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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 – Alysanne I

Her hands were trembling. She fed Star an apple and tried to calm herself. Behind her, an army awaited a command. Behind her stood the Crossing and a decision that made many raise an eyebrow. 

The letter that proved the Frey's could be in consort with the lions was evidence enough to put the two castles under guard. There had been some rumblings about her decision to put almost an entire house into her custody, but Stevron Frey seemed to trust his kin to keep his word as much as she did. Alysanne was aware she made an enemy of most House Frey. Nevertheless, it made her sleep better, knowing she controlled the castle and the information going out of it.

Were I a man, Lord Stark’s heir, they would never dare to treat them with swords. If she was Robb, diplomacy would have been enough to sedate House Frey. 

But Robb had been dead for more than a decade, and Alysanne was the only child old enough to lead the Stark army in Lord Stark’s absence.

Heavy footsteps announced the visitor she was waiting for. She turned to see her Uncle Arthur looking at her, his position that of a soldier awaiting command. Something in her face must have said all that was needed, for he dropped his posture and approached her. She noticed how his footsteps were much lighter now.

“You seem troubled, Aly.”

“I have a plan,” she caressed her horse, fearful of looking at her uncle’s face and seeing disapproval. “It is not what father asked of me.”

There had been no news coming out of King’s Landing. Rumor was it that Robert Baratheon and her father were missing, Queen Cersei had taken control, and Renly Baratheon had left the Capital. 

That was all the Frey’s managed to offer her as she crossed. Father had asked her to wait for her orders, not to march south unless something triggered it.

Well father, you are injured. I have no letters from you. The Lannister’s have taken control of half of the Riverlands. They broke the King’s Peace. That would be enough for Lord Stark to understand her decisions going forward.

“Have you any more news??”

She shook her head, and they began to walk to her tent. “Since he told me to gather the Stark forces and have them ready at Moat Cailin. Nothing but what we got at the twins.”

“I do not like us crossing to the Riverlands,” her uncle said. Arthur Dayne would never lie to her. Even if the truth hurt more than a pretty lie.

“You think I like it? That I wanted to cross? If I stayed behind Moat Cailin, I didn’t had to deal with Lord Frey, but where we are.”

The veiled insults on her bastardy, lusty nature and comments on her body were nothing she wasn’t used to. Still, Alysanne was pleased she had left Uncle Arthur behind with the forces, or they would be problems.

Well. Technically by being here, Uncle Arthur was breaking the deal. After Rebellion, he was forbidden to come south. Alysanne knew the only reason he was even with the army was to protect Alysanne. It was why what came next would be difficult.

“Jaime Lannister laid siege to Riverrun. I had hoped – everyone did – that Ser Brynden Tully would already have joined us with the Vale forces, but there must be some troubles. I don’t know,” she let it out. Call the banners, Aly. There is trouble in King’s Landing with the Queen’s imminent arrest. Hold Moat Cailin until fresh news. Be safe, daughter. It had been the message the raven had carried.  

Two moons had passed since.

“All I know is that Jaime Lannister is comfortably in Riverrun and Tywin Lannister in Harrenhal.”

“Tywin is likely preparing to attack King’s Landing.”

“And we have no news from there. No one knows what came out of there. Father just told me to come here,” she repeated. “Now I hear the Lannisters are taking the Riverlands. Father is injured, according to the rumors. Robert Baratheon might be dead for all we know, and there is no sign of Renly. The news from King’s Landing are not so forthcoming. I need to make a call with what I know.”

She took a deep breath and entered the tent. Once more, Alysanne wondered how this became her life. Lady Catelyn would likely blame her unnaturalness. And there was something unnatural to her, a bastard ahead of a Stark army. Still, she couldn’t be seated.

Looking at the map of the Riverlands, Alysanne took one of the little rocks she was using as pieces. She needed a better board. Real commanders had three maps to cross-reference and board pieces.

“What do you know of Jaime?”

Uncle Arthur was far too clever not to read between the lines. “You plan to break the siege.”

“Yes. What is he like?”

“Even more restless than you,” she turned her lips a bit. Uncle Arthur rarely called her restless unless she annoyed him by not following on his wishes to be kept safe. Like marching ahead of an army for a war that was not her own. “Rash, quick to anger, too confident in his victory.”

“If he sees us, he will give a fight.” At her uncle’s nodding, she grinned and began to explain her plan. She had worked over it in the quiet of her tent. As she finished trumbling the little rock she had placed on Riverrun, her uncle looked at her with pride, and Alysanne knew she must have sounded like an excited little girl.

“Brilliant,” his voice sounded both proud and a bit strange. He looked at Alysanne with that strange look – she called it gloomy for years – and at the pieces. Was he thinking of another war? A battle that had not been too far away from here? One he was not allow to be present for?

“Where do you want me?”

The dreaded question. “Lady Maege and Lord Mallister will wait in the east valley. Lord Rickard Stark will stay in his forces in the north. I gave Ser Stevron Frey the west. He does seem somewhat I decent men for a Frey, and the Greatjoy will be across the ridge.” She looked at everywhere but her uncle. “Dacey, Torrhen, and I will raid and draw Ser Jaime. It won’t be much different from what Dacey and I did against the Wildlings.”

“Where do you want me?” Her uncle stressed the words.

She took a deep breath and held another rock. Alysanne felt the heavy look as she place a rock at the Green Fork. “You will take the rest of the force and distract Tywin.” Gaining her courage, she looked at her uncle. His face was tense. His eyes were on the Green Fork or perhaps the Trident itself. “You will take Lord Bolton, Lord Cerwyn and Lord Hornwood. They are the less hotheaded of our lords. You will take them, because I need you all to march slowly. Very slowly. You cannot engage against Tywin. They say he has twenty thousand men at Harrenhal. I can give you seventeen.”

“You need me to distract Tywin,” her uncle looked at the table. “But you plan to give him battle?”

“After I get his precious son in my custody. I will march as quicky as I can. A calvary charge. We need to be very careful with the days. I need you help with that. You have to delay your march, so it allows me time to get to Riverrun, and then I will meet you. You will attack his forces while I ride towards you.”

“If I don’t engage and you win, our forces will have the advantage. And a surprise factor.” His uncle gave her a fearsome grin as he moved the peace that was her own. Arthur Dayne was too much a warrior and a commander not to understand that she planned to do. “You can ride through the Golden Road and meet us just north of Harrenhal. The problem will be the river.” Her uncle looked at her. “You have to cross the bridge in Harroway’s town after he leaves to give me battle. Not before, or you will be spotted by his army.”

“That is why we need to be very careful with the time. I need to push my forces to the brink to meet with you in time.” That was her biggest problem. She needed to have full command and an army that was willing to listen to her. A bit hint of desertion, and it would become a problem. Because the forces ahead of her were not the problem. Alysanne had the best scout: Ghost.

“And if you won’t. I will do my best to win it for you, Aly.”

“Even if you can’t win, I need you to hold it. When I attack from the rear, Tywin will be stuck. My fear is if I don’t come, you will be forced to give battle and be stuck between Tywin’s army and the river.”

Her uncle nodded. Seeing the dangers as well. “That is why we need to be as precise with the timing as possible.”

Her uncle got a parchment. She could see he was already counting how long it would take.

“The hammer and the anvil,” her uncle muttered with his strange look. “If you can pull this ride off, Aly. We will take the Lannister’s down for good.”

“It will be brilliant?” she asked with a grin.

He gave her a strange look. “I have something for you. It is time. But you can only use it as a last case. I do not want you in the thick of the fight, Aly.”

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.

She felt a sense of restlessness and of euphoria cursing through her blood. The men all around her were shouting. Celebrating with each other, her name a praise amongst their cries. Alysanne still felt a buzzing. Ghost nudged her hand bring her back to reality. His muzzle was red with blood and far more dirty than she was. She was not clad in armor like her men. She wore a woolen dusty purple gown that had belonged to Lady Ashara. Alysanne had to clothing to lead armies. So she chose the fine wool because it was practical and detachable, so she just replaced the bodice with a leather cuirass, only keeping her blue undergown.

Dacey was clad in mail, but her friend went to battle while Alysanne remained in woods with her best archers. She knew they had been pivotal in the battlefield. But Aly still felt it a true Stark would have done more. Perhaps it was the strange restlessness.

She would wear mail in Riverrun, Alysanne decided then. But the golden hair man thrown in front of her feet stopped her line of thinking. 

"The Kingslayer," Hal announced.

With his capture, the battle ended. But as she looked at him, Alysanne was thrown back into the battle, to Jaime Lannister cutting through the men to get at her. Even the pretty Lannister was dirtier than she was. Much more. He had been fearsome, cutting man after man. Once again, something inside her wanted to snap. Jaime Lannister had realized too late that if he killed her, the battle might stop, but he didn’t manage to get to her in time. Alysanne didn’t even have to use anything but her archery skills. But one of her arrows found Lannister’s shoulder. It had been enough to capture him.

Her father would lead the army. If Robb were alive, so would he. They would clash swords with the man. A song would be made of it. 

She had been one of the most skilled people in the north at the bow, and uncle Arthur had been training her to yield a sword since her youth. No person trained by Arthur Dayne so diligently could be only surpassing good with it, but she was no match to Jaime Lannister. Not even her in dreams. Her hand went to the pommel of the sword. Despite being lighter than most swords, it felt much heavier.

“Ser Jaime,” she forced herself to say, bring her mind back to the present. Still, hot feeling inside her remained. A buzzing. Her mind began to clear out in a strange away. Noticing that, despite how dirty Lannister was, he was undoubtedly attractive. Not far from her line of sight, her hotblood reminded her how Dacey took off her helmet as soon as the battle ended, and was currently unbraiding her hair for the messy updo. Alysanne wanted Jaime Lannister to threw her into the ground and kiss her soundly. Alysanne wanted to touch Dacey’s hair and see if women’s lips were as soft as she imagined them to be.

So this is why men insist on engaging in sexual acts after a fight? Now she understood.

Ser Jaime’s green eyes seemed startled as he looked at her. “You’re Stark’s bastard,” he said, perplexed. 

“How does it feel to be outsmarted by a girl, Lannister?” the Greatjon teased.

“We have no time for this,” she snapped. “Put Ser Jaime in a chain with the rest, and everyone needs to take a rest. Lord Mallister and Ser Stevron will see to the wounded and the dead. Everyone else must take a good night of sleep. We ride tomorrow for Riverrun.”

“Are you in a hurry, little snow?”

At that, the Smalljon punched him. Even he was slightly attractive all of a sudden.

Seven hells!

.

.

“I know you are new to this, but some commanders celebrate their victories. Throw some feast or ball. You ride us to death.”

Ser Jaime was tied to the nearest three. But he was well bound, for he would constantly tried to escape to no success.

There was no tent when she was in such a quick worry. She didn’t even bring them. It would carry weight. They slept on the road, highborn and lowborn alike. They had protested until Alysanne called a meeting and told her companions her plan. Their grins and lusts for battle had won over discomfort. Now, it was the Greatjon leading in a hurry to get to Harrenhal.

After Riverrun, time was not on their side. Alysanne had given precise instructions to those left. No ravens. No messages. Tywin was to give battle to Arthur, unaware of their victories. And while she had faith that her uncle could win even outnumber, Alysanne could not risk it. She felt the clock ticking.

“If you use some of that brain, you would know why. Most of my army has gathered why without war meetings.”

Ser Jaime gave her a look. “Your army is too small. Either the northern not answered the call of their lord because it was a girl leading, or they are elsewhere.” Alysanne took some pleasure at the quick inhale of breath from the man. “You sent them to my father.”

“Your father is under the impression that my army was delayed at the Twins. That, I am a frightened little girl who won’t give him battle, so it is waiting for her father to come to do it for her.”

Lannister’s grin made it clear she could not hid her resentment. He had the same look when she gone her mail and went to battle at Riverrun, saying his “sweet goodbyes”. She had bough some fine wine from Edmure Tully’s collection to Ser Jaime once she won. Alysanne made sure to be still clad in her used mail.

“You killed all the ravens. Put scouts behind us and your beast ahead. And you ride mostly at night.”

Ghost, despite his side, would be more undetected.

“No word will get to your father. Not until he is at my feet.”

“My uncle Staffon-”

“The Reach finally woke up. Your uncle won’t be able to leave Lannisport. Not with Lord Rowan to his rear, ready to attack the Westerlands if needed.” She looked at him. He was dirty and tired, but she was likely no better off. Baths were not a luxury for those riding at a quick speed. Aly did hold her tongue, however. She knew little of what the Reach was plotting. Rowan might do that, but last rumors spoke that Renly Baratheon was marching with the Tyrell’s to King’s Landing. For what? She had no idea.

“I wanted a light army, for it rides faster. You will notice that I only bring the calvary. I don’t need too many forces to entrap your father. Lord Tywin is likely now marching out of Harrenhal, hoping to meet the full Stark force by the Green Fork. Grinning to himself that he is fighting against a little girl who can barely keep an army flowing at a normal pace.”

“You might not get there in time.”

“Not to give a crushing victory, perhaps. Not in the way I want. But enough that by the time I get there, I will turn the tide of the battle.”

“How Baelor Breakspear of you,” he said with a strange tone. “I didn’t know Ned Stark raised his little bastard in the ways of warfare.”

“I’ve been called a bastard all my life, Ser Jaime,” she poured a cup of water and decided to give some to Ser Jaime. With his hands tied, she had to help him drink the water. 

He looked at her. Green eyes flashed with something heavy. “I’ve been with you for what, a fortnight? And you still haven’t called me Kingslayer.”

“And that bothers you?” She knew it did, realized it on the first day. Words are weapons. Her uncle had taught her. “I know of one person who never called you that. My uncle Arthur.”

She knew her words hit something deep inside him. Alysanne turned back and let the man ponder his words. 

In two days, at the fifth hour of the day, her uncle would give battle to Lord Tywin. Knowing the Mountain that Rides would be there made her nervous. Her uncle was not one for rash decisions, but it was Clegane. He wanted him dead for as long as she had been alive.

She needed to be there.

.

.

“We are not going to stop,” Alysanne let her voice be heard.

The men around her went silent as they stared. A moonsturn ago, the same group looked at her with doubt. Aly had proven herself a skilled archer and a good commander at the age of five-and-ten when she and Dacey had stopped what many believed to be a raid in Bear Island. In the end, it was no small raid but a well-organized attack. The two of them had been furious over the attack that resulted in the deaths of good men and women and waged a short campaign on the Free Folk.

It seemed it had not been enough. Alysanne remembered the Greatjon’s protest over her presence before they even marched south. After the crushing victories, she pulled over at the Whispering Woods and the Camps, the speed at which she was taking her army across the Riverlands, and her scheme, the man became her most fearsome support.

“The men will want one more stop,” Lord Karstark spoke, his mind present but his soul grieving. Alysanne had apologized for his loses and promised him his vengeance. She could not. He wanted Jaime Lannister. Lord Karstark had almost hit her when she denied him his vengeance, if not for the Greatjon quick move. She would have him at the vanguard. His anger could be of use against Tywin’s army. A darker part of her thought also other things. If tahat did happen, a glorious death was better than a lifetime of grief.

“They already rested. I want us moving in a hour.”

“Why?” Madge asked her. The woman was her biggest supporter, even if she was a bit moody that she sent her third daughter away. But Lyra was close to age with her and would be standing for Aly. In case any Lannister scout caught her eye off her, they could communicate to lord Tywin her presence.

“We are less than twenty hours away from Harrenhal. Gods be good. I hope no one was left but a too-small garrison that won’t leave for fear of being killed. The Blackwood army behind us can deal with them. My uncle is about to give battle in fifteen hours at best. He will try to delay as most as possible, but tomorrow was the planned day. I will be there. We will be there!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 – Arthur I

The sun was burning them, and Arthur, despite his Dornish blood, was drenched in sweat. His arms grew tired despite the adrenaline pouring through his blood. He had once told Alysanne that, on a battlefield, instinct prevails over skill many times, and he felt that more than he did now.

There was no Usurper in his mind as he swang Dawn. Only Alysanne. The precious child that was his own more than she was Rhaegar’s. He could not disappoint her. Arthur had vowed to hold the line, and he would do so. But Tywin was no idiot. He might not consider Alysanne a threat, but he did many serving in her army. He considered Arthur one.

Arthur had destroyed Ser Kevan Lannister’s center, but the vanguard was still holding strong. Clegane. Arthur wanted to spit the name. He had never been angry in battle, but life was proving it could still surprise him. He knew of men that used that anger to make them more precise. Oswell and Jon had been like that. But he had been like Barristan, blind to anything but the battle around him. Arthur raised his shield to protect himself from the arrows. Damn. Tywin Lannister’s reserve was set on raining fire on them, even if it killed his men too.

It proved that the battle was not going in Lannister’s favor either. It showed he was desperate. But the lion would not send his reserve forward. God, it felt like hours. Maybe it was. The lion’s right flank was closing on them, Clegane’s van reorganizing and Arthur could only think of the river. Rhaegar’s forces were driven towards that same river seven-and-ten years prior.

Tywin had to be thinking the same. Perhaps it was his plan all along. No matter how many of his brother’s ranks he had to sacrifice, as long as Marbrand and Clegane would be victorious, Tywin’s precious reserve could stayed put.

Tywin was always a man of command. Arthur had counted on that.

Still, Artur damned those waters. He knew his army was being pushed towards it. Knew that if Alysanne did not come in time, he would be left to his friends fate all those years back.

As he contemplated his friends fate at the Trident and how he would likely follow into his footsteps, a shot louder than any before drove Arthur to look up. He drove his sword through the man he just saw with a newfound strength.

For a moment, Arthur wondered if the relief and triumph he felt were the same Maekar Targaryen had felt at Greengrass Field, for behind Tywin’s rear were not the spears of Dorne but the Northern calvary. Amidst the disarray, he spotted, next to Stark’s banner, a figure in silver armor, so light that it shone almost white with the sun. Arthur knew Aly would one day be a warrior. She had too much fire inside her not to, despite people only seeing the cold façade. But when Aly and Dacey took revenge on the Wildlings for their attack, Arthur had a suit of armor commissioned for her. He never showed her that suit, however. Only the one she now wore, the light silver that was more Stark than the one he had hidden.

And sword, Valyrian steel that had been yielded by four famous people before her, unsheathed. He knew before she even drove that Aly would not stay behind. He drove his worry and his fury into his sword-arm.

.

.

The people were shouting, but despite all, Arthur felt no euphoria. He ran towards that banner, and everyone seemed to know his path, for they seemed to part. He found Aly without her helmet. Dark hair pulled into a braid and a goblet in hand. Arthur did not care for his injuries, nor that both of their armors were splatted with red, as he ran towards Aly and pulled her into a hug.

“I told you I would come, my white knight.”

Gods, it had been so long since he heard that name. Far too long. It reminded him of a gangly girl with endless energy who wanted to know everything about everything. A clever girl that always looked to him when something frightened her.

“I told you I would hold the line, my little princess,” he whispered back at her, the High Valyrian coming without a second thought.

Back at Winterfell, Arthur made sure to raise Aly in High Valyrian, which made Lord Stark frown more often than not. And in the castle, only three people knew the language: Arthur, Aly, and Maester Luwin. Yet, only the first two spoke like they were born for it. 

Her eyes were not the dark purple of her father but the soft violet of Queen Rhaella. They were shinning with an inner fire that he knew came from the success of battle.

“We won,” she said to him in triumph. Aly never looked more like her real namesake as she did in that moment. Then she turned to address the troops. They all seemed to go quiet to hear her speak. The otherworldly charisma that Rhaegar had, came in spades to Alysanne, but he never managed to see the full force of it until now.

A warrior-queen.

“My friends,” she began to address, her voice loud and clean but without sounding outlandish. “This battle was brutal, and we shall mourn the death. People shall sing their names in songs. I have no doubt. For no one will forget the Battle of the Green Fork! But as we mourn, we shall also celebrate our triumph” Aly let the cheers erupt, never stopping them, just allowing them to soften, before she continued. “I have just the place for it, my friends. Harrenhal!”

“Let's take that damn castle!” the Greatjon shouted, and all men followed.

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.

Arthur was given a place of honor just to the right of what would be Alysanne’s chair. People were already celebrating, and for the first time, Arthur felt that people looked at him as one of their own. The North had not accepted him with open arms, and many, until a few moons ago, would look at him with distaste. The kingsguard spared because of his good name, who disgraced himself by giving up the white cloak for his bastard niece. To this day, Robert Baratheon still believed he had been so clever by sending Arthur north. That people would turn in the once-beloved knight as soon as they knew how he disgraced himself.

If only they knew.

Now, he was the man that held the line against the might lions.

A hero to their eyes.

Silence hit the great hall of Harrenhal when Alysanne entered, and Arthur could see why. Clad in a purple overcoat that was fitted to the body, Alysanne slid through the room with a newfound confidence that made him smile. A queen. A queen in Ashara’s gown. That had hurt more than anything. He missed his sister, who acted as Regent of Sunspear since their brother passed.

Alysanne’s clothes had been servant ones, but for one or two gowns Arthur managed to get her to accept. Wool. Only wool. And never in silver or white. Alysanne might be treated as a daughter by Lord Stark, but she was a bastard. Lord Stark had given Alysanne access to her mother’s clothes, but Alysanne might have Lyanna’s hair and a face slightly longer than a Targaryen’s often had, but in all else, she took after her father’s kin. Lyanna had been petite in height and build, and while Alysanne would never be called tall, she had at least three inches on her mother and a more feminine shape.

The Dornish overcoat did nothing to hide how she was no longer a little girl. The silver-plated trim brought the eye to the neckline and the curve of the breast that she showed. The silver chains around her waist and falling in front of her silk skirts showed the trim waist and the pronounced curve of her hip.

Arthur wondered if he would have to use his sword again. If men were already silent, he feared what would happen if she took off the overcoat. The purple silk of her skirts was far too familiar to Arthur. It was the Dornish silks Ashara wore in their youth to enchant men.

Raising from his chair to guide Aly to his, Arthur took the opportunity to glare at some of the younger men. Now they wanted her. He wanted to shout. Arthur had been there when Alysanne cried her heart out because Lord Bolton had refused to have his heir marry her.

She had been five-and-ten, and if Arthur asked, Aly would say she had overcome it. But deep down, Arthur knew the resentment was still there.

Domeric Bolton was a waste either way. Alysanne deserved much better. A prince, his mind offered as he felt his hand turn into a fist. Clegane was not killed in battle, but Arthur had the pleasure of disarming and injuring the man. He was in some dark cell now, without a sword hand and soon without other limbs.

“You didn’t hear my speech did you, uncle?” Alysanne asked with a smile. She put her hand on his fist. “You will get your revenge soon.”

“Death will mean too little for that monster.”

Alysanne nodded. “I wrote to my father. Soon we’ll get news. After this, a boom to either yourself or I will be given. Revenge will taste sweeter with a larger audience.”

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.

The lords all rounded the room Alysanne stood by the window. There was an awkward silence as everyone looked around to see why they were all. Eventually, all looked at Arthur, but he had no idea.

Alysanne locked herself in her chambers for hours. He had tried to knock, but she had a page inform him she wanted to lay down and rest. Things had been a bit eccentric as some of the Riverlords came to Harrenhal. Edmure Tully had planned another celebration. It had been two weeks since the battle, and the lords wanted to commemorate it, especially after they took all of the Riverlands back.

A big celebration of Lannister's defeat.

Despite the Riverlords, the room had fewer people than a moonsturn ago. The campaign to liberate Riverrun had been swift and without too many losses on their side, but the Battle of the Green Fork had been complete carnage. It was the decisive victory against the Lannisters, but the losses were far too many to count. They had to have lost several thousand men in the battle, and the Lannister army…

Arthur did not even want to think.

Lord Halys Hornwood and his heir, Daryn Hornwood were dead. Lord Medger Cerwyn was gravely wounded. Lord Karstark died in his mad charge against Clegane, and two of his sons had perished at the Whispering Woods. Harrion Karstark, once a lively young man, was a shadow made of grief. The Lord of Darry had died at lions hands. Jonos Bracken had his lands burned by the Lannisters. His revenge put in at the Stranger’s arms.

Alysanne had them both leading the charge that took their lives. The warrior and commander inside Arthur could see the logic to it. Both men were furious and craving blood. For an attack that needed to be deadly and swift, their fervent feeling could be put to good use - to break a solid like that would likely end up in their deaths.

“A letter has arrived from King’s Landing.”

It had been two weeks. They had been waiting for a reply to Alysanne’s raven for a week. They even sent a rider after two days with no contact.

Before his passing, Lord Arryn had written to Lord Stark to inform him that he needed to come to King’s Landing as swiftly as possible and without much fuss. Lord Stannis Baratheon and the Lord Hand had found something that needed to be treated with the utmost care,” Alysanne spoke, back straight, her tone soft but too controlled. She was not looking at either of them. Her focus was on the window.

Something was wrong.

“Lord Arryn was dead, and my father went straight to Dragonstone, where Lord Stannis welcomed him with the truth that we all know by now. Queen Cersei’s children are bastards. She has committed treason for nearly two decades,”

Mutterings came about with less than kind words about Cersei Lannister. Alysanne’s black skirts twirled with her as she half-turned to them. Arthur was frustrated that he was still unable to see her face. Still, he felt a vicious glee at the entire situation. Tywin’s change of putting his blood on the throne was gone.

“The Queen found out and wrote to her Lord father, who began to prepare for war. Before the confrontation happened, just in case, my Lord father wrote me to call the banners. They did not know the Queen had been informed and hoped to settle it peacefully.”

“Not with Lord Tywin as the Queen’s father,” Ser Wylis Manderly huffed. His shoulder bandaged from a wound he suffered from an arrow, but he took pride in it. He also seemed to be looking at Alysanne with too far a appreciative gaze.

“When the confrontation happened in King’s Landing, Lord Stark and His Grace were injured but managed to escape. Queen Cersei was ready for them with Ser Jaime. For a time, the Queen managed to hold into power with the Gold Cloaks on her side, despite the news that the Reach was marching. I think Ser Jaime must have left town as soon as Queen Cersei’s coup happened so he could meet with his father to tell him the capital was under control.”

“A bit of an overstatement,” Lord Bolton spoke. “She might have the Keep, but Lord Stark and His Grace were still about.”

“And Lord Stannis managed to get enough men into the city through ships. With King Robert recovered, they ousted his wife. She and Pri- her eldest son - were put into a cell. Lord Stannis says that she got word of her brother’s capture and had been erratic. According to Lord Stannis’ letter, they took the city as soon as word came of Lannister’s double defeat. That was why they only wrote now. By the date of the letter, the Red Keep was taken ten days ago.”

“Lord Stannis’ letter? Now a raven?” Lord Bolton asked in his mild tone. He had always been a clever one. A dangerous one too.

As Alysanne turned to them, Arthur rose. Despite her blank mask, the pain in her eyes was shouting to all that knew her.

“Because of his injured, Lord Stark was taken first by the guards and was killed for it. The Lord of Winterfell is dead.”

The room was silent for two heartbeats. Then everyone began to rise and shout. Alysanne stood far too straight, making Arthur go to her. She lifted her hand to stop him.

“Not here,” she whispered in High Valyrian, but loud enough for him to hear, “I can’t be weak now.”

“Janos Slynt has been taken to a black cell. Lord Stannis assures me there is no fate but dead for him.” 

Shouts grew even more passionate. They were demanding to have that head themselves. Lord Stark had inspired devotion in his lords, and it showed now.

“Janos Slynt’s head will be removed from his body, have no doubt,” Alysanne’s words were harsh. Harsher than he even knew her capable. Not even Rhaegar had that tone. “I will take it myself.”

“My lady,” Ser Wylis Manderly said in a gentle tone. No one had called Alysanne anything but lady since the Green Fork, no talks of Snow or bastardy. And if there was some loyalty in the northern vassals, the common soldier was devoted to her as if she were the maiden reborn. “No one doubts your grief. Nor do we doubt your courage. But to be executor is another thing.”

“We are northern Ser Wylis,” she said, composed but no longer harsh. “My father always said that a man who passes the sentence swings the sword. His Grace will the sentence, it is his right, but this Janos killed our lord,” the fire was rising with each other. “The Gods took Robb far too soon, or he would have done the deed. Lord Bran is a child. I might not have the name, my lords, but my blood is that of the Starks. That of the First Man. Will swing the sword in the name of the North.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3  - Alysanne II

“Rymund the Rhymer and Tom of Sevenstreams wrote another song about you,” Dacey teased her.

Alysanne stopped washing her arms. The bathhouse of Harrenhal was open to most of the highborn, but Alysanne and Dacey always took their baths together since they did not want any troubles or rumors.

“Another?”

Both singers entertained the men, with Rymund being behind the Wolf in the Night song everyone at camp knew and sang. The song was about the defeat of Ser Jaime’s army, and the valiant and tenacious way she drove her army into Tywin’s rear. 

Alysanne, who had always loved music, couldn’t help but marvel at Rymund’s words. His praises of her accomplishments and those of the northerner were written in a very poetic matter. Despite her marveling, Alysanne was careful with him. She could also see the way his eyes would travel her figure. Still, his most famous work did not speak of her beauty as much as they spoke of her prowess as a commander, but what worried her were the hints of Alysanne being “one with her wolf” and “the wolf that was a maiden”. 

She imagined other songs he likely had written about Alysanne and hoped they never came to the light of day. 

People must call her all sorts of things, but most of all, they called her the “wolf’s witch”.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. The way most looked at Ghost had always been troubling. The white direwolf had been a key figure in getting Ser Jaime down and had fought at the Green Fork. Ghost had stayed ahead of her army on what they now call her “night’s march through the rivers”. People suspected she had some sorceress connection with her precious direwolf. Dacey said people were spreading rumors that she had ridden atop Ghost into battle.

“Does it speak about how I am a sorceress who controlled animals?”

Dacey grinned. “But, of course, all women in your position have been accused of using the black arts.”

“Warging isn’t the black arts,” she whispered, not as confident as it should come.

Dacey gave her a stern look. “I told you a thousand times. There is nothing evil about your connection with Ghost. It is a blessing of the Old Gods.”

“A blessing that killed a dozen of Lannister’s scouts,” Alysanne confessed.

She had been warging at least some times. During the march, Ghost had taken many men Tywin Lannister had left behind before they could sound any alarm. Her soldiers had seen the mauled bodies.

A wolf clad in armor, semblance a white lady, who howled to victory

“Do I wish to know the title of this new song,” Alysanne asked, trying to distract herself from the previous lyrics.

“The brunette that captured lions and hearts, or something like it. I would prepare myself to hear it if I were you. It is, frankly, very good.”

“I thought Rymund decided to name me as a white lady, to go with his snow and star symbolisms.”

“Perhaps the idea came from Tom. But you are a brunette,” Dacey teased, pushing some of Alysanne tresses. Alysanne knew that if her hair was fairer, the ash hints or the platinum hairs wouldn’t be that noticeable, but she had been born with dark hair, so the lighter hairs were even more noticeable.

“Am I called a witch?”

Dacey didn’t immediately reply, which made Alysanne turn her fully to her friend.

“Dacey,” Aly warned.

“He does call you a cold seductress, capable of bewitching even the taciturn of man, but names you a maiden many times,” Dacey quickly added. “He stresses it even.”

“What else?” Alysanne asked, tensed.

She had been called beautiful all her life. Alysanne had some vanity in it, in truth. But beauty could be dangerous. Beauty in a trueborn and highborn lady was something to praise, to wish for. Beauty in a bastard… it lead to problems.

It always did.

“A loveliness that even the Star of the Sea dark arts couldn’t accomplish. He calls you a Star of Ice. But he did that in the other song. They hint at your connection with Ghost. I won’t deny it. And specifically allude to his albino nature and his two red eyes. The beauty of a star with the soul of a wolf is one of the verses. It comes after calling attention to Ghost’s unusual coloring. They also speak of the ravens sent to the white lady’s castle of seven towers.”

Alysanne rose from the pool, wanting to pace but realizing her nakedness. Still, she felt no cold, and Dacey was the only one inside the bathhouse.

Pacing, allowing her drops of water to wet the stone, which was cold against her feet, Alysanne tension grew.

Alysanne had been called a star before, when associated with her beauty. The North might not write the poetry of the Reach, but they could boast of woman’s beauty. And for a long time, even now, she was pleased it was not roses or flowers people compared her to when boasting of her beauty. Stars hinted of a connection to the Lady Ashara.

Stars had been safe.

Alysanne never imagined stars being used for other connections. Never imagined that they would compare her beauty to Shiera Seatar, a woman famed for practicing the dark arts, and Ghost’s coloring to connect with Bloodraven himself.

Two of the most famous Targaryen bastards.

It was dangerous. For Alysanne reputation, no doubt.

Witch, sorcerer, seductress, wolf-woman, warrior.

Soon, they would call her a whore.

“It is all men’s embellishments, of course, Alysanne.”

”Songs like these can be dangerous, Dacey,” Alysanne countered. “Soon, I’ll have to marry, and who will want a woman with a reputation?”

“You don’t need to wed. Lord Stark never persuaded you to look for a husband.”

“Not yet,” Alysanne said, stopping her pacing. “But one day, I’ll have to leave Winterfell, and I want a husband who can give me and my children a good life.”

Dacey’s hand came to hers.

“You will always have a place at Bear Island, no matter what.”

.

.

“You don’t need to do this, Aly,” her uncle said in an assuring tone.

Alysanne had hoped her bath would calm her down, but it only brought her more headaches. She would have to talk with her uncle about the songs and the rumors and how it marred her reputation. Perhaps, she would persuade Tom and Rymund to write other of songs. Tom especially seemed eager for her favor and not because of any sexual desire, unlike Rymund.

Patronage. They looked for it, as did all artists.

She could finance them, but people would wonder where the money came from. Question why Alysanne Snow had gold in the Iron Bank of Braavos.

Still, she had asked Dacey to call for two maids to help her prepare for her meeting. The blue velvet was a choice Alysanne was beginning to regret. Her worried mind burned her veins, and she craved a bath of cold water.

Alysanne and Arthur moved towards the well-secured room with the. Alysanne tried her best not to show her discomfort to the guards posted outside it. How Alysanne wished she had put on the airy Dornish silks instead of the heavy velvet.

Ignoring it all, Alysanne nodded for the door to open.

Once inside the room, three heads turned towards her, two golden and one copper. They stood in silence, but Alysanne could read the wariness and the amusement in the two of them. She waited until the door closed behind her to speak, but, before opening her mouth, Tyrion Lannister broke the silence first.

“Congratulations on your victory, Lady Snow,” Lord Tyrion said with a grin, disarming her. “You are a lady, if not in title in appearance, or do you favor Commander Snow instead?”

“You may call me whatever you wish, Lord Tyrion,” she said and wanted to hit herself for sounding so snapping. She saw in the dwarf’s eyes that he saw a weakness in her.

“Commander or Lady, I am please to beheld such a beauty after being locked away.”

Lord Tywin’s face remained carved in stone despite his son’s words, Ser Addam seemed uncomfortable, and Alysanne hoped her uncle would not snap and use Dawn.

“Unfortunately for you, Lord Tyrion, I did not came here for you to behold my beauty,” she turned from son to the father, “I have written to King’s Landing to inform you that the Lannister’s control of the Riverlands is gone. Soon we will march to the Capital. However, I must inform you of some news,” Alysanne took the letter hidden in her tight sleeve and began to read the names of the captured lords. “Lord Westerling, Lord Baenefort, Ser Tytos Brax, and your kinsmen, Willem Lannister, Cleos, and Tion Frey, have all been taken captive. Among the dead are Lord Brax and Lord Estren, Lord Banefort’s son, Ser Humfrey Lefford, and Ser Peter Plumm.”

Enrolling the parchment, she placed it on the table. “There are more nobles amongst the dead. The ones we have identified are all here. I have no news to give you of King’s Landing, but what you already know.”

Lord Tywin’s eyelids twitched, and Alysanne spotted the rage behind his cold façade. Lord Stannis had sent letters across Westeros with the information he had spoken only to Lord Stark. It was one of the two letters comfortably hidden in her chamber. But Lord Tywin would not have access to such a letter.

His anger confirmed Uncle Arthur’s theory that the Great Lion already knew of his daughter’s infidelity.

