splendid chest to lean on."

She smiled gratefully. "Thanks."

"Heads up, though," he added, jerking his chin toward the other end of the hall. "Ruffles incoming."

"What?"

Rory glanced over her shoulder, surprised to find Josephine bearing down on her like a woman on a mission. It was unusual to find the Antivan woman out of her office before dinner, but apparently some things required her to seek people out personally.

"Mistress Allen, I am glad to find you here," the ambassador said with a purposeful brightness to her tone that instantly made Rory suspicious. "Madame De Fer's seamstress has arrived. She would like to see both yourself and Lady Trevelyan this afternoon, to begin designing your gowns."

The healer just about managed to bite down on her groan. This was all she needed right now - dress plotting for Halamshiral. "I'll tell Evy," she promised politely. "I think her wedding gown is a little higher on the list of priorities."

"We have only two months to help you prepare for the Imperial Court," Josephine reminded her. "Though several people need that preparation as well. You will not be alone in your lessons."

"I can't promise to always have time for those lessons, Josephine," Rory countered, but the Antivan lady was already ahead of her.

"We will, of course, work around your duties," she insisted with easy aplomb. "You will need to be aware of courtly etiquette and dance, that is all."

Oh, is that all? Lovely. Knowing she couldn't get out of this, Rory decided to give in gracefully. "All right. Just let me know when."

"I will keep you informed," Josephine agreed. "but you must see the seamstress today."

"I will," Rory promised her. "I have things to do first, but I will." Things like give the commander a heart attack and then cry for a solid hour. Shouldn't interfere too much, should it?

She turned to open the door into the rotunda, unsurprised to hear Josephine focus her attention to Varric as she slipped into what was now Solas' work space. Empty, of course, with the elven apostate in the Emerald Graves with Kaaras, but still very much his space. From high above, she heard the croak and flap of the ravens in the rookery and, a little closer, another familiar voice calling down to her.

"If it isn't my favorite unicorn!"

Biting back a frustrated reply, she turned, tilting her head back to find Dorian leaning over the railing above her. "Unicorn?" she repeated incredulously. "Seriously?"

He laughed at her expression. "Perhaps not," the mage conceded with an ostentatious shrug. "Come up, I have something for you."

Can't this wait? But despite her faint annoyance, she wouldn't say no to Dorian. With a rueful smile, she altered her course, turning to take the steps up to the library. It's only a few minutes, she reasoned with herself. You've got about a month to break the news before it becomes blatantly obvious; a few minutes isn't going to make any difference.

Dorian was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. "You're looking done in again," he said, by way of hello. "Tell me, do you ever sleep a full night?"

"Occasionally," Rory heard herself say, a split second before her brain reminded her just who she was talking to.

"How marvelous," the altus teased brightly. "Who would have thought the commander had it in him?"

This time, the answer was out before she could stop it. "I think you'll find it's more often in me." There was a beat as she caught up with herself. "I did not just say that."

"Yes, darling, you did." Dorian laughed, pleased with her snarky reply. "I'm delighted for you."

Mortified and blushing, Rory rubbed her forehead. Why pick today, of all days, to revert to the blurting nug-woman with no boundaries? You've been doing so well! "You said you had something for me?" she asked in a desperate attempt to take control of the conversation.

"It isn't as exciting as what Cullen gives you," the mage warned, chuckling at her slightly outraged squeak of embarrassment. "You are utterly adorable when you're embarrassed, you know. But, as I promised, I have put together a small medical library for you."

Instantly, her embarrassment was gone. "Really?" she asked, curiosity mingling with excitement as she followed him to his little corner of the library, where he indicated a small stack of books on the table. "Thank you! I didn't think you were serious when you suggested it."

"My dear girl, when I say I will do a thing, it gets done," Dorian informed her comfortably. "You were in something of a lather about the gaps in your knowledge."

Rory tilted her head to read the spines. The Leech Book of Vald, Genitivi's Compendium of Thedosian Medicine, Plinth's Anatomical Studies, De Materia Medica, Historia Naturali ... She paused as she found a title that had nothing to do with medicine at all, clearing her throat to get his attention as she extracted Swords and Shields, Vol. III, from the pile. Dorian didn't even blink.

"It's your turn to read the dreadful thing," he pointed out, "though where you find the time to read, I have no idea."

Laughing, Rory put the book down. She actually rather enjoyed Swords and Shields - it was terrible, but entertainingly so. "I don't suppose there's anything on midwifery in this pile, is there?"

"Sadly, no," the mage told her. "Why? Is our blushing bride expecting, too?"

"No," she answered, her smile just a little wan. If only. "But I know virtually nothing about it, and now we're settled again, it's a certainty that someone's going to ... slip."

She wasn't sure she liked the way he was looking at her, but thankfully, he didn't say anything aloud. "I will keep my eyes open for you," he promised instead. "Should I have these delivered to the tower? I saw the workers manhandling a bed in there earlier, so I assume you are moving out of your charming tent at last."

"That would be lovely." She reached up to hug him gratefully, waiting until he responded before pulling back. One of these days, he was going to react instantly to her hugs, but she was patient enough to work on it slowly. "Thank you, Dorian."

"It's my pleasure to be lovely," he answered, the fingertips of his right hand brushing over the smooth curve of her flat stomach, one brow raised curiously. There could be no doubt what he was asking, though she was deeply grateful for his discretion.

She felt the determinedly calm facade she was holding in place crack just a little. "Keep it to yourself?" she whispered, the panic shining through briefly.

Dorian's mustache twitched as he smiled far more gently than she had expected. "Until he tells me, of course," he agreed without a moment's hesitation. And Cullen would tell him, she realized. The two men's friendship had blossomed far quicker than she had expected. "That does rather require you telling him."

"I'm working on it," she promised softly. "I was on my way to try, actually."

"Good." Dorian patted her hand gently. "Don't let me detain you."

Encouraged by his calm confidence, Rory headed back down the stairs, crossing the rotunda to the external door with his eyes on her back all the way. She had a feeling that deviating from her course would result in her being frog-marched directly to Cullen and possibly locked in with him until she 'fessed up. Dorian Pavus might only ever openly admit to having one friend, but he was compulsively protective of all the friends he made. Making her tell the truth through sheer bloody-mindedness was not beyond him. And, besides, he was right. Cullen needed to know. He deserved to know first.

It was breezier up here than it had been in the courtyards. Tucking her arms inside her cloak, she headed across the stone bridge, ignoring the shiver that ran down her spine at the icy gusts that rushed her, albeit gently. Pausing at the door, she knocked, wincing at the sharp, "Come!" that answered her. Sounds like he's in a wonderful mood. She pushed open the door, peering inside warily.

Cullen was standing behind his large desk, leaning on the surface as he scowled down at the papers that covered it. The two other doors to the tower stood open, allowing that healthy breeze to rush through, ruffling his weighted paperwork as it did. He looked tired and angry, and that vein in his temple was throbbing again. The elfroot potion she always made sure he had plenty of was sitting on the desk by his hand. Headache or no headache, here goes nothing.

"Are you busy?" she asked, closing the door behind her.

He raised his eyes from the desk, and his scowl melted away at the sight of her, replaced with a weary smile that made her heart ache pleasantly. "I can always make time for you," he assured her quietly.

"But not to take the potion that will deal with that headache," she pointed out. Despite the anxious knot in her stomach, her smile was fond as she moved toward him, stepping over fallen debris to do so.

"I was just about to," he told her, the guilty cast to his expression telling her the bottle had been sitting there for a good hour or more. Under her knowing gaze, he unstopped the potion and took a healthy gulp, grimacing at the taste.

"Have you taken a break at all today?" she asked then, again knowing he hadn't before he admitted to it.

"There's so much to do," he tried to say, but Rory was just as stubborn as he was. It was part of the reason he'd noticed her in the first place.