“Queen Cersei is guilty of treason and adultery. You must have known it far sooner than most of us, considering the speed at which the Lannister army took the Riverlands. Ser Jaime was kind enough to inform me that Queen Cersei took control of the city before she was brought to justice. Unfortunately for you, my lord, Lord Stannis put the city under siege, which will soon fall. I will consider the lack of news about His Grace as proof of his life. And I will do so for my father.”

Afterward, she let the silence grow, then turned to Ser Addam. “I have asked for a room to be set for yourself, Ser. And as you have not to cause hostility with your capture, you will be given a leeway to walk outside every day. With proper guardianship.”

Ser Addam bowed his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

Alysanne nodded to Ser Arthur, and he opened the door once more. Ser Addam knew how to read a room, for he got up and followed the guard. Once the door closed, Alysanne sat. Lord Tyrion followed, but not Lord Tywin. He turned to the window instead, showing her his rigid posture.

“We shall stay in Harrenhal until I have word from His Grace, but if I were you, my Lord. I would begin to think about how to get out of this situation. You attacked the Riverlands without any reason, breaking the King’s Peace in the worse possible way… well, not the worse. Queen Cersei’s days are numbered, and if His Grace wishes, your house will end in a moonsturn.”

“He won’t,” Lord Tywin’s tone was neutral. “Robert always turned to others for the most unsavory things. Exterminating a great house? He won’t do it.”

Alysanne’s hand went to the arm behind her. Her uncle did not draw his sword, but it was a near thing.

“Speaking of unsavory things,” Lord Tyrion spoke, his eyes were on the list. “I don’t see Gregor Clegane’s name in this list. I cannot imagine the man leading the vanguard your army so swift destroyed would escape.”

“He didn’t,” her uncle’s tone was cold in his anger. “He and Amory Lorch are special cases, as I am sure your Lord father understands. They are under my … care.”

“You were never a sadistic nor a particular cruel man, Ser Arthur. I would believe talks of those if the Viper was in this room instead of you.”

“Lord Tywin is right. Ser Arthur is no cruel man,” Alysanne said. “I had Clegane and Lorch’s hands sent to Sunspear with trusted men. Their heads are not mind to take. But Clegane and his men did nothing to hid their rapes, and we all know the punishment for rape.”

Alysanne felt her spine straight a bit as silence thickened. She made sure all knew it had been her idea, if not her hand, that did the deed. No northern criticized her decision once Lorch confessed his guilty and that of Clegane.

“Some chose the wall instead of the knife,” Lord Tyrion said, uncomfortable. The witty man was gone.

Alysanne shrugged. “They must have forgotten that.”

“Or someone did not give them that chance.”

“I had two lords with me, Lord Tyrion,” Alysanne said, her tone giving nothing away. “If His Grace has a problem with the way the war was conducted, he can put me on trial along with the Lannisters.”

Lord Tywin gave her a cold smile. “Robert Baratheon wouldn’t put you on trial for that, Lady Snow,” he called her, his mocking meant to be hurtful. “He will put you and your uncle on trial for treason. They are hiding Rhaegar’s daughter, after all. And your kingsguard, there will be no mercy this time.”

This time she was not quick enough to stop her uncle, who proved why he was one of the best knights in the kingdom with the swiftness he had Lord Tywin’s neck under a knife. At least it wasn’t Dawn. And the Lord of Casterly Rock was still breathing.

“What?” Tyrion Lannister astonishing face would be funny in any other situation.

“And she knows,” the Great Lion concluded.

Of course she did. Alysanne knew for close to a decade.

“How?” her uncle – her protector – asked the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Despite being uncle Arthur who made the question, Lord Tywin’s eyes stared into hers as he replied. “She was Shaera Targaryen’s face, who passed much of her features to her daughter, Queen Rhaella. Her eyes are all Rhaegar’s, of course. I can see why Arthur Dayne would shame himself.”

“He needs to die. They both do,” her uncle warned her.

“Tell me, little princess,” Lord Tywin asked, “Would you kill a man to ensure your survival?”

“To stop Robert Baratheon from killing me and my kin? I would kill you both without losing a night of sleep. Perhaps Dorne will like to add your head to their growing collection, my lord.”

Alysanne took her secret weapon from the hidden pocket of her left sleeve. The broken Stark seal shocking even Ser Arthur.

“You got news?” he asked her in High Valyrian.

Lord Tyrion huffed. “You two aren’t the only ones capable of speaking fancy languages, Ser Arthur. Even I was interested in a princely education.”

“My father had written before we went to Robert. He left the letter in Lord Stannis’ hand. He was to deliver it to me if something were to happen. Losing contact for weeks or me capturing most male members of House Lannister seems to have been reason enough,” she leaned over the table, letting a triumphant smile appear. “Did you know with whom your daughter committed treason, my Lord Lannister? How do all of Queen Cersei’s children look so utterly Lannister?”

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Lord Tyrion flinching. She grinned. “Your son does. How utterly Targaryen of your children.”

“A malicious lie to save your skin? Perhaps there is some dragon fire in your.”

“I have enough proof. Besides, if your grandchildren’s lives are on the line, do you think Queen Cersei won’t admit who the father is? Or that Ser Jaime won’t come forward to save them?”

“He will,” Tyrion Lannister broke first. “If Cersei won’t say it out of spite.”

Alysanne leaned on her chair. “It seems we both have secrets to keep. Treasonable secrets.”

Alysanne looked at her uncle, who, amidst her confession, stopped holding a knife to Lord Lannister’s neck.

“The Greyjoys’ rebelled and kept their heads. I am sure if you condoned your daughter, you can keep yours. Tell them the queen begged her brother to save her. Ser Jaime’s reputation of putting his family first and his king second will come in hand. He came to you, and  you couldn’t let your daughter and grandchildren die.”

“I will keep my head. I can come to an agreement with Robert. For how little time he will be king. If he does not offer you a crown before you rebel.”

“If I wed Robert Baratheon, it would be so I can stage an efficient coup.”

“Alysanne,” her uncle cautioned her.

“Relax, uncle. We are all friends here. Bound in treason and conspiracy.”

“The best of friends,” Tyrion Lannister grinned. “Beauty and cleverness, the Gods were inspired in the day you were born, my lady.”

“Ser Jaime can be exiled once he admits wanting to protect her sister at all costs. For siblings’ love, of course. And he did see those kids grew up.”

“Bear Island,” her uncle offered. She was surprised he even spoke. “Very far away, isolated, cold, and Robert will love to have sent Lord Tywin’s child there. The women of bear island are loyal to House Stark and, as such, the Crown.”

“Once the regime changes, my son will return,” Lord Tywin told her in a cold tone that was a threat.

“Now, this is real treason,” Lord Tyrion spoke, his tone cheerful.

Alysanne’s heartbeat could not be natural.

“Lord Tyrion can be sent to exile in Essos. I am sure he will amuse himself there.”

“I always wanted to see the great wonders.”

She nodded. “Do please write to me about them.”

Lord Tywin looked between the two of them.

“A dwarf can’t be a king, not even as a consort, father,” Tyrion jested.

Alysanne froze. She knew something needed to be given on her part. Alysanne couldn’t offer them anything. Not yet.

“I am sure Lord Tywin as much he desires. So I do,” Alysanne half-bluffed. “But people await me, and I need first to see the reaction from the Crown. Robert can send a letter to have you all executed, and our plans would have to be others. For now, as a show of goodwill, I will have Ser Jaime brought to your chambers. He can stay in Ser Addam’s bed. Of course, neither of you can speak or be allowed to do so to anyone.”

Lord Tyrion laughed.

.

.

Ser Arthur let the doors of her chamber close before he spoke.

“You cannot trust the Lannisters, Aly. Let me kill them and be done with it.”

Alysanne put her hands on his shoulders. The shoulders of her protector. “Robert won’t last long on the throne, and I do not say it because of whatever revenge you or Dorne might plot.”

Her uncle raised an eyebrow. “How did Lord Stark know, and no one else did?”

“He didn’t. He doesn’t. The letter was not sent with Stannis Baratheon’s message. It came from another means. Little means.”

“Varys. He sent your father’s letter.”

“Yes. With added information. Varys was the one who told me the truth, which means he wanted me to use the information.”

“The spider has plots under plots.”

“But I am not his pawn. He likely imagined we would use this to kill the Lannisters, not ally with them. I might hate Tywin Lannister, but I won’t be a Spider’s pawn.”

.

.

Her tears would not stop.

Alysanne wanted to shout out the window at the injustice of the world.

Alysanne wanted to never leave the bed, so she could hide from all.

Alysanne wanted Joffrey and Cersei’s heads. She wanted to kill everyone who believed they could take Lord Stark’s life and not suffer.

She wanted vengeance.

But she needed to plot to come ahead.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 – Margaery I

"They say she is a beast, Marge," Alla whispered, her voice tinged with fear. "They claim she transforms into a wolf under the moonlight, devouring men's hearts."

Margaery and her ladies were getting ready to receive the Stark's contingency and the Lannister prisoners. The Tyrell party had been graciously offered the Maidenvault for the duration of their stay, extending until Margaery's marriage to the King, which would fulfil her father’s promise to make her a queen.

Though Margaery wasn't particularly keen on orchestrating an reception for the northern army, she accepted her role as a gracious hostess. It was important for the people to witness her standing beside the King, her future husband, and take a role in helping him. The perception of their union was crucial, and Margaery seized every opportunity to captivate and charm the King.

Not that it required much effort; winning the King's attention wasn't the challenge—it was keeping it. Like the queens who came before her, Margaery had learned the art of looking the other way when confronted with their spouses infidelity. Robert Baratheon wasn’t know to keep mistresses or give them any power, fortunately.

"I highly doubt she has the ability to transform into a wolf," Elinor scoffed, her skepticism evident.

"And what about those rumors claiming she's a sinister witch? Sacrificing men to her Gods before battle to secure her victory? Or that she kills innocent maidens to maintain her beauty, so she could look like a trueborn daughter?" Alla voice’s trembled, a mixture of fear and naivety.

"I believe it's nothing more than a bunch of men unable to accept defeat at the hands of a girl," Elinor continued, her tone dismissive. "Wouldn't you agree, Marge?"

Margaery tried her best to avoid dwelling on Alysanne Snow. However, the Bastard of Winterfell had become the talk of the city since her first stunning victory against the Lannister army. Songs and tales portrayed her in various ways, but they all shared one sentiment—she was undeniably beautiful. Margaery was all too familiar with Robert Baratheon's behavior towards attractive women, and given Alysanne's status as a bastard, propriety wasn't likely to restrain her.

"I don't believe Alysanne Snow possesses the breathtaking beauty the songs claim," the future queen stated thoughtfully. "While I don't believe she is a sorcerer, I do agree that she is far from innocent. How else could she have garnered such loyalty from an army? No doubt she has a lover—a powerful Northern lord—whom she manipulates with her feminine charms. It's possible that her lover was the true commander of the army, not the bastard herself."

Upon hearing these words, a woman's voice chimed in. They all turned to Septa Nysterica, who was diligently fastening the laces of Margaery's blue gown. " Everyone knows that bastards are wanton and treacherous by nature, a product of been born of lust and deceit," the septa spoke, her scarred face turning upward, her genuine concern shining in her brown eyes. "It is deeply troubling to witness this one dressing and behaving in a manner unbefitting of a maiden. I worry for you, my ladies. You must remain devout and resolute, steadfast in your faith, so as not to be corrupted by such... individuals." The septa struggled to find an appropriate term for the Bastard of Winterfell.

"What if she tries to kill me in order to enhance her beauty?" Alla persisted, her anxiety palpable.

Margaery fought the urge to roll her eyes at Alla's fears, instead responding in a soothing tone, "Fear not, Alla. Nothing will befall you. His Grace will express gratitude to Lady Snow and swiftly send her back to Winterfell."

The septa made a sign of prayer, her face etched with concern. "Perhaps she should be sent to a motherhouse, my lady. A strict septa could help rectify such wickedness. I worry for the Lady of Winterfell, a poor lady raised in the true faith, surrounded by unruly men. I fear harm may befall her and her children."

Margaery was reaching her limit. Alysanne Snow's disruptive presence was stealing the attention that rightfully belonged to her, Margaery. This was meant to be her era, a time when courtiers would admire her and hail her as the beacon of hope for the future. The whispers and rumors should have revolved around her virtuous nature and gentle demeanor, emphasizing how she would make a far superior queen compared to the haughty Cersei Lannister. Instead, the focus was incessantly fixated on the bastard.

Moreover, Alysanne's Stark and Dayne lineage posed an additional concern. If she bore even a slight resemblance to the legendary Lyanna Stark, the King's judgment might be clouded, leading him to make foolish decisions. The notion of the King taking Alysanne as his mistress was an alarming possibility. It could diminish her own power on himm. Margaery was well aware of her own beauty and knew she possessed the ability to captivate any man's heart. Renly had assured her that Robert would be ensnared by her charms, regardless of his numerous other dalliances. However, she didn't need Renly to remind her that if this Alysanne truly resembled Lyanna Stark, they would face significant challenges.

Alysanne had already demonstrated her shrewdness and disregard for propriety, leaving Margaery deeply unsettled. The last thing she needed was another contender vying for the King's affections and threatening her position as his intended queen.

The state of affairs in the North presented its own set of challenges. With no elder Stark men available to assume the regency, the stability of the region was uncertain. Lady Lysa Arryn would serve as regent for now, but her impending marriage to a nobleman from the Vale could further complicate matters. Meanwhile, Lady Catelyn found herself surrounded by a foreign culture that starkly contrasted with her own upbringing.

“I don't believe Lady Snow would resort to kinslaying," Margaery remarked, her tone laced with cautious optimism. "And Lady Stark, I believe, must have a plan in place to maintain control over her. We must trust in her wisdom."

However, Margaery couldn't help but hope that this plan involved keeping Alysanne at a considerable distance from the Red Keep and its insatiable, lustful king.

.

.

Margaery maintained a gentle smile as Robert Baratheon gallantly kissed her hand. His corpulent figure was less than desirable, but she was willing to endure his presence in her bed as long as he granted her the gift of little princes. Her grandmother had pointed out that despite being in his mid-thirties, Robert looked much older. His indulgent lifestyle was catching up to him, and his declining health was a clear indication. Margaery saw the opportunity in this. Her own son would soon ascend the throne, and a young king would rely heavily on his mother and her kin for guidance.

Stannis, on the other hand, would surely oppose such a notion. He had made no secret of his disdain for Margaery's family. It was unfortunate that his efforts in investigating Cersei's infidelity and reclaiming the city had earned him the title of Hand of the King. Renly would have been a more favorable option, and one who would have remained loyal to her. However, he had been slow to act, and Robert's recent temperament left little room for forgiveness. Renly may still hold his position, but he was closely monitored.

Margaery had little doubt that if Lord Stark had survived, he would have been named Hand, and Lord Stannis would find himself with Renly's council post. Her father was attempting to persuade her to appoint a Reachman as the new Master of Ships, a position that had recently become vacant. However, to their astonishment, King Robert seemed inclined to give it to someone from the North instead or that commonborn lord that helped Lord Stannis take the city.

The shifting dynamics of power and intrigue within the realm were causing unease among the Tyrell party. Margaery knew she had to navigate these treacherous waters with utmost care to secure her family's influence and safeguard her own position as the future queen.

"I urged your father to act swiftly," Margaery's grandmother had advised her during one of their leisurely midday meals in the gardens. "Robert may be foolish in many matters, but he is astute on the battlefield. Paxwell failed to offer his ships when they faced the Ironborn, and your father's army barely had time to depart Highgarden before Stannis and that northern whore dealt with the Lannisters."

There would be no great offices given to reachman. But for one. It was highly likely that Loras would be offered the prestigious position of the Kingsguard, becoming the youngest member since Ser Jaime took the oath.

“Today is such a sunny day,” Margaery said, seizing the opportunity as a pretense to rearrange her hair, allowing the deep neckline of her dress to reveal the enticing valley between her breasts. As expected, the King's eyes were drawn to the seductive display.

"It seems the Gods are favoring Ned's daughter on this beautiful day," Robert remarked. "Her party has been sighted already. Will you be welcoming her, my lady?"

Margaery maintained her smile, though inwardly she cringed at the thought of welcoming the bastard. Nonetheless, she had to play her part. "Certainly," she replied, masking her true feelings. "My ladies and I will gladly receive her at the gates of the Red Keep. I'm sure Lady Alysanne must have missed the company of women during her time away." In truth, Margaery doubted it. Rumors had circulated that there was another woman in Alysanne's party, sharing her tent during the short campaign. It was likely another uncouth northerner, someone who despised the more refined nature of women.

Robert Baratheon's laughter filled the air. "I must admit, my lady, Ned always said that Alysanne had a mind of her own. He wasn't surprised when she took on those lions," he remarked with genuine admiration. "And to think she emerged victorious!" The King relished in the triumph of the girl who had brought down the mighty lion. "Truly a she-wolf in her own right." His eyes then shifted to Margaery, a mischievous glint dancing within them. "However, I am certain she would appreciate the company of women of a gentler nature."

Margaery maintained her smile, though it pained her to do so. She gracefully curtsied before the King, her movements elegant and deliberate, allowing him a tantalizing view of her womanly allure. It was a calculated move, designed to captivate his attention and solidify her position of allure and desirability within his eyes.

The bastard was not the only one yielding weapons. Margaery possessed her own arsenal of tricks and schemes, honed through years of careful observation and manipulation.

.

.

Margaery felt a mix of curiosity and unease as she observed the procession. The sight of Alysanne Snow, clad in black and exuding an air of fierce independence, left an impression on her. The idea of northern gallantry it seemed were men in their armor and furs, riding warhorses. It did conveyed the sense of ruggedness and practicality that it was associated with the North.

Riding astride a white warhorse instead of the customary gentle palfrey typically associated with noblewomen, Alysanne defied any expectations of femininity. Margaery had never seen a woman ride such a horse. It was a stark departure from the graceful and delicate demeanor expected of highborn ladies.

Margaery knew she would take note of all the lords and their own positions in the progress, but her eyes were in the figure of black and white and her companion. Despite her composed demeanor, Margaery couldn't help but wonder about the true nature of Alysanne Snow as by her right side, stood a what was no doubt, a white direwolf. The tales of witchcraft and the uncanny bond with animals didn’t seemed so far-fetched now. Her thoughts drifted to a time long past, before Dragons conquered the lands, when the Faith of the Seven condemned and burned women suspected of practicing unnatural arts.

Margaery would push the unease within her and would greet Alysanne Snow with the required courtesy. No matter what wickedness was within the bastard, Margaery reminded herself that she was the queen-to-be, the epitome of grace and charm.

Margaery observed the Bastard of Winterfell dismount from her horse with a surprising display of grace, considering the size of the animal and the girl's slender frame. Margaery couldn't help but notice the similarities in height between them. Alysanne was not towering over her as she had initially imagined.

The young woman's dark, curly hair glistened with a silvery sheen, catching Margaery's attention. It was carefully styled with two little braids that prevented it from falling into her eyes. Unlike her companions, Alysanne was neither clad in armor nor in a gown. Instead, she wore a black cloak that concealed her entire figure. The cloak lacked any discernible shape, but two leather straps were visible, crisscrossing her upper body and waist.

Margaery's gaze shifted to the purpose of the straps, noticing the white quiver with red-feathered arrows that peeked out. The sight of the vibrant red against the backdrop of black caught her eye, drawing attention to Alysanne's deadly arsenal. The renowned weirwood bow, known for its role in the Battle of the Whispering Woods, was also present on Alysanne's back.

Did the bastard though she would need those arrow? Was she so battle obsessed that she not see the war was done? The war was over and the  girl was about to meet the King of Westeros. Surely the bastard had to have at least one dress. But as she moved closer to the welcoming party, Margaery noticed that the fur on her cloak, it was black as the rest, but it made her think of ravens. It was a queer thought to have about fur.

However, once Margaery found herself face to face with the Bastard of Winterfell, her breath caught in her throat. She couldn't deny the overwhelming beauty that radiated from Alysanne. Doubt began to cloud Margaery's judgment as she looked upon Alysanne's flawless skin, as fair as snow, and her features, carved like marble.

The Bastard's eyes, a striking shade of luminous purple, stood in stark contrast to the darkness Margaery had come to associate with her. Alysanne's face was a mixture of strength and refined elegance, with sharp angles, bow-shaped lips, and lidded eyes. In that moment, Margaery couldn't help but acknowledge the power that Alysanne Snow's beauty held.

If Lyanna Stark was as eerily beautiful, no wonder King Robert and Prince Rhaegar were willing to die for her.

Deep down, a seed of doubt began to grow within Margaery. How could she possibly compete with such ethereal beauty? A part of her wondered if Alysanne Snow had achieved her stunning appearance through some dark, supernatural means, perhaps even bathing in the blood of virgins.

“My lady,” the bastard gave a stiff curtsey. Did no woman taught her the gentle way of ladies? Her curtsey seemed like that of a man instead of a woman.

That, Margaery could beat. She greeted the Bastard of Winterfell with a warm smile and sweet grace. Reciting the prepared speech she had crafted beforehand, Margaery praised the Bastard for her swift actions and unwavering resolve in upholding the King's Peace.

"His Grace awaits your presence in the Throne Room," Margaery concluded, casting a warm smile to the assembled lords. Most of them remained stoic, seemingly immune to her charms. Were northerners truly made of stone? Or were they so entranced by the Bastard's striking beauty that ordinary attractiveness failed to stir their reactions? "Might you desire some refreshments or a change of attire before the audience?" Margaery delicately alluded to the unconventional garb worn by the Bastard.

The Bastard's smile held an enigmatic quality. "No, Lady Margaery, I shall not further delay His Grace."

Margaery's smile faltered ever so slightly at the Bastard's response, sensing a touch of defiance. Nevertheless, she composed herself and nodded graciously.

"As you wish, my lady," Margaery replied with diplomatic poise. "Let us proceed to the Throne Room and present ourselves before His Grace."

She gestured towards the direction of the Red Keep, indicating for the group to start making their way. Margaery led the procession, with Alysanne and her companions following closely behind. As she walked towards the Throne Room, Margaery reminded herself that she was a trueborn daughter of a Great Lord and the most desirable woman of marriageable age in the Kingdom.

And she would soon be Queen.

.

.

Margaery positioned herself within the Tyrell party, closer to the Iron Throne than most. The heraldry announced the arrival of the Northern party, and an eerie silence fell over the room as the woman dressed in black made her way forward, her posture impeccable, and her steps light yet assured.

"Seven hells," her father whispered, his gaze shifting between Margaery and the Bastard of Winterfell. Even Garlan, usually so composed, was momentarily struck speechless by the presence of the approaching woman.

Margaery's eyes met those of her grandmother, and within that shrewd gaze, she recognized a shared understanding. It was not the lions that posed the greatest threat, but the she-wolf.

As Margaery glanced towards the Iron Throne, she noticed the King himself, seated upon it, appearing equally dumbfounded. She had heard whispers of Shiera Seastar's legendary beauty, but she had never truly comprehended its power until this very moment. It could literally silence a room.

With the grace of a feline, Alysanne Snow knelt before the imposing Iron Throne, her cloak cascading around her, and her back held straight.

The King of Westeros took an agonizingly long time to regain his composure.

"I, Robert of House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby proclaim Lady Alysanne Stark, Protector of the Peace and Warden of the North."

Whispers spread throughout the room, kept at a level that remained respectful but betrayed the surprise and intrigue among the gathered nobles. With a single sentence, Robert Baratheon had not only legitimized the Bastard of Winterfell but elevated her to a status akin to the greatest knights and bestowed upon her a position that not even a handful of women had held in close to three centuries.

Protector of the Peace. Margaery pondered, trying to recall any woman who had ever held such a title apart from Alysanne Blackwood and the early Queens of Westeros. It was a distinction born from the tumultuous Dornish Wars, drawing inspiration from the ancient Order of the Green Hand, and traditionally bestowed upon a knight who demonstrated exceptional valor in defending the King's Peace. If Alysanne Snow had been a man, the title would have made logical sense, as there had been bastards who carried it. Lord Orys Baratheon had been excluded due to his noble status, but Brynden Rivers and Alyn of Hull were among those who had been granted such honors.

However, to bestow such a title upon a woman? To grant her the privileges associated with the Keeper of the Peace? It was utterly unprecedented. And to name a woman as Warden, a position historically held only by the ruling lords of their respective regions? It had never been done before.

Margaery wondered which of these appointments would stir the most scandal among the assembled nobility. She observed Robert Baratheon's amusement, particularly when his gaze settled upon the woman kneeling before the imposing Iron Throne.

"Your Grace," the bastard spoke, her voice betraying a hint of surprise at the unexpected turn of events. "I am grateful for the great honors bestowed upon me. I shall strive to be guided by justice and mercy in carrying out my duties."

The weight of the King's gaze spoke volumes, and Margaery couldn't help but long for the days of her childhood when she could simply storm out of a room when someone displeased her.

.

.

"Tywin Lannister will live," her father announced as he entered the solar. The room fell silent, with everyone waiting for him to begin the meal. Only her grandmother, ever the unconstrained one, continued eating, oblivious to the customary protocol of waiting for the Lord of the House.

"What?" exclaimed Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns. "What do you mean he will live? His daughter was engaging in illicit relations behind the king's back! And with her cousin, no less! He waged a war against the King!"

"As did the Greyjoys," interjected the Lord of the Arbor. "But what fate awaits the Lion?"

"He will be granted a pardon on the condition that the King's debt to House Lannister is wiped out," her father revealed. "Tywin will publicly acknowledge his blindness to his daughter's treasonous nature, as well as that of his nephew. He will disavow any involvement and wash his hands of the affair. Furthermore, as a means to further humble the Lord of Casterly Rock, it will be Lord Lannister himself who will bear the financial burden of supporting Lady Alysanne in her role as one of the Keepers of the Peace."

The income required for such a position was not insignificant, comparable to that of a minor lord. While it may not have posed a great burden for the Great Lion, the humiliation associated with the payment would undoubtedly gnaw at Lord Lannister's pride.

“What about Ser Jaime?" her grandmother inquired, her mind, no doubt, already plotting some scheme.

"He will be exiled to the North, to some remote island," her father replied with a hint of resignation.

Her grandmother let out a scoff. "Is the North to become a dumping ground for exiles now? What has become of the Wall? Did it fall without us knowing?"

Her father's expression shifted, betraying a hint of discomfort. "Lady Alysanne made an appeal to the King," he revealed.

Both grandmother and grandchild leaned in, their shock evident. "What?" they asked in unison.

"Lady Alysanne pleaded before the King, requesting an opportunity for Ser Jaime to redeem himself. She argued that people often act irrationally when their family is involved. Somehow, she managed to sway the King's opinion, highlighting how her own uncle had displayed unwavering determination to save his sister, and that she always found that as chivalrous and gallant as the king’s own actions. However, Ser Jaime will still be bound by his vows as a member of the Kingsguard."

"This is an affront to justice!" Garlan exclaimed from his seat. "Ser Jaime's rightful place is at the Wall, as it has been traditionally."

Margaery couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease at the turn of events. The bastard did have an influence over the King. She had been in the castle a week!

"Lady Alysanne will also be entrusted with the wardship of Myrcella and Tommen Hill," her father stated, his voice laden with weariness. "His Grace has subtly suggested that it would be wise for Lady Alysanne to marry Willas."

"No!" Margaery exclaimed, her voice filled with shock and outrage.

"Is the King completely mad?" her grandmother interjected, her tone more composed but with a firm undertone. "Willas is the heir to Highgarden, not some inconsequential knight! The girl is a bastard, worse, a savage one who likely seduced Robert Baratheon the moment she realized she could manipulate him into granting her anything she desired. Including the Heir of Highgarden it seems!"

Her father, who typically avoided the intricacies of politics, turned to his mother with a defeated expression. "We have no choice, mother. The King is displeased with House Tyrell's lack of action since he ascended the throne. Lord Renly barely maintained his position on the small council. Moreover, His Grace pointed out that despite her birth, Lady Alysanne was born to noble parents who would likely have been wed by now if not for the Rebellion."

"I'm certain he employed far more colorful language," her grandmother sneered, her disdain evident in her voice.

"And he went on to say that Lady Alysanne is now the Warden of the North and could even serve as its Regent if she so desired. He implied that she held the highest position among the ladies of the realm, second only to Princess Arianne."

"No!" Margaery shouted once more, her frustration boiling over. She could no longer remain still. "He wants her for himself, Father!"

"I'm not entirely certain that's his sole intention," her father replied with a gentle tone. "Undoubtedly, he is attracted to her, but he keeps mentioning his promise to protect Ned's daughter as if she were his own. I believe he truly wants to fulfill that promise."

Olenna Tyrell let out a scornful laugh. "He desires her in his bed and wishes to be her father at the same time. Gods, that man truly has the blood of the Targaryens."

"We cannot allow poor Willas to marry that deceitful barbarian!" Margaery insisted, her voice filled with concern. Willas, who possessed a kind heart and ambition, was a scholar whose intellect matched Loras and Garlan's swordsmanship. Despite his impaired leg, he remained an attractive man.

"We have no choice, Marge," her father responded, his voice carrying a sense of resignation. It stung her, as if he were treating her like a child. “Not if you want to be Queen.”

Olenna Tyrell had the final say. "We shall proceed with the marriage, but I will not allow that girl to taint our lineage with her illegitimate blood."

Garlan, and even surprisingly Loras, scoffed at the notion. "Have you seen her, Grandmother? Lady Alysanne? I doubt there is a man who could resist her, especially someone like Willas."

"He can have as many mistresses as he desires, as long as he ensures this particular woman does not conceive a child. And if needed, there are means to prevent a woman's womb from bearing fruit."

Margaery squirmed in her seat, feeling a sense of discomfort wash over her. Despite the unsettling nature of such a decision, her grandmother was speaking the truth. Olenna Tyrell would not openly harm the bastard, as it would be too obvious, but Margaery couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the girl. Alysanne Snow's unconventional ways would become the subject of ridicule within the court of Highgarden, and coupled with a life devoid of children, she would be condemned to a solitary and unhappy existence as Willas' wife.

But even so, it was a better fate than death.

Suddenly, a realization dawned upon Margaery, and she spoke up, her voice tinged with concern. "What will happen to Joffrey?"

Margaery had never seen her father rendered so speechless. He stammered something about inappropriate behavior and the barbarity of the North, but before he could find the right words, Margaery already knew the answer.

Margaery felt the urgent need to write a letter to Willas, warning him about his soon-to-be wife. She wanted to inform him of the barbaric and unladylike nature of Alysanne Snow, a woman who seemed to have no regard for proper behavior. Margaery believed it necessary to emphasize that Alysanne rarely dressed like a maiden, carried weapons, and displayed characteristics that suggested she may be both a whore and a witch.

She cursed the Seven Hells for bestowing a crown upon Robert Baratheon. If Prince Rhaegar had been the one crowned, Margaery would have been wed to a handsome, silvery-haired prince, and Willas would have found himself betrothed to a princess or a lady of high standing. But now, Margaery had to endure the company of a fat whoremonger, and Willas was destined to be bound to an unsuitable woman who would never bear him heirs.

Frustrated and disgruntled, Margaery went to her room, ready to pen a letter that would leave no doubts in Willas' mind about the supposed shortcomings of his future wife.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 – Alysanne III

The room ablaze with heated discourse between the lords of the North. Alysanne wondered if the Spider was entrained with such a spectacle. When Alysanne entered the solar, flanked by Dacey and Arthur, the lords had greeted her as they one would of their own, but soon descend into squabbling.

"I am far from happy about this marriage, my lords," her voice rang out, instantly hushing the room. "While most maidens would delight in a union with the Heir of Highgarden, you all know me better than that," she quipped with a wry, self-deprecating smile, her voice now tinged with a touch of shame, that would hit the mark. "It is likely that you have already discerned my true intentions upon our return home."

"My lady, how can you rule the North if that delicate flower will demand your presence in the south?" Ser Wendel Manderly inquired, his words laden with concern.

"His Grace cannot subject you to such a pouncy flower. You are a she-wolf, not a shrinking violet!" thundered the Greatjon.

Alysanne pondered whether Ser Wendel contemplated his single status, and if the Greatjon brooded over his unwed sons. Her eyes met those of the pale lord within her line of sight, but his inscrutable expression divulged nothing, as always.

"Fear not, my lords, for the marriage is an irrevocable decree," she declared, surveying the room. "However, there is no reason why I cannot fulfil my duties as Warden of the North. I shall ensure that justice remains firmly in Stark's grasp. After extensive discussions with His Grace and the Small Council and considering all your counsel, I have resolved to spend a year in the North, ensuring that all unfolds in accordance with reason. I shall wed beneath the ancient Weirwood of Winterfell, a dream I had since I was a little girl," she added, a gentle smile gracing her lips. Revealing her vulnerability beneath the armor and steel only enhanced her reputation, evoking a protective instinct among her loyal lords. "Only then shall I wed in Highgarden. But not until that year has passed. And afterward, I shall spent half a year in Winterfell."

Her gaze swept the room, observing the majority of lords nodding in agreement, except for Ryswell, who had been vehemently opposed to her regency from the start, and Roose, who, despite his cool façade, sought to discern the trajectory of her plans in the long run. Alysanne had a somewhat of a bound with the Lord of the Dreadfort, born in military campaign and their late evening talks. She could see the danger he could pose, much more than Ryswell ever could. But Roose Bolton could also be a formidable ally. And he saw her sharp claws before anyone other lord.

"As for the duration of my absence, a triumvirate ruling the North is not unprecedented. While I reside in the North, I shall assume the leadership, while other responsibilities shall be delegated," her eyes traversed the room, focusing on Lord Manderly’s son. "Lord Wyman Manderly shall oversee the collection of taxes," she acknowledged with a nod the lord’s sons who almost puffed with pride. Then, she turned to Smalljon. "My lord, I entrust you with the task of maintaining peace within our lands during my absence and hope to count on your counsel while I stay in the North."

“It will be my honor!”

Alysanne allowed the congratulations to go around the room until she let her eyes fall onto Lord Bolton.

“My Lord Bolton, you shall administer the North.”

A chorus of congratulations filled the room, but Alysanne sensed an undercurrent of tension. Soon, Wylis Manderly voiced his approval of her astute decisions. Yet, Alysanne knew that this was merely the opening act, with the stage set for what lay ahead.

.

.

Alysanne could feel the suffocating silence enveloping the air as she ascended the steps of the wooden platform, her fine wool cloak billowing behind her. Despite the heather's warmth, the cloak served its purpose, making a striking statement. The White Wolf, they called her. Arthur had whispered that the court and the realm had bestowed this title upon her, especially after verifying the existence of the direwolf that now trailed faithfully behind her.

It was the kinder name that had for her.

Ghost, as always, remained by her side, eerily silent.

Alysanne took her rightful place, and soon the King of the Seven Kingdoms made his grand entrance. The gathering crowd was larger than anticipated, and Alysanne couldn't help but wonder if her father had drawn such a crowd when his lifeblood was spilled before the statue of the Baelor the Blessed.

They say of Cersei wore black cloth and rubies for the occasion, resembling a Targaryen more than some Targaryens themselves. Joffrey had embodied the epitome of a Lannister prince. Alysanne, on the other hand, had no animals sewn into her garments, nor did she adorn herself with jewels. Her hair was styled in a braided bun that branched into two braids—an emblem of both her Northern heritage and maidenhood.

Two guards forcefully dragged the protesting man up the stairs until he stood face to face with his imminent destiny. He tried to wrenched loose in a futile attempt to break free and flee, only to be ruthlessly shoved to the ground.

Alysanne couldn't help but suppress a triumphant smile.

Robert Baratheon, the embodiment of a Baratheon king in black and gold, delivered a speech brimming with strength. However, Alysanne paid little attention, her focus fixed on the Northern lords, Arthur, and even Lord Tyrell and his two sons—the ones she wouldn't be forced to marry.

Lord Tyrell, despite his age and robust figure, was still a handsome man. His cascading curls, a lustrous shade of brown that he had bestowed to his younger sons and daughter, lent an air of charm even with the hints of grey. While not towering in stature, he stood near the height of Lord Stark, though his two sons surpassed him, with Ser Garlan being as tall as her uncle Arthur.

Alysanne found herself pondering whether her betrothed would bear the same lazy curls, and couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for their future offspring, who would inherit the combined legacy of her own coils and their father's possibly lazy hair.

The King ended his speech, invoking the Northern Justice and the Old Way, and summoned the Warden of the North to step forward. As Alysanne shed her cloak and handed it to Lord Bolton, her chosen companion for this momentous occasion, a gasp rippled through the crowd.

Her tightly fitted wool gown, black with swirling shades of dark blue, defied fashion norms. It seemed like an ancient Northern garb, reminiscent of the drawings and paintings depicting long-forgotten queens. The discerning eye might notice something else—the tight sleeves, the straight cut, and the high neck—a style not uncommon during the early years of Targaryen rule. And those blue swirls, if painted in hues of red and orange, could be likened to flames.

Yet, even in her regal appearance, she couldn't outshine Cersei Lannister's mastery of looking like a true Targaryen. Nor did she want to.

As she walked, Alysanne could almost hear own her steps. She drew closer to the man, now forced to the ground, his sanity seemingly shattered. "No," Slynt cried. " Unhand me … you cannot … she is a girl, a bastard. Her father was a traitor. She is worse than a whore. The mark of the beast is on her, that wolf of hers... You will rue the day you laid hands on Janos Slynt. I have friends. I warn you—"

The morning sun gleamed brightly, a bright day of summer, she noticed, clasping the hilt of Ice. Uncle Arthur had suggested Dark Sister or even Dawn, Ice was a towering sword, tall than Alysanne herself. But Ice was the sword of House Stark and a fearsome weapon. Alysanne had spent the past few days training with it, a secret shared only with Uncle Arthur.

"If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them," her voice cut through the air, frigid like the winds of winter

Considering the speech he had given her, Alysanne was expecting a curse. Yet, the man foolishly attempted to lunge at her. He never stood a chance. The Baratheon guard, less accommodating this time, impaled him with a lance at the knee.

Poetic justice since his men had done similar to her own father.

"This will go easier if you stay still," Alysanne promised him. Though she had never executed a man herself, she had witnessed her father's handiwork. She knew the customary speech he often delivered. Move to avoid the cut, and you will still die, but your dying will be uglier. Stretch out your neck, my lord, " she spatted the title given to him by Cersei Lannister. The sunlight ran up and down her blade as Alysanne clasped the hilt of the tall sword with both hands and raised it high. "I repeat. If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them,"

Janos Slynt twisted his neck to stare up at her. "Please, my sweet lady. Mercy. A lady’s mercy, I beg you. I’ll… I did that they asked… the Queen she is to blame. Mother’s mercy, my sweet lady…”

No, she thought resolutely. They said my father faced his end with dignity, despite his wounds and his agonizing final days. I have no Mother's mercy for you.

Ice descended.

Alysanne's gaze lingered as they carried away the lifeless body. Her mind remembering the dutiful lord and gentle father—the man who had taught her about justice and honor. The lord who would share his bread with the highest of lords and the lowliest of commoners. The lord who had offered encouraging words to Bran, laughed at Arya's tendency to present him with flowers, and always kissed Sansa's hair when she displayed her needlework, and playfully tossed little Rickon in the air.

The man who had regarded Alysanne as one of his precious children.

They had brought Ser Ilyn Payne, tall and slender, his face bearing a haunting hollowness. Alysanne understood why many found him terrifying. Donned in a simple brown doublet, his appearance remained unflinching as he knelt before her.

With unwavering certainty, he nodded. This man had always remained steadfast in his duty an while facing death. She could respect that.

For the second time that day, Ice descended, severing yet another head.

.

.

The lack of weirwood in the King’s Landing Godswood made Alysanne feel strange. She wanted the Gods to hear her prayers, wanted to connect with the spirit of her father. How was she supposed to do that when the heart tree was a great oak instead of weirwood?

Still, Alysanne knelt and prayed. There was not heavy weight and the banner of duty as she knelt before the craved oak. No sense of legacy or fate. It was just Alysanne and nature. But there was also no feeling of the mystic like in Winterfell.

No there was quiet… Winterfell’s Godswood was always quiet, but in here Alysanne could hear the distant sounds of those leasuring in the gardens or the birds.

Forgive me Lord Stark. You tried to raise me to be honorable, good and merciful, but I have too much ambition and hatred in me. I want the regency that should be Lady Catelyn’s. I want the crown that should never be mine. But most of all I want the control power gives.

Forgive me for you tried your best in raising me but it still felt good to take those lives. It felt like justice and revenge, even if you always told me not to conflict the two.

Alysanne wanted to go back home, to the secure stone walls of Winterfell, but home would be a new battlefield.

.

.

Her mind was still consumed by prayers and memories as she strolled out of the Godswood, when she suddenly caught the sound of gentle weeping. It reminded her far too much of Arya’s cries, to just let it be. Approaching the source of the sound, she discovered a little girl sitting amidst a cluster of blooming flowers. The child's golden curls tumbled over her shoulders and back, and her attire was of fine blue satin. Amidst the satin, golden hair, and tear-stained cheeks, it was not difficult for Alysanne to discern the identity of the little girl.

Approaching with deliberate footsteps, Alysanne ensured her presence was known, though the girl remained unaffected by the sound. Only when Alysanne sat beside her did the girl turn, revealing Jaime Lannister's emerald eyes. Alysanne estimated her to be around eight years old. Alysanne remember the princess had been born in the same year as Bran.

The girl gazed at her with a timid expression, attempting to shield her face within her curls. Alysanne couldn't help but find it endearing, tugging at a thread of nostalgia within her. It reminded her of another young girl who sought solace in a tree to weeping her heart out.

"It hurt, I know," Alysanne spoke in a gentle tone, "that once you couldn't move without a septa constantly trailing behind you, and now, no one seems to care. Especially now that you have lost your mother." She adjusted her posture to appear less formal and more at ease, much like she did when Arya sought comfort. "Winterfell may have a septa and a few noble ladies, but they never followed me when I escaped. But when my sister Arya ran her lessons, they tirelessly looked for her. More often than not, it was my uncle Arthur who came searching for me. When I was younger than you, my brother Robb would chase after me."

A pang of pain coursed through her as she reminisced. Gods, it still hurt after all these years.

"Does he no longer chase after you?" the girl inquired.

"He died when I was seven. Then, I had no one to chase after me," Alysanne replied.

The thought saddened Alysanne. Uncle Arthur had always been her anchor, unwavering in his support, but it was different. Robb was young like, similar to her in some ways; he didn't understand why she was treated differently, nor did he care. Childhood innocence never abandoned him, unlike Sansa. And Arya, while refusing to acknowledge her as anything but a sister, often rebelled against her treatment because it was parallel to her own. Arya would rebel against her septa and her mother even if Alysanne was a born a boy. Bran—Bran referred to her as "my bastard sister," not even a moon before she departed for battle. Alysanne had wept into her pillow the night the first time she heard him call her that.

"Sometimes, Tom comes with me. But he cries out loudly, and people look at us with mean eyes."

Alysanne sighed. "Do you have any aunts or uncles with you?"

The girl's curls shook in response.

"Do you know why?" Alysanne probed gently.

"Because I am a bastard now. Mother was terribly wicked, the most wicked of all, and she was punished for it. Joffrey was very cruel, and he killed Lord Stark. But Joffrey was always cruel," the girl explained, her words carrying the weight of a child forced to comprehend the complexities of her brother's actions; youthful intelligence tempered with innocent.

"Was he cruel to you?" Alysanne inquired.

"He was even crueler to Tom. He once killed his cat, and I tried to strike him. Joffrey, not Tom," she swiftly clarified. "They say he was cruel because he was a bastard," the girl's eyes met Alysanne's, filled with inquisitiveness. "They say you are a bastard too."

"I am," Alysanne affirmed softly, hoping to reassure the girl that she could ask anything.

"Will I become cruel too? Tommen? Tom is so timid and kind. Mother claimed he was weak and stupid."

Alysanne contemplated her response. She remember how Septa Moderna had planted similar notions in the siblings’ mind- in Alysanne.. Myrcella was just a young girl, yet her words revealed a precocious intellect. It was impossible not to drawn a parallel.

"Many trueborn children exhibit cruelty, just as many bastards possess the kindest of hearts. It is up to you to decide who you wish to become," Alysanne explained, offering words of guidance.

"My septa said bastards are born of lust and weakness, unable to change their nature. Claim all bastards are destined for betrayal. Mother’s betrayal was twice worse because it came from treason. They I have traitor’s, as well as that of a wanton and weak woman," Myrcella admitted, nibbling on her lower lip. "I don't understand what 'wanton' means."

Alysanne wanted to crawl the eyes of that septa. She wanted to reprimand the woman who had filled the child's ears with such hurtful words. Gods, Myrcella was still just a little girl. However, her eloquent speech, a perfect imitation of what she had heard, and her innocent curiosity, it only deepened Alysanne's pain.

She could see the girl's intelligence shining through, could imagine a painful path before her.

"You are neither wanton nor weak, Myrcella. They called me those names as well. Do I appear weak?" Alysanne posed, offering a slight grin.

The girl shook her head, inching closer to Alysanne. "Did you truly went into battle?" she whispered, her eyes widening with awe.

"I did."

"I had no idea ladies could go into battle," Myrcella confessed, her fascination evident.

Alysanne contemplated her next words. The usual reply was in the tip of her tongue: she was no lady. As she gazed upon the young girl, dressed in princely satin, with awe in her eyes, something held her back.

"Some do. Others engage in embroidery. Some sing. And some tend to the wounded. There are countless paths you can follow," Alysanne explained.

"I'm not very skilled in embroidery. My mother was much better at my age. But my septa used to say I had a pretty voice," Myrcella shared.

Alysanne tilted her head, studying the girl. "Do you enjoy reading?"

Myrcella's fervent nod solidified Alysanne's decision.

"Did you know that your brother is poised to join the Faith of the Seven?" she asked.

Myrcella nodded, sorrow lingering in her eyes.

"If you wish, I can take you as my ward. I cannot promise you the luxuries you were accustomed to, nor can I guarantee that people will treat you as they once did. However, I can offer guidance to help you navigate their harsh words and stares. I will endeavor to try and teach you all that you desire."

"Can I learn archery?" Myrcella inquired eagerly.

"Of course. It is my preferred weapon, and I would be delighted to instruct you," Alysanne affirmed.

"And can I learn new languages and read any book I wish?"

"As long as the content is appropriate for your age, you may read anything you desire. If you come across something beyond your current years, I will compile a list for you to peruse once you have grown older. However, accompanying me means you must also learn things you may not particularly enjoy, and you will likely have to travel often and not in royal wheelhouse. I don’t have a carriage, I travel by horse" Alysanne explained.

Myrcella was ready to accept Alysanne's offer, but Alysanne halted her by taking the girl's hand.

"Take a few days, Myrcella. Speak to whomever you wish, and ask me any questions you may have. Then, let's say in five days' time, you may come to me with your answer."

.

.

.

"You undoubtedly know what she wants," her uncle spoke in hushed tones as they strolled through the garden, their arms linked. "There is still time to retreat, to reconsider."

Contrary to her uncle's subdued demeanor, Alysanne burst into laughter. Then, mindful of prying ears, she leaned closer and whispered, "I have no fear of flowers," her gaze sweeping over the blossoms that adorned the pathway. "Not even within their perceived domain."

Her uncle flashed her a knowing smile.

Soon, Margaery Tyrell appeared before them on the pathway, exuding charm and radiance. The future queen turned to them with a gracious smile.

"Ser Arthur, Lady Alysanne, I am so pleased you accepted to join me."

As if I had any choice, Alysanne thought wryly.

 "I shall take my leave. My ladies," Arthur said, bowing before departing.

Margaery's gaze fell upon Ghost, who remained close to Alysanne's black skirts.

"I hope you don't mind, my lady. Ghost poses no threat unless provoked, but I prefer not to leave her unattended. Besides, she seems rather averse to being separated from me," Alysanne explained, catching a subtle hint of trepidation flickering in Margaery’s eyes, hidden behind her well-practiced facade.

"Of course, she is most welcome," Margaery responded in a lively tone, placing her arm around both of them. "I was unaware that your direwolf was female."

"Many assume otherwise. A common misconception, no doubt stemming from the expectations imposed upon females. And Ghost can be quite vicious when it comes to protecting those she holds dear."

This time, Margaery's grin carried a genuine note. "I believe she can be a lady if she so desires."

Alysanne huffed. "My lady, you may not have known, but my eldest sister's direwolf is named Lady."

Margaery looked at her with a gleam of amusement in her eyes. "Do all of Lord Stark's children possess direwolves?" she inquired.

"Yes, we all do. Sansa has Lady, Arya's loyal companion is Nymeria, Bran's faithful direwolf answers to the name Summer, and as for Rickon, his direwolf's name changes every fortnight."

As they reached the end of the alley, Alysanne stopped the entourage holding a soirees in a patio overlooking the Blackwater Bay. The ladies in the midst of their activities paused, their gazes drawn to Alysanne. What a striking image she must have presented—draped in black silk, her simple bun concealed beneath a dark veil, surrounded by young ladies adorned in vibrant attire with flowing locks.

The picture of refined manners and grace, Margaery took charge, initiating the introductions. The two younger girls, Megga and Alla, appeared somewhat frightened by Alysanne’s presence, while Elinor exuded a touch more confidence. They comprised Margaery's entourage of little Tyrell cousins who dutifully trailed in her wake. Janna Tyrell, whom Alysanne had previously encountered through her husband, Ser Jon Fossoway, approached them. The Knight of New Barrel, once an associate of her uncle, seemed to be making an effort to rekindle their connection.

Beneath her cheerful demeanor and buxom figure, Janna Tyrell concealed a dangerous sharpness, akin to a thorn hidden among petals. The few conversations Alysanne had engaged in with the woman revealed that she was more of an information collector than a mere gossipmonger.

Margaery proceeded with the introductions, gesturing towards a particularly lovely lady. "This is Lady Leonette Fossoway, Garlan's wife," she announced. Leonette Fossoway possessed delicate features and striking blue eyes. Her smile evoked memories of Alysanne's initial encounter with Margaery, leaving an impression that she, too, should be watched closely.

Septa Nysterica regarded Alysanne with evident disdain, causing her to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Would there ever be a septa who didn't regard her as if she were spawned from the depths of the Seven Hells? Most likely not. Among the slightly older women present were Meredyth Crane, who insisted on being called Merry—a petite figure with a slim frame, and Alyce Graceford, tall and graceful, her pale blonde tresses standing out amidst the sea of brunettes. Alyce also happened to be the epitome of beauty, her smile radiating warmth and sunshine as she directed it towards Alysanne.

Guided away from the prying and judgmental gazes, Margaery led Alysanne until they stood before the central table. Alysanne's anticipation grew as she laid eyes on the woman seated at the head—much shorter than she had expected, yet emanating a sharp and calculating gaze.

"Lady Alysanne, I am honored to present my grandmother the Lady Olenna, widow to the late Luthor Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, whose memory is a comfort to us all." Margaery announced.

Alysanne braced herself for cutting remarks and thorny barbs, but to her surprise, Lady Olenna extended her hand. "Kiss me, child," the elderly woman beckoned, her soft, spotted hand tugging gently at Alysanne's wrist. "It is so kind of you to visit me and my foolish flock of hens."

Respecting the traditional gesture, Alysanne kissed Lady Olenna's hand, her expression serene. "It is kind of you to have me, my lady."

Lady Olenna appraised Alysanne from head to toe. "We offer our condolences for your loss. This must be a difficult time for you, particularly given your circumstances."

"Indeed, the loss of one's father is never easy, regardless of the circumstances. Even Lord Stark himself experienced the tragedy of losing his father at a young age, and, of course, our uncle as well."

“I knew your grandfather, Lord Rickard, though not well,” Lady Olenna remarked.

"Most Northern lords tend to remain within their lands, so it does not surprise me," Alysanne replied.

Alysanne had consulted her uncle about the likelihood of Lady Olenna recognizing any traits of her father's lineage within her. Despite the Dowager of Highgarden's claims of familiarity with Lord Rickard, their paths had likely crossed less than a handful of times. Lady Olenna had spent the majority of her life in the Reach, venturing to King's Landing for a brief period due to her first betrothal. She hadn't even been present at the infamous tourney held at Harrenhal or served any Targaryen queen or princess.

"Yes, it seems that the Starks often encounter less favorable circumstances when they venture into the south."

Alysanne's lips curled into a knowing smile as she played along with Lady Olenna's game. "Indeed, but this new generation carries a touch of southern blood within them," she responded, her tone carrying a hint of mischief. "We Northerners appreciate the beauty of our snow-covered lands far too much to leave them."

Lady Olenna let out a disdainful snort. "Yes, it appears that your Northern lords have quite the affinity for snow. Some might argue a bit too much."

"Most of us are drawn to that which reminds us of home, Lady Olenna," Alysanne countered, half-acknowledging the jibe. "Just as you and your ladies find solace in the exquisite gardens of Highgarden, renowned for their breathtaking flowers."

"But our flowers tend to confine themselves to their decorative roles," Lady Olenna remarked pointedly.

Alysanne's grin sharpened. "Then I can't help but feel sorry for them. There are countless remarkable opportunities for flowers beyond mere decoration."

"You would think so," Lady Olenna sniffed dismissively. "It seems you have taken a liking to surrounding yourself with water as well, or is it the hill? It appears that nobody is quite certain."

Alysanne's gaze held steady, undeterred by Lady Olenna's taunts. "Ah, the mysteries that surround us, my lady. A touch of intrigue adds flavor to our lives, don't you agree? After all, it keeps people guessing." Alysanne continued, in the same unwavering tone. "Indeed, some individuals transcend the need for last names to establish their reputation, Lady Tyrell. Some become more renowned for their aliases than their given names. And then there are those who let their last names speak too loudly, only to have them turn against them."

Curiosity glimmered in Lady Olenna's eyes as she inquired further, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Alysanne's smile held a touch of slyness as she responded, "Think of the former Queen, Cersei Lannister. Throughout my life, she was referred to as Queen Cersei Lannister, emphasizing her family name. She made sure no one forgot her origins. And now, it has become a scandalous point of contention, hasn't it?"

She turned to Margaery, her expression assuring and supportive. "But fear not, my lady. Whether you become Queen Margaery Tyrell or Queen Margaery Baratheon, you will be a queen all the same. Cersei Lannister was not the first queen to retain her birth family name. Throughout history, the Seven Kingdoms often referred to their queens by their maiden names."

Lady Olenna interjected with a crisp tone, "Most queens simply shared the same family name as their husbands."

Alysanne's voice carried a hint of amusement. "Not an uncommon occurrence, Lady Olenna. My grandparents were cousins, and I believe Lord Luthor's own grandparents were first cousins, despite having different family names."

Lady Olenna continued with her crisp tone,  "I do not require a history lesson on my own house. But at least you possess more sense than simply lopping people's heads off. Even my dim-witted son could see the barbarity of putting oneself in such a precarious position."

Margaery interjected, her tone mild and diplomatic. "Grandmother, perhaps we should focus on our meal. The servants have just brought the tea, and it is far better enjoyed while still hot."

Lady Olenna Tyrell settled into her seat with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Here, Lady Snow, sit beside me. I'm much less boring than your typical companions."

Alysanne chuckled, gracefully taking the offered seat. "I have no doubt about that, my lady."

Lady Olenna's voice carried a hint of amusement. "I imagine your knightly uncle has warned you about me, hasn't he?"

Alysanne replied with a smirk, her eyes gleaming. "And I'm quite certain your daughter has filled you in on every little detail she could gather from her persistent interrogations... I mean, from our lively conversations."

Lady Olenna let out a snort. "You appeared out of nowhere, my dear, and one must stay informed. So, tell me, do you have any contact with your mother? Your rather noticeable lack of social awareness suggests otherwise."

Alysanne chose her words carefully, weaving a captivating tale to explain her absence of a female figure in her life. "Lady Ashara writes to me often, but I have only seen her once when I was a child. After giving birth to me, she was bedridden for over a year and fell into a deep melancholy. Lord Stark, wanting me to be raised with his blood, took me in. Lady Ashara eventually came to visit, and we spent nearly two years together until my brother Robb fell ill."

Lady Olenna nodded, her expression shrewd. "No doubt Lady Catelyn wanted to keep her husband's mistress as far away as possible."

Margaery interjected with a mild tone, cautioning her grandmother, "Grandmother..."

Alysanne remained composed, aware that she needed to maintain the story's credibility. "Lady Stark lost her only son and in seven years of marriage only had him and Sansa. She feared, as all woman do, for her position. And grief makes people say awful things they later regret. And sending my mother away was one of her less graceful moments. Still, Lady Ashara and I maintain contact through many letters."

“It should have been you. I prayed for them to take you instead. It should have been you.”

“Why not go to Dorne afterwards?” Lady Olenna inquired. “When Lady Ashara assumed the role of Regent of Starfall after Lord Alton Dayne's passing, she had control and the position to raise you. And Dorne treats bastards kinder with their queer ways.”

Alysanne nodded at Lady Olenna's question, understanding the curiosity behind it. “While Lady Ashara is someone I care for deeply and have a connection with, I barely knew her. I still barely know her, my Lady.  The North is where I belong, where my loyalties lie. My siblings are my priority, and it is to them that my love and duty are devoted."

Lady Olenna's eyes sharpened, recognizing the deeper meaning behind Alysanne's words. The astute woman needed no further explanation; she understood the underlying loyalty and dedication Alysanne held for her family in the North. Never Highgarden.

Meanwhile, Margaery interjected with a warm smile, deftly steering the conversation towards its intended purpose. "I hope one day you shall call Highgarden your home, and I wish for us to be as close as sisters."

It was becoming clear that Margaery would be the honey than would sweet her grandmother’s bite. No doubt hoping than in Alysanne’s shame, she could counsel in the future queen, shared secrets and the Tyrell’s could explore.

It would no doubt work on someone less aware. Like Sansa. But Alysanne had learned to read people’s true intentions from a young age.

Olenna Tyrell's scoff, her carrying an air of disdain. "This union is utterly unworthy, a travesty that should be undone. I am seriously contemplating putting an end to this mockery."

Alysanne, her voice steady and resolute, met Lady Olenna's challenging gaze. "On that matter, we find ourselves in perfect agreement."

Olenna's incredulity was palpable as she responded, her eyes pinning Alysanne to her seat. "My grandson, Willas, is the most sensible of my dim-witted son's offspring and the rightful heir to Highgarden. And then there's you—a bastard, undoubtedly beautiful akin to the famed Shiera Seastar. Just as ruthless and shrewd as her. But she at least had the good sense not to wed."

Alysanne replied, exuding the same ruthless and shrewd demeanor that Olenna had attributed to her. "I take immense pleasure in the comparison, Lady Olenna. Shiera Seastar ruled the realm alongside Bloodraven for nearly three decades. Though she was never bestowed with the titles of Warden or Regent, she received countless marriage proposals until she vanished into thin air."

Olenna's skepticism lingered as she continued the exchange. "She understood that her power stemmed from her alliance with Bloodraven. Once he ventured to the Wall, she likely anticipated her enemies clamoring for her head as well. The Faith would have delighted in burning her at the stake for witchcraft."

"Sadly for them, the era of witch-burnings, or any execution by burning, ended with the Faith Militant, at least until the reign of the Mad King," Alysanne countered.

Olenna persisted. "Your power pales in comparison to hers. Catelyn Stark will fight to secure what she believed was rightfully hers, even if it lasts a decade. Your Northern lords will turn against you when you fail to satisfy their desires. It's the way of the world."

"Lady Catelyn will remain put as long as the King of the Seven Kingdoms keeps my appointment as Warden. I believe that won't change any time soon," Alysanne asserted.

Olenna scoffed dismissively. "You cannot hope to hold that title for long. Much as I detest it, you will marry Willas, and you cannot be Warden of the North while residing in Highgarden."

Alysanne turned to face Olenna directly. "Should I spend the majority of my time in Highgarden? Lord Tyrell enjoys good health and has many years of rule ahead. Lady Alerie is undoubtedly in fine health too, with Lady Leonette to assist her. I am the Regent and Warden of the North—my duties will require me to spend most of my year in the North."

Olenna's glare intensified. "Are you planning to make a mockery of your wedding? Disgrace my grandson? You are but a little girl playing a game that you have no right at playing."

"Such implications are embedded in the vows I took when I assumed the role of Warden, Lady Olenna. If it bothers you, I suggest you appeal to the king to annul the marriage. From where I stand, it seems you have the more pressing issue with the union," Alysanne countered without faltering.

Olenna Tyrell found herself momentarily speechless, but it was Margaery who spoke up, her words gentler in nature. " Willas has a bad leg but a good heart. He used to read to me when I was a little girl, and draw me pictures of the stars. He is dutiful, intelligent, and kind—any woman would be fortunate to have him as a husband. He deserves a wife who matches his dutifulness and gentleness, someone who will love him as we do and be devoted to him as he deserves."

Alysanne fought the urge to snap back, "Just as you will be to Robert, no doubt." Instead, she responded with controlled anger, her voice retaining a cold tone. "I am dutiful to my brother, to the North, to my family. I have been often told I am intelligent, and your own grandmother compared me to one of the most famous beauties in recent memory. Though I may lack the Stark name, I currently hold the power of the Lord of Winterfell. Love—I cannot promise such a sentiment. However, I refuse to be a pawn to your brother or your family. The North needs me, and my duty will always be to the North, not to a husband, even if he is the future Lord of Highgarden."

Margaery Tyrell was left momentarily speechless, while Olenna regarded Alysanne with a newfound understanding. "You are not the first to think this way, nor will you be the last. Yet every woman eventually bends, unless they wish to meet a fate akin to Cersei Lannister or Rhaenyra Targaryen."

Suppressing her anger, Alysanne maintained composure as she confronted the implicit promise gleaming in Olenna Tyrell's eyes—that she would be the one to force her to bend if necessary.

"Let's be frank, Lady Olenna. You cannot halt this marriage, nor can your son. If it were possible, you would have done so already. The King's council has unsuccessfully pressured him into his decisions regathering me. You may attempt to tarnish my reputation, as I'm sure you've been trying, but I have been called a whore and a beast far too many times for it to have any real impact. You won't oppose this marriage for all the reasons you and most lords have pointed out, just as your granddaughter seeks friendship with me despite viewing me as a foe. Because deep down, we all know that if you were to convey such objections to Robert Baratheon, it wouldn't be your precious Margaery walking down the aisle towards him."

Olenna nodded. "Tut-tut, says my son, don't you want your sweet granddaughter to be queen? We push Robert, he might well wed the bastard. We would become the laughingstock of the Seven Kingdoms,” Olenna scoffed. "But having to put up with a marriage between our heir and a bastard, no matter what sock she comes from. It won’t do us any good. But of course, the Starks were once kings, as were the Arryns, the Lannisters, and even the Baratheons through their female lineage. Even the Daynes were once petty kings. But the Tyrells were no more than stewards until Aegon the Dragon came along and cooked the rightful King of the Reach on the Field of Fire. If truth be told, even our claim to Highgarden is a bit dodgy, just as those dreadful Florents are always whining. 'What does it matter?' you ask, and of course it doesn't, except to oafs like my son. The thought that one day he may see his grandson with his arse on the Iron Throne makes Mace puff up like . . . now, what do you call it? Margaery, you're clever, be a dear and tell your poor old half-daft grandmother the name of that queer fish from the Summer Isles that puffs up to ten times its own size when you poke it"

"They call them puff fish, Grandmother."

"Of course they do. Summer Islanders have no imagination. My son ought to take the puff fish for his sigil, if truth be told. He could put a crown on it, the way the Baratheons do their stag, mayhap that would make him happy.”

Alysanne chuckled at the remark. "My lady, we both know how much importance the Tyrells place on lineage. The Florents are wed to the future king until Robert sires a legitimate child. Stannis Baratheon has little love for your family. The Tyrells have always sought to marry within the Reach for a reason, well, except for one attempt. Yet Olenna of House Redwyne ended up becoming the Lady of Highgarden instead."

Rising from her chair, Alysanne announced, "In a week's time, I will depart for the North to lay my father's bones to rest. I will be married in the North, where the Old Gods are revered—the Gods of my family. It would do Lord Willas good to spend some time in the North, considering that I will be residing there for much of the next decade. He may join me a fortnight before the wedding or arrive the day prior. It matters little to me."

Olenna's gaze remained fixed on Alysanne as she declared, "You will come to Highgarden for a wedding. While in the North, you may dress as an unwashed northerner or a Dornish whore, as the future Lady of Highgarden, you will dress accordingly. I will send someone to take your measurements, and Alerie will ensure you have a proper wardrobe. The expenses shall be covered, so don't fret."

Alysanne responded wryly, "Just ensure the gold isn't too abundant in the cloth, or people might think I'm marrying a Lannister instead. And no yellow attire, as it doesn't suit me. If that is all, my ladies, I thank you for the meal, but I have promised to dine with His Grace and the Northern lords."

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 – Willas I

Winterfell loomed before Willas with its imposing presence, and just as he had anticipated, the people who welcomed House Tyrell's party were as stoic and stony as the castle itself. It was evident from the grand reception that many of the Northern lords were gathered at Winterfell or would arrive in the week leading up to the wedding. Lady Alysanne had been ruling the North for nearly half a year, and there hadn't been any reports of trouble reaching the South from the events North of Moat Cailin. The information that had flowed south, came from Riverrun.

Lady Catelyn's departure to tend to her ailing father had caused some commotion two moons ago, but Willas could spot her among the attendees. As soon as he entered, he began assessing the Stark family. Lady Sansa Stark, a pretty girl of four-and-ten, donned a soft blue velvet gown with a fur-lined cloak of the same color. She smiled at Willas and his brother Garlan as they approached, resembling a starstruck young girl encountering a prince. She was the child farther away from the two most important siblings.

A young boy of three held his mother's hand, clearly taking after her in looks. Rickon Stark, however, was not shy and seemed thrilled to see the new arrivals. The mother’s hand more likely to stop him from approaching them. According to Margaery's letter, Lady Catelyn had arrived at Riverrun with her eldest and youngest children, and rumors suggested she sought support for a coup against her deceased husband's bastard.

The Dowager of Winterfell was all in mourning attire, clad in a black gown of heavy velvet and a mourning veil, was still an elegant woman in her mid-thirties. With blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a graceful figure, Lady Catelyn remained beautiful and slender, unlike Lysa Tully, whose beauty had faded and whose body showed the signs of lost pregnancies.

Lord Brandon Stark had deep blue eyes and the darkest hair among the trueborn Stark siblings, even if it was tinged with hints of auburn. The young Lord of Winterfell wore grey breeches and a white doublet under a dark grey fur-trimmed cloak. By his right side stood a figure that seemed to be sculpted from marble.

The Regent of Winterfell wore a grey coat of fine wool, trimmed with white fur and adorned with large scrollwork on the full sleeves and the front of the heavy skirts. The cut of her coat accentuated her slender waist and gentle curves. Willas barely spared a second glance at her body, as his attention became captivated by her face. Margaery had claimed she was beautiful, and his grandmother had warned him to be prepared, but he hadn't imagined encountering someone so otherworldly. Alysanne Snow's features epitomized a perfect blend of femininity and seduction. Willas, who had his fare share of beautiful women, had never meet such blend. His gaze was struck in that perfect face, when he felt a subtle nudge on his left side. He forced himself to turn towards Lord Stark as they had approached the welcoming party.

The lordling executed a flawless curtsey, and behind the sorrow in his eyes, intelligence shone through. Willas restrained himself from staring at Alysanne as they were introduced, but he couldn't resist kissing her ungloved hand. Surprisingly warm, if calloused. He flicked his gaze up to meet her captivating jewel-like eyes, only to find a cool look. Still, he offered her his best smile, holding back a smirk when he noticed her avoiding direct eye contact.

Standing beside the Lady Regent was her younger sister, Lady Arya, who frowned as Willas introduced himself. It seemed every younger sister wanted to emulate their elder sibling. It was due to Arya's height that Willas spotted the golden-haired girl in the second line, positioned next to Ser Arthur Dayne.

Myrcella Waters, dressed in a pale green wool gown that accentuated her eyes, appeared entirely at ease for a princess turned bastard.

.

.

Willas maintained his composure as Lady Catelyn Stark and her eldest daughter led them to their rooms. The Dowager Lady was the picture of curtsy and engaged in conversation with his mother, while Leonette regaled Lady Sansa with tales of Highgarden's gallantry. The red-haired girl, unlike her less impressed siblings, listened with wide eyes and hidden dreams.

Soon, they arrived at their designated wing, and Willas and his mother exchanged knowing glances before the lady walked into the room with her son and good-daughter, leaving Willas alone with the red-haired woman. He turned his attention to Lady Catelyn.

"I hope you won't take offense, my ladies, but I had hoped to have a conversation with Lady Alysanne before dinner," he stated in a formal tone.

The Dowager Lady couldn't conceal her disapproval, and her daughter shared the sentiment. "Lady Snow seems incapable of understanding that some matters take precedence over meetings with Lord Bolton and his son."

Willas furrowed his brow. It was inconceivable to him that the de facto lady of the castle would not rearrange her schedule to meet her future husband. Margaery had mentioned that Lady Alysanne, despite her outward grace, had a willful and crude nature, more akin to a man's behavior than a lady's. Clearly, the Regent was not pleased with the marriage arrangement and chose to slight him and his party. As if she weren’t the bastard and he the heir to one of the greatest houses in Westeros.

Taking a deep breath to express his frustration, Willas prompted the Dowager Lady to speak further. "I apologize for her behavior. Lord Stark granted Alysanne too much freedom, and in turn, she has revealed her true colors at the earliest opportunity. You appear to be a fine young lord, and it is unfortunate that you are to be wed to such an unworthy match."

Willas gave a self-deprecating smile, though it hadn't been difficult to show, when he could hear the despite all following the “fine young lord”. He was used to people overlooking him for his injury. Most often, ladies would react the same way as Lady Sansa did: initial excitement upon seeing his face followed by a subtle grimace upon noticing his cane.

He couldn't help but think of Alyce. He had been foolish to take Alyce to bed and make her his mistress despite her status. But Alyce had not once looked at his injured leg, which had been a refreshing change from the usual reactions.

Alyce had had her own words about Alysanne Snow.

“Take me with you,” Alyce whispered in his naked chest. “Don’t leave me behind. My heart couldn’t bear it, if you were to cast me aside.”

Willas took a moment to process Alyce's words, her plea tugging at his heartstrings. He knew she felt insecure and threatened by his upcoming marriage. He understood her concerns, but he also knew that taking her with him to Winterfell would only complicate matters further.

He cradled her face. Gods but she was stunning. All soft and sunshine, but with a wit that many did not see. Alyce had not been his first lover nor his last, but she been his for close to half a decade, and he could see there was something in those blue orbits that looked a lot like wariness. He would have wed her, had she not been the future Lady of Holyhall, promised to her younger cousin, and his parents didn’t have bigger aspirations for him. “To Highgarden? Of course I will. My mother can take you back into her service now that Margaery was been wedded and bedded.”

Alyce rolled her eyes at him, the wariness turning into annoyance. “To Winterfell.”

He gently brushed his fingers through her hair, trying to calm her down. "Alyce, my love, you know I care for you deeply. But bringing you to Winterfell is not a viable option. It would only create more tension and complications, especially considering the circumstances. Lady Alysanne is to be my wife, and if is half as wild as Margaery describes her, she might feed you to that direwolf of hers, " he teased her.

Alyce was not laughing. “I saw her, Willas. Unlike you. Your grandmother and sister, and likely all of your family, hates her. Your grandmother would not let you marry me because I was to lowborn in her eyes. And once I became an heiress, I had already ruined myself on you,” the anger in her pretty face almost made him smile, and a part of him awake once more. Alyce always showed her inner fire when she was jealous. “You will get in that girl into your bed and forget all about me. Take me with you and I can show you that you don’t need that wild bastard.”

“You know I can’t take you with me North,” Willas said in a heavier tone. She was truly worried about losing him. Alyce was aware he had other dalliances and never acted this way. “Once I return to Highgarden, I will return to you as well. I just need to consummate the marriage once. To show the King I am not going into it with the prospect to set it aside. Afterwards, Alysanne Snow will be little more than a burden I have to deal with,” he kissed her soft lips. “You will see, a couple of months will be nothing once I am back in your arms.”

Alyce's eyes welled up with tears, and she looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I understand," she whispered, her voice filled with a mix of resignation and sadness. "I just... I don't want to lose you. I can't bear the thought of watching you marry that woman."