"And nothing is going to fall apart if you take ten minutes to walk the battlements with me," she informed him, her expression daring her lover to argue. "Please?"

Cullen's brows drew together in concern at the unexpected plea. "Are you all right?" he asked her, straightening to come out from behind the desk.

Just that tender concern was enough to destabilize her composure, but she managed to keep it together. "I'm worried about you," she told him. It wasn't a lie; it just wasn't the truth, either. "Ten minutes, that's all I'm asking."

He held her gaze for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if he should be worried. "Ten minutes," he agreed finally, laying a hand at the small of her back to escort her out into the sunshine.

They walked in silence along the crenelated battlements, passing the guard patrolling this section before coming to a halt to look out over the snowy vista side by side. Cullen's fingers brushed hers, a single point of contact that meant the world to her as she struggled to find the words for what she needed to say. I'm pregnant was too blunt, too unexpected. Marry me, I'm up the duff likely wouldn't go down too well. Remember that time against the tree lacked the gentle tone she thought he needed. What about ...

She squeaked as his arm wrapped about her waist, drawing her close into his side. "You're fidgeting," he murmured against her temple. "Why so nervous?"

A low sigh escaped her lips. "Because there's something I need to tell you," she confessed, tilting her head to look up at him. "And you might not be happy about it."

"I already know you're going to the Winter Palace," he told her in a disapproving tone. "Which you somehow failed to tell me yourself."

Red heat spilled guiltily across her cheeks. Is that better, or worse, she wondered. "No, it's not that."

The wrap of his arm squeezed supportively about her back. "What is it, then?"

"I, um ..."

But Fate has a funny sense of humor. Sometimes it enjoys throwing obstacles in your path. In this case, as Rory braced herself to share her news ... it threw a goat at the outer wall directly below them. She distinctly heard the bleat, and the splat, leaning forward to look down at the man who had thrown it as Cullen exclaimed in affronted surprise.

"What in the name of -" He drew back from her, already shouting to his men. "Detain that man!"

As the soldiers scrambled to catch the Avvar hooting in satisfaction on the mountainside below, he began to follow, only to turn back to her with an apologetic look in his eyes. She sighed, shaking her head with a helpless laugh.

"It'll keep," she promised, waving him away. He needed his duty to come first, at least until he could make the decision about his priorities. "Go."

With a last concerned look, Cullen moved away, quickly out of sight. Rory turned back to the view, leaning against the gray stone to watch as the Inquisition apprehended Movran the Under with no small difficulty. Typical, she thought resignedly. Goatus interruptus.

[blackholeofprocrastination]

We’d Up And Fly If We Had Wings For Flying 1/?

Originally written for the @jonxsansaremix Summary: Another bastard finds a home within the halls of Winterfell. Canon Divergent. A Robin Hood AU.

So @sansapotter reminded me that I started this little nugget for last year’s Remix. In true Emmy form, it is incomplete...but dagnabbit I will finish it one of these days! In the meantime, here’s the first chapter.

Before they set out from the Gates of the Moon, father gifts her with a fine new cloak.

It is a pretty thing, lined thick with sable, and fastened together with a silver broach inlaid with moonstones. She thinks it too fine for a bastard girl, no matter how beloved, but Alayne accepts it with a smile and an obedient kiss to father’s whiskered cheek.

She dons it over her riding clothes the morning they are to leave, desperately trying to quiet the secret part of her heart that calls for another cloak, the one that was promised to her.

“They will love their Young Falcon…and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden’s cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back” father had said. “Why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright.”

But in the end, father has no need of Harold Hardyng or the sword of any Vale knight. All he needs do is wait.

Wait for the Boltons and Stannis Baratheon to destroy each other on some lonely field outside Winterfell. Wait for the Tyrells and Martells to put aside past grievances and rally behind the Stormland’s Mummer Dragon. Wait for the Iron Fleet to fill Blackwater Bay. Wait for Queen Cersei to be desperate enough for Littlefinger’s aid that she would reward him with his heart’s desire.

Winterfell.