Willas pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her into a heavy kiss. She retributed but without the wild excitement of the last two rounds. No doubt her mind was still on Alysanne Snow. He turned them over and let his right hand travel to the wetness between her legs, while his other one went to her neck. When they broke the kiss, he played with her little nub until she was singing his name.

She had not spoken about his future wife for the rest of the evening.

Alyce never spoke of Alysanne’s beauty, which looking back, should have caught his attention. She had also not asked to come with him during his time in King’s Landing, not until the day he left. But he could see her mind was troubled. He knew why now. Alysanne Snow was exactly the type of woman Willas would take to bed and debaucher. The aloof and enigmatic beauty that he liked singing his name in the throes of passion.

Suddenly, his grandmother's cautionary words about his escapades with Northern whores took on a whole new meaning.

It all made sense now.

One night with Alysanne Snow wouldn’t be close to enough.

"I can't say I was expecting a warm reception," he admitted, fully aware that his sister had warned him about Lady Alysanne's cool demeanor. "But I had hoped for, at the very least, a marriage where I could engage in meaningful conversations with my wife."

Lady Catelyn glanced at Sansa, whose blush could rival that of a greenboy with his first whore. Willas could discern the unspoken plan brewing within their minds. Summoning his inner gallantry, akin to that of Loras Tyrell, he took Sansa's delicate hand in his own.

"My dear lady, you possess all the qualities of an extraordinary wife, far beyond what an unworthy man like me deserves. Under different circumstances, with time for our connection to blossom, I would be more than honored to call you my wife. However, the King's word is law."

If Willas thought Sansa couldn't blush any deeper or look more enchanted, he was mistaken. Could the girl truly be so easily deceived? And could he make his sister blush like that?

Despite her evident satisfaction, Lady Catelyn possessed a shrewdness that surpassed that of her daughter. "Marriages can be dissolved under exceptional circumstances," she pointed out, her tone laced with calculation.

Willas kissed Sansa Stark's hand, stopping her confused look, before turning to the Dowager of Winterfell, who would soon make her move against Alysanne Snow. "Indeed, His Grace is well aware of such matters and will not allow it. That's precisely why a member of his council accompanies us, to ensure the consummation is verified. We are bound, my lady."

Give me your plans, Lady Catelyn.

"We must play the long game, Lord Willas. I cannot envision the Northern lords rallying behind Ned's bastard when she is far away in Highgarden. I only ask that you do not succumb under her spell, as many have done before."

Willas nodded in agreement and bid his farewells. Once safely inside the solar connecting three rooms, he sought out his brother and mother, his face adorned with a mischievous grin.

.

.

His future wife made her entrance not by his side. Once he got inside the Great Hall, Alysanne was already in her seat, engrossed in conversation with the stout man on the other side of Lord Stark. Unlike her sisters and his own mother, she was adorned in a sturdy velvet gown of pure black. The square neckline of her dress revealed a the white shift collar, adding a touch of contrast. Her dark tresses were elegantly braided into a half-bun, flowing down into a single braid—a hairstyle that her youngest sister seemed to emulate.

From the seating order, Willas understood Lady Catelyn had no word in it. She had not even been given a place next to the Lord of Winterfell, instead she was placed between the stout man and Rickon Stark, with Lady Sansa at the end of the dais. If that did not sent a message, he did not know what did.

With a warm smile, Willas took his place next to the Regent of Winterfell, who was engrossed in a discussion about infrastructure with the stout, white-haired gentleman. Assisting his mother by pulling out her chair, he watched as Garlan and Leonette found their seats beside the Lady of Highgarden. Laughter and mirth filled the lower tables, drawing his attention. Ser Arthur Dayne was notably absent from their company, instead seated at the nearest table alongside Myrcella Waters and a pale young man. It took a few moments for Willas to catch the unmistakable adoring gaze the young man cast towards Alysanne. He wasn't the only one, Willas observed, but he was the one fortunate enough to capture Alysanne's glances.

Willas began talking with his family. Garlan quickly catching to Willas mood. Eventually he did turn to his future wife, and was struck by her captivating gaze. Willas couldn't help but notice the enchanting allure of her heavy-lidded amethyst eyes, which sparkled in the soft glow of the candlelight. Her lips curled ever so slightly, and through years of practiced composure, Willas managed to stifle any overt reaction. Then, his future wife turned her attention to the table he had been surreptitiously observing from time to time and nodded at the older man.

In response to her gesture, the pale lord and his son rose from their seats and gracefully made their way to the dais. The soft-spoken voice introduced them, "Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort and his only son, Ser Domeric. May I present to you my intended, Willas Tyrell, the Heir to Highgarden; his beloved mother, Lady Alerie Hightower; his brother Ser Garlan Tyrell and his wife, Lady Leonette Fossoway."

Lord Bolton and his son offered a respectful curtsey, extending their well wishes for a fulfilling marriage, and soon, all the lords, ladies, and heirs were introduced to him. It didn't take long for Willas to discern the undercurrent of disapproval from the majority of attendees, disapproving of his union with the Regent of the North. It was abundantly clear that many coveted the opportunity to marry the exquisite beauty standing before them.

Well, Alysanne is his. His brain said in a possessive tone and froze for a moment. Where did that came from?

.

.

"I never saw a woman work so hard to avoid you, brother," Garlan teased him.

Willas grumbled into his goblet. "I prefer not to think of Lady Snow personally avoiding me," Willas retorted. "Lady Catelyn called her a tyrant who needed to oversee everything, and I will take that approach."

Garlan laughed at that. "Lady Catelyn calls her a tyrant because Lady Alysanne refuses to give her even an inch of power over Winterfell and the North. According to our mother, even overseeing the administration of the castle is mostly out of Lady Catelyn’s hands."

"The woman will crack. Catelyn Stark isn't stupid. She will build her own alliance and overthrow Lady Snow. And she has opportunities to do so while Alysanne is in the Reach. I wouldn’t be surprised if my soon-to-be wife won’t be ousted from power before she even returns."

Garlan shook his head. "You are thinking like a Reachman. You think Winterfell is Highgarden or King’s Landing. It isn’t. That triumvirate of hers is loyal, Willas. More loyal than most of our vassals will ever be," Garlan sipped his wine, before adding, "Unless she gets a host of riverlands to do what no one ever did before and invade the North through Moat Cailin, Lady Catelyn is stuck. And sending her father's men up north would be a good way to ensure she doesn’t even see the walls of Winterfell again."

Willas disagreed, "Let Lady Catelyn be out of the mourning period, and some of the unwed lords or heirs will turn to her. Alysanne Snow cannot make every single powerful house content. And for every marriage promise Alysanne Snow makes, the Dowager will counter. The woman is young, so she might even give birth to more children. If my dear future wife were to have children, they would not be allowed to wed without my permission, and I would never let them be used to bolster her northern plays."

Garlan's brown eyes, the only sibling to get Olenna Tyrell’s eyes, looked at him, stunned. "I am surprised. For once, I am the one seeing the bigger picture. Lady Alysanne just needs three lords for any lord Lady Catelyn gets. Well, considering her military prowess, 2 to 1 would be enough," Garlan jested.

"Please," Willas scoffed. "Lady Catelyn would never go to war while Robert Baratheon breathes. She will play the long game."

"So will your stunning betrothed," Garlan smirked. "How is your skittish lady?"

"You saw her this morning," Willas grumbled. It annoyed him that Garlan saw her more often than he did. Worse, Garlan did so because he took to train with the northern party. Well, he shadowed Arthur Dayne until the man eventually began to train with him.

"She is formidable with that bow of hers. I think Theon Greyjoy is the only person in the castle who can defeat her."

"The squid," Willas pressed his lips. "I don’t like him."

"Because he lusts after the same woman you do? You were never the jealous type, the opposite. But I guess it is not your betrothed who is being lusted after."

Willas emptied his goblet, "Like you wouldn’t demand a duel if someone looked at Netty the way Greyjoy looks at Alysanne. At least, I know Greyjoy doesn’t stand a chance with Alysanne."

Garlan grinned, "Unlike Domeric Bolton. But you have to admit it is funny that Alysanne utterly ignores you, when everyone knows of the impossible love between Domeric and our beloved Regent."

Willas glared at his brother, not amused.

"Come on, Willas, you don’t see it?" Garlan tried then laughed. "Of course you don’t. For the cleverest sibling, you are blind to some things. Lady Alysanne seems to have a type."

"Dark-haired lordlings who, for some reason, wear pink on occasion?"

"No," Garlan leaned forward. "Netty got from one of the ladies that Domeric Bolton was not the only one to catch her eye. There seems to have once been a singer that caught her attention, but nothing came of it."

"What singer?" Willas asked, and kicked himself in the head at how anxious it sounded.

"Some traveler. Came to Winterfell for a feast. Apparently, Starks host harvest feasts every two or three years that are a big deal. It was like five years ago, and the singer was a man grown, but she spent the entire feast in his company and the following day, she rode with him around Wintertown and the woods. Under watch, of course."

"And you are telling me this why?" Willas asked, refilling his goblet.

"Because Alysanne Snow has a type: handsome men, with musical talents, who like riding. According to Netty, ones who are clever and like animals as well." Willas glared at his brother's teasing gleam. "I know our mother birthed a son who fits the criteria, and I am a terrible musician, and Loras is as clever as father."

Willas took a sip. "Well, Alysanne Snow is not my type."

"By the Seven, Willas, try to lie a bit better. Actually, don't even repeat that sentence. Even father would spot your lust for Alysanne Snow half a mile away."

Willas glared. "Are you going to tell me you haven’t imagined it? Not once? You are married, not blind."

"Of course I did," Garlan didn’t even hide it. "I am not Loras."

Willas couldn’t stop his laugh.

"You know grandmother’s plan, right?"

Willas nodded, his mood suddenly turning sourer. "Doesn’t mean I can't bed her. Keep the appearance," both siblings grinned at each other.

"You imagine she will often invite you to bed? With the way she avoids you?"

"One can hope," Willas took the opportunity to approach a more delicate subject. "What is the likelihood of me being caught in a brothel in Wintertown and it turning out to be some sort of scandal?"

Garlan laughed for far too long. "You want to bed that woman that much, Willas? You never had problems seducing a woman."

Willas twirled his goblet. "Unfortunately, the only two women who aren’t kin who keep my company of late are a newly widowed woman and the child she wants me to wed."

"Sansa Stark will likely be a pretty woman. You wouldn’t mind marrying her if she was Alysanne's age. Of course, the fact you probably imagine fucking the sister she despises five different ways every time you see her would be a bit of a problem."

"Five?" Willas grinned. "Who do you take me for?"

"My gentle, pious, and utterly boring brother, of course," Garlan jested. "I think those were actually some lord at court describing you. Probably to Alysanne."

.

.

It took four long days for Willas to finally find a moment alone with Alysanne Snow, and it took two days of charming Lady Sansa to get such meeting. The younger Stark girl harbored a mixture of disdain for her elder sister and a peculiar blend of innocence and ambition. In her fantasies, she undoubtedly imagined herself as Willas's betrothed, even supplanting Alysanne Snow in his affections. He knew what strings to pull to make it sound like he wanted to meet Alysanne because he wanted to know the type of person she was. Sansa Stark no doubt imagined he would hate her and marry her instead. It was rather effortless to manipulate her into speaking her mind. Alysanne Snow had evidently become everything her septa had warned Sansa Stark about regarding bastards. Worse, Alysanna Snow had influenced her impressionable younger sister and she now too was lost.

Arya Stark, Myrcella Waters, Lyanna Mormont and Bethany Dustin were Alysanne's constant little companions, serving as cupbearers and wards. While Master Luwin continued to educate them, Septa Mordane had been replaced by Governess Barbrey Dustin. Willas's mother had discovered that the Lady of Barrowton had assumed many of the duties typically befitting the Dowager of Winterfell, and animosity between the Stark widowers was no secret. His mother had caught that from Lady Catelyn who seemed to crave another southern lady to speak with. Barbrey Dustin, the Regent of the Barrowlands and Benjen Stark’s widower, however, was a courteous with the Tyrell party but her lips were sealed.

Unlike Lady Sansa.

During their conversation, Lady Sansa spoke at great length about her fondness for Riverrun, contrasting its liveliness and warmth to the cold North. Willas sincerely hoped she didn't express such sentiments to the Northern Lords. If she did, Lady Catelyn Stark's astuteness could called into question. Nevertheless, Lady Sansa proved instrumental in securing Willas an audience in Lady Alysanne's solar and to understand the family dynamics, so her companionship wasn’t useless, no matter how boring it was.

Entering the solar, Willas noticed its spartan appearance, save for the sizable bookshelf and the sturdy desk heaped with books, ledgers, and scattered papers. Positioned in a corner of the room, the desk maximized the available light, while a more intimate round table and chairs were arranged closer to the fireplace that was turned off. Resting near the desk was Alysanne's imposing direwolf, the largest of its litter, basking in the sun's rays that bathed its white fur. The creature's blood-red eyes briefly acknowledged Willas before shutting once more.

His future wife, despite exuding an air of simplicity, was somehow still alluring. Her dark tresses were woven into a practical, thick braid, and she wore a white ensemble, seemingly two shapeless, long tunics with long sleeves—a style reminiscent of ancient illustrations, and utterly out of fashion. She held a sheet of paper in her hand, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Just as he was about to announce himself, a raven landed on her shoulder. Willas hadn't even noticed the bird's presence, but what caught his attention even more was the smile that Alysanne bestow the bird. Her empty hand dipped into a bowl, retrieving a handful of corn intended for the visitor. However, the raven's beak pointed towards Willas instead.

Those mesmerizing eyes turned toward him, and he detected a flicker of surprise in her gaze. She stared at him for a brief moment before biting her lip, adopting an utterly innocent expression that ignited a desire within him to sweep her onto the table.

It was not the first time he had imagined his wife to be in the throes of passion.

Having dined with her in the Great Hall each evening, he had witnessed firsthand just how utterly enchanting she could be. Her charm didn't stem from an overtly outgoing or witty personality, but rather from the genuine interest she bestowed upon those she spoke with.

The bird engaged in a silent standoff with Alysanne before finally flying to a perch near the window. Willas hadn't noticed it before—had it always been there? He almost smiled at her evident annoyance with the bird until he recalled the unsettling rumors surrounding dark magic.

As Alysanne rose from her desk, he couldn't help but notice the cord tied around her waist, adorned with a pouch and a dagger. Why she had the need for those inside her solar? It puzzled him. Equally perplexing was the absence of guards outside her chamber.

"Lord Willas," she spoke, her usual confidence replaced by a hint of uncertainty. "Did you require my assistance with something?"

It was somewhat reassuring to know that she wasn't entirely at ease in his presence and displayed some naivety in dealing with someone whose connection to her wasn't solely based on loyalty or political considerations. It made his desires for her feel less problematic.

Offering her a charming smile, Willas walked over to the desk and settled himself into the chair across from her. Alysanne awkwardly resumed her seat, her gaze shifting momentarily to her slumbering beast and then back to him. The slight furrow of her brow was undeniably endearing. He couldn't help but wonder if she felt betrayed by her animals.

"Not in need of assistance, but rather desiring a conversation with my betrothed," he replied, his tone light. "That is, if she can spare a moment from perpetually evading me."

She huffed in response. "I am a busy woman, Lord Willas."

"Willas," he corrected with an easy smile. "And I can hardly believe that is all that is stopping our paths to cross. Even during our shared meals, you manage to engage everyone but me. Perhaps I need to schedule a midday meal with one of your little shadows to secure some quality time with you?" he teased, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

Her gaze turned cool once again. "I'm afraid my midday meals are usually reserved for discussions with council members or Northern lords. I had assumed you took those meals with your family and the Dowager Lady."

He smirked slightly, prepared to jest about that assumption, given that he often found himself spending his days with the Dowager or Lady Sansa because they were the ones taking the role of hostesses. However, something caught his attention—the sheet of paper she was reading had rolled back into, what was now unmistakably, a letter with a broken seal bearing the distinct sign of a golden lion.

Tywin Lannister's correspondence could very well involve inquiries about his bastard granddaughter, but what puzzled him were the two other rolled parchments with the same broken seal. The Tyrell party had failed to gather any substantial information regarding The Kingslayer's time on Bear Island, except for the fact that two members of House Mormont accompanied Alysanne Snow: Lyra Mormont, who was of similar age to the Bastard of Winterfell, was frequently seen in her company and acting like a clerk, while the young and fierce Lyanna Mormont often trailed behind the Regent during her time in the yard, spending the remaining time with her little friends.

Alysanne Snow was still corresponding with the Great Lion.

Amethyst met sapphire as their eyes locked in a silent revelation.

"Lord Lannister is exceedingly pleased with the progress observed in Myrcella. Despite everything, she remains focused on her education and takes joy in her youth, which speaks to her resilience," Alysanne divulged, her voice tinged with a sense of pride. "In fact, he is considering sending his niece, Janei, to be fostered with me."

With her—specifically, not at Winterfell.

Janei was Kevan Lannister's only daughter and of similar age to Brandon Stark. "I had envisioned one of your companions becoming the future Lady of Winterfell," he remarked.

Alysanne's lips curled slightly, making her even more irresistibly kissable. "Under different circumstances, any of my ladies would make a suitable Lady of Winterfell. However, if I were to favor one of my vassals with such a gift, it might not sit well with the others. A marriage alliance with the West would help heal the wounds of war and bring the North the most substantial dowry it has seen."

Willas pondered her words. "Bethany Ryswell is your cousin by marriage through Lady Dustin's union with Benjen Stark," he stated, his voice deliberate.

"And yet, her name is not Stark," Alysanne emphasized.

 "Her mother, I have been told, is the Regent of her first husband’s lands. But I have seen Lady Barbrey being called the Lady of Barrowtown in official matters."

She lean a bit, her grin utterly breathtaking. "Do you take all your information from Lady Catelyn and Lady Sansa," there was a knowing teasing in her tone. "If so, you will find yourself very conflicted in your reports, my lord. Lady Barbrey became the ruling lady of Barrowton, not merely as a widow but because her mother was a Dustin and she had the right to the land. She has brothers, unfortunately, who are rather useless," she added, expressing her clear displeasure at the presence of ineffectual lords. He couldn’t help but laughed at it. Her face broke into a smile that was like the first rays of sunshine after days of rain and dark clouds. "Her marriage to my uncle Benjen was an attempt to address the issue of inheritance and resolve some old resentments."

Willas raised an intrigued eyebrow. The evident animosity between Lady Barbrey and Lady Catelyn Stark did hint at a interesting backstory. A resentment that had Lady Catelyn not called the woman by her proper title in private conversations.

"Unfortunately, the Greyjoys took my uncle from us too soon, and Bethany was their only child. She is my kin, and I treat her as a sister, but she is destined to inherit Barrowton and continue the Dustin line. Another marriage will be arranged for her."

Leaning forward, Willas broached the topic that had been on his mind. "Speaking of marriages, my lady, ours is to be solemnized in ten days, and I find my betrothed to be rather skittish, except when she is in the company of anyone but me."

Alysanne's glare intensified. "Yes," she retorted sharply. "I see the way you look at Domeric. I admit, I am curious. What angers you more? Marrying a bastard or someone your family has no trouble labeling a whore?"

She didn't deny the affair. Willas concealed his clenched fist beneath the table. "I can see the looks, my lady. Domeric would marry you in an instant, consequences be damned."

"And I would marry him if I didn't care about those consequences," she replied, her tone flat but with a hint of anger flickering in her eyes. He couldn't help but perceive her as a cold flame. "But I do care about them, just as Lady Catelyn does, or else you would be wed to little Sansa the moment you set foot in Winterfell."

"I would marry her. She is the daughter of two great houses, and she is beautiful. I assume she will become even more stunning as she grows older, and I am a patient man."

She gave him a knowing smile. "Of course, a man can be patient when his desires are satiated," she retorted. Raising her hand to halt any response, she continued, "I couldn't care less if you have a mistress or a thousand. I have no illusions about this marriage. The King's will is law, after all. We will wed in ten days, as you mentioned, and three moons from now, I will travel south to wed in Highgarden. Do not worry, even we barbarian bastards know the pretty words to speak in your sept."

The blatant contempt and fire in her eyes were undeniably attractive, and it had been too long since he had been with a woman. During her speech, he had imagined a myriad of ways to claim her right there in the room. He crossed his injured leg over the other, doing little to conceal his desire in his gaze, while her inability to meet his eyes spoke volumes. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, piquing his curiosity.

"Go on a ride with me," he proposed suddenly.

Her face registered surprise. "What?"

He grinned mischievously. "Go on a ride with me. I've heard that you love horse riding, and it's something we at least have in common. I haven't seen much of the North, and I'm certain there are hidden beauties waiting to be discovered. So, come ride with me."

.

.

Lady Alysanne approached the gate leading to the Godswood, mounted upon a sturdy steed. It was a fine breed, likely from the Rills. While the horse wouldn’t be the most appropriate breed for Highgarden, Willas still had half a mind to purchase one from Lord Ryswell. Like often, she was clad in full white. It got to the point that Willas wondered if she had any clothes that weren’t black and white. What surprised him was her hair, which was freely cascaded down her back with only two small braids that stopped the hair from coming into her face. He never imagined her hair to be that long and curly. He wanted to twirled his fingers on it.

Willas, ever the gallant, greeted her with concern in his voice, "No escort, my lady? Do you not fear what perils may befall you on this daring journey?"

Alysanne arched an elegant brow, her words laced with confidence, "Why would I need an escort, my lord? Do not take this the wrong way, my lord, but I would laugh if you told me this was some elaborate ploy to seduce me or take me against me will. But even not accounting for your injured leg, we are riding through a place I know like the back of my hand, and you never seen it, and I am armed with bow and dagger. Your own dagger looks more beautiful than useful. And it would be utterly useless to have you attempt to take me when in a couple of days you will have me in your bed without little trouble but for speaking some words in front of a tree."

Amused, Willas couldn't help but laugh, she did have a way with words.

"Ah, but my dear lady," he ventured further, "I speak not of seduction, but of the tongues that wag within these castle walls. Gossip spreads like wildfire, and whispers of you riding alone with a man would surely ignite a blaze of rumors."

Alysanne cast her gaze around, seemingly aware of the discreet eyes and ears lurking nearby, and guided her horse closer to him, her irritation now evident in her fiery eyes.

"Enough of this chatter in public," she commanded in a hushed tone, though her authority was undeniable. "Follow me, and let us continue our exchange where prying ears cannot interfere."

Willas was tempted to resist. He was no soldier for her to command about, but her next words were spoken in a louder tone, natural but still enough for people to hear. "What do you mean you never seen the Godswood, you say? I will marry a who never set a foot in the Winterfell’s Godswood."

Her horse's hooves struck the path ahead as Alysanne kicked it into motion, leaving Willas half-annoyed, half-enchanted by her spirited antics.

.

.

In a place was shrouded in silence that seemed ancient, an aura of power hung in the air, almost palpable. Even his future wife appeared more tranquil, her face adorned with a serene grace in the presence of the great white tree. As if the white branches and red leaves offered her the greatest of tranquilizers.

Gracefully dismounting her horse, she secured it to a nearby tree. Willas made sure he had dismounted his horse before he had to deal with the embarrassment of having her offering assistance. He retrieved his cane from his belt and descended. There was a soft look in her beautiful face, one of had a hint admiration and even desire. He grinned and he saw how her milky skin grew red and her eyes were soon downcast.

Willas had mastered the art of self-sufficiency, it had taken time and some hurtful attempts, but since his accident he knew people could think he weak, and while most did perceive him as weak, he refused to given reason for it.

Alysanne sat before the tree and seemed to be praying for a moment. He wondered what prayers one said to the Old Gods. There were no hymns or sermons one could read. Did Alysanne just spoke to the tree? Until this very moment, he would find the idea utterly ridiculous.

Observing the red leaves, his mind wandered, wondering if Lady Catelyn had ever felt the same unease in the Godswood, as though some otherworldly presence scrutinized their every move. He did not felt this way in the Highgarden’s Godswood. It was like the carved eyes were watching and judging. Once Alysanne turned back to him, he took it was a sign to approach.

He settled beside the tranquil lake, not far from her. To his surprise, she resumed their conversation without hesitation, but her annoyance was evident.

"In this castle, few would care if I bled in our marriage bed. They'd even laugh at such a notion," she remarked with a mischievous grin. "Lord Cerwyn would ask if I had difficulties riding a horse, while Domeric and Smalljon would challenge me to a riding competition. No doubt, saying I didn’t have the skilled for horse-riding they've heard."

"Still, being alone with a man poses a threat to your reputation." Willas retorted.

She huffed. "If you mean to tell me that you won’t have you wild wife alone with men, just say it, Lord Willas. Uncle Arthur will have to adjust his schedule to shadow me." And because it seemed that when Lady Alysanne was annoyed and angry with a conversation, she had to add something than completely missed the point, she continued, "At times Bran and Rickon come to my bed in the middle of the night. Does it disturb your delicate sensibilities? Should I have them sent away?"

"You know what I meant," he replied, growing frustrated with her lack of understanding.

He couldn't comprehend how someone as capable as her couldn't see the implications of her actions. Was her pride blinding her to the consequences? Margaery claimed Lady Alysanne lacked cultured intelligence, but Willas knew better—he had seen the books in her solar, how she wielded her victories to become one of the kingdom's most powerful women. Not witless would accomplish all that. Yet, she seemed almost against cultivating any hallmark of a good wife.

"You've said that you believed my family, including your future husband, to think of you as nothing more than a whore," he pointed out. "Your constant companionship with men does nothing to improve that perception, not to mention other behaviors that tarnish your reputation."

Her laughter lacked amusement. "My reputation? I would challenge your family to utter such words before the northern lords. I'd love to see you or Garlan face off against the Greatjon or Torrhen Karstark. North of Moat Cailin, besides a couple of people with red hair and blue eyes, no one cares whether I'm a maiden or not. They value my capabilities and how I've prevented a great war with just two battles. So, Lord Willas, I believe it's not my reputation you're truly concerned about, but your own."

"You do me a great disservice, my lady," Willas tried to defend himself earnestly.

"Do I?" she replied, her tone serious and resolute. "I am a woman born out of wedlock, one who dared to wield arms and lead an army. To make matters worse, I am beautiful. Too beautiful, some would say. That seems to stir quite the commotion among the maidens in the South. Men, no doubt, must speak all types of juicy things about me, warding all the ways they could use that thing between their legs on me. Even in the North, I am not oblivious to the whispers that follow my name."

"And why not try to combat those rumors? Show a touch of demureness when the situation calls for it," Willas suggested.

Her head tilted back as she let out a hearty laugh. "You think the Northern lords rallied behind me because of my demureness? Do you believe meekness and passivity brought me to this position?"

"The boldness you displayed, your refusal to conform to expectations, may have earned you acclaim on the battlefield, but it could lead to your downfall in the realm of politics," he countered.

In response, she leaned forward, her behavior wholly unladylike, yet captivating in its audacity.

"I find your perspective intriguing, almost as much as I find your sisters," she stated, a triumphant smile spreading across her face.

Caught off guard, Willas blinked in surprise.

"Let's be frank, Lord Willas," Alysanne said, her gaze unwavering. "Your sister despises me, perhaps almost as much as your grandmother. And I can understand the Queen of Thorns' feelings on principle alone. I am the bastard girl who her favorite grandson is being forced to wed by the king her family once fought against at one point. It's not hard to see why she would harbor such animosity. But your sister's hatred is far more personal. Most wouldn't notice it if I hadn't dealt with Sansa Stark my entire life."

What did you do, Margaery?

"Margaery has been groomed to be the perfect wife. She embodies kindness, grace, docility, and charity, but above all, she exudes piety and erudition," he explained. "Meeting you, a woman so far from the image she was raised to believe the Seven favored, made her react warily, no doubt. But you shouldn’t take it heart, my lady. First impressions do chance."

Alysanne's eyes sparkled with amusement, and Willas felt an inexplicable urge to lean forward and capture that mischievous smile with his lips. He didn’t, because he could control himself. "Tell me, Lord Willas. Was that speech part of your training? Did everyone in your family learn it?"

His lips curled into a smile before he could stop them. "No, my lady. It's simply who my sister is."

Alysanne's huff of laughter charmed him. "Tell me you're either a good liar or blind. For our relationship going forward, I hope it's the former." Before he could respond, she threw him an unexpected question. "Who is kinder, my lord? Sansa or Arya? Be honest."

Willas blinked, feeling the answer clear in his mind. "Lady Sansa."

"Blind, just like the rest of the knights of summer," she teased, her lips pursed. "A pity, I've been told you're intelligent and clever. I could work with an intelligent and clever husband. Even if he was a liar."

"You believe Arya is the kinder one?" he asked, intrigued by her perspective, .

"Arya is the kindest person in this family. Sansa performs kindness, much like your sister. Sansa sews clothes and your sister gives alms to the poor because society expects them to. But Arya's kindness is innate," Alysanne explained. "She treats a street rat with the same warmth as she treats a noble, and if she had a plate of food and saw two children in the street, she would divide it equally between them. Even if no one were watching. That is true kindness, my lord."

Willas nodded, beginning to see the depth of Alysanne's insight. "And are you kind, my lady?"

She pondered the question, glancing toward the heart tree as if seeking an answer. "I refuse to perform kindness. My spartan tent and chambers may give the impression that I am kind, a hint of my innate feminine consideration, but truthfully, I find it senseless to indulge in luxuries when I am going to war. Before what happened, I imagined I would spend my life as a healer. Healers tend to be kind. Most of them at least."

Willas was surprised by her revelation, "Truly?"

"Master Luwin trained me in the arts of healing and herblore. I used to spent my days in Wintertown looking for people who needed help. I even helped delivered babes."

Willas smiled warmly. He could see it, now that she mentioned it. The way the commonfolk looked at her during their time in Winterfell spoke volumes of the respect she had earned.

"I think you are kind," he said sincerely.

She offered a small smile, seemingly skeptical of his assessment. "But I am also capable of cruelty."

As Willas leaned in, his curiosity piquing. He made a conscious effort to look past Alysanne's beauty and the gossip surrounding her, instead focusing on their conversations and her actions. There was an enigmatic quality about her, a coldness that both intrigued and frustrated him. He was used to women who hid their emotions behind masks of serenity, docility or stillness, not a wall of ice. Margaery's assessments weren't entirely off base, and Alysanne's behavior could be quite unseemly at times. Yet, in private, they found themselves engaged in profound discussions about philosophy and the expectations of society that spoke volumes of her intelligence.

"I could work with an intelligent and clever husband,"  she had said.

He recognized her astute understanding of Lady Catelyn and Lady Sansa's schemes. And even if at times she seemed inexperienced when it came to court politics, she was no naïve maiden like Sansa, who saw the world in black and white. Alysanne Snow understood the intricacies of human performance and acted accordingly, just it seemed, against was what expected of her. Lady Sansa, on the other hand, took the performance as the reality, in her view of the world as good vs evil.

It dawned on him all of the sudden. Alysanne defied expectations placed upon her, refusing to be meek, passive, or chaste, despite the judgment that stemmed from her origins, that people would expect a bastard that had been given a place at her father’s home to be reticence and tight-lipped. Not seen or heard. But that wasn’t Alysanne Snow. Not the she-wolf who exuded boldness, intelligence, and skill, and while she may appear cold, he had seen her fiery spirit when confronting slights.

Alysanne knew society expected her to conform, but instead of bending to those standards, she embraced her true self, unapologetically bold and independent.

Gods, how could it have taken me so long to realize it, Willas thought.

Lady Alysanne seemed surprised by his laugh.

"I am not laughing at you, Alysanne. I promise," he assured her. "It's just... I invited a couple to our wedding in Highgarden, old friends of mine." He recalled the vivid memory of a luxurious room in Oldtown, where passion transcended his youthful imagination. "And you remind me so much of him. That I cannot wait for you to meet him."

"Who?" she tilted her head, intrigued.

"Prince Oberyn," he replied.

The emotions that flickered across Alysanne's face were a complex mix that left Willas bewildered. He couldn't quite decipher them, but it was evident that the comparison had stirred something within her. A moment of silent understanding passed between them, where unspoken sentiments lingered beneath the surface.

It would take a long time for Willas to understand the complex mix of emotions that crossed his future wives face.

"Can you tell me," she began, in a much more timid tone, "the people who I will have to meet in Highgarden?"

Understanding she was likely overwhelmed and knew little of his homeland, he began to explain it to her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7 – Alysanne IV

The tale of Rodrik Stark and his great love for Agnes of the Fenn may not have been the best choice for Alysanne to read on the eve of her wedding, now that she thought about it. Agnes had been brutally murdered on the orders of the King of Winter, and of the three children she bore her lover, only one survived to adulthood, the famous Brandon Snow. It was a tragic story, yet the rage and vengeance that had consumed Prince Rodrik Stark, leading him to personally hunt down and slay every man involved in the crime, even revolting against his own father, always fascinated her.

Alysanne turned the page and absentmindedly ran her fingers through Ghost's pelt. Her direwolf's head rested against her stomach, serving as both a comforting presence and a makeshift bookrest. The room was silent allowing her to hear the soft murmurs of the children outside of her bedchamber. She closed the book as Ghost raised his head, his keen senses detecting something.

The door burst open as Alysanne's younger siblings tumbled into the room. Setting her book aside, she extended her arms, ready to embrace the chaos that followed. Three-year-old Rickon needed her assistance to clamber onto her bed, while Bran and Arya, being more practiced in these midnight raids, scaled the covers with grace. Ghost left her alone with the little terrors, showing to curl up at the foot of the bed like a silent sentinel.

"We couldn't sleep," Bran whispered, looking down at the bed. She would need a new bed if her siblings insisted in continuing to invade her rooms at will.

Alysanne suppressed a grin, her eyes twinkling. "Really? Did you give sleep a fair chance?" she inquired, knowing all too well they probably hadn't.

"We don't want you to marry the stupid," Arya chimed in, her voice dripping with disdain.

"Arya," Alysanne chided her sister gently, her tone as warm as the candlelit hearth. "Lord Willas is not a stupid. And even if he were, we don't use such unkind words, do we?"

"He's taking you away. That's unkind too," Bran whispered, clinging to her left leg, while Rickon tightened his grip around her neck. A mix of tenderness and a hint of bitterness swelled within her. She loved those three rascals as if they were her own children.

"I've told you, I won't leave you. Not even the King could keep me from my little wolves."

"Sansa said he might lock you in a tower to hide his shame," Arya declared, her voice brimming with indignation. "I threw bread at her and called her stupid. If anyone deserves to be locked away, it's him."

"Arya," Alysanne sighed, briefly closing her eyes. She wondered if her sisters had been alone when Sansa made those remarks.

She hoped Sansa and Arya hadn't been in the sewing circle that Lady Catelyn and Lady Alerie frequently hosted together. Lady Alerie had extended invitations to Alysanne, which she graciously declined. A shard of insecurity lingered within her, a secret hope that her poised and accomplished future goodmother wouldn't discern the gaps in her education. Unlike her sisters, Alysanne had been guided by Maester Luwin and her uncles, not by a septa or governess.

Her sisters learned under Septa Mordane, and especially Sansa had blossomed under her tutelage. Sansa would be greatly accomplished lady, versed in music, poetry, singing, dancing, and the art of embroidery. Meanwhile, Maester Luwin, either out of pity or a keen recognition of her aptitude in certain subjects, had taken her under his wing. Her thirst for knowledge was further nurtured by Uncle Arthur, who seemed to possess a knack for acquiring books that most parents would never allow a young lady to read.

"The Septa wanted to punish me, but Lady Dustin intervened," Arya confirmed, confirming her suspicions.

"Well, I promise Lord Willas won't lock me in any tower," Alysanne reassured them.

Bran appeared visibly relieved, but Arya remained uncertain. "Will he send you to the Faith and marry Sansa afterward?"

Alysanne closed her eyes briefly, contemplating the whispers circulating behind her back. Who was feeding these notions to Sansa? Lady Catelyn? The septa? Both? Alysanne couldn't help but wish she were born a man sometimes, so she could be as ruthless and uncompromising as needed. She could have sent the septa packing and insisted that Lady Catelyn adapt to Northern ways or return to her father's house. Perhaps even taking Sansa along, a darker part of her mused. But such actions would be political suicide, a luxury she couldn't afford. After all, Stark pack stuck together, even in their constant squabbles.

"I believe in the Old Gods, Arya," she reassured her sister. "You know I wouldn't take the Faith's vows. But even if they tried, they can't force me."

"But they can force you," Bran whispered, his voice quivering with fear. "I overheard them. They say that as soon as I come of age or if they take the regency from you, they will force you."

"Oh, Bran," Alysanne murmured, pulling him close, feeling his soft sobs against her chest. "I would never let them separate us. I promise."

"I will give you Winterfell, Aly," Bran said with a determined look in his eyes. "You can have it, so you can stay with me, Rickon, and Arya forever."

Bran's offer to give her Winterfell touched her heart deeply. The innocence and love in his words were a balm to her soul, and she hugged him tightly. Still her heart ached at Bran's words. She rarely shared her deep grief over Robb with anyone, how much she remember of him, despite being younger than Bran then he passed away. He had been her twin. At times, Bran's words felt like a cruel reminder of what they had lost.

"My little winged wolf," Alysanne whispered, gently caressing his cheek. " I appreciate your love and your offer, but you must understand that Winterfell is yours. You are the Lord of Winterfell, and while in this family word is law. You must answer to the King as do all subjects. The King has arranged my marriage to Lord Willas and we cannot tell him no. But if you want Arya or Rickon to stay in Winterfell, they can stay with you. Remember only the King is above you. And no one can force you to send away your own kin from your castle."

Arya's earlier anger had subsided, replaced by uncertainty and fear. Alysanne reached out and took Arya's hand in her own, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"I promise you both that I won't let anyone force me into something I don't believe in," she said firmly. "I'll protect our family. And if someone dares to break us, I'll find a way to be with you. I will fight whoever I need to."

"So I can tell Lord Willas to leave and let you be," Bran declared, a spark of defiance in his eyes.

Alysanne wished it were that simple. "No, my brave Bran. That you cannot do. The King's command holds great weight, and we cannot defy it."

“I hate the king,” Arya and Bran said in unison.

A heavy knot formed in Alysanne's chest at their words, the image of Robert's war hammer flashing in her mind. "You cannot say that! Ever! Promise me you won't breathe those words to anyone."

Rickon's pale blue eyes locked onto hers, wide and innocent. His gaze reminded her of Uncle Benjen, not the rich blue color of Lady Catelyn and Sansa’s shade. She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss on his curly hair. "Sing for me, Aly," he whispered, clunging to her like a lifeline. Alysanne kissed his forehead once more.

"I shall sing," she promised, brushing her fingers through his hair, "but only if you close your eyes and allow yourselves to sleep."

A mischievous grin spread across Arya's face, a small triumph in the midst of tension. They would get to sleep in her bed.

"Just remember," Alysanne's voice softened, her eyes moving from one sibling to another, "that no matter where life takes us, I'll always stand by your side. We are a pack, bound by an unbreakable bond. And that sometimes, different roads sometimes lead to the same castle."

In the quiet of the room, Alysanne's melodic voice began to weave a song, she picked an old northern song about the bounds of family and community and how those were as important as a offering to the Gods.

.

.

"Good morning, my lady," Ser Rodrik Cassel greeted her at the door. "I hope I haven't awakened you."

"No," Alysanne replied with a tired smile. In truth, sleep had been elusive for her. Even after her siblings had fallen asleep, her mind refused to rest. "I assume you are looing for a little lord?"

Ser Rodrik nodded, offering her a warm, familial smile. "I thought he might be here."

Alysanne opened the door fully, revealing the three Stark children slumbering peacefully in her bed. "They couldn't find rest," she explained.

"They've been more on edge lately. It's only natural," the knight observed.

She studied the older man. Ser Rodrik had been one of Lord Stark's most trusted companions, and Alysanne had come to place her trust in him as well. However, she understood that Alysanne Snow was not Lord Eddard Stark. Offering him a gentle smile, she spoke softly, "Have you given any more thought to what I proposed?"

The knight nodded solemnly. "I've spoken with Lady Donella. She shares your sentiments. We've been taking some walks, and a part of me is inclined to agree with your proposal, my lady."

Alysanne maintained her calm exterior, even though inside she wanted to shout that if she were a man, this would be a straightforward decision. Ser Rodrik would never say no to a proposal from the Lord of Winterfell. Perhaps even Lady Catelyn would have had an easier time convincing him.

"Lady Donella seems to hold you in high regard, and, forgive me if I overstep, but you seem to reciprocate those feelings," Alysanne noted. "I simply want you to be happy, Ser Rodrik. You've been a grandfather to me and my siblings, and while we've had our disagreements, recent events have made me yearn for the happiness of those around me. I trust no other man to be as loyal and honorable to Lady Donella as you."

"But how can I abandon my duties, my lady? And what about Beth?" Ser Rodrik expressed his concerns.

A frown creased Alysanne's brow. "Beth can go with you if you wish. I won't keep her here. Lady Donella will become like a mother to her. As for your service, you will serve as Stark as the Lord of the Hornwood, raising a new generation to bear the Hornwood name. I have no doubt you will do just as marvelously as you did raising us."

Alysanne could see the man's inner turmoil. "Think on it a bit more, my lord. I only ask that you make your decision soon, as Lady Donella wishes to wed before I must depart for Highgarden."

Ser Rodrik nodded and then waited patiently as Alysanne gently lifted her slumbering siblings from the bed, her heart heavy with the weight of the decisions that lay ahead.

.

.

“You look so pretty,” Bethany’s sweet voice said as Jonella and Alys finished the adjustments in Alysanne’s open, loose, hanging sleeves of her overgown. Her dress was truly a thing of beauty. Made in the northern style, the overgown was composed of white brocade and was open at the front, revealing the grey satin gown beneath. The bodice of the gown was delicately embroidered with weirwood motifs in white thread.

Bethany had her mother’s dark eyes while her dark brown hair was very much like Uncle Benjen’s. He had been a man of sharp features, while Barbrey had a more slim face. In time, Bethany would likely take after Uncle Benjen in facial features, but in stature, the girl would resemble her tall mother. And at the tender age of seven, Bethany already showed a promising musical talent.

Barbrey had dressed Bethany in a gown with fuller sleeves and a square neckline. Alysanne couldn’t help but smile when Arya twirled impatiently around in a golden dress. Arya's dress had a straight cut, tight sleeves, and a round neckline trimmed with blue. Unlike Alysanne, Arya’s slightly rosier complexion didn't clash with the gold. In fact, she looked very pretty in it.

“Thank you, my sweet,” Alysanne leaned down to playfully tweak the little girl’s nose. It was a Stark nose, long and sharp.

“I want to be that pretty when I wed.”

Barbrey huffed. The Governess of House Stark had left her black ensembles behind for a brown velvet dress, simple but very fine, with a high collar. Her overgown was dark grey and embroidered with black, cut in the same open front style as Alysanne’s, but with long sleeves. Alysanne noticed that Barbrey, a woman who rarely wore jewelry, was wearing a pendant of pearls with a garnet in the center. It was Uncle Benjen’s wedding gift to his wife.

“You are already very pretty,” Alysanne reassured Bethany.

A voice cough at the entrance to her chamber. It was Arthur Dayne, dressed in a grey velvet doublet and overcoat with an embroidered turned collar displaying the white sword and falling star crossing sigil of House Dayne. His eyes were fixed on Alysanne, and she asked for her ladies to leave her with her uncle.

“You look stunning,” Uncle Arthur spoke as he walked towards her. Not wanting to meet his intense gaze, she turned to the looking glass that Lady Barbrey had provided. In the reflection, her uncle, much taller than her, stood behind her with a pensive look. Then he produced a small wooden box from inside his coat.

Surprised, Alysanne turned to him and the little wooden box. Once he opened it, she gasped. Inside was a pendant on a silver chain. The pendant was a weirwood, with its leaves crafted from tiny rubies. She touched the white roots of the pendant, which were not silver as she had imagined.

“How?” she marveled. “What?”

“White gold.”

Targaryen gold, some had called it. Valyrian Gold had been the true name for the secret composition that ended with them. Still, the Targaryens and some families from Volantis possessed pieces of jewelry made from it.

She doubted anyone had a weirwood tree crafted from this rare material. It made her slightly uncomfortable to imagine who had recast a jewelry piece to make it. There were, of course, only two possibilities: the man standing in front of her and the man he called a brother.

Swallowing hard, she asked, “I can’t wear such a thing. Someone will know.”

“Hide it beneath your clothes,” Arthur Dayne urged, gently pushing her chin up with his finger. “It is your legacy, Alysanne, in more ways than one.”

She looked at the weirwood tree pendant and nodded, feeling a mixture of pride and unease.

.

.

Alysanne Snow, now Tyrell, gracefully glided through the Great Hall of Winterfell, her arm linked with her husband's. The grand banquet that awaited them had been meticulously prepared, and two intricately carved, high-backed chairs stood ready at the head of the hall.

She turned to steal a glance at her husband, a man whose presence had made her stomach churn more than once that day. He was undeniably handsome—tall, lean, with a high forehead and an angular jawline. His hair wasn't the chestnut brown of his siblings but a shade almost like honey, glistening beneath a velvet white hat she'd never seen the likes of before. He had surprised her by choosing the traditional white attire expected in a northern wedding. His doublet was white brocade, intricately woven with gold, and he wore a white velvet mantle, trimmed with sable.

"Please, enjoy the feast," Alysanne addressed the assembled guests before she took her seat. She nodded at the musicians to begin playing some light, cheerful melodies, and she began to pick at her food. Nerves had kept her appetite at bay throughout the day.

"You look splendid," her newlywed husband complimented her, his intelligent, vivid blue eyes gleaming. The hue was unlike Sansa's or Rickon's, a deeper and darker shade. It was a gaze that seemed full of hidden depths.

"I'm surprised," she replied, her gaze involuntarily locking with his.

"Surprised that I waited for you at the altar with a cane?"

She frowned, now that she thought about, yes he did want for her without his cane to support his leg, "That too, but I meant that you wore white."

He closed his eyes briefly, his long eyelashes brushing his lower lids.

She nodded, still taken aback by the effort he'd gone through. Then she reminded herself that the southern houses were wealthier than the Northern ones, refusing to feel inferior.

“I read that it was tradition in the north. To wed in white. So I had the clothes made.”

She nodded, still taken aback by the effort he'd gone through. Then she reminded herself that the southern houses were wealthier than the Northern ones, it was likely of little trouble to them.

Alysanne refused to feel inferior because of it, however.

"Now, would you care to explain why your younger siblings have been glaring at me as if they want their direwolves to devour me alive?" he asked.

She couldn’t help but giggle. By the look on his face, Willas Tyrell was has surprised by her laughter as she was.

"I can see my impending doom brings you joy," he said with dry humor. "What else does?"

"What do you mean?" she inquired, puzzled.

"What makes you joy, my lady? I know you love horses, archery, and books. You seem to enjoy engaging in philosophical debates with me about the concept of kindness. I've heard you possess a deep affection for music."

She finished her spoonful of food and then paused, deep in thought. She wondered how he got that last bit of information. "You already know a great deal about me, Lord Willas."

Worse was that Alysanne was pleasantly surprised by the depth of his knowledge and his interest in her.

"Willas," he corrected.

"We seem to be at a disadvantage," she continued, "for you've revealed very little about yourself." She hesitated, debating whether to push further. "But one can read between the lines."

His smile revealed perfect white teeth, and his cheekbones dimpled when he grinned. It was strangely charming.

"You're well-read and intelligent," she began. "You seem to share your grandmother's political mindset. You enjoy horse riding, and you're strong-willed."

"I'm strong-willed?" he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. "Not what most people would describe me as."

"No," she teased, "I've been told you are gentle, pious, good-hearted, and, well, boring. A book with a plain cover. But people call me ruthless, barbaric and, of course, a witch. "

A monster.

"Oh, you are utterly bewitching," he responded with a charming smile. "Those rumors are true."

She huffed playfully and returned to her food, but Willas reached out to gently touch her hand.

"It bothers you, doesn't it? What they say about you?" he asked, his expression filled with genuine surprise. "It shouldn't," he added. "You've accomplished far greater things at such a young age. There's no reason for it to bother you."

"Yes," Alysanne agreed, her mind drifting. "Reputation has its uses."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence once more. Alysanne continued to dine, occasionally engaging with people at the lower tables, while Willas remained mostly with his own family.

"They're far too clever and eager to eavesdrop conversations," she remarked. Willas turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "My siblings. They don't like you because they believe you'll take me away from Winterfell, and they won't see me again. Apparently, some people," she emphasized, "think you'll either lock me in a tower or force me into a motherhouse."

Willas Tyrell froze, his eyes darting between her siblings and her, searching for any hint of her true feelings.

"I wouldn't," he whispered, his voice filled with sincerity. "Lock you up or force you into a life of service to a faith you don't believe in."

She huffed again and returned her attention to her food. Willas must have seen her disbelief because he called her name in a soft, almost pleading tone—softer than she had ever heard from him.

"I wouldn't," he said, his tone carrying the weight of a solemn vow. "I would never separate you from your siblings, nor would I cause you any harm. I am not that type of husband."

Alysanne, moved by his sincerity, gently cradled his handsome face in her hand. He appeared startled at first but held her gaze, his eyes revealing a depth of of sincerity that made her wonder if he was not more naïve than her.

"You say that now, Willas Tyrell, when it is still the season of your knights of summer. But Winter is Coming, my lord, and then is when I will see if you hold true to your words," she cautioned, her voice tinged with a solemnity that matched the gravity of her words.

She released his face, and he continued to gaze at her, his curiosity piqued.

"You speak of winter in such a strange way," he observed. "As if it's an entity that must be fought against."

"Not fought against, perhaps," she replied, suddenly feeling a weight inside her, "more like fought through. You saw the town outside of Winterfell. What did you think of its population?"

Willas inclined his head in thought. "It is mostly empty; I'd wager one quarter of it is habited."

"The wedding brought many to Winterfell," Alysanne explained. "It's called the winter town for a reason. We have four such towns in the North, but this one is the emptiest during other seasons. Barrowtown, Moles' Town, and White Harbor also are winter towns in their own way. Perhaps the latter is the least affected by winter and with the most stable population throughout the seasons."

Willas leaned forward, his interest clearly piqued. "Do people come here during winter?"

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. He is intelligent, she thought. "It's always harsh in the North, but the lands up north have it worse, especially the Mountain clans and sparsely populated areas, or places like Karhold and the Last Hearth. When the snows fall and food becomes scarce, their young must travel to the winter town or take service at one of the castles."

"People migrate during winter," he mused.

"You can't survive winter alone," she stated solemnly. "They bring all they can. Once the Citadel announces the arrival of Autumn, all the North moves to prepare. I can show you the storage; they are mostly empty, not because we lack food, but because they were built for winter. But even then, it's not enough. The old men gather up what strength remains in them and announce that they are going hunting. Some are found come spring. Most are never seen again."

Willas absorbed her words, his gaze flickering with a mix of sympathy and curiosity.

Thinking of winter made Alysanne suddenly feel cold, despite the warmth of the Great Hall. She looked around the room, her gaze falling upon a talented singer with two female companions who were entertaining the guests. The people seemed to be enjoying their performance, and Alysanne found herself smiling at the brown-haired bard. Not even her in wedding day she had peace, it would seem.

"In the south, we all know that winter is harsh," he began, his voice low and thoughtful, "but I think we don't truly understand, do we?"

"Oh," she replied, knowing there was a bittersweet smile in her face, "you are a summer child, my lord. You know nothing of true winter."

"Perhaps," Willas replied with a half-teasing, half-serious tone, "but now I will."

Alysanne was barely able to swallow her food afterward, a sense of foreboding settling in her chest. Her eyes found the bard’s once more and nodded. They really had no idea. No matter how many pretty words she use explain the reality of Winter, no one would believed it until they living through it.

.

.

"You seem to enjoy the conversation with the bard. Did he try to steal you away?"

Her husband's question about the bard's company drew a wry smile from Alysanne. If only he knew the irony of such a statement or why the “bard” had her attention. She glanced around the room, noting that the children had already retired to bed, except for Sansa, who appeared to be thoroughly enjoying her dance with Ser Garlan.

Catching the eye of Lady Barbrey, the older woman nodded.

It was time.

"I make an effort to engage with a variety of people," she replied, choosing her words carefully to avoid delving into a topic she couldn't easily explain. "You'd be surprised at what one can discover."

Not wishing to linger on the subject, she redirected the conversation to the purpose of her return to the dais. "I will now announce my retirement. Lady Barbrey Dustin, Lady Jonelle Cerwyn, and Lady Dacey Mormont will accompany me to assist in my preparations. When you're ready, you can retire to my chambers."

Lord Willas regarded her with a furrowed brow. "The guests expect a bedding ceremony."

Alysanne's gaze remained resolute. "We can prove consummation without the spectacle of having me strip in the Great Hall. I am the Regent of the North," she whispered, her eyes scanning the room discreetly. "I've worked too hard to earn the respect of the Lord of the North and to have my abilities overshadow my gender. I won’t have throw it all away because I allowed my vassals to strip me bare. The three ladies will stay with me until you join, and you may bring any men you choose to the chamber. They can even stand guard outside, for all I care. But I won't allow my body to become a public spectacle."

Without waiting for Lord Willas to respond, she rose from her seat and prepared to deliver her final speech of the night.

.

.

Her bedchamber was softly aglow with the warm, flickering light of candles that graced every conceivable surface. Despite her status, Alysanne had always lived in the family wing. In happier, carefree, times, she had shared these chambers with Robb, a point of contention with Lady Catelyn, who had always held her son's heir status in high regard. Yet, Robb's preference for his sister's company prevailed, and Lord Stark decreed that they would continue to occupy the chambers once belonging to Uncle Brandon until they were deemed too old for it.

When Robb passed away, the void in her heart was made worse by the chambers, and when  Lady Catelyn promptly relocated her to a smaller, more modest chamber, she had not opposed. The new chambers had been stripped of any painful memory, and Bran had been moved to Robb’s old chambers once he was old enough.

Now, Bran occupied the Lord of Winterfell's chambers when he didn't choose to sleep with her. Alysanne had reclaimed her previous rooms, albeit with some adjustments, as they had remained untouched for a decade. The once painful memories now serving a newfound propose. Remembrance.

The stone walls retained their stoic simplicity, adorned only with woolen hangings in silver and blue, instead of splendid tapestries. Her bed, spacious enough for two, lacked the extravagance of a canopy. No brocade or velvet draped the furnishings. The sheets were crafted from high-quality linen, but in untinted linen in creamy tones. Her furs of cozy goatskin and woolen blankets in added an even more darkly, earthy tone to her room.

Alysanne's room harbored no ostentatious displays of decoration. Instead, a functional work desk and a chair, graced by a soft blue velvet cushion, because she was no masochist, no matter what some said.

Behind the chair, a bookshelf stood tall, adorned with ledgers, books, and even personal letters. The wall to the left of the desk was adorned with a grand map of the North, with some lands even from the north of the Wall. A cabinet nearby held an assortment of quills, pots of ink, jars, and her most delicate tomes and letters. The looking glass still stood by her wardrobe since morning, but her desk had for the first time in a long time been  meticulously cleared of any array documents and ledgers. The room's sole display of status in her bedchamber was the fact that her furniture was made of dark oak, exquisitely carved, a testament to Northern craftmanship.

It was a chamber far from the expectations of a great lady—dark, austere, and devoid of ostentation. Exactly how people perceive her. But that were doing nothing for her brooding mood.

"Do you know what to expect?" Dacey inquired, her voice gentle.

Alysanne nodded, her expression a blend of composure and a touch of uncertainty. "Lady Barbey had a very candid conversation with me about it. She mentioned that women don't always bleed, that it doesn't always hurt. She also said that it varies depending on the man, and that I might find pleasure. Especially with time."

With practiced hands, Dacey carefully removed the last pins holding the cascade of curls that framed Alysanne's face. Alysanne had always favored simplicity in her hairstyles, but knew that no ribbons would support her curls.

"I don't believe Lord Willas is the type to simply ignore a woman in his company," Dacey tried to assure her.

“He isn’t,” Alysanne admitted, her tone suggesting a hint of knowing assurance. She gave Dacey a wry smile. "He went to Wintertown with his brother and some companions. You know Ros tells me everything. She mentioned he's skilled in more than just one kind of pleasure," she confessed, a blush creeping across her cheeks.

Dacey grinned knowingly, but before she could say anything further, the door swung open. Lord Willas, having evidently taken the time to prepare, entered the room. His form was draped in a heavy robe of dark blue velvet adorned with intricate gold embroidery, a stark contrast to Alysanne's simple linen nightgown. The fabric clung to his frame, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

"My ladies," he greeted them, a measure of confidence evident in his demeanor.

Dacey cast Alysanne a significant look, silently communicating her intentions, and then took her leave. As she exited the room, Lord Willas moved away from the doorway, revealing the presence of another men outside. They barely caught a glimpse of Alysanne's silhouette before Dacey closed the door, enveloping the room in a shadow of privacy.

Seated on the bed, her posture impeccable, Alysanne kept her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. As Lord Willas approached, she felt his gaze slowly traversing her body, a sensation that made feel like prey under a predator's watchful eye.

With an air of casual indifference, Lord Willas allowed his robe to fall, revealing a physique that caught Alysanne by surprise. He was a lean man, and given his injury, she hadn't expected such a defined frame. He lacked the broad, muscular build of most warriors, yet there was a sleek precision about his form that hinted at a life shaped by athletic pursuits.

His fingers found her chin, their touch not rough like hers but instead long and uncalloused. Gently, he turned her face to meet his, his eyes darkened with desire. Alysanne swallowed hard, her composure wavering, especially as his hands continued their exploration, tracing a path towards her neck and shoulders, and coaxing a bit of her chemise to slip lower.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, she couldn't resist the urge to close her eyes.

With a growing awareness of the impending intimacy, Alysanne allowed her body to relax into the softness of the bed, sensing the warmth of Willas's form following suit. His skilled fingers deftly stripped away her sole remaining garment, and she heard him mutter something under his breath that sounded like a prayer. The sensation of his warm lips on her neck and a hand on her chest, teasing her nipple until she gasped and involuntarily shivered, startled her.

She opened her eyes to meet her husband's gaze, which now seemed even darker and more intense. He blinked at her before studying her face with keen scrutiny, searching for something. Alysanne looked away, determined not to reveal too much of herself. She resisted the urge to cover herself, keeping her hands by her sides.

His fingers returned to her chin, his voice softer and huskier as he spoke. "You're a maiden," he observed, his tone softer but with a huskiness she never heard before.

"Something along those lines," she admitted, feeling slightly uncomfortable with his perceptiveness.

A shadow passed over his face, and he reassured her gently, "You don't need to be afraid of me. Has anyone spoken to you about what to expect?"

For the second time that night, she nodded, but a flicker of her quick temper made her add, "But I've been told that men are often left wanting in such matters."

Willas laughed, a rich and beautiful sound that filled the room. His fingers traced her lips, and she couldn't help but wonder if it would sound foolish to ask for a kiss.

"You may have a maiden's apprehension," he acknowledged, "but you possess the spirit of a fiery creature."

Their fervent embrace was far removed from the gentle kiss they had shared at the weirwood, and Alysanne couldn't help but feel a surge of gratification. Lord Willas's mouth moved against hers with a commanding, passionate intensity, his tongue exploring the depths of her own, his hands tracing the contours of her upper body. It was a heat that consumed her, and she found herself moaning, caught in a whirlwind of sensation.

She couldn't help but wonder if her own expression was betraying her, for Lord Willas's eyes seemed locked onto her face. His husky voice broke the fevered silence between them. "When I kissed you at the weirwood, you looked utterly enchanting," he confessed, his words stirring a longing in her. "And now. Gods," he shook his head with desire evident in his gaze. "I shouldn't ask."

Confused and somewhat breathless, she murmured, "What?"

"Those lips," he whispered before capturing her mouth in another fervent kiss, his right hand still touching her breasts in a way that made her shift her legs and have a queer feeling between her legs. "I wish I could be as gallant as your uncle, so I could duel anyone who dared to taste those lips."

Alysanne blinked, her mind a whirlwind of sensations and thoughts. Instead of delivering a witty or fiery response, she blurted out, "I've never kissed anyone," feeling like a fool.

Lord Willas Tyrell cursed, his desire unabated. His heated gaze met hers again, and this time, she wasn't surprised when their lips met with a fierce hunger.

He eventually ceased their passionate kiss, leaving her breathless and yearning for more. She wanted to protest, particularly when he withdrew his hand from her breast, but before she could voice her desire, his mouth took its place, and her words dissolved into moans.

Her eyes had shut, her hands clenching the sheets as a burning sensation flooded her senses. She couldn't help but wonder if anyone could hear her, her face flushed with heat. Desperate to stifle her cries of pleasure, she bit her lip.

His hands tightened around her thighs, parting them gently. Once their gaze met, she saw the impish glint in his eyes. Before she could utter a word, his lips descended to the most intimate part of her.

The world beyond the room ceased to exist for Alysanne as the overwhelming sensations of lust consumed her, her thoughts consumed by the man between her legs.

.

.

Wrapped in the warmth of the furs they had pulled closer around their entwined bodies, Alysanne rested her head on Willas's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was nearly as rapid as her own, a testament to the avalanche of emotions they had just experienced. Her body and mind were still coming down from the passionate whirlwind they had shared.

They had drifted into a doze after consummating their marriage, but Alysanne had soon awakened, her thoughts filled with the man lying beside her and life outside of Winterfell. Her uncle's warning echoed in her mind, urging her to be cautious, not to let infatuation interfere with her responsibilities (“We all have our Ghosts, princess. Even I had a woman I loved”)

It was clear to her that Lord Willas had the power to stir strong feelings within her. She had contemplated this as she gently traced her fingers along the soft curls and square jaw of her husband. Her thoughts had drifted to the jar in her cabinet containing a particular potion and images of little boys and girls with curls and intelligent eyes. At that moment, Willas had stirred, his gaze resting on her with a calm and almost tender expression. His lips curved into a knowing grin, reminiscent of the one he had worn when she had shouted his name before, and she couldn't resist leaning in to kiss him.

Alysanne had discovered that it was possible to couple not just once, but twice and even thrice in a single evening. Now, as their breathing gradually returned to a calm rhythm, Alysanne watched the rising sun through the window, listening to the sounds of the castle coming to life. An early riser by nature, she found herself snuggling even closer to her husband, reluctant to face the day ahead. Perhaps reluctant to even face the months and years ahead.

Willas's voice broke the tranquility. "How are you feeling, Aly?" he murmured, a nickname that only her family used.

She tilted her head to meet his gaze, her cheeks flushing with warmth. "I didn't know it could be like that," she admitted in a hushed tone.

He chuckled softly. "Not always. But a passionate partner certainly helps."

Alysanne hummed, not wishing to taint their intimate moments with thoughts of his past and future lovers.

"You're not going to ask?" he inquired, curiosity lighting up his eyes.

She understood his question. She remembered the passionate way he had kissed her when he realized that he would be the only man not only to bed her but also to kiss her. Now, she recognized it as possessiveness.

Perhaps there was something wolfish about him, Alysanne mused, and hated herself a bit for being drawn to it.

"I won't be consumed and tormented by your affairs," she replied, her tone returning to its collected self. "You're free to pursue women as you wish, as long as you don't parade them in front of me in Winterfell. I won't make it my pastime to investigate every woman who warms your bed."

Willas pondered her words for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "It doesn't bother you at all?" he asked again.

"Very few men are faithful," she echoed a phrase she had heard many times.

Despite her resignation to what she knew was the truth in her words, Alysanne had never truly been faced with infidelity in her own family. Her father, Lord Stark, had been devoted to Lady Catelyn, and Alysanne had never doubted the depth of their love. The marriage between Lady Barbrey and her Uncle Benjen had been different. They had wed when Alysanne was just a toddler. Their nearly decade-long marriage had mostly played out in Barrowtown, but even as a child, she had noticed the teasing grins on her uncle's face and the moments when the always-composed Lady Dustin seemed to soften under his gaze. Uncle Benjen had been utterly devoted, and Alysanne doubted he had even been aware of the existence of other women. He had been something of a romantic, much to the surprise of many. Perhaps with more time, their marriage would have blossomed into a great love.

As for the married men around her, they didn't tend to flaunt their affairs openly. The deceased Lord Hornwood had been the most talked about affair and because his mistress lived in his castle.

"They are not even part of the vows," Alysanne added.

“I noticed,” Willas commented. “Are there no vows in Old Gods marriage?”

Alysanne turned her body so she was fully facing him as she explained, "Unlike the Faith of the Seven, we do not recite seven vows that many soon forget or disregard. Our vows are private, often a silent prayer. The old gods watch through the trees and hear our vows. My lord father believed that no man could tell a lie in front of a heart tree. The old gods know when men are lying, so there's no point in making a vow one does not intend to follow through."

"I didn't pay much attention," Lord Willas admitted. "I don't know what you vowed. I used that moment to recite some vows of the Seven."

Noticing his slight discomfort, Alysanne tried to offer some reassurance. "The Old Gods know you follow the Faith of the Seven. I'm sure they won't hold you too accountable for a broken promise. Especially since you were unaware."

Willas appeared to be frowning, and Alysanne understood that the followers of the Faith of the Seven often struggled to grasp the depth of devotion and worship of the Old Gods when there were no priests or holy texts involved. However, she had never stood in front of a weirwood and not felt the undeniable power of the Old Gods. She knew her people shared the same belief.

Even Lady Catelyn, despite her tendency to avoid the Heart Tree, recognized that there was a certain power in them. Perhaps Willas had felt it too. To an outsider, their customs might seem strange, but to Alysanne and the North, they held deep meaning and significance.

"I pledged to give you hearth and heart and harvest," Alysanne confessed. "To do my best to stand by your side in sickness and in health, and to always strive to find the strength and resilience to stand by your side."

Lord Willas regarded her with a thoughtful expression. Alysanne was well aware that her vows had made no mention of fidelity, loyalty, obedience, family honor, or procreation. There was a deliberate reason for these omissions; Alysanne would not utter a false oath in front of a Heart Tree.

"Heart, hearth, and harvest," Willas repeated, a touch of amusement in his voice. "It almost sounded like you were swearing fealty," he remarked with a soft huff.

Alysanne placed a kiss on his shoulder blade. "I need a bath before I get ready for the day. You should go as well, my lord. I won't have rumors circulating that we've both turned into sloths."

She had more pressing matters on her mind, particularly the need to speak with Mance Rayder discreetly, without drawing any undue attention. For that, she needed to find her raven.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8 – Catelyn I

Catelyn's worst fears had come to pass. The castle had been abuzz with whispers and gossip since the wedding. Despite Lord Willas's reputation as a pious and graceful man, he had not left his wife's chambers for the fortnight since they have been wed, staying longer in the North than it had been planned and only departing a moon’s turn after their wedding. The people of Winterfell spoke of nothing else but how the Heir of Highgarden was utterly besotted with their she-wolf. Catelyn had prayed fervently for Lord Willas, hoping he wouldn't succumb to the charms of the temptress bastard, but her prayers had fallen on deaf ears. The bastard’s clutches were stronger than Catelyn had imagined.

"Lord Wyman Manderly has been pressing me even harder," Vayon remarked with an irritated twist of his lips. The steward of Winterfell harbored no fondness for the Lord of White Harbor, particularly since he seemed intent on overseeing Winterfell's inventory and finances and not just the taxation. Vayon, who had faithfully served Lady Catelyn since her arrival at Winterfell and was married to one of her close friends, Marianne Paege, relished his role under the Lady of Winterfell, not a fat and proud Lord with no Stark name.

"Indeed, Lady Alysanne is well aware of your reluctance with how she is overstep her place," Marianne added.

"That is not what troubles me the most, my lady," a voice aged by time and experience chimed in. Lord Rodrik Ryswell, a man in his sixties whose face and frame bore the marks of his years, possessed a sharp mind that few could match. "Hornwood presents a problem, my lady, one that requires a solution."

Lady Catelyn interlaced her fingers and nodded thoughtfully. "You'll be pleased to know that Ser Rodrik has declined the title of Lord of Hornwood and will continue to serve here in Winterfell."

Vayon nodded, his satisfaction evident, but the pale eyes of Lord Ryswell remained troubled. "And who shall inherit those lands, my lady? The Dowager? An unmarried lady with no legitimate claim to her late husband's domain? She lacks a drop of Hornwood blood."

Catelyn nodded once more. "Despite her little inheritance rights, she is Lord Manderly's cousin, and the Lord of White Harbor wields considerable influence within Alysanne's coalition. She must appease him."

"Is she prepared to disregard the kingdom's laws in such a manner?" Lord Ryswell appeared skeptical. "Berena Hornwood is young, in good health, and has two sons."

Vayon shook his head. "Berena Hornwood is wed to a Tallhart. Her sons bear the Tallhart name."

"True," Ryswell scoffed, "but she is married to a second son. You'd be a fool to believe that Leobald, as shrewd as he is, wouldn't seize the opportunity to have his eldest son inherit such vast lands, even if it means to bear his wife's name. The Glovers have proposed an alternative candidate."

Catelyn furrowed her brow, her confusion evident. Berena Hornwood was the only surviving sibling of the deceased lord and the last direct heir. There were no male Hornwoods to claim the title.

"Halys’ bastard," the lord revealed.

Marianne cast a dubious glance at Catelyn, then turned back to Lord Ryswell with an arched eyebrow. "Surely she does not intend to place a bastard ahead of a trueborn heir?"

Catelyn resisted the urge to scoff. It was precisely the sort of move a bastard would make.

"The Glovers, for all they are a master house, have connections," Lord Ryswell cautioned. "Let us not forget, my lady, that the Widow of Karhold is a Glover by birth."

"And Robett Glover's wife bore a daughter just a year ago," Catelyn added. "How old is this bastard?"

"About two-and-ten, I believe," Marianne replied. "He accompanied the Glovers to the wedding, my lady."

"Did Alysanne Snow show any favoritism toward him?" the Lord of the Rills inquired.

"Not that I noticed," Marianne admitted.

"Probably too preoccupied daydreaming about Bolton's son," Vayon chimed in with a dismissive tone.

Lord Ryswell raised an eyebrow and turned to the Riverlander for confirmation regarding the truth of these rumors.

"The girl was infatuated with him," Vayon confirmed. "I have little doubt about that. Many were surprised they didn't wed before the war began, or during."

"How likely is it that she would yield to her baseborn desires and betray Lord Willas?" Lord Ryswell questioned Catelyn.

"I cannot say for certain, but there was indeed some tension between the two heirs before the wedding," Catelyn replied.

"Lord Willas would not permit such a betrayal without seeking recompense, perhaps even an annulment of their marriage," Marianne suggested.

"Exactly," Lord Ryswell agreed. "Roose will undoubtedly arrange a marriage for the boy to quell those rumors. But he is a proud man, and he will seek the most prestigious match possible."

"Alys Karstark and Jon Umber's daughters are strong contenders, then," Catelyn Stark deduced.

Lord Ryswell regarded her with a curious expression. "My lady, the daughters of Lord Eddard Stark are the most prestigious candidates, a fact both Lord Bolton and Lady Alysanne are surely aware of."

Catelyn nearly gasped in shock. "She cannot possibly intend to have Sansa wed a Bolton."

Vayon contemplated the idea for a moment. "It might indeed be a wise move, my lady. Cementing a connection between Winterfell and the Dreadfort through marriage hasn't been seen since the days of Cregan Stark's daughter wedding Lord Bolton. Even then, it was a shock."

Lord Ryswell stroked his chin thoughtfully. "That's precisely how she secured Roose's allegiance," he declared. "Roose wouldn't align himself with a Stark bastard without a substantial offer. Even a place in the triumvirate wouldn't be enough. He'll always gravitate toward the side he deems most likely to win."

Catelyn sensed that the Lord of the Rills' pride had been wounded by not being granted a place among the trio of rulers. While Lord Bolton was his former goods and as such might not be an objection, the fact that the most experienced lord from a prestigious old family had been overlooked in favor of Wyman Manderly and the Greatjon's son fueled his disdain for the bastard even further.

Her thoughts also turned to Sansa, who deserved a grand southern marriage, not to be condemned to the grim halls of the Dreadfort, a pawn in the hands of her half-sister. "Sansa cannot be married off without her presence," Catelyn declared firmly. "I shall write to Queen Margaery," she announced with resolve, "seeking a place for Sansa in her court, hinting at dreams of securing a noble southern match for her."