Father placates her with talk of setting things right in time, of restoring her to her birthright, but it is Littlefinger who says the words, not father or Lord Petyr, and Littlefinger is not to be trusted.

“Harrenhal and Winterfell both,” she overhears Ser Albar scoff over his ale one night. “The queen has honored our lord Littlefinger with two ruins.” Those around him laugh at the jape. There are few in the Vale who will mourn the loss of their Lord Protector.

Still, there are some that will be sorry to see Alayne go.

Myranda Royce with her teasing and bawdy jests. Dear Mya Stone, dressed in leathers with straw in her hair. Alayne’s lord, her Harry. Though he is not hers, she reminds herself. Not anymore.

And Sweetrobin. Sweetrobin, she knows, will miss her most of all.

Alayne is alarmed when she first learns father intends to leave the boy with Lord Royce. She did not think he would be willing to part with Sweetrobin after fighting to remain his guardian. Father only smiles at her protests, gently insisting that Lord Arryn’s rightful place is in the Vale.

The Lords Declarent are pleased by this turn in their favor, but as Alayne watches Sweetrobin fiercely embrace his stepfather in farewell, tears running down his pallid little face, she wonders if they truly have reason to be happy. Sweetrobin holds a great affection for Alayne and her father both. Lord Royce may have succeeded in separating his liege lord from Lord Baelish’s control, but the boy he takes to Runestone now will be harder to sway than the one he sought to foster after Lady Arryn’s death.

Love is poison, she remembers. And the loyalties that spring forth from love are more poisonous still.

Alayne wants to weep when they first ride through Winterfell’s gates.

From the Kingsroad the outer walls stand solidly against the snows, but the keep within is nothing more than a burned shell. Broken stone and charred wood lay everywhere blanketed by thick drifts of snow and ice tinged grey with ash.

Alayne recalls another Winterfell, one crafted from snow and memory in a garden above the clouds. It too was a ruin now, crushed beneath Sweetrobin’s heel in a fit of temper.

Few of the rooms in the Great Keep are truly habitable, but father offers her the pick of them. She chooses a small cell tucked off of the spiral stair that leads to the long corridor of family rooms. It is a humble place that can boast a hearth and a narrow bed, but little else. Father balks at her choice but she insists the room will suit. After all, it has housed a bastard of Winterfell once before.

The Boltons had started on improvements to the keep. A new roof was raised over the Great Hall, and rows of barracks were erected near the armory. Most else remains in ill repair, the Boltons’ efforts halted from lack of coin and men. Father has plenty of both.

He wastes no time, setting immediately to finishing what the Boltons had begun. Each day great sledges bearing timber felled in the Wolfswood are pulled through the Hunter’s Gate to be fashioned into beams and rails and shingles. The fires in the forge burn warm against the chill as the smith father brought all the way from Gulltown hammers together hinges and supports.

A fire is kept blazing in the Great Hall at all hours. The serving women of father’s household gather there, weaving fresh rushes and bundling straw for thatching. Alayne sits with them most days with a basket of mending at her feet.

She misses Mya and Myranda and her life at the Gates desperately, but she is not so alone here, surrounded by the women’s gossip and laughter. The serving girls are much too timid to make a friend of her but they let her sit amongst them easily enough.

“...fifty or more they found,” says Pale Meg, as they gather close to the fire one afternoon. She is the boldest of the kitchen girls, a girl of seven-and-ten with hair the color of straw. “Some were missing eyes, others fingers, but all had the skin flayed clean from their back.” She pauses a moment, and the others press closer to hang on her words with morbid fascination. Alayne listens too, her needle stilled in her hand. “They weren’t nothing pretty to look upon and the Lady Bolton was the worst of the lot. The dogs had been at her.”

“Stop tellin’ tales!” one of the other girls scolds her face gone sickly white.

“It’s the truth!” Meg insists. “Tom told me hisself! He were there when they found ‘em. His lordship had the bodies burned. But you can still see the blood,” she confides, her voice dropping to a salacious whisper. “It’s stained the flagstones, thick and dark as pitch. No amount of scrubbing’ll lift it. There’s a dark curse upon it.”

A titter of anxious whispers break among the group, their work momentarily forgotten. Alayne is quiet. She grips the pair of hose she mends so tightly she tears the seam.

That night she dreams of blood.

It pours in thick rivets down the spiral stair of the Great Keep. It drips from arrow slits and merlons onto the yard below. It fills the Great Hall and trickles under the thick oak doors. It floods her humble cell, rising and rising until it covers her in her bed. It stains her bed linens and her nightrail, creeping closer like crimson fingers set to choke the breath from her throat.

She leaves the keep just as first light crests over the outer walls. Her dream hangs about her, heavier than the bearskin mantle she pulled over her shoulders when she fled from her bed. She makes for the godswood on silent feet.

Alayne is a stranger to these gods. She was raised in a Motherhouse. Born into the light of the Seven. Still, she does not fear this place. She is content as she weaves through the ash and hawthorn and soldier pines, the path familiar. She reaches the hearttree and her heart sings to find the carved face unchanged.

The Boltons did not destroy this at least.

She seats herself at the base of the weirwood in the same place Eddard Stark had often sat in prayer. Above her the bone white branches sag heavily under the weight of a hundred dark shadows.

Maester Luwin’s ravens.

Alayne had overheard Maester Medrick despair of it to father. The rookery is naught but ash and the birds will not be coaxed from their perch.

They can sense the evil that lingers here, Alayne thinks, remembering Pale Meg’s talk of curses.

She draws a hand to the face of the hearttree. Her fingers touch the red sap, so similar to the blood that haunted her sleep.

“Sansa!”

She snatches her hand back, her heart seizing in her chest. For a moment it sounded as if…

Bran.

But it cannot be. Brandon Stark is dead. Killed by the turncloak Theon Greyjoy. Another ghost to walk the halls of Winterfell.

She places a tentative hand upon the bark, willing to hear the voice again but the only sound is the creak of branches and the restless flutter of wings overhead.

On their journey North, their ship had made port in White Harbor.

Lord Manderly feasted the new Warden of the North and his company upon their arrival.

Alayne was seated well below the salt, as was proper, but even from her vantage point she could see Lord Wyman had looked worn and sickly. He’d suffered injury when he was last called to Winterfell. Freys, it was said, were at fault. An anger that did not belong to her welled in Alayne’s breast and she scowled when she heard one of her father’s men make jests about ‘Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse’.

Father had hoped to find a kinship with the Manderlys. They were the most Southron of the Northern houses, with their knights and septons. The most likely to welcome a Southroner as their leal lord.

Father was to be disappointed.

Lord Wyman was not so great a fool to openly challenge father’s claim to the North, but when the time came for toast-making the effusive mentions to the memory of House Stark quickly dampened any overtures of friendship father made. Still, for all their pretty speeches, the Manderlys were not so loyal to the Starks as to refuse father’s coin when offered.

A deal was struck. Father would be allowed to freely make use of their port, in exchange he would grant them a portion of the Bolton holdings. Lord Manderly even provided an escort of knights to accompany their party to Winterfell as a show of good faith.

Alayne knows that father does not trust the Manderlys after all that had passed at the Merman’s Court.

“But they are too weakened by that folly with Stannis to be a danger,” he assures her, reaching across the wheelhouse to squeeze her hand. “So long as I dangle the Dreadfort within his grasp and my ship’s tariffs line his pocket, Lord Wyman will play my game.”

Alayne is not so certain.

They have been at Winterfell nearly two moons when the first of the wagons arrive.

Alayne watches eagerly as crates of apples, sacks of barley and oats, casks of wine, and all manner of things are unloaded into the main courtyard. After a poor harvest and two sieges, the keep is poorly provisioned. Father sent his fastest ship South for this bounty.

It is not enough, Alayne thinks grimly, watching as the barrels and crates are added to their meager stores. Father is a kinder castellan than the Ironborn or the Boltons but they are not prepared for the hardships ahead.