Unexpectedly, Lord Ryswell did not appear pleased. "My lady, while I concur that we mustn't allow the bastard to marry off your sister for her own gain, there are plenty of advantageous matches we can arrange within the North. Harrison Karstark or even Smalljon Umber remain loyal to the bastard but might be swayed to our side in exchange for a Stark marriage."

Catelyn wanted to protest but held her tongue, curtsying instead. "Perhaps you are correct, my lord. Sansa is still young, and time will reveal which lords may eventually align with our cause. Nevertheless, it would be far safer for her to reside in King's Landing."

Vayon nodded in agreement. "Lady Sansa possesses both charm and grace. Her presence in the capital could undoubtedly foster favorable relations, even with the Royal Family. It may work to our advantage."

Lord Ryswell fell silent on the subject and turned his attention to other matters. "What about your journey to Riverrun, my lady?"

Catelyn reminisced about her days in her homeland, the fights with her brother, and the advices in her lord father. "My lord father is ailing, my lords, and my brother has taken on most of his responsibilities. Unfortunately, Edmure will not lend us his support. We must turn our gaze to the North."

"We need the support of the Karstarks or the Umbers, ideally both," the Lord of the Rills declared.

"Wouldn't the Karstarks be the better choice?" Marianne interjected. "Alysanne has granted them no significant position."

"Alys Karstark is close to the bastard," Vayon countered.

"The girl will do as her brother commands," the Lord of the Rills argued. "Harrison Karstark has lost two brothers and a father to the Lannisters. He cannot be pleased with how matters have unfolded. Tywin Lannister retained his power, and Jaime Lannister was merely exiled to Bear Island instead of facing the Wall or execution."

"The Glovers hold the key," Catelyn chimed in. "As you yourself mentioned, my lord, the Widow of Karhold is a Glover. If we can secure the support of the Glovers, it's likely that the Karstarks will join our cause. We should collaborate with them, stoke their dissatisfaction with how closely the girl is tied to the Lannisters, our common enemies—the family that murdered Lord Stark and his own. Karstark will find reason to stand with us."

"The Flints of Flint's Finger have harbored resentment toward the Flints of Widow's Watch," Lord Ryswell added. "We can exploit that as well. My own nephew, who holds Flint's Finger, has two unmarried daughters. Rickard can wed one of them. It's past time my sons found suitable matches," he continued, his gaze locking with Catelyn's.

The Dowager of Winterfell nodded and turned to Vayon. "What about Rodrik Cassel? Many in the North might hesitate to continue supporting Alysanne if Rodrik were to turn against her."

"He's torn, to be sure," Vayon replied. "He won't take up arms against any of Lord Stark's children, but he's displeased to see Alysanne Snow overshadowing the trueborn sons and consorting with the Boltons. He was even more disheartened when I informed him of Alysanne's frequent correspondence with Lord Lannister."

Catelyn was genuinely curious. "What are his thoughts on the matter?"

The contents of those letters have weighed heavily on her mind.

"He fears she may be seeking advice from the Great Lion on matters of rule," her steward informed her. "Rodrik is likely to blame Tywin Lannister for the less noble decisions of the bastard."

"We must ascertain the true contents of those letters," Catelyn declared firmly. "This is an opportunity to build our coalition while Alysanne is away, and I shall write to Queen Margaery."

With the Poole couple's silent departure from Catelyn's solar, only Lord Ryswell remained behind. Once the doors had closed, and they were alone, he broached the subject.

"Have you considered the proposal, my lady? A marriage to my heir would benefit us greatly. It would solidify our alliance, and, to be frank, the northern lords will be more inclined to support your regency if you are wed to a northern man."

Catelyn recognized the truth in his words, but the thought of marrying another man, of sharing her life and bed with anyone other than Ned, weighed heavily on her heart. Roger Ryswell, two years her junior, was a tall, robust man with brown hair, a bushy beard, and his father's distinctive long nose. He wasn't particularly handsome, but neither was he unattractive. He had a penchant for brawling, drinking, and perhaps even whoring. Not very different from her memory of Brandon Stark, only that Rickard Stark eldest son was much more handsome. Still, Roger lacked the same sharpness and diligence as his father, and he would likely allow Catelyn to govern with minimal interference.

"I will speak with Bran about my desire to wed your son," Catelyn replied, her thoughts wrestling with her fear of loneliness. "I will bright it forward as a fear of loneliness and unhappiness, and request his agreement. Vayon may assist me in this matter. We will secure the Lord of Winterfell's approval, but only after Alysanne has departed. Perhaps we can arrange for a swift marriage ceremony before her return."

Lord Ryswell nodded, visibly pleased with her decision. He offered a respectful bow before taking his leave, leaving Catelyn alone in the solace of stone walls, silence, and the lingering ghosts.

.

.

Catelyn entered the Great Hall to find Bran already seated in the high seat of Winterfell, seemingly surrounded by the stone-carved direwolf heads on the armchairs, which only served to emphasize his youth. The chair, despite its polished appearance, seemed far from comfortable, lacking the softness of a cushion. Bran had wanted some cushions, but the advice from the bastard had discouraged their use in moments like this. Her son looked every bit the lordling in his grey breeches and a white velvet doublet adorned with intricate silver threadwork. To Bran's right, his younger brother Rickon, was dressed in a grey mantle, his unruly auburn hair a wild mop atop his head. Catelyn was relieved that Rickon was behaving, even if his legs were restlessly shifting about in his seat.

The bastard was dressed in white satin, with a square neckline embroidered in gold and embellished with pearls and a rectangular golden belt in the fashion of the North that Catelyn knew had been a wedding gift from Lady Dustin. She was sitting in an armchair carved with gentler direwolves and five-pointed leaves. encrusted with bronze. Like Bran she did not have a pillow.

"My lords," Bran began, his voice seeming strong despite his youth, "before some of you depart for your lands or other duties," he glanced toward the bastard as he said this, and she nodded in encouragement, "I wish to inform you all of some recent appointments and news."

Catelyn concealed her clenched fists beneath her skirts, troubled that her son sought strength from the bastard rather than herself, despite her presence on the dais between Rickon and Sansa.

"My sister and Regent, along with the council, has been reviewing the inheritance of Hornwood, following the brave sacrifice of Lord Halys and his son," Bran continued. "Lady Berena Hornwood shall be granted the ladyship of the lands, as she is the last surviving member of her house. Her children shall bear the Hornwood name."

Catelyn's gaze shifted to Lord Ryswell, who appeared to be concentrating on the frosty expressions of the Glovers.

"Lady Berena is not present. She is still in recovery from childbirth, but we have written to her, and she shall travel to Winterfell to be officially granted the title of Lady of Hornwood," Bran continued.

Then, Bran turned his attention to Alysanne, and Catelyn realized he might have overlooked something. Alysanne nodded and directed her gaze toward the Dowager of Hornwood. "Lady Donella has graciously offered her assistance to her goodsister during this transition period, for as long as it is needed. House Stark is profoundly grateful for your generosity, my lady. We ask if there is any boon we may offer in return?"

Catelyn was taken aback by this part of the announcement. She had been previously informed that Lady Donella would receive her dower, an income primarily derived from agricultural profits that wouldn't allow her to maintain her status if the agreement did not include House Hornwood repaying her dowry. This had been a point of contention, with some opposing it. Catelyn knew that the bastard had argued in favor of this arrangement, considering that Lady Donella had no surviving children.

Lady Donella rose and offered a respectful bow. "My Lord of Stark and Lady Regent, I would like to request permission to marry Ser Rodrik Cassel."

There was no surprise evident in the cold eyes of Alysanne Snow as she turned to a beaming Bran, who swiftly granted his approval of the match. Catelyn maintained her smile, but internally, she was shocked by this development. If Lady Donella was going to Hornwood, who would assume the role of Master-at-Arms? More importantly, who would be named Castellan in Winterfell while the bastard was away?

Ser Kyle Condon, a tall and lean man in his mid-thirties, hailed from House Condon, vassals of the Cerwyns. He had been Lord Cerwyn's right-hand man, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by Jonelle Cerwyn, the acting Regent of Cerwyn, especially since it had been announced that she would finally wed, and to no other than the Master of Condon.

"As for the role of Castellan of Winterfell," Alysanne continued, "House Stark would be greatly honored if Master Galbart Glover would accept this responsibility."

Master Galbart Glover rose to his feet, evidently taken aback but deeply pleased by the offer. Catelyn, however, was perplexed by this decision. While Galbart Glover was undoubtedly loyal, she couldn't help but wonder why he had been chosen over his brother, Robett Glover—a proud and capable man who would have readily embraced such a position. Perhaps, to Alysanne Snow, the identity of the Castellan didn't matter as long as she got Glover’s support.

After Master Galbart Glover expressed his appreciation for the trust placed in him, Alysanne turned her attention back to the assembled members with a smile that, despite the circumstances, appeared genuine.

"Now, and because it seems weddings come in packs of three," Alysanne began, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. "And because I am far too pleased to have won a bet against Ser Domeric and Smalljon," she turned to the laughing men. "I will remind those who were present and inform those who were not that His Grace has hinted at his desire to strengthen the North's ties with the West."

As the bastard spoke, Catelyn's heart began to race. She looked toward Sansa, who appeared bewildered, and then to Bran, who seemed nothing but pleased. All she could think about was the widowed Tywin Lannister and Kevan Lannister's children, whose names suddenly eluded her. And the Imp. No, Catelyn nearly shouted, her hand instinctively moving to rest on Sansa's.

"I am pleased to announce that, in the name of peace, Lord Roose Bolton has agreed to take Lady Cerenna Lannister as his wife," Alysanne declared, her words met with a mixture of congratulations and confusion.

"I must confess," Alysanne continued, laughing at the bewilderment in the room, "I know little about the lady, to be honest. She might be a blonde Lord Bolton," she quipped, drawing more laughter from the assembled lords. "But she is the daughter of Lady Myranda Lefford and Ser Stafford Lannister and the sister of Ser Daven."

"I remember him," the Greatjon boomed, his voice carrying across the hall. "His father may be a useless lion, but that one is a fearsome one. And prettier than some of your daughters," he added, eliciting more laughter. "You are one lucky bastard, Bolton."

"She has a sister, Jon, if you're interested," Alysanne teased. "Unless the giants fear little lioness." Her remark garnered even more laughter, and Catelyn exchanged a knowing glance with a thoughtful Lord Ryswell.

"Now, we should all offer our congratulations to Lord Bolton," Alysanne urged.

"When is the pretty blonde coming?" the Greatjon asked. "We need to make Bolton... well, less Bolton for the pretty thing."

Alysanne rolled her eyes, but it was Lord Bolton himself who spoke in a soft tone. "Lady Alysanne has agreed to accompany her since she is heading South anyway. They shall both arrive in the North together."

Catelyn's mind raced with thoughts of what Alysanne might want to discuss with Lord Tywin Lannister, and she couldn't help but fear the implications of their arrangement.

.

.

Catelyn gently brushed Sansa's hair as her daughter spoke about her day, the soft strokes of the brush soothing them both.

"I have a surprise for you," Catelyn announced, causing Sansa to stop and turn her pretty, expressive eyes toward her. Catelyn caught hold of one of those vibrant red strands, even redder than her own hair had ever been. "I know how sad you were not to be able to wed a prince, and you became even sadder once you met Lord Willas."

"It's not fair," her daughter protested, a hint of frustration in her voice. "Lord Willas, despite not being a knight, is still a Tyrell. He's the heir of Highgarden. I should have married him."

Catelyn continued to pet her daughter's hair lovingly. "I know, sweetling, but what's done is done. My surprise is not a prince nor a knight. I wrote to Queen Margaery, and she replied a few days ago. She wishes for you to serve as one of her ladies-in-waiting."

Sansa's eyes sparkled with excitement. "In King's Landing? Please, mother, tell me you said yes. Please!"

Catelyn smiled warmly. Her daughter was far too gentle and sweet, and her place was indeed in the South, amidst the warmth and chivalry of the summer knights, not in the cold and harsh North.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9 – Arthur II

Arthur was utterly relieved to see the bronze bell of the Booming Tower, so tired he was of being inside the ship. Alysanne, who stood beside him, smiled knowingly.

“You should be glad, uncle,” Alysanne remarked, leaning against the ship's railing as they approached the port. “The Tyrells intended to travel without any stops. I suggested to Willas that we visit Seaguard, and a letter from Jason Mallister confirmed they would be more than pleased to welcome us.”

Arthur nodded, well aware of the respect that had developed between Lord Mallister and Alysanne during their brief time at war. He couldn't help but wonder if the lord would once again push his still unmarried heir toward Alysanne, as he had done in the past.

The thought of it intrigued Arthur. He hadn't been particularly pleased with Willas Tyrell of late. Alysanne and Willas marriage had initially started on a promising note during their stay at Winterfell, but as soon as they left for Barrowtown, the passion between them seemed to wane. Alysanne appeared unbothered by the shift and had used their time in Dustin lands to explore markets and the local lands with young Lady Bethany, see to people’s needs and taking the time to instruct the young lady.

As they disembarked from the ship and approached the welcoming party, Arthur's years of experience helped him conceal his inner glee.

“Lady Alysanne, it's a pleasure to see you,” Lord Jason Mallister greeted, taking Alysanne's hands in his. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

“The sea was kind, or so I'm told,” Alysanne replied, glancing back at her new family as they drew nearer. If it weren't for Alysanne's role as the Regent of Winterfell, the breach of protocol might have left many aghast. Especially the Tyrells. “Allow me to introduce you to my husband, Lord Willas, his brother Ser Garlan, along with his wife Lady Leonette Fossoway, and, last but certainly not least, my goodmother, Lady Alerie, the Lady of Highgarden.”

Arthur observed as the dignified Lady Alerie of Highgarden tried to maintained her composure when facing the Lord of Seaguard, Jason Mallister. A couple of years older than Arthur, Lord Jason had aged gracefully. His brown hair, streaked with white, still possessed the kind of charm that would catch the eye of young maidens, not to mention someone as refined as Lady Alerie. Unlike Mace Tyrell, who had grown portly, Lord Jason took pride in remaining a man capable of jousting. Undoubtedly, Lady Alerie must be wondering why her husband couldn't be more like the head of House Mallister.

As for the heir, Patrek, he bore a striking resemblance to his father, except for his brown eyes. Standing alongside him was another heir, Marq Piper, who had, for some reason, chosen to grow a small beard since the war. Arthur couldn't help but think that all that was missing was the presence of Edmure Tully, and we had the trio of Riverlands heirs who would vie for Alysanne's hand in duels or displays of chivalry that would leave his princess annoyed.

Now that he thought about it, Marq Piper's presence began to make sense.

“Ladies, sers, may I introduce you to my heir, Ser Patrek Mallister, my elder daughter, Sarya, and Ser Marq Piper, the Heir of Pinkmaiden,” Lord Mallister spoke with the grace and pride befitting his station.

From his vantage point, Arthur could see the exchanged glances between the Tyrell siblings. While Marq Piper did a better job of concealing his desires than Patrek, the truth was evident.

“Lady Sarya,” Alysanne greeted with a gentle smile. “I've heard so much about you. Your father and brother missed you dearly, and I couldn't go a day without hearing their boasts about you and Lady Minisa.”

Lady Sarya was a beautiful woman, adorned in the indigo of her house. Her dark hair was pulled back, with half of it woven into a braid, embellished not with delicate rainbows but with cords and bronze beads—much like the beads securing Alysanne's double braids.

“Minisa stayed behind in the castle to oversee the preparations for the small feast we've organized in your honor,” Lady Sarya explained, her courtesy executed flawlessly, though no one could mistake that the feast was, in essence, to welcome Alysanne, not the Tyrells.

“We've readied some horses, Al- Lady Alysanne,” Ser Patrek interjected, clearly seeking to divert the attention to himself rather than his sister. “We also have a litter ready, if you prefer,” he said to the Tyrell party.

Arthur was taken aback when it was Lady Alerie who responded. “We would appreciate the horses, if it's not too much trouble. I'd love to explore the markets of Seaguard.”

Jason Mallister, with a innate charm, extended his arm to Lady Alerie and began to converse softly with her. Arthur couldn't help but suppress a smile, but then he had to avert his gaze when he noticed Willas guiding his wife toward the horses, engaging her in a conversation about the animals themselves. It was almost as though he hadn't ignored her for days.

.

.

The Tyrell party had retired for the night, but Arthur had chosen to remain behind with Alysanne and Lord Jason, along with his two elder siblings. Servants poured them drinks, and the crackling fire in the fireplace, along with the flickering candles, added a cozy warmth to the room.

“Queen Margaery has sent word offering a place at court to one of my daughters as her lady companion,” Jason began the conversation.

“No doubt, Her Grace knows how much House Seaguard has supported the King against Cersei's Folly,” Alysanne remarked. “My sister Sansa is to serve as well.”

Jason Mallister merely raised an eyebrow in response.

“Well, I would love to see the capital, but it appears that Father has other plans,” Lady Sarya commented, casting a meaningful look at her father.

“I would expect Lady Alysanne won’t comply with the regime for much longer,” Jason Mallister noted.

Arthur's tension mounted. “Why do you say that?”

“I've often wondered why you allowed Tywin Lannister and his kin to live. I've met your mother on more than one occasion, my lady. You have the shape of her eyes and the color of her hair, but little else.”

Alysanne rose from the table and turned toward the fire, her entire figure seemingly bathed in the firelight.

“I have no desire for war, Lord Mallister,” she replied, her back turned.

“But if a time comes when it is needed?” the astute man inquired, leaving his children somewhat perplexed.

“If and when that time comes, my sword and bow will be as sharp and swift as any,” Alysanne responded with a resolute tone, though her face remained turned toward the flames.

“And House Mallister will remain strong. Perhaps we have failed over the years, and a queen is what this country needs,” Lord Mallister mused.

Alysanne turned to the younger duo at the table with a pensive expression and asked, “Can your children can be trusted, my lord?”

Lord Mallister assured her, saying, “House Mallister will stand true, my lady.”

Alysanne then turned her attention to Lady Sarya. “Do you have any plans, my lady?”

Lady Sarya's sharp wit came to the fore with her response. “I had hoped to see myself as Lady of Riverrun, but Lord Edmure keeps postponing it. And it seems King’s Landing is not the best place for now.”

Alysanne seemed to contemplate for a moment before asking about Marq Piper. Lady Sarya gave a sour expression. “I will do my duty.”

Alysanne's dark eyes sparkled with a hidden plan. “What about Lancel Lannister?”

“Lancel Lannister?” Lady Sarya asked, taken aback.

“He is handsome, I've heard, self-assured like Marq Piper, and as arrogant as only a Lannister can be,” Alysanne commented. “And he is the future Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Lady Sarya nodded. “And I wouldn't have to go to court.”

“I can speak with Lord Tywin, perhaps suggest a betrothal first. You could move to the Rock to meet your betrothed and stay as a ward to Lady Genna,” Alysanne proposed.

Lady Sarya looked relieved but then grew concerned. “What about Minisa? I won't have her go to court in my place.”

Alysanne considered for a moment before saying, “She seems like a lively girl.”

Lord Jason chuckle. “If allowed, she would be running around the market and swimming without a care in the world.”

“My favorite type of companions,” Alysanne added with a smile, to which Lord Jason Mallister nodded in agreement.

.

.

At the age of four-and-ten, Minisa Mallister was already tall but with a body that seemed stuck between childhood and maidenhood. Her hair was lighter than her siblings, and her brown eyes sparkled with mirth. Arthur could easily envision her running around Winterfell with Alysanne's girls.

Minisa was just finishing telling Alysanne about what her septa had been instructing her, clearly attempting to convince Alysanne that she was the perfect lady to take on. To many, Alysanne was like a mystical figure, and people either feared her or wanted to follow her.

Minisa Mallister seemed to be firmly in the camp of those who wanted to follow her.

"That's all well and good, Minisa," Alysanne said with a pleasant tone. "But tell me, what do you like the most? What would you love to do if given the chance?"

Minisa hesitated briefly before confessing, "I love swimming and ships."

Alysanne acknowledged her interests and replied, "I'm afraid Winterfell doesn't offer much of both, but I'll be traveling by ship often, and Maester Luwin can teach you a lot about seafaring."

Minisa's brown eyes lit up as if all her namedays had come at once. "Can I learn archery, like you?"

Alysanne smiled, and her eyes met Arthur's with a clear understanding.

.

.

Seaguard had served as a wake-up call for House Tyrell, forcing them to realize that the Riverlands favored the She-Wolf. In contrast, their stay at Old Oak was more of a test of patience. Lady Arwyn Oakheart, while poised and delicate, managed to express her dislike of Alysanne without being outright tactless. Arthur couldn't help but find her reminiscent of Lady Olenna and Lady Catelyn in her actions toward Alysanne. He knew it was unkind to think this way, but he couldn't help himself.

However, Alysanne didn't let any of these unspoken sentiments get to her.

On the second day of their stay, they broke their fast with some unexpected guests: Willas, Olyvar Oakheart, and Loras Lowther. The young men looked playful and hungover, which raised disapproving comments from Lady Arwyn. Lady Aleria simply glared at Garlan Tyrell, who shrugged. Garlan didn't show any signs of a hangover, as he had spent the morning training with Arthur, so he doubted the man had partaken in their adventures.

“I hope you boys had your fun last night," Lady Arwyn commented, her disapproval clear. “I also expect you all washed the streets away, and by the Seven, remember that we depart tomorrow.”

"We shall remember, lady mother,” Olyvar replied as he kissed her cheek. “We just had to show Willas around. It has been far too long since he visited the village and Willas saw all it had to offer.”

All eyes seemed to shift towards Alysanne, who bore the scrutiny calmly. Lady Alerie and Leonette Fossoway looked at her with sympathy, and Garlan Tyrell glared at his brother. Arthur felt worried but was equally impressed by Alysanne's composure.

“Alysanne,” Willas greeted her as he took his seat beside her.

Alysanne turned to him as if just realizing he was there, and whatever barbs Lady Arwyn had thrown her way had gone unnoticed.

Alysanne's icy tone and her observant gaze seemed to render Willas Tyrell momentarily speechless. She continued to assess him before finally addressing the matter at hand.

“Lord Willas,” she said with her usual composure. Then, as if examining him more closely, she commented, “You look a bit tired. I am sure Lady Oakheart won’t mind having some maids prepare you a warm bath so you can rest for the day.”

Willas was left nearly inarticulate, but managed to muttered, “But, I thought you wished to see the village.”

Alysanne gave him a sisterly look of exasperation. “Uncle Arthur and Ser Garlan can guard us. If someone tried anything, I do carry a dagger constantly,” she added with a wolfish grin.

Arthur concealed his amusement in his drink, much like Garlan Tyrell was trying to do. Lady Alerie's second-born was without a doubt, his favorite.

.

.

The antechamber was dimly lit, and the low sound of sobbing reached Arthur's ears. Concerned, he approached quietly, peering inside to find Alysanne consoling Myrcella. The girl was sitting in Alysanne's lap near the fireplace, and her tear-streaked face indicated that something had gone wrong.

“I am sorry, Cella, if I knew they would say such a thing we would never leave to castle,” Alysanne whispered gently, her arms wrapped around Myrcella for comfort.

“They were never this cruel since King’s Landing,” Myrcella replied with a quiver in her voice.

Arthur knew that the North would not speaking ill of those under Alysanne's protection. While people might whisper about Cersei Lannister's bastards in private, they had never been openly cruel or disdainful to Myrcella. Most were even welcoming when they realized how kind-hearted and charming Myrcella was. The Reach, however, seemed to care less about such matters.

Alysanne continued to console Myrcella, her soothing words meant to alleviate the girl's distress. “I know, sweetling. I should have not brought you here. You could have stayed with Arya and Lyanna.”

Myrcella shook her head, her curls bouncing gently. She seemed to draw strength from the words she spoke next, as if reciting something someone had told her. "Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you."

Alysanne hummed in agreement. “Those are very intelligent words, Cella.”

Myrcella added, “Uncle Tyrion told me. Then he always writes it in his letters.”

“You should follow his advice,” Alysanne encouraged. “But it will hurt, even then. You can cry, my sweet.”

Myrcella's response carried a wisdom beyond her years, “Just not in front of anyone.”

Alysanne held her close, offering her comfort. “You can always cry on my shoulder. No matter your age.”

.

.

It took two days in Highgarden for Arthur to have a surprise in the training yard. Arthur could sense the commotion and confusion in the air even before he was faced with the reason.

The sight of Myrcella Waters practicing with a wooden sword in the training yard caught Arthur's attention as he approached. He could sense the buzz of conversation and curiosity among those who had gathered. Myrcella was dressed in a dark blue cotton gambeson lined with red cotton, reminiscent of Lyra Mormont's usual training attire. The absence of sleeves allowed her arms to remain unencumbered, with a white tunic and brown trousers completing her training outfit. Alysanne, dressed in a blue-greyish wool gown with a leather vest, stood beside her, holding a wooden sword.

Arthur was intrigued by the sudden change in their training routine and the fact that Alysanne was instructing Myrcella.

Arthur watched the scene unfold, curious to see what had prompted this shift in their activities. Alysanne hadn't trained publicly since they left the North, and the Reach seemed to have forgotten the rumors of her combat skills, considering she rarely practiced. Myrcella had never trained with a sword before, focusing on archery during her time in Winterfell.

Something significant had shifted, for Alysanne to stop trying to act demure and quiet. Her decision to teach Myrcella swordsmanship in the middle of the courtyard, where they would undoubtedly be scrutinized, was a bold move.

It was clear that Alysanne intended to dispel any doubts about her own combat skills while also providing guidance to Myrcella.

When Arthur offered his help, his tone was measured, and he made sure to maintain an appearance of normalcy.

Myrcella's hopeful gaze reminiscent of a young Jaime Lannister, revealed a determination to master the art of swordsmanship.

.

.

Alysanne had not been gifted with an innate prowess for wielding a sword, but the bow. Nonetheless, her moves were quick and cunning allowed her to exploit the low expectations that people had of her. Myrcella, on the other hand, possessed a natural talent, a gift that seemed to flow through her veins. It had been a long time since Arthur had taken it upon himself to instruct someone who was born to wield a sword, and now he had Myrcella and Arya.

They had been engrossed in their training, uninterrupted save for the occasional presence of two young pages who had, for a brief moment, sought lessons before being summoned back by displeased knights, who disapproved of their ladies unconventional pursuits and Arthur’s willingness to train them.

But then, the courtyard was suddenly shrouded in an unusual silence. To silent. And from behind Arthur, a single, resounding clap echoed.

"Now, that is a sight worth traversing a desert for," a distinctly familiar voice teased.

With a deep breath and a silent plea to the Gods for courage and patience, Arthur turned to confront the source of the voice. Before him stood a prince, draped in vibrant yellow and orange Dornish silks. Oberyn Martell walked with an innate feline confidence that seemed to be a part of his very essence, and he stared intently at Arthur. There was a tangled web of emotions coursing between them and Arthur wondered if they would come to blows.

"I see you've acquired some rather unique squires," Oberyn commented, his gaze shifting to Myrcella, who lowered her eyes, her trepidation evident. And, because Oberyn was Oberyn, he turned his attention to the Lannister-born girl.

"I am Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell."

The girl lifted her head, her spine unwavering, and a defiant glint in her eyes that mirrored Alysanne's spirit so closely that it brought a smile to Arthur's face. "I know," she retorted, her words sharp, before hastily covering her mouth with her hands.

Oberyn simply laughed, "You must be Myrcella," he continued, seemingly unperturbed by the flash of fear in the girl's eyes. "I didn't anticipate you'd be wielding a sword. But Arthur could have worse students."

"It is my first day," the girl replied, her tone petulant, a vestige of her past as a princess.

Oberyn blinked in surprise. "Truly? Then we shall make a knight out of you. But why commence your training today?"

The girl appeared genuinely taken aback by the Prince's interest, and Arthur was on the verge of offering an explanation when a melodious voice emerged from behind him.

"We grew weary of being gawked at and gossiped about as if we were impending beasts of destruction. So, we decided to provide them with something truly remarkable to discuss."

Alysanne had now drawn closer, and this time it was Prince Oberyn who stood in stunned silence. His gaze traveled up and down Alysanne's form, and she met his scrutiny without a flicker of emotion. It was perhaps the inscrutable expression on a face so unmistakably Targaryen that caused Prince Oberyn to instinctively take a step back.

After all, Prince Oberyn had encountered Targaryens on numerous occasions. He had known Rhaegar, he had seen Queen Rhaella many times, and had a painting of Daenerys Martell in the Water Gardens. Besides, he had known Ashara since his youth and would hardly mistake Alysanne for any child of his sister.

"Prince Oberyn," Alysanne curtseyed gracefully in her training attire. "I am Alysanne Snow."

Oberyn Martell emitted a laughter that carried traces of both bitterness and astonishment. "Of course you are," he responded, and then his dark eyes settled on Arthur, a thousand conversations passing between them. "Of course she is."

Alysanne regarded the two men with a knowing nod, then crouched down beside Myrcella. "We should probably take a bath and get ready for the day. It appears we have princely guests, though no one bothered to inform us," she muttered the last part bitterly, audible to both men.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 – Willas II

"You're a fool," his brother declared, barging into Willas' bedchamber without a hint of courtesy or concern what he could be doing. He paid no heed to Willas' status of undress, nor the presence of the woman accompanying him. The woman’s whose neck he was adorning with a trail of kisses. Willas' paramour startled, leaping from his lap at the unexpected intrusion. "Alyce, good to see you. I heard you were at court, attending to my sister."

Alyce shot a surprised glance at Garlan, unaccustomed to having his sarcasm being directed at her way. When Willas bestowed upon his brother the title of Garlan the Gallant, he intended it as either a jest and against a less flattering epithet. However, there was truth to the moniker. Loras embodied gallantry and beauty, but at times, it seemed rehearsed, a product of relentless training and an thirst for glory. In contrast, Garlan's gallantry was innate, a genuine reflection of his kind nature. Among the four siblings, he was undoubtedly the kindest, always ready with a comforting word for those in need. Garlan skillfully concealed both his perceptive nature and swordsmanship, allowing Loras to shine brighter.

Yet, Garlan could be a right bastard when the occasion called for it, particularly when he believed he stood on the side of righteousness, but did he rarely showed that side of him in front of women.

"I returned with Lady Olenna," Alyce responded, seemingly oblivious to Garlan's tone or choosing to feign ignorance. Her hand continued its leisurely exploration up and down Willas' shoulder, a gesture she knew rendered him as content as a purring cat. "How was your journey north?"

Garlan's patience seemed to have plummeted, as he made no effort to conceal his desire for Alyce to leave the room. His love shot a knowing look and turned to Willas. No one could deny that Alyce Graceford didn’t possessed the uncanny ability to read the atmosphere of a room.

"Summon me later," she whispered into his ear, placing a kiss on his cheek. Rising from the settee, she gracefully retrieved a dressing gown from the armrest, adorning it with a confidence that few women in her position would possess.

Willas observed her departure, and as the doors closed, he turned to his brother.

"What has crossed your mind of late?" Garlan asked, his tone carrying a trace of irritation as he took a seat.

"I've spent the past few days buried in work, so you'll have to be more specific," Willas replied, putting on a dressing gown and returning to his desk. Alyce had sought him out for some morning respite after he spent the day before drowning in paperwork. It dawned on him that he desperately needed to find a secretary or steward, but Margaery had taken his most competent aides to court with her.

Garlan rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant. The incident in Oak."

"Margaery wrote," Willas remarked, his attention divided between his brother and the stack of papers before him. "She had a miscarriage."

Garlan's frustration transformed into immediate sadness. "She didn't tell me. I wasn't even aware she was with child."

"It was too early to announce it. Only few knew."

"Not even the king?" Garlan inquired.

"Margaery knows better than to reveal her pregnancy to him before the mark of the four moons. Our people concealed the evidence from him."

Robert Baratheon, known for his lack of discretion, had become even more indulgent in his appetites. Loras claimed that the king left all ruling to Lord Baratheon and grew more impatient with everyone and everything. Despite being easily swayed, it seemed that after the events with Cersei Lannister, he ceased listening to any woman. Except for Willas's wife, it appeared. According to Loras, the king spoke of the Regent of the North in the same reverent manner he once did of Lord Eddard Stark. Rumors even circulated that Robert had wed the wrong woman, suggesting he should have sought alliances with families proven loyal to the Baratheon cause, rather than a family that last took arms to defend the Mad King.

"Poor Marge," Garlan whispered. "But still, I don't understand."

"It wasn't the only news in Margaery's letter. She's been summoning ladies from all the kingdoms to serve her. There are crownlanders and stormlanders among them. While she anticipated resistance from Dorne, it's the northern kingdoms that are causing her headaches. It seems the Mallisters have plans for a betrothal involving their eldest girl, rendering her unsuitable as a lady companion for the Queen. Aside from the Frey girls, only Jayne Bracken has accepted the offer. Margaery suspects her of being a spy."

"A spy for whom?" Garlan inquired.

Willas took a deep breath. "Alysanne. We left Seaguard with Mallister's youngest daughter shadowing Alysanne, along with a wardship contract. Lucas Blackwood and Olyvar Frey serve as squires to Arthur Dayne. When I learned that Hoster Blackwood had been sent to be a companion to Brandon Stark, I advised Margaery to cultivate a friendship with the Brackens. It seems my efforts were in vain. While Lord Bracken did send his second daughter to court, Alysanne corresponds with Barbara Bracken frequently. Until Lord Bracken gets a son from his new wife, she remains his heir. Lady Catelyn informed Margaery that Liane Vance and Waymar Royce have arrived at Winterfell. The former is to be a companion to Alysanne, while Bronze Yohn's third son squires with Arthur Dayne."

"Arthur Dayne is taking on squires?" Garlan asked, a hint of envy evident in his tone. A man like Garlan would undoubtedly have relished the opportunity to squire for the Sword of the Morning.

"No doubt many lords will beseech Alysanne to persuade her uncle to accept more squires and pages."

Garlan nodded, a worried expression crossing his face. "So, your plan is to ignore her?"

Willas gave his brother a pointed look. "Did you see what I was in Seaguard?"

"You being utterly jealous of Mallister and Piper? We all noticed."

"No," Willas replied, not pleased with himself for that moment of envy. Back in Winterfell, it was easy to succumb to his wife's charms. She was as curious about the intricacies of the bedchamber as she was about everything else. Yet, the warmth of Winterfell and the cleverness of his wife's mind sometimes made him forget himself, forget who he was and where his loyalties lay. "They are loyal to her, not the North, not House Stark. Alysanne."

Garlan shook his head. "She's extraordinarily beautiful and a cunning commander. It may have surprised them, and some may mistake admiration for love. But what does that have to do with anything?"
"Robert Baratheon's leg? His insatiable appetites that seem to have worsened somehow. He won't last much longer, Garlan. Margaery made that clear. What do you think will happen if he passes before she bears a child?"

Garlan met his gaze with a troubled expression, fully aware of the ominous implications for House Tyrell.

"Alysanne is my wife. I won't deny that I desire her. But she is not our ally, Garlan. She might even be our adversary."

Willas tried to mask the discomfort in uttering those words, but Garlan, who knew him better than anyone else, could see through the facade.

.

.

He found Alysanne in the Godswood, not in prayer but surprisingly focused on a cluster of flowers. It was an unexpected sight, as he hadn't imagined his wife to be enchanted by blooms. Willas was also taken aback to see her adorned in purple, wearing a coat in the Dornish style of cut and embroidery – undoubtedly a hand-me-down from the woman Alysanne refused to speak about. The woman who currently held the title of the "most powerful woman in Dorne," despite Arianne Martell being the heir. Alysanne corresponded with Ashara Dayne, Willas knew, but never addressed her as "mother." The woman who had been conspicuously absent during their marriage.

She was as close to being alone as possible, with only Ser Arthur and Harwin, a Stark guardsman, in the vicinity. They both turned their attention to Willas as he approached. Harwin nodded, but Willas noticed the same disapproving expression on the Sword of the Morning's face that he had become accustomed to since Old Oak. Willas tried not to react; he could sense that Arthur Dayne viewed Alysanne more like a daughter he wanted to protect from everything and everyone than a mere niece. Still, the fact that a man who grew up in the court of the Mad King didn't bother to conceal his displeasure spoke volumes. But hard looks were all Arthur Dayne could offer against Willas.

His wife appeared to be in one of her solemn moods, focused on something peculiar that had piqued her curiosity. Willas approached to see what had captured her attention and that of her albino direwolf. Ghost looked up, his nose immersed in the fragrance of the flowers, and met Willas' gaze with blood-red eyes before returning to the sweet-smelling blooms.