Winter is coming.

Already smallfolk flock to the Winter Town. Hastily cobbled hovels of sod and straw and sticks sprout around the outskirts of the village daily as more souls seek the protection of the keep.

Alayne does what she can, finding places for kitchen boys and scullery maids in her father’s service. There are many who are orphaned and alone from the wars. She hires as many as she dares, but there are not positions enough at Winterfell to take in every hungry mouth that comes to their gates.

Once, over a private supper in his solar, she suggests father rebuild the glass gardens.

“I think not, sweetling.” He frowns, wiping his hands clean on a cloth. “Good quality glass is worth more than gold, and the men who craft it even more so. There are far better uses for my coin at present, hmm?”

He chucks her under the chin affectionately, the matter closed.

Stone by stone the castle is restored to its former glory. Soon it is nearly identical to the Winterfell of her memories...save for the mockingbird banners that fill the keep.

They fly over the parapets and against the outer walls. They line the corridors and the head of the Great Hall. A flock of fifty or more, each stitched by a hand other than her own.

Alayne tries to avoid looking at them, tries to stifle the treacherous voice within her that cries out “They do not belong here!”

She holds her tongue. She is a good daughter. The prettiest bird in her father’s keeping.

Father likes to keep her pretty. Along with the wagons of grain and stores come bolts of silk and lace, baubles and trinkets of every kind. She keeps theses fine things ferreted away in her room, out of sight. None in the North have yet to see past the layers of Alayne. She’d rather not draw any undue notice if she can help it.

One night, Father bids her to wear some of her gifted finery. He chooses the gown and jewels himself, selecting a dress cut of dark blue velvet and chain studded with onyx and pearl.

Alayne soon finds the reason. There are guests in the keep. Lord Robett Glover and his ward, the newly named Lord Hornwood.

A modest feast is held in the Great Hall. Alayne sits below the high table, but close enough that she can observe their visitors easily.

She absently sips from her cup of mulled wine and watches Lord Robett speak with her father. He is a hard looking man, his hair streaked generously with grey and his eyes sharp as flint chips. He is courteous enough with father, but he never smiles.

His ward is less guarded in his displeasure. A reedy lad nearing four-and-ten, Larence Hornwood pokes sullenly at his pease and venison, speaking little and ignoring the pointed glares from his guardian every time he asks for his wine cup to be refilled.

Alayne had the truth of it from the serving girl who was sent to help her with her hair before the feast. The boy was Halys Hornwood’s bastard get, raised up by King Tommen as his heir. It was her father’s doing, though from the way the young lordling looks at Lord Baelish, she wonders if he is at all grateful for the act.

At her father’s suggestion, Lord Hornwood sulkily rises to ask for her hand when the dancing starts. Alayne accepts with her most winning smile. She has played this game before.

It is not until they take their places on the floor that she sees the apprehension that lies behind the lordling’s scowls.

“I’ve never been very good at this,” he confesses when he steps on her toes a second time.

“Fear not, my lord,” Alayne says cheerily, a teasing twist to her lips. “I’ll see to it we both finish the dance upright and untrodden.”

He stares at her a moment, startled out of his sulk. Alayne begins to fear she’s caused insult when the lad chuckles.

“See that you do, lady.”

Lord Hornwood appears as sullen as ever when he returns to his seat, but Alayne does not miss the shy glances he casts her way from time to time.

Nearly a sennight after the Glover party departs for Hornwood, Alayne is roused from her bed by the sound of mail and boots on the spiral stair outside her door. Donning a robe, she quietly follows the direction of the footsteps to the door of her father’s solar. She hesitates, uncertain whether to knock or return to her chamber. She’s decided to tread back to the warmth of her own bed when the sound of raised voices from within stops her in her tracks.

“And Manderly’s men?” her father demands. Alayne has seldom heard him sound so cross.

“The Manderly escort only went as far as the fork in the White Knife.” Alayne recognizes the answering voice Ser Lothor Brune, father’s captain of the guard. “My lord, you don’t suppose…”

Father laughs sharply.

“I suspect our Lord Wyman is capable of a great deal, but I do not think even he would stoop to highway robbery. Besides, what purpose would it serve? If he wanted steal from me, why not seize the goods the moment they came into the harbor? Why go to the mummery of providing an escort only set upon them on the Kingsroad?”

“As you say, my lord.” Ser Lothor pauses a moment. “And what of the other matter? The bastard?”

Alayne strains to hear, her pulse quickening. Surely they did not think Lord Hornwood involved in such a scheme?

“The North has been improperly governed for too long,” Father says, his voice more measured than before. “I dare say we shall see more of these outlaws and their ilk. They will be dealt with accordingly.”

“And Jon Snow?”

The name sends Alayne’s heart hammering in her ears so loudly she nearly misses father’s terse reply.

“As I said, he will be dealt with accordingly.”

To be continued…

[mauricerobertsphotography]

Caroline & Dave ~ Rookery Hall wedding

Caroline & Dave ~ Rookery Hall wedding

[richardlinnettphotography]

15th June 2020 - Coronavirus STILL IN LOCKDOWN Day 84 in the UK

15th June 2020 – Coronavirus STILL IN LOCKDOWN Day 84 in the UK

STILL IN Coronavirus LOCKDOWN – Day 84

Not even Superman can get into this lock!

STILL Staying at home – STILL Protecting the NHS – STILL saving lives

STILL Keeping safe

‘…should shop with confidence…’. NO, JOHNSON, NO! There is still risk, what we need to know is what that risk is. ‘R’ very close to 1 across England.

‘…to lie about our history…’. NO, JOHNSON, NO!History is not just about…

[supercherishbridal07-blog]

Our stand at today's @countybrides Wed ding fair @rookeryhallhotelspa . We met some lovely couples today and look forward to seeing them all again soon ! #autumn #bride #brideandgroom #northwich #cheshire #cherish #awardwinningstore @perfect_bouquet_full_of_flower Thank you Kate for our gorgeous floral display for our table ...😍 (at Rookery Hall Hotel & Spa) https://www.instagram.com/p/BpM_8MKAlLy/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=x5fflvdfrhgv

[funeralvenuebournemouth-blog]

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some famous wedding venues to hire in the uk include Ramada Maidstone, Winslowe residence, Hilton bathtub town, Ramada London Gatwick, Menzies flitwick manor, rookery corridor and spa, Ramada Glasgow metropolis and Ramada Bowden hall. some different wedding ceremony venues available inside the united kingdom are Alea casino Leeds, dwelling house Manchester, Apex town Quay inn and Apa, Chesford Grange lodge and Hendon corridor hotel. these kinds of wedding ceremony venues have many advanced facilities that could play an essential role in making the bridal ceremony a memorable one. there are numerous other venues available within the uk as properly that can be decided on consistent with requirements.

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9th June 2020 - Coronavirus STILL IN LOCKDOWN Day 78 in the UK

9th June 2020 – Coronavirus STILL IN LOCKDOWN Day 78 in the UK

STILL IN Coronavirus LOCKDOWN – Day 78

Oona crocheted this lanyard for one of our sons keys. I notive the reference to music and the beer bottle opener! ‘Key’ priorities.

STILL Staying at home – STILL Protecting the NHS – STILL saving lives

STILL Keeping safe

Government finally admits not all pupils can return to School this Summer. it was a no brainer that you would need Schools twice as large…

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29th May 2020 - Coronavirus LOCKDOWN Day 67 in the UK

29th May 2020 – Coronavirus LOCKDOWN Day 67 in the UK

Coronavirus LOCKDOWN – Day 67

Another very important ‘lock’ keeping that good good bubbly stuff in!

Stay at home – Protect the NHS – Save lives

Keep safe

Donkey Johnson continues to put his agenda before public health

Track and trace not really ready for unlocking. Parr for the course.

Our lives in their hands!

Someone on the news said it was only day 66, I hope I have been counting right!

Our…