"They are called Plantagenet," Willas declared, surprised that Alysanne remained so engrossed. Her violet eyes turned to him, the color even more striking against the backdrop of her gown. "It's a corrupted version of the Old Tongue."

Alysanne hummed in acknowledgment, and Willas wondered what had drawn her focus. The flowers were a bright yellow with elongated clusters, seemingly unremarkable.

"The fire bloom," Alysanne said in a soft tone. "The fire of autumn."

Willas hummed in agreement, astonished that she knew the meaning of the term. Then, something brought her back to reality, and her eyes turned serious.

"You were looking for me, my lord?"

Willas had grown accustomed to her composed greetings; it was, after all, to be expected.

"Yes, my mother wished to have lunch with you and some ladies. Something about the wedding dress or feast," he explained.

Any other woman might have seized the olive branch or offered a witty retort about the Lady of Highgarden sending her son as a messenger, but Alysanne simply nodded.

"I was finishing my walk anyway," Alysanne replied, though her eyes still held that melancholic look that Willas despised seeing. He pretended not to notice that Alysanne rarely took walks. Offering her his arm, she took it without much of a word, but Willas observed how her free hand clutched a small flower.

Perhaps his mother's kinder nature would coax Alysanne out of her somber mood.

.

.

Willas was engrossed in his office work, two accounting books spread across his desk as he diligently wrote a report. The door creaked open, and Alerie Hightower entered, offering him a gentle smile as the train of her satin golden skirts gracefully crossed the room towards him.

"I'm sorry for intruding on your work, my son."

Alerie Hightower, a tall figure of refinement and elegance, embodied the grace of the most genteel daughter of Oldtown. Though considered one of the most beautiful women in the Reach, her reserved nature often rendered her less conspicuous among livelier or wittier ladies, especially with her goodmother being the formidable Queen of Thorns who never let Alerie take a position of power within their household. It was Margaery, his grandmother's protégé who would be her successor. A worthy one now that she was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

"You are never intruding, Mother, and I was just finishing with the ledger of Marigold."

Marigold, one of the largest villages under House Tyrell's control, served as the seat of the Heir of Highgarden. Willas had assumed the position at the age of four-and-ten, younger than most heirs, but his grandmother had seized the opportunity to instill in him the importance of administration from a young age.

The town had not run as smoothly since the time of his grandfather, Luthor Tyrell, and Willas had undertaken the task of building new walls around Marigold. The once village had expanded beyond the old walls for over two decades, and Willas envisioned further expansion to rival Ashford and Longtable.

Willas allowed his mother to give him a gentle kiss, but he detected a slight tension in her eyes. "Prince Oberyn has arrived," she stated.

Willas blinked. "Already? And you did not send word for me to welcome him?"

"He welcomed himself," she said, a frown creasing her brow. Willas couldn't help but let his lips curl up. It was entirely like Oberyn to enter the castle without any fanfare, inevitably causing the chaotic excitement that the Red Viper so thoroughly enjoyed. His mother, being the proper Reachwoman she was, did not share in the enthusiasm. Nor would most of the Highgarden court.

"I wanted to finish this report, but I can go meet with him," Willas offered.

His mother frowned once more. "He's currently busy. It seems he interrupted your wife's sword training."

"Sword?" Willas asked, surprised. Alysanne hadn't trained with a sword since arriving in the Reach. While he had observed her a few times in the archery yard, she had never wielded a more masculine weapon. She had even stopped carrying a belt with a dagger. Willas hoped it was Alysanne's attempt to cultivate a more suitable image for the wife of a member of House Tyrell, or any other great house really. Although not exactly dainty, his wife's demeanor had shifted since their arrival in Highgarden, and the rumors of a warrior-witch had been waning.

"With the bastard," his mother whispered, and he could see the trouble in her expression.

Alysanne herself was a bastard, albeit a legitimized one. Despite the shame associated with her name, no one tried to pretend she was a princess. Myrcella Waters, on the other hand, presented a challenge to how society view her. Educated and poised like a princess, she was tainted by the stain of her mother's many crimes.

"And Oberyn found them?" Willas imagined the scene: Oberyn taking one look at Alysanne with a sword, laughing heartily, and attempting to woo her into his bed. Despite the rumors surrounding Alysanne, she was too much her father's daughter, and such attempts would be futile. And Oberyn would take that as a even bigger challenge.

"He did. Your cousins mentioned some tension between the Dornish Prince and Ser Arthur, but nothing came of it. Your wife intervened, steering the conversation toward herself. Your friend," his mother said in a disapproving tone, "then proceeded to offer his arm to your wife, asking her a thousand questions while loudly requesting that she share his meal with him. It seems the journey left him quite hungry. They went to the town."

Willas closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on.

.

.

Entering the main entrance with his mother, Willas spotted Prince Oberyn clad in orange robes, offering to help Alysanne dismount her horse—a gesture she did not accept. Any other person might have taken it as a slight, but not Prince Oberyn Martell, who simply laughed at Alysanne's wilfulness.

Willas observed the exchange, catching a glimpse of the spirited smile Alysanne gave his friend. He wondered when he had last seen that fiery spirit in her. Over the two weeks in the Reach, Alysanne had mostly kept out of his path, occupied with his female relatives or spending her free time with her charges and the Stark household, breaking fast and dining with them. While propriety was the reason given, Willas couldn't ignore Olenna Tyrell's hand in this orchestrated separation.

Shaking away his thoughts, Willas watched as the yard fell silent when Prince Oberyn Martell assisted the Lannister bastard girl, Myrcella Waters, off her palfrey. The blonde girl blushed, offering a grateful smile. Willas couldn't help but notice Myrcella was dressed in a simple but fine satin pink gown with delicate floral embroidery on the bodice—far too elegant for a mere bastard.

His gaze then shifted to his wife, attired in satin of silvery-blue, a loose gown trimmed in midnight blue—a style often seen on Dornish women. He was surprised to see her full sleeves embroidered with blue velvet and crystals.

Willas wondered what prompted Alysanne to dress in such a Dornish manner in the heart of the Reach and why Myrcella was adorned in such finery for a simple outing rather than a feast. At least, Alysanne's attire was more demure compared to what he had seen Oberyn's daughters wear.

"My friend, how good it is to see you," Oberyn declared jovially, his eyes likely catching the growing tension.

"It is good to see you as well, Prince Oberyn," Willas replied, adopting a more formal tone but allowing a smile to surface.

Oberyn pulled him into a hug, disregarding propriety completely. Willas noticed a slight twirl of Alysanne's lips.

"How is married life treating you? No doubt your energies must be well spent. I met your dear wife; you could have done so much worse," Oberyn remarked, his dark eyes dancing.

Beside him, Willas's mother was struggling to conceal her scandalized expression.

"Life has been well. I was surprised you did not announce your arrival."

"I was going to, but then I met your startling wife, and I just had to invite her to lunch with us. You know I can never resist beautiful and deadly women."

Willas shook his head at his friend's antics and began guiding him and his entourage inside, steering the conversation toward Oberyn's daughters.

"They live to give me grey hairs, no doubt, but for now, I am winning that fight. Ellaria stayed behind with our girls; her father has been sick of late, and they traveled to Hellholt to visit him. Obara stayed behind, and after seeing your wife, she will no doubt regret it. Nym is on a trip to Volantis and couldn't come. Sarella, well," Oberyn's eyes shifted to where Sarella was engaged in an animated conversation with Alysanne, which did not surprise Willas. His wife was a scholar at heart, something she would have in common with Oberyn's fourth daughter.

"And Tyene?" Willas inquired.

Oberyn gave him a knowing look. "She went to visit her mother but will arrive in time for the wedding."

.

.

Before Willas realized it, he stood in the sept, bathed in the warm light filtering through stained-glass windows, showcasing the clear sunny day. Nervousness coursed through him, an irrational feeling considering he had been wed to Alysanne before. This second wedding was merely a formality, a gesture to placate Reach lords who might raise an eyebrow at their heir not marrying before their Gods—the proper ones.

His gaze locked with his grandmother's, adorned in brocade of dark blue with gold flowers, a gold wimple, midnight blue skirts, and a heavy emerald necklace gracing her neck. Her expression remained placid. She was against the marriage in the sept, hoping for a loophole in canon law that would call their marriage into question once putting aside Alysanne wouldn't cause problems with the Crown. Unfortunately, King Robert—someone with his ear, most likely—had demanded both marriages.

All eyes turned to the entrance, some gasping as the light illuminated Alysanne, standing hand in hand with Ser Arthur, both in the same clothes he had once worn to give Alysanne away. But no one paid attention to the Sword of the Morning.

Alysanne descended the aisle in a stunning green gown, the finest satin shining as she walked. It resembled a northern wedding gown in cuttinh but was less sturdy and layered. The high waist was embroidered with laurels and roses in gold thread, the same pattern decorating the lapels of the bodice. She wore minimal jewelry, only the weirwood necklace he had seen her wear in their first wedding, contrasting against the green and gold. Her sleeves were tight but lined with white lace, and her headdress was a goldsmith's work with a blue velvet background and no precious stones, adorned only with gold filigree—evidence of his mother's hand. Alysanne's hair was entirely covered by white lace.

She came to the Sept as a Tyrell.

Glancing at his grandmother, he saw her eyes shooting daggers, and his mother wore an utterly stunned expression. This was not the dress they had made for her.

Willas continued to smile, choosing to ignore the dangerous thought and focus on the beauty of his wife. By all the Gods in the Known World, Alysanne was utterly stunning. Today, without her sturdy gowns or loose robes, in a gown that would make Garth the Greenhand proud, she looked like a Gardener princess. As she walked towards him, all eyes were on this captivating nymph.

Willas took her hand with a smile, and Alysanne's own smile wasn't sweet and maidenly, the kind given to a husband. Instead, it was almost wolfish.

He knew then that she had planned the entire dress before they even left Winterfell. Coming into the sept as a Tyrell, wearing her precious weirwood necklace, lace that was a mix of northern and Myrish, the northern cut without a many layer for warmth but in delicate southern textiles.

Willas almost demanded the Septon to hurry to the part where he could kiss his wife.

.

.

“You're in danger,” Oberyn told him once everyone had taken to the dancefloor. Willas's father, due to his condition, had opened the dancefloor with Alysanne.

Willas turned to glare at Oberyn's utterly gleeful expression. “Despite her skills, I doubt Alysanne will murder me, Oberyn.”

Oberyn laughed. “No. She is not the type to murder her husband in cold blood for some petty reason. But a woman like that,” something crossed his friend’s mind, and Willas did not know what. “A woman like that will surely give you an interesting life.”

“Have you already tried to seduce her?” Willas asked, half in jest and because something in Oberyn’s tone sounded a bit foreboding for his liking.

“She just laughed in my face and told me that despite how many called her a whore, she has only given herself to one man and plans to keep it that way. Very straightforward. You are one lucky bastard.”

Willas smiled, imagining his wife’s little indignation and the no-nonsense tone she would employ to tell Oberyn off. “Tell that to my grandmother,” Willas commented, his eyes noticing the genuine smile she gave Ser Arthur as they began to dance. “She will, no doubt, point out I was the one born on the right side of the sheets.”

“Hum,” Oberyn said, in a pensive tone.

Willas paused and turned to his friend. “What is it?”

“Just thinking about almost-marriages. I might stop at Starfall on the way to Sunspear. I was surprised not to see any Daynes besides Arthur in here.”

Willas could see when Oberyn was fishing for information. “Alysanne rarely talks about the Daynes. I know Lady Ashara spent some time in the North when she was younger, but between Lord Dayne’s untimely death, and the loss of the Stark heir, Lady Ashara went south and did not return to see her daughter.”

Oberyn seemed to be thinking it over, which sent alarms into Willas’ brain. “Doran has been trying to arrange a marriage between Allyria Dayne and Quentyn, but to no avail.”

Willas raised his brow in surprise.

“It was not made public the intent; it would not be well seen to have Quentyn wed before Arianne. But Ashara is holding her cards closer.”

“We had rumors that Allyria Dayne was to be wed to Lord Dondarrion,” Willas offered. Since his marriage to Alysanne, he had begun to pay very close attention to House Dayne, both the Lord of Starfall with their young unwed lord and the Knights of High Hermitage. Neither house was to be ignored, even if most did, now that the house got out of favor, for obvious reasons. House Dayne, both branches of the house, were one of the most powerful houses of Dorne, close only to the Yronwoods. Their lands were some of the most fertile, and the best Dornish Red came from the Starfall lands, and they came only in second to Sunspear itself in exporting spices.

And Ashara Dayne had made some interesting moves, reaching out to sell their best products to Essos instead of Westeros, something that left many in complete shock, and taking a almost merchant-like approach to her economic policy. But the woman who many had called “a fallen star” after her reputation ended when she birthed Lord Stark a bastard daughter, had refused to go silent. Willas could see where Alysanne out her non-conforming ideas from.

“He went to Starfall, but little came of it. But I was surprised that she let the Dayne lording squire for him.”

Willas hummed into his goblet as he spotted the elegant dance between Ser Arthur and his wife. She could see that the man had been the one to teach her the graceful courtly dances. Soon, Lord Mathis Rowan interrupted the niece-uncle duo and gave a bow to Alysanne, offering his hand. His wife accepted with a smile that still had none of Margaery’s, or even Sansa’s, gentle courtliness, but the man seemed not to care.

Lord Mathis Rowan was a man who had been causing some headaches for Willas. They once had an amicable friendship, but their meeting a few days before left him utterly baffled. The Lord of Goldengrove had a small problem at hand: his wife gave him six children, but only three daughters survived to adulthood, and no male cousins to marry them off to and secure the Rowan name. But for Willas, the problem was that the man seemed completely unwilling to accept marriage proposals for said daughters. Mathis Rowan was too much of a prudent man to outright deny his future lord, but he was still not agreeing to any of Willas's ideas.

Garlan, no doubt, would have a far better time with the man, for he had squired at Goldengrove. But Willas would not do that to him. Garlan's childhood love had been Jeyne Rowan, but while it would have been a very good marriage, Jeyne was the eldest daughter after all, and his father had denied him the girl’s hand.

Garlan had never explicitly revealed the reason, but Willas understood. Mace Tyrell might love all his children, but there was no denying that Loras was the favorite and Willas was at the bottom. The stigma of being a cripple seemed to overshadow his competence in running House Tyrell. Like a cripple leg would stop Willas from having children.

His marriage would.

Willas drank from his goblet and let his eyes go back to the dancefloor.

Lord Mathis appeared to be engaging in a surprisingly pleasant conversation with Alysanne during the dance, a sight that caught Willas off guard. Alysanne's countenance lacked its usual aloofness, replaced by genuine interest. The fact that most Reach lords avoided Alysanne was not lost on Willas. Had she not been his wife, the young fools of the Reach might have eagerly sought her company, viewing the alluring Northern bastard as an easy conquest. Yet, she was Willas's wife, and that fact shielded her from such advances.

For someone indifferent to courtly graces, Alysanne moved gracefully on the dance floor. Willas wondered if Mathis Rowan's compliments had softened her usual guarded demeanor, making her more open to him.

"Willas?" Oberyn's voice interrupted his thoughts, and his friend chuckled. "You didn't hear a thing, did you? Distracted by your deadly beauty?"

"You were saying?" Willas asked, taking a sip of his wine.

"That the Dowager of Starfall is going to take a new husband."

The revelation left Willas momentarily stunned. Sarra Dayne seeking a new marriage all of the sudden was unexpected. More unexpected was Oberyn telling him. Sarra Dayne. Sarra Dayne.

Sarra Whent.

"Truly?" Willas inquired, contemplating whether Sarra would wed the Knight of High Hermitage in an attempt to gain control of the regency from her goodsister.

"Rumor has it, Leyton Hightower's youngest is going marry her."

Willas set down his goblet, nedding a moment to process the potential implications of such a marriage. He fixed his gaze on Baelor Brightsmile, the heir of Oldtown who had attended the wedding in his father's stead. The Old Man of Oldtown, Willas's grandfather, had remained within the confines of his high tower for nearly a decade. Even his mother's attempts to persuade him to visit proved futile, resulting in brief and infrequent letters. His grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, attributed Leyton's seclusion to old age and senility. However, Willas was taken aback when his mother retorted, snapping back at Olenna, reminding her that Leyton Hightower was two years her junior, and no one would dare call the Dowager of Highgarden senile.

Sarra Whent? Why? The Whents, like most of their kin, were faced fertility issues. Sarra had only birthed one son throughout a decade of marriage, and there were no rumors of subsequent pregnancies.

Willas shifted his attention to Uncle Baelor, who wore a troubled expression, almost like he swallow something sour. A hint of a grin almost crossed Willas's face until he noticed Baelor's gaze fixed on Alysanne. The dance was drawing to a close, and he observed that the men surrounding Alysanne were typical Reachmen who perceived her as nothing more than an unwashed Northern bastard.

"Well, I think I will ask that deadly creature for a dance," Oberyn declared with a grin, draining his glass before rising from his seat.

.

.

"She has retired for the night?" his father inquired, a look of utter perplexity on his face. Murmurs circulated throughout the great hall, and the festive atmosphere soured when someone called for the bedding ceremony, only to have Garlan announce that Alysanne had retired earlier.

The fact that no one had noticed earlier surprised everyone. Willas had spent the entire night engaged in conversations with lord after lord, most expressing their dissatisfaction with his marriage to such a lowborn woman. Some, strangely, sought information about Alysanne's character and the rumors surrounding her battlefield experience. Willas found himself explaining the details of the campaign in the Riverlands to Lord Ambrose, Rowan, and his Hightower uncles. He had to swallow Lord Tarly's convictions that Alysanne was no proper woman, claiming credit for men's works and should be sent to the Silent Sisters. He went as far as to claim that Willas wife had come to his marriage tainted. The always mild-mannered Lord Rowan almost spoke out in her defense before restraining himself. It was far from the wedding feast Willas had envisioned, and his grandmother's growing displeasure only added to the tension.

"She told me she was tired after we finished our dance," Garlan calmly stated. "Ser Arthur offered to accompany her, and her ladies went with her."

"Is the bastard that uncouth?" Edmund Ambrose remarked, with some agreeing murmurs. "Who retires before the bedding ceremony? I am shocked that a wanton woman would seek any chance to show herself off."

Willas clenched his fist, the desire to punch the idiot overwhelming. Garlan, too, struggled with the situation, and Willas was surprised to see even Lord Arthur Ambrose casting a look of utter contempt at his nephew, whispering something to his heir that silenced him.

Thanks the Seven Ser Arthur is not here.

"Someone call the bastard back. We want a proper bedding," Ser Mark Mullendore slurred, his speech thick with drink. "What's the point of having to suffer Lord Willas marrying a bastard if we can't see her naked? Especially one who looks like that? Are we completely sure she isn’t some dark sorcerer?"

The urge to punch the inebriated fool intensified with each word. Where was Ser Arthur Dayne and his renowned sword when needed?

“They can even stand guard outside, for all I care. But I won't allow my body to become a public spectacle."

"I think I can walk to my wife's bed. Bad leg and all," Willas retorted with a charming smile. "I've done it more than once."

The jab elicited laughter from most of the room.

“I've worked too hard to earn the respect of the Lords of the North.”

"We can help Lord Willas in any case to take him there. My nephew can awake his sleeping princess, no doubt" Ser Baelor interjected, his eyes clear of any alcohol. Lord Rowan and Prince Oberyn traded looks and Willas raised an eyebrow at them.

"And if we heard anything or Lady Alysanne isn’t still tired tomorrow, no doubt, Willas needs to do a better job."

The laughter that followed Prince Oberyn's words was evidence that most in the room were far too drunk.

.

.

Tyene Sand stood in the antechamber that led to Willas’ wife's bedchamber. She wore a pale blue samite with sleeves of Myrish lace that clung to her generous figure. Willas observed how the men turned their attention to the blonde Sand Snake, treating her as if she were trueborn. Tyene was all dimpled smiles, a sweet voice, and a gentle nature, and people forgot who her father was. Willas briefly wondered if the lords of the Reach would accept Alysanne better if she presented herself more like Tyene, but dismissed the idea; his lords would likely be displeased regardless. Crippled leg and all, Willas remained the heir to Highgarden, and some would still want to marry their daughters to the heir of the Reach.

“She is not what I expected,” Tyene Sand remarked as she approached him. He was surprised by her closeness and then realized they were alone in the room.

“Not the unwashed, barbarian with no hint of intellect?” Willas asked.

Tyene scoffed, an unexpected reaction from her. Memories of warm nights in Oldtown, soft kisses, and curious touches flooded Willas' mind. He couldn’t help but touch her round face. Her skin was sun-kissed but still fair enough to mistake her for a full Reachwoman.

“Does your beautiful wife not please you?” Tyene said with a seductive lilt in her tone. “Do you still prefer blondes?”

Closing the distance between their bodies, but his eyes and mind was in the room whose double doors were closed. Tyene pulled his face down. He had grown a few inches since she last saw him.

“It is not that, is it?” Tyene replied with a curious look. “I did not think she was stupid. She wouldn’t have accomplished what she did if she was. But, I imagined her to be more like Obara. Prickly and big-boned.”

“She is more like Sarella,” Willas whispered, recalling how his wife always had at least one book at her bedside table and often spent time in the Highgarden library.

Tyene nodded. “Sarella is half in love with her. But Sarella has little patience for anything that is not knowledge.”

Willas looked at the door where his wife awaited him. He missed her—missed their talks, how she always had something curious to say about some long-forgotten descendant of a northern family or spent minutes describing her family and the North with a passion one would never associate with her. He missed how she stretched herself in the morning like a little cat.

“She is like me.”

Willas turned to Tyene, frowning at her words. He almost laughed. Tyene couldn’t be more different from Alysanne. It was like the sweetness of spring against the cold northern winds. He told Tyene as much and was surprised by the almost saddened look in her eyes.

“Like sees like,” Tyene replied with an enigmatic tone. She then kissed his cheek. “It was good seeing you, Willas. Be careful.”

“I am the cautious one, your father often likes to say.”

Tyene looked at the closed doors and back at him. “Be careful with those claws, Willas. And remember, the cold burns too.”

Willas gave his first love a kiss on the cheek. Tyene was right; it was good they had this goodbye.

He waited until she left the antechamber to open the doors. Alysanne was not sleeping in the family wing but in some very fine apartments. She was sitting on the bed, a book in hand and Ghost by her side. He was surprised to see Myrcella and Minisa Mallister in their own smaller beds. He thought her ladies slept in the antechamber. They were each also reading some book, but they got up when the doors opened.

Each gave a perfect curtsey, but his eyes were on his wife, slowly marking her book. Her soft look was for the two girls as she said goodbye to each of them. They were about to leave before Alysanne raised an eyebrow. Each gave an impish look and went to her. Willas was completely surprised to see each girl give and receive a kiss on the cheek from Alysanne.

They curtsied once more to him before they left them alone. Willas almost started when Ghost followed suit. How can such an animal be so quiet?

They were alone once more. Willas had stripped himself of his finery and only had a nightrobe. The room was filled with candles, and seeing how the trio was reading, Willas knew it was not for him, but he appreciated it anyway.

“Were they too mad?” his wife asked with a grin.

Willas joined her on the other side of the bed. “It could have been worse,” Willas jested. He touched his wife's simple braid and let his hand travel to the cutting jawline. Gods, she was beautiful. “I am glad you came before.”

Her eyes had a knowing look. “I am sure. Men rarely like to have other men look at their wives.”

Willas let his hand linger on that perfectly sculpted face. It had been almost a month since he had bedded his wife. He wondered if she missed him, if she cursed his name for shunning her in favor of others.

He knew she wouldn’t tell. Her hands found his own face but did not linger; instead, she began to strip his only piece of cloth. He remembered the passion between them, the fire and the pleasure. His body was reacting to her; of course, it was, he wondered if it always would. He touched the linen shift that was almost transparent. Dornish. It hid nothing of her slender curves, and he could see her nipples. He wanted to kiss those.

“It is far too hot in here,” she replied to his look. Then she tilted her head. “You are not stripping me bare or kissing me like you want to devour me,” she said in an indifferent tone, then let out a breath. “Things in here are different. I knew they would be.”

"I won't be consumed and tormented by your affairs,"

He pushed down the negative feelings and pulled her into a kiss. He would give her passion. Willas had dreamt for a month of different ways he wanted to take her, to make her shout his name until she had no more strength. He poured all that passion and desire into the kiss.

I missed you more than you can imagine.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11 – Ashara I

Ashara smiled, her eyes alight with pride as she observed Edric training alongside Oswell and Gerold. Leaning into the balcony, she reveled in the sight of her kin in such close proximity. Her morning had been consumed by the meticulous task of bookkeeping and the noon dealt with negotiations with Essosi traders. Alyce, her ever-watchful cousin, had subtly insisted that the family had taken the afternoon off, as a means for respite since Edric was home. The message was clear – take a break.

Even Ariela, Ashara's Lyseni aunt by marriage, embraced the leisurely time. Her flowing white hair cascaded freely, the Dornish sun having lent a gentle hue to her fair complexion. Seated in the shade of a canopy, she entertained her daughter Alyce and Allyria, while watching the boys hone their skills. Nearby, Sarra's reddish hair stood out by the fountain. Dressed in simpler attire, the apron she wore hinted at a morning spent overseeing the castle and and for protection for the charcoal, as her hands drew whatever had captured her fancy.

From her vantage point, Ashara couldn't help but feel a pang of emptiness as she observed her fair-haired relatives. Arthur was away, and cousin Ronnel, along with his wife and children, had remained at High Hermitage. Ashara found herself the last of the "Dark Daynes" at Starfall, with only Allyria sharing the raven-black hair inherited from her mother, Agnes Blackwood.

Allyria has mother's eyes, Ashara though, the sole heir to those dark pools that she dearly missed. At times, Ashara wondered what Agnes Blackwood would think of her eldest daughter. But then she reminded herself that her mother, deeply rooted in First Men traditions, was a pragmatic soul. A sense of duty and honor had been instilled in her children, but it seemed that only Allyria truly embodied those qualities. Agnes Blackwood would have comprehended the complexities that still troubled Ashara – fate, winter, and the ancient powers. She would have encouraged Ashara to do what needed to be done.

Ashara clung to the belief that they would reunite one day, and Agnes Blackwood would understand why her daughter had ventured north for a decade, shame herself forever for it. Why she had locked herself away in Starfall afterward, denying herself a husband, a family, and embracing a life of infamy.

The banner of duty, Ashara mused, is never an easy one to carry. If it were, everyone would be dutiful.

She watched Oswell laugh heartily as cousin Gerold defeated him, their sparring echoing the lively spirit of the courtyard. Duty to a higher cause—those had been the words Howland Reed had preached all those years ago when Ashara had doubted everything. Grief had consumed her, and she found no clear path forward. The Isle of Faces did indeed have a way of reshaping perspectives on life, the Lord of Greywater Watch had been right.

Yet, there were times when she crumbled.

“What has you frowning so much, my love?” A deep voice emerged from behind her.

She turned to face the man. Moredo was undeniably handsome, sturdy with strong features. Leaning over the balcony entrance, his hazel eyes—utterly clever—focused intently on her, it was difficult not to want his embrace.

“Prince Oberyn wrote,” Ashara replied. “His letter is all Oberyn-like, but I could read between the lines. He knows.”

“I fail to see why it is a problem,” Moredo commented, stepping closer to her and encircling her with his arms. His Common Tongue carried a heavy Braavosi accent. Born into the prestigious Prestayn family in Braavos, Moredo and his brother were sailors, like their ancestors. It was thanks to their penchant for captaining their own ships that Ashara had crossed paths with the well-traveled man. Between his roguish charm and dashing looks, Ashara had done little to resist him all those years ago. Moredo was dangerous, impetuous, as much a courtier as a pirate, and it was these very qualities that had kept them together for a decade.

If Ashara had sought tempered, reserved men, she would have turned to Luco. She would have stayed in the North, ignored Ned's new wife and family, and fought tooth and nail to keep that flame alive. She would have chosen a man who did not have a pretty wife and children waiting for him in Braavos. If she had been thinking with her brain and not her desires, she would have wed Luco Prestayn, who instead had fallen in love with a lovely Lysene woman of no apparent noble birth but with a great secret and with whom he had an utterly Valyrian daughter.

“The Martells are wildcards. They became such when Alysanne didn’t remove Tywin’s head from his neck.”

She felt Moredo’s short beard against her neck. “You want blood. You wanted Alysanne to have taken the crown from Robert’s hands. But I remind you who taught Alysanne caution and to play a longer game than anyone else.”

“He said Tyrells are blind, but Rowan knows,” Ashara said aloud, partly because Moredo might care little for such political intricacies, but he remembered them well. “Alysanne had mentioned all of that, of course.”

“Oberyn Martell might know there's a queen in the making in the snow, but I doubt he would be aware of ravens that no one can see flying through Westeros.”

Moredo, despite never Seen it, seemed to accept old magic better than Ashara ever did.

“What else has been troubling you?”

“If he pushes for a marriage, I cannot stand idly by. Not with what he knows, Moredo. Am I to make my sister a hostage in Sunspear?”

“Push for Alyse, then.”

Ashara turned swiftly, their faces intimately close. “She may be my cousin, but I saw her grow from childhood into womanhood.”

“And you raised her well. Despite all, she can deal with a court of vipers.”

“I cannot risk it. Alysanne needs me to raise the banners when the time comes, not to stay put because I fear for my kin. Besides, Alyce is the daughter of a mere knight.”

“A mere knight whose grandmother was a Dornish princess, and whose great-grandmother was Daenerys Targaryen.”

Ashara smiled. “Someone has been paying attention to those genealogy lessons Edric has been taking. Still, while Alyse would wed very well to Quentyn, we all know Alyse’s brother has his eyes on Sunspear himself,” Ashara said, her eyes drifting to the man in question as he sparred with Oswell.

Gerold Dayne had all the ambitious and ruthless that his parents had lacked. Ser Alester had been content in his seat, only venturing out for a brief tour in Lys where he met his beloved Ariela. Gerold, however, would have no qualms about relinquishing his title to his brother if he were to acquire a grander one. Yet, he could never hope to control a woman like Arianne Martell.

Moredo gave her a look.

“What is it?” Ashara asked, taking a deep breath.

“Noho Dimittis is in King’s Landing.”

“Is the Usurper accumulating more debt?”

“His wife is far too clever for that. They paid a quarter of it in Tyrell gold.”

Ashara pressed her lips together. “No doubt, Margaery Tyrell doesn’t want to deal with such debts once the regency she envisions comes to pass. And it's always good to have the Iron Bank on your side.”

“I'll go to Braavos to smooth things over, see how the wind is blowing.”

"And?" Ashara probed. "Roses' plots are not the reason for your somber face."

"Connington wrote. They lost track of the exiled dragons."

"What?" Ashara almost shouted. "How do you lose a prince and a princess?"

Moredo shrugged. "Someone is hiding them well. The last they were seen was in Pentos. But we lost track of them when the Dothraki wedding didn’t go forward."

"Mopatis?"

"Doesn’t know a thing."

Ashara gave him a doubtful look.

"Trust me, trust Luco. Mopatis won’t move a finger against us, not anymore."

"You better stop in Pentos, then. Tell Mopatis I very much doubt his story. Rhaella’s children were in his care, and now they vanish? I hold him responsible."

"He needed Viserys to wed him to Luco’s girl."

Ashara let her head fall into Moredo’s chest and groaned.

“Come inside, Asha,” Moredo whispered as his hands ran through her dark tresses. “You need rest.”

I was trying to, she almost said.

.

.

“Speak to me,” Ariela said, extending her hands to Ashara as they sat by the window in her office.

“Alyse,” Ashara began.

“Needs to wed,” the woman's mother interrupted. “She is almost two-and-twenty. I birthed Gerold, and had Ronnel in my belly by that time. Do you have someone in mind?”

“For Alyse? She is beautiful and well-educated.”

“And her mother is a foreign Lyseni. After the disaster that was Prince Doran’s marriage, Sunspear would devour Alyse alive. Are there any families you wish to court?”

“So openly?” Ashara remarked. “I could try a few, but far too many eyebrows would raise. Fowler wouldn’t be a bad idea, if the man had a son. He has an unwed nephew, a second son, far less than what I would offer Alyse.”

“The Princes’ Pass is a worthy ticket, however,” Ariela commented, then looked at Ashara with knowing light blue eyes. “And Franklyn has been widowed for half a decade.”

Ashara nodded. “He is close to fifty, Ariela.”

“And Alyse knows her duty. Close to fifty is close to the grave. I am sure you can arrange a marriage that leaves Alyse a very rich widow.”

“She won’t go for it,” Ashara told her.

Ariela huffed. “Alyse would do as she is told, Ashara. Perhaps the Old Hawk can get some sense into that girl. For how well we educated her, she is far too vapid,” Ariela patted Ashara’s hand. “Write the old man. He wants a pretty young wife for his twilight years. Good, you want access to the Stormlands.”

“You never asked,” Ashara began. “All these years. You never asked about the men that hid in Starfall lands. About Oswell. About the men who come from Essos.”

“Death men and exiled men? I know whatever you do is not for foolishness, Ashara. I’ve seen you grow; I’ve seen you change. You wouldn’t go to war for just a chair.”

Ashara gave the widow of High Hermitage a shaky smile.

“Write, Ashara. I’ll talk to Alyse myself.”

.

.

Ashara had adorned herself in her finest purple robes to receive the Dornish prince. Edric was on his best behavior—a handsome, dutiful boy who would surely make a woman very happy one day.

Oberyn exuded charm as Ashara guided him into her solar. They kept the conversation light, as if this were a friendly trip for two old friends reconnecting. The congenial atmosphere persisted until Oberyn entered the solar and laid eyes not on one, but two Whents.

“Did anyone actually die in that tower? Or is Lyanna Stark guiding somewhere as well?” The prince quipped as he stared at the Kingsguard in front of him. Oswell, despite going grey still had dark red streaks in his hair. It made him unmistakable, especially with that hooked nose.

“Sit, Oberyn,” Ashara spoke, leaving all the courtesies she was taught at the door as she took her seat at the head of the table, her spine straight.

“I like this you, Asha. And I know how you got old Leyton and Rowan on your side. All for a little bastard.”

“Jealous?” Ashara teased before Oswell exploded. “That from my chair I did all this while your little marriage pact went nowhere?”

Oberyn crossed his legs, a significant tell. His grin turned deadly. “I do like this new you, Asha. How did you know about Viserys?”

“Since the moment you set foot outside of Braavos.”

“Darry? Did the old man send you letters to Winterfell? Why?”

“You think you were the only one Darry had contact with?” Ashara raised an eyebrow. “Oswell went to Braavos with a few friends after Alysanne was born.”

“Northerners everyone believes to be dead? I made sure to get that little list. Is Lord Willam Dustin hidden in High Hermitage? His wife won’t be pleased to know. She did remarry after all. To a Stark. You think the woman will turn to trout for a change to keep her little daughter from being declared a bastard?”

Ashara simply gave him a smile as sharp as Valyrian steel. Oberyn didn’t need to know that Barbrey’s loyalty had been sealed two years into Ashara's short tenure in the North. Nor that Ashara had been behind her marriage to Benjen Stark. Barbrey had even promised to name a second daughter after Ashara just to see Catelyn Tully’s face.

“Or is bigamy practiced everywhere now?”

Do you have Viserys hidden, Oberyn? Ashara wondered.

"Second marriages are very much appreciated by some," Ashara let it slip.

Oberyn’s face turned sour. “So Rhaegar decided to become Maegor? Or the Conqueror himself? The Faith won’t go for it. Especially not for a girl.”

Viserys. Viserys. Viserys.

What would you do if I propose Gerold – Edric himself – for Dorne’s heiress? Would you turn it down and show your cards, Oberyn?

“Admit it, how much did those two last sentences hurt your tongue, Oberyn?”

Her old friend laughed at her jest.

“You cannot hope the spears of Dorne will throw themselves into battle for Lyanna’s offspring? Especially when she shows how little she even pretends to care about justice for her trueborn siblings.”

“Last time I recall, you had Clegane’s very large head adorning Sunspear. Or was it the mauled body of Lorch that annoyed you? At least Ghost left something to identify the body.”

Ashara had not seen either body, but Arthur had made no secret of the very painful end of both murderers.

“Tywin gave the order. His daughter could have ended it all, that legacy he so much wanted made a mockery of... and your precious not-daughter got him off scot-free.”

“Dorne can muster at best forty-five thousand men, correct?” Oswell asked. “Of course, that's considering the entirety of Dorne. I'm sure my prince is well aware of the numbers and resources the West can provide.”

Oberyn's eyes didn't leave Ashara's impassive face. “Sow suspicion? Or something worse. Do you plan to cut Dorne in half as you are doing with the Reach?”

“Have I ever spoken about going to war? You went to a wedding, saw a hidden princess, and immediately imagined war. Not me.”

Oberyn scoffed, turning to Sarra, who was clad in Whent yellow with red and yellow brocade sleeves. “I heard rumors, my lady. Should I congratulate you on your upcoming marriage?”

Sarra responded with soft courtesies that a septa might beat into a girl if needed. “Thank you, my prince. I am very happy indeed. Ser Humfrey has been courting me for a year, so I am surprised people seem to think there is something scandalous about it.”

Oberyn gave a viperous grin, and Ashara was pleased Sarra didn’t fall for it. “How is your brother, my lady? Willem? Oswell?”

Sarra’s face tightened with anger. “Symond. I fear the ones my prince knew better have long been gone. They perished fighting alongside your uncle, in case my prince has forgotten. My elder brother, Steffon, was there as well.”

“And you still side with whatever this is?” Oberyn asked. “Knowing what that foolish girl did.”

“Come on, Oberyn? Since when do you blame five-and-ten-year-old girls for wars?” Ashara interjected, sensing the anger rising in Oswell.

“I think age made Prince Oberyn remember the true cause of the war. If the whispers of Prince Viserys that reach us are true, he seems to have truly forgotten,” Oswell snapped.

Ashara closed her eyes, anticipating that whatever Oberyn was about to say would escalate the situation to places she didn’t want it to go.

Viserys. Missing? Hidding? Captured?

Do you know, Oberyn?

“And where was the great Oswell Whent during the war? Hidden away like a coward.”

“Enough!” Ashara snapped as Oswell rose from his table, with Oberyn following suit. The Queensguard belt was without a sword, thankfully, and so was Oberyn, but Ashara knew better than to believe the Red Viper didn’t have some hidden dagger somewhere. “Elia knew, Oberyn,” Ashara told the man who looked at her with disbelief.

“You grew cold and shrewd, Asha. But I didn’t imagine you cruel.”

“I have many letters to prove it, Oberyn. Rhaegar wanted that third child and was willing to go to great lengths for it. Elia knew it. And Aerys. You knew what Aerys thought of Elia. And too many people already knew Aegon’s birth left her barren. If threatened by that madman, do you think Elia wouldn’t have gone to the motherhouse? Just to protect the children? She allowed your so-called bigamy as long as Rhaenys would come first, had Lyanna had a boy or a girl.”

Oberyn stared at her. Ashara didn’t move her gaze from his. She almost took a deep breath when he sat down.

“Why?” he asked her.

“Why the need for the third child? Or why all this secrecy?”

“All of it, Asha. All of it.”

Ashara looked at her long-time friend. This man she grew up with, who visited her from time to time. This man from whom she kept so many secrets. She looked at the Whents. Oswell’s eyes were distrustful but Sarra nodded.

I am so tired, she wanted to say. So, so tired.

“Go to the Isle of Faces,” she found herself saying.

“You just don’t go to the Isle of Faces, Ashara. Few can enter the island.”

“If they let you in, you will get the answers,” Ashara told him. Oberyn was far too curious, especially about the occult. He always was. “Just try and go quietly. You won’t be allowed inside if you do it otherwise. And with an open mind.”

You owe me this, she prayed to the Old Gods. Let him in.

“You went there?”

Ashara nodded. “After I lost Lyra. After the war. Grief and penance have a way to merge into your mind. To drive through many dark pasts. If they had come from the Tower a day later, I think they would have found my body in the rocks. Lord Reed told me a lost soul can be found on the Isle. It did. I cannot promise it will help you. You are not a believer nor a lost soul, but perhaps, the Old Gods will do this for us.”

Oberyn looked at her with a heavy look. “When was the last time you went into a sept?”

“When I was pregnant,” she replied, emptily.

“Where is Lyra buried?”

“Underneath a weirwood tree. I had her body sent to the Isle.”

Oberyn nodded.

.

.

“Is this wise?” Sarra asked as they watched the ship that carried Oberyn off depart.

Ashara hugged herself. She felt empty and cold.

“He might not get inside. Most likely he won’t be allowed to.”

“Elia was,” Ashara told her friend. “She went there during the tourney. Back then I didn’t understand it. But Elia had been sickly at birth.”

Sarra, who herself was short and slender, many called it the Whent curse. After all, so many of her kin died without being able to produce children, and some were born sickly. Sarra herself had been considered simple as a child. Ashara remembered the pale, little creature that was supposed to be a maiden at the tournament. The girl who tried so hard to hide from the world. Many had laughed when Albin took her to bride. With Arthur in the Kingsguard, many had suspected Starfall would go to Ashara.

“Not everyone who has the sight has to be smaller or an albino or have eyes the color of moss.” Sarra’s moss-like eyes turned heavy. “But, perhaps the Gods will grant us this. Prince Oberyn is a better ally than enemy. And the future is so uncertain.”

Ashara nodded and then noticed the way her friend – her confidant – was placing her hands on her belly. She raised an eyebrow. Ashara was shocked Sarra had gone that far with Humfrey. The young knight cared for Sarra – almost half as much as he cared for the chance to inherit Harrenhal – but Sarra had always been so disinterested. Many called her shy, some even child-like, but Ashara knew it was whatever she had Seen as a child. Or perhaps her very own nature.

“No. Not yet. After the wedding.”

Ashara smiled for her friend. At five-and-thirty, many would be surprised Sarra could even get pregnant. There had only been Edric before. And as she saw her goodsister announce a future child, a part of Ashara mourned once more her chance at motherhood lost long ago. She took on young pages and maids and kin as her own children to fulfill her desire.

“A boy and a girl, twins,” Sarra said with the voice of a wise old woman. Of someone who had seen it. “Promise me that my girl will get Harrenhal when the time comes.”

Ashara frowned, then realized it, and turned sadder. No, the Gods couldn’t take this much from Ashara and Sarra.

“Brynden. I think I will name him Brynden. He will be born albino. Humfrey won’t understand. Leyton does, Malora too. They have Seen it. But not Humfrey. He will think the Gods took him at birth. They will, in a way.”

“A boy and a girl, twins,” Sarra said with the voice of a wise old woman. Of someone who had seen it. “Promise me that my girl will get Harrenhal when the time comes.”

Ashara frowned, then realized it, and turned sadder. No, the Gods couldn’t take this much from Ashara and Sarra.

“Brynden. I think I will name him Brynden. He will be born albino. Humfrey won’t understand. Leyton does, Malora too. They have Seen it. But not Humfrey. He will think the Gods took him at birth. They will, in a way.”

Ashara felt like crying.

“Please tell me that you have seen Spring, Sarra.”

“Did you wonder why Alysanne sent you a dried Plantagenet with her letter?”

Ashara shook her head. “Not really. The little yellow thing did seem unlike her. So I gather it was some message for you.”

“They are wrongly called the fire of autumn because in the south they bloom when summer is at an end. In the True North, they are very rare, and they are called the fire bloom. They appear in spring and last until the first fall of snows.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 12 – Willas III

Willas awoke earlier than usual on the morning of his second wedding ceremony, a surprise considering Alysanne typically beat him to it. As he surveyed the soft curtains, the muted light hinted at it was close to midday than dawn. The remnants of their passionate night together left him slightly sore, but when his gaze fell upon his wife's face, sleeping by his side, Willas noticed a furrow between her brows, her lush mouth muttering words he couldn't quite decipher.

Studying the woman beside him, Willas couldn't shake Tyene's cryptic words from his mind. The comparison she drew between Alysanne and herself remained elusive. In Alysanne's curious and bold nature, she bore more resemblance to Oberyn's other daughter, Sarella. A scholar at heart, Sarella meant to joining the Citadel, defying both reputation and convention. Her boldness mirrored the recklessness that led a bastard to command an army to save her father and the King. Tyene, on the other hand, was shrewd, and used her decorum mannerisms and her soft features to play the court.

It was Tyene's wit, coupled with her beauty, that had once captivated a young and impressionable Willas. In his more impulsive days, he might have pursued her in hopes of marrying her. However, his grandmother's sage advice prevailed — love, she insisted, was best kept without becoming an embarrassment or causing family discord.

Alysanne, in contrast, hid very little. She lacked the inclination for scheming, a trait common in the likes of Margaery, his grandmother, or Tyene. While not foolish, Alysanne was the type to take direct action. And she had been utterly unafraid to reveal her true feelings to the courtiers of King's Landing. Even if Robert Baratheon found amusement in the bastard's open contempt for lords and ladies, and Stannis Baratheon found a kindred spirit, Alysanne's forthrightness only fueled the flames of her unpopularity at court.

Despite being far from the demure and calm woman he had envisioned marrying, Willas, who in contrast to Garlan's preference for vivacity, appreciated a calm and mellow demeanor. He always imagine being married to a partner who wouldn't scorn being wed to a cripple incapable of jousting or dancing. Alysanne, a woman who rode with wild abandon and trained at arms, was not what he expected. The whispers about Alysanne Snow being the true warrior while Willas could very well wear the skirts had not escaped him. 

He despised it. Willas understood that Alysanne wasn't at fault; her nature was wild and bold, reminiscent of Daena the Defiant. Yet, the only reason the Reach didn’t pity her from being married to a cripple, was because they the disdain her far more.

From the moment ladies and women threw themselves at Garlan and began to ignored him, Willas knew his injury would forever define him. Even before the accident, he had been bookish and withdrawn. Despite the praise for his precociousness, his kinsmen lamented his lack of passion in the training yard. Mace Tyrell himself had wielded a sword and a lance, and in the chivalric Reach, Willas was always deemed lacking.

A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "What do you think so deeply that has you frowning so much?" Alysanne, awake and curious, gazed at him intently.

"My failed career as a warrior," he replied drily.

Alysanne moved closer, a frown on her beautiful features. "Why? Is it Prince Oberyn’s visit that has you thinking of it?"

Willas shook his head. "No, I never blamed Oberyn for it. I was never made for swords and lances. I was always more like Daeron the Second, too interested in books. The warriors are Garlan and Loras; they always were."

Alysanne rested her head on his torso, her gaze unwavering. "Like Daemon Blackfyre?" she asked, showcasing her cleverness. Willas nodded.

"You don't actually believe Garlan would take your position?" she questioned.

"Of course not. Garlan is Garlan. He would never even think of harming someone in his family. But it doesn’t mean many others don't think that," Willas admitted.

Alysanne huffed. "And why would you care what idiots like Edmund Ambrose or Olyvar Oakheart or even that Mark Mullendore think?"

Willas shot her a look. "I thought you didn't know or care about most of their names."

"I enjoy the idea that they think I'm an idiot who forgets names easily," she remarked with a witty smile, prompting a laugh from Willas. "Did you know that Mullendore asked your Oakheart friend if it was true and I couldn't read nor write? What does he think I do in the library all the time?"

"Mark was never the most clever of men," Willas retorted with a smile as Alysanne raised an eyebrow and matched his amusement.

"He probably doesn’t even know what a library is," she remarked against his chest, eliciting a chuckle from him.

"He knows his way around the tourney grounds. It is more important."

"For idiots, no doubt. At least he can hit something in the tourney ground. In a library, he would probably look constipated."

Willas found himself laughing again. "What has gotten into you this morning?" he said with humor before recalling his earlier conversation about Alysanne. "Did he say something to you?" he asked, a note of concern in his tone.

"In front of me?" Alysanne replied with amusement. "Of course not. He thinks I am some dark sorcerer who will send a shadow to kill him. Or Ghost. Or that I will use my sorcery to control him."

"What?" Willas said, utterly perplexed.

"It is nothing new, Willas. Let them talk. I do like how I can make these empty-headed knights fearful with just a look. Uncle was right; there is some dark amusement to it."

Willas shook his head. "I can't imagine Arthur Dayne saying that!"

"He didn't," Alysanne said dismissively, her gaze turning darker. "But if Mullendore or Ambrose or any other of these idiots dare to speak to Myrcella ever again… Well, they will wish I did challenge them in a tournament."

Even Willas felt a shiver at her tone. Alysanne had a way of making threats sound utterly cold, leaving him to believe she was capable of a ruthlessness that would make Tywin Lannister smile.

"What did they say?" Willas asked, already sensing the direction of the conversation.

"That Myrcella could come to him in a few years, and he would take her for his whore. Even tainted as she was. No doubt he said more colorful things. I wasn't there. Minisa told me."

"I am not that surprised, to be honest. He and Olyvar fostered at Highgarden. They used to wonder out loud when Lord Tyrell would finally send the humiliation of his firstborn to the Citadel or the Sept and make Garlan the heir."

Alysanne didn't look at him with pity but with a roll of her eyes. "So, they were always this stupid. I cannot blame a fall from a horse for it?"

"I fear not."

Alysanne tilted her head a bit. "You get along just fine with Olyvar now."

Willas closed his eyes, reminiscing about the episode back in Old Oak. "There is a saying in the Reach: strong man rules without relying on women."

Alysanne made a disgusted face. "Lord Tarly must pray that every day. But what does that have to do with your suddenly outspoken philandering?"

"Everyone knows my grandmother is someone my father listens to. But everyone also knows Mace Tyrell has the last call. My grandmother served as regent for some years before my father came of age. Afterward, he sent her to the Arbor for a couple of years."

"Typical. No doubt, so people believe he was the one calling the shots," Alysanne remarked.

Willas nodded. "But everyone knows I listen to my grandmother. Many say it is because I am her favorite that my father did not send me to the Faith or the Citadel."

"Idiots. Like you won’t be a far better ruler than your father," Alysanne said, stating it as a known truth, making Willas smile.

"After the accident, many whispered I would be easily swayed by women."

"Because a bad leg would make your brain suddenly crippled?" Alysanne's tone oozed with competence, and Willas couldn't help but smile at that.

He continued, now realizing he had begun to play with her curls absentmindedly. "I think it is the fact that I can’t be a warrior that makes them think that."

Alysanne rolled her eyes and in a cute move nuzzled his chin with her face. "Back to the philandering."

Willas rolled his eyes. "Do you know what happened when people discovered that I slept with Alyce?"

Alysanne shook her head, her eyes fully attentive.

"You really want to know this?"

Alysanne shrugged. "I won't cry or shout because you have other women. I told you before. Neither of us wanted this marriage, and I can count on one hand the number of highborn young couples whose husband is completely faithful. I'd rather know than be made a fool of."

Willas appreciated Alysanne’s pragmatism. "My grandmother sent Alyce away. I protested. She called me too much of an intelligent man to be too stupidly blinded by desire and told me that people whispered Alyce would control me."

"Of course," Alysanne said dryly.

"And then I went on a…philandering with the boys. We got drunk and went to celebrate something, I can’t exactly remember. I was already ruling Marigold by that time. But then Alyce was disinherited, and I called for her. But I did not remain only faithful to her nor did I ask her opinion in governance. Do you know what happened?"

"People suddenly believed you were capable of ruling?" Alysanne guessed.

"Yes," Willas nodded. "I couldn't wield a sword or a lance. I was still bookish and boring, but-"

Willas didn't continue, but Alysanne did. "You were capable of sleeping with women, even loving one, without thinking her capable of opinions, without her 'manipulating' you," Alysanne said annoyed. "She reinforced your masculinity because you were not swayed by her."

Willas gently caressed her tense jaw, understanding that her anger wasn't solely directed at him, perhaps not even at him at all.

“You cannot say the Northerners don’t think like that?” he ventured.

“Most do,” Alysanne grumbled. “But they don’t overthink it this much. Lady Catelyn helped rule Winterfell. Your mother has her own influence over her court, with the ladies in waiting. And even Olenna Tyrell holds power.”

“But the men they helped, no one doubted their capacities.”

“No one doubts yours. Until your philandering at Old Oak, all I knew of you was the boring and bookish part. Most didn’t even know about Alyce.”

“I am turning four-and-twenty; all of this happened more than five years ago. Besides Alyce, I have never taken a lover for a long period of time, and neither who would cause someone to gossip about.”

“You had enough time to cultivate an image,” Alysanne guessed.

“Most would not think me easily swayed by women now.”

Alysanne gave him a sad look. “Until you married the wild, witch, seductress northern bastard.”

Willas felt a pang of guilt. “Alysanne-”

“I thought you wanted to put me in my place,” she cut him off.

“What?” Willas said, genuinely surprised.

“I thought you did it to show me that south of the Riverlands I was nothing. I had no power and no control. I never did think your sudden need to get drunk and fuck women came out of careless lust. I thought you did it to humble me,” Alysanne huffed, and Willas was utterly shocked at the notion that she would think him that cruel. “I guess it was political either way. The message was not just for me.”

For a moment, Willas almost craved to tell her about the plotting, the Moon Tea, Margaery’s trouble conceiving, Renly and Loras' schemes. About his family's lack of trust and acceptance of Alysanne, not just due to her birth but also because she would follow Stannis if war were to break out.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Willas confessed instead. “Not in that way.”

“It did work,” Alysanne said with her pragmatic tone. “No one spoke of how my dark curses worked in seducing you to my will.”

“People actually say that?” Willas asked, shaking his head.

“You do realize that some of your mother’s ladies, especially the younger ones, think I will murder them and bathe in their blood to keep my clearly unnatural beauty and try to seduce you?”

“It is the Reach for you!” Willas replied with a jest, trying to lighten the mood.

Alysanne frowned. “I hate this place, Willas. Even more than King’s Landing, which is saying a lot.”

Willas pondered her words, then recalled that in a couple of weeks, she would depart with her entourage for the North. He was about to speak when the doors swung open.

“M’lady, what has gotten into you to stay up so la-” a voice halted as the couple turned to the blushing servant.

“Maude,” Alysanne greeted with blushing cheeks. “Good morning.”

Maude, the servant, was of short stature, with dark brown hair, small eyes, and sharp features—a face that Willas had seen before but whose name he had forgotten.

“Should I set a bath, milady?” the servant inquired.

“Yes, please,” Alysanne responded with an expression that reminded Willas of a cat.

“For milord as well?” the servant asked without any awkwardness.

Willas blinked, and he could hear Alysanne’s giggles.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Alysanne said kindly. “And food. I’m starving.”

“Milady decided to stay all morning in the bed like a southern flower,” the servant muttered and moved about the room, slightly opening the curtains to allow more sunlight and gathering some clothes from the ground. Willas was stunned, but Alysanne just hid her grin in his shoulder.

“Some of Lord Tyrell’s servants have already prepared food for you. I shall warn them you will eat after your bath,” the woman declared, leaving the room in the same manner she had entered.

Whatever expression was on Willas's face made Alysanne laugh even more.

.

.

They decided to eat by the fire, still in their dressing robes, trading childhood stories. It was a far cry from the heavy conversation they had before.

“Climbing? That high?”

“I would offer you a lordship in the North if you were capable of stopping Bran from doing it. He takes after our great-grandmother, Arya Flint.”

“It's far too dangerous, Alysanne.”

“Don’t I know it. But Bran knows the castle like the palm of his hand, and his feet never betrayed him.”

Willas's light mood suddenly stopped as Alysanne began to pour some tea into her cup. His gaze must have been queer enough for Alysanne to pause and look at him with a raised eyebrow and a curious expression.

“Do you want some, Willas?”

“Is it not cold?” he asked instead, feeling a weight on his shoulders. “Perhaps you would like some warmer tea. I can send for it.”

Alysanne looked at him with a strange look. No doubt, she was questioning why Willas was all of a sudden worried about tea.

It was such a fine day, he thought. No cares, no politics, no image to maintain. Just the two of them, unmasked and untroubled. Willas should know it was far too good to be true.

Alysanne shook her head and took a sip of the tea. “It's not that warm, but I don’t need to warm up,” she said with a teasing glint.

Willas felt a sense of sadness as he watched her drink it, a feeling he did not expect.

.

.

“Where were you?” his grandmother asked as Willas joined his family for dinner.

“Mother,” his father scolded her as Willas sat. “I am sure Willas has been with his wife. They have just married.”

“They have been married for months,” his grandmother scoffed.

“They are a young couple, mother. No doubt they have been enjoying the spring of their marriage,” his mother said with a gentle smile, giving Willas a soft look.

Before his grandmother could protest any more, Willas spoke. “Since we are speaking of it. I mean to travel to Marigold with Alysanne and a small entourage. As my wife, she should visit my seat before she departs for the North.”

His grandmother gave him a sharp look, but Willas turned to the Lord and Lady of Highgarden, who both seemed pleased with the decision. His father even insisted that a feast should be held before Alysanne departed for Marigold and the North.

“She will get a surprise once she gets to Winterfell,” his grandmother said.

“What do you mean, mother?” his father asked with a frown.

“Lady Sansa has already left from White Harbor. She will be in King’s Landing in a little more than a fortnight.”

Willas looked at his grandmother, expecting that she would reveal more information. However, as the Queen of Thorns claimed she knew nothing more about it, Willas couldn’t help but doubt. Did she truly know nothing else, or was she hiding it from him out of fear he would tell Alysanne?

.

.

“You look splendid,” Willas told Alysanne, and he meant it. They rode into the town on two destriers—Willas’ brown one caparisoned in green and gold silk, while Alysanne’s black horse was swathed in grey velvet with hints of white and red embroidery.

While her horse bore her colors, Alysanne was dressed in Tyrell colors. Her gown had been part of the trousseau she had been working on alone or with his mother—a gold damask with a tight waist mostly covered by her green silk cloak. Green was truly a stunning color against her fair skin and dark hair, braided with a thread of pearls, not unlike the style his mother favored.

Willas smiled as people from the town began to gather to see them pass, and Alysanne smiled at the people. He had seen her with the commonfolk of the North, carefree and charming. In Marigold, she was still a bit stern and unsure. His own people, from their faces, didn’t know exactly what to make of his wife.

.

.

Willas smiled as Alysanne’s companions ran towards the small mummer show happening in the center of the town. As they walked through the town, some more courageous people approached them, and for those, Alysanne always had words—questions of names and occupations. For those who opened up more, Alysanne even shared something of herself. However, she didn’t approach others, and Willas noticed many covering their faces when she crossed their paths.

He would hold Alysanne’s hand a bit tighter. They had left Ghost back in the castle so the people wouldn’t be scared, but rumors about Alysanne’s seemed to have spread as far as Marigold.

“It is Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield!” Myrcella exclaimed with excitement.

Willas and Alysanne followed them, and as soon as the company caught sight of Willas, they offered to begin the show again, which excited many. They watched the show, having been offered chairs, with attention. Willas enjoyed their creativity as much as the excitement of the people around them, especially chuckling as Garlan explained to Myrcella how he would defeat the dragon Urrax.

“One wonders,” Alysanne whispered, her mind a bit far away, perhaps in the show. Her tone was so distant that Willas wondered if she even meant to speak it out loud. “How did Serwyn defeat a creature that did not exist in Westeros at the time? Perhaps not even in the known world.”

Willas huffed, “Well, he is wearing the proper Kingsguard white in this play, as he tends to do in the songs, and the last time I checked a history book, it was Visenya Targaryen who invented the Kingsguard.”

“So you think the heroes from the Age of Heroes didn’t exist?”

Willas pondered the question. “I do think they existed, like the elder races. But stories embellished what truly happened.”

Alysanne leaned a bit over him, “Who knows, Willas. Perhaps the elder races are still there, in the Lands of Always Winter.”

“Yes,” Willas said with a teasing grin. “I am sure those lands are full of giants, children of the forests, and merlings, and many other mythical creatures.”

“You never know, Willas,” Alysanne said, looking at him with secretive dark eyes. “Perhaps it is all real. Perhaps we have just forgotten.”

“I wouldn't mind seeing a giant,” Willas said. “Far away, perhaps from the safety of the Wall. I am no Ser Serwyn to fight one off.”

“They might be kind, Willas,” Alysanne said. Willas couldn’t help but chuckle at her insistence. For someone so pragmatic and rational, not given to fairy-tale romances, Alysanne seemed to have an almost idealistic interest in mythical creatures.

Willas kissed her head, because he couldn’t help himself, and from the top of her head, he spotted a septon flinch at his action. He almost took a deep breath. “I will send you some books on mythical creatures; I am sure Highgarden's library is full of them.”

Alysanne looked up with an almost guiltless look, “I would love that.”

.

.

“Do have fun with Lord Lannister,” Willas frowned.

Alysanne huffed. “I don’t think Lord Lannister knows what fun is,” she teased then turned a bit more serious. “I had fun this last week.”

“I told you, you would like Marigold.”

“I liked the lake too,” she whispered, and Willas grinned, remembering the moonlit swims they had taken.

“Much better than those cold waters in the North,” he teased into her ear.

She did not reply; instead, Alysanne bit her lip and looked at him with a questioning look. “Will you come North?”

“His Grace is throwing a large feast and a tourney for Margaery’s nameday. She means for all her siblings to be there. It will be in a couple of moons, so I am not sure when I will be able to go North.”

“Well, if you are traveling, please write to me so I won’t be sending you letters to Highgarden when you are in King’s Landing,” there was no accusation in her tone, just rationality. He kissed her forehead.

As his lips left her skin and he looked at her face, so utterly lovely and delicate for a woman with so much Northern blood in her veins. Then he looked at her eyes, those dark clever eyes, a shade of purple she must have inherited from Ashara Dayne, and finally spoke.

“Alysanne, about Sansa.”

He was shocked to find her finger on his lips and a soft, but sad smile on her own lips. “I know. I’ve known for weeks, Willas. Of your sister’s letters to Lady Catelyn and their plans. Lady Catelyn might think herself utterly clever, but I knew before Sansa was even in that ship with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel.”

Willas frowned at that. Not that Alysanne knew. His wife was clever and had the loyalty of many in the North, including the house from the town harbor Sansa Stark left her homeland. But it was the way she said it. Like she meant more than Margaery’s plan to have Sansa fostered in the South and away from any alliance Alysanne could secure with her hand.

“Troubles and headache await me,” Alysanne said, her face looking at the ship her entourage was embarking on, then back to Willas. “I will treasure this week.”

“Only this week?” Willas asked, remembering the morning of their second marriage and the entire time he spent in the North. The conversations and laughter, the peace he could feel with her, as much as the passion.

Instead of replying, she leaned on her feet, her hand on his cheek, but it was Willas who met their lips. Their kiss was not hungry, as they often shared, but one that spoke of tenderness and longing.

“Farewell, my husband,” Alysanne said with a soft smile. “I shall write to you from Casterly Rock.”

“I will miss you, my dear wife, and I shall eagerly await your letter,” he kissed her hands.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13 – Alysanne V  

Alysanne was gradually getting used to life aboard the ship, a feat that surprised many of her companions. She couldn’t help but gasp at the imposing hill, colossal in size, upon which one of the most renowned castles stood. This was no ordinary fortress, but a stronghold that dared any would-be conqueror to challenge its defenses. And no doubt, break against such task.  

"How many years do you reckon it would take to lay siege to such a fortress?" Alysanne mused aloud.  

Her uncle let out a hearty laugh. "Not nearly enough, Aly."  

In that moment, Alysanne realized that Uncle Arthur had likely pondered the question countless times before. She leaned over the railing, allowing the brisk wind to tousle the strands of hair that escaped her shawl, embracing the last moments of warm summer sun.  

"I remember the last time I was here," her uncle remarked beside her. "It was for a tournament, not a wedding. I believe it was the event that sealed my entrance into the Kingsguard."  

Alysanne knew the story well. A young Arthur Dayne had triumphed over an even younger Prince Rhaegar in a final tilt that left many breathless, already the youngest Sword of the Morning in memory, soon Uncle Arthru would add the white cloak of the Kingsguard to his possessions. It was a decision made more out of duty and loyalty to her father than to the king. Something that he made sure Alysanne understood.  

"We must feign surprise when the wedding festivities commence," Alysanne suggested playfully, attempting to lighten the mood.  

"Do you truly believe Lord Tywin expects the Tyrells to be fooled by this charade?" her uncle countered.  

"I believe Margaery Tyrell will undoubtedly run to Robert, accusing me of witchcraft and alleging that I coerced Lord Tywin's heir into marriage without inviting the royal family," Alysanne speculated with a wry smile. "Meanwhile, Varys will whisper in the king's ear that Ser Lancel Lannister fell hopelessly in love with Sarya Mallister upon her arrival at Casterly Rock, and only my intervention prevented an impulsive wedding in the moment he laid eyes on her." She shook her head at the absurdity of it all.  

"They will discern the true motivations behind the scheming, Alysanne, and they will react accordingly," her uncle affirmed.  

"And whom does Margaery plan to marry Sansa off to? A minor lord of the Reach? That would hardly bolster her reputation as a skilled matchmaker," Alysanne replied.  

"Perhaps she's considering an alliance with the Vale. You know how difficult they can be to negotiate with," her uncle suggested.  

"And risk forfeiting Sansa as a valuable hostage? I highly doubt it," Alysanne countered.  

"There may come a time when Sansa's precarious position in King's Landing forces you to make a difficult choice," her uncle cautioned.  

Alysanne took a steadying breath. "We shall see, uncle. But I don’t think Sansa will suffer for my neutrality."  

"I pray that you're right, Alysanne. For both your sake and hers," her uncle replied with a note of concern.  

.  

.  

Alysanne was pleasantly surprised to find Sarya and Lancel Lannister waiting to greet them at the harbor. After the obligatory exchange of pleasantries, Alysanne nodded with a grin as Minisa rushed forward to embrace her older sister. She couldn't also help but feel a warm sense of satisfaction witnessing the genuine affection exchanged between Lancel and his cousin, particularly considering the Lannisters' tendency to overlook Myrcella's existence. Seeing the little girl embraced brought Alysanne a sense of joy.  

She missed her siblings too much. A few letters weren’t enough. Alysanne longed to hug them in her arms and read to them at night.  

"There will be a feast to welcome you all," Lancel was explaining to Alysanne, his demeanor formal yet welcoming. As Minisa smiled at her betrothed and draped her arm around Alysanne in a friendly gesture, it clearly caught the Lannister heir off guard.  

"We have some much time before the feast. I'm certain Alysanne would appreciate a stroll through the markets of Lannisport before we're confined within the Rock," Sarya suggested.  

Ser Lancel seemed momentarily taken aback, likely wary of deviating from the planned schedule and spending time outside the confines of political engagements with a woman whose family had played a significant role in her father's demise.  

"Please, Lancel," Sarya pleaded with a charming smile. "I'm eager to show Alysanne the exquisite textiles we've acquired here. After all, she deserves a break from the monotony of green and gold."  

Alysanne, adorned in an earthy green open coat-dress paired with a green gown so dark it appeared almost black, couldn't help but smile at the subtle jab at House Tyrell's signature colors.  

Alysanne turned to her ladies, observing their varied reactions to the suggestion. Myrcella, Minisa, and Lyra appeared excited at the prospect, their anticipation evident in their bright expressions. Eddara Tallhart nervously bit her lip, while Wylla gazed at Alysanne with pleading eyes, silently urging her to agree to their outing.  

"The dyes," the Manderly girl remarked with a hint of defiance. Wylla Manderly had taken the remarks froom the Reachmen and women as a challenge to dye her hair even more vibrantly. Branda Umber couldn't help but chuckle at the remark.  

Alys Flint, the appointed governess of the girls, initially adopted a stern expression at the girls' enthusiasm, but then she bestowed a subtle wink upon Alysanne. Alys had proven to be an excellent choice for a second governess, and Alysanne silently vowed to express her gratitude to Lord Locke for suggesting her. Alys was the younger sister of Lady Lyessa Flint and, at forty years old, had already been widowed twice. Her first husband, Mors Crowsfood's eldest son, had perished at the Trident alongside his brothers, while her second husband had been Lord Lambard Lightfoot's brother, who met his end during a hunting expedition several years prior. Alys's son, Daryn Lightfoot, was a few years older than Bran and served as a companion in Winterfell.  

"We can all go," Alysanne declared with a laugh.  

.  

.  

"Father mentioned that Queen Margaery proposed two of her cousins as potential matches for my brother," Sarya whispered to Alysanne, their conversation masked by the bustling noise of the market. Amidst occasional smiles and girlish grins exchanged between them made it would appear to any onlooker that they were engaged in a trivial conversation.  

Meanwhile, Hallis Mollen and Norren were already caring bolts of textiles, ink, and parchment, while Uncle Arthur seemed thoroughly entertained by their exasperation, encouraging the girls to explore further.  

"Which two girls were left heartbroken?" Alysanne inquired.  

"Leona Tyrell and Megga Tyrell," Sarya giggled before leaning closer to Alysanne and whispering in her ear with feigned secrecy, as if divulging some juicy piece of gossip. "Father gracefully remarked that Patrek's association with Edmure and Marq made him discerning about his future wife. The only thing father knows is that Patrek desires a bride closer to his own age."  

"No doubt Queen Margaery now assumes the three of them have set their sights on potential matches from the North," Alysanne remarked dryly.  

Considering how both my brother and Marq looked at you during our time in Seaguard, the queen probably believes they're vying for your affections," Sarya added with a mischievous glint in her eyes.  

Suppressing a laugh, Alysanne replied, "And which names did the queen suggest this time?  

"Juliya Footly," Sarya revealed, her voice tinged with amusement. "Apparently, she's a twenty-year-old maiden, touted as one of the most beautiful women in the reach. According to Patrek, she's blonde, and he nearly wrote to the queen expressing his preference for dark-haired beauties."  

"I'm relieved he refrained from doing it," Alysanne remarked with a hint of wry humor. "But your father cannot continue to decline the Queen's suggestions indefinitely."  

"Indeed not," Sarya agreed. "Patrek understands that he will ultimately wed a woman from the Reach. Father spoke of our house's seafaring tradition, suggesting that the queen may consider Desmere Redwyne, given Lord Farman's lack of eligible daughters."  

"The sole daughter of House Redwyne... Your father is aiming high. Her hair is brown, albeit a lighter shade," Alysanne noted.  

"But just imagine the leverage she would provide as a hostage," Sarya countered. "Paxter Redwyne used his twins' positions at court to avoid involvement in the Baratheon conflict. Who's to say he wouldn't do the same for his daughter?"  

"Most fathers tend to favor their sons," Alysanne observed, glancing at Myrcella, who held a pretty pink satin fabric in her hand.  

"You would look stunning in that color, Aly," Myrcella commented, receiving enthusiastic agreement from little Eddara beside her.  

Lyra offered Alysanne a knowing and sympathetic glance, while Branda Umber's presence hinted at the rumors surrounding her nonexistent love life reaching even the far as the Last Hearth.  

Alysanne felt a sudden pressure on her arm and turned to find Sarya giving her a meaningful look before loudly declaring, "Indeed! What a splendid choice. The Gods know Lady Alysanne should wear something beyond black, white, and red. You must have a gown made from that satin, Aly. Perhaps even one in purple?"  

"Sarya," Alysanne cautioned in a hushed tone.  

"It's just a color, my dear friend," Sarya countered with a grin. "You'd look just as radiant in pink as you do in green. Everyone who loves you would agree."  

Alysanne couldn't suppress the laughter that bubbled up within her.  

.  

.  

"Tell me honestly, what is your impression of Lancel?" Alysanne inquired as they settled into the cozy sitting room for a late afternoon tea.  

Their surroundings exuded an air of elegance and luxury, with plush cushions adorning intricately carved wooden chairs in lion motifs. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a warm glow upon the polished oak table set with selection of delicate pastries, summerwine and fruits.  

"Perfect," Sarya replied without hesitation, her gaze fixed on the table before them. "He's arrogant, impatient, yet he appears oddly committed to making our relationship function. I've neither seen nor heard of any dalliances with maids or servants, and he seldom ventures beyond the confines of the Rock. He dedicates his days to training in the yard and teaching the boys, carying nothing about the duties of a lord to be."  

Alysanne furrowed her brow, puzzled by Sarya's assertion. "And what about that makes him perfect?" she questioned.  

"He cares little for ruling. Lady Genna has already taken me under her wing and prepared me to govern the Rock in his stead. I intend to groom Martyn Lannister to follow in his father's footsteps, so that one day he may assist me, as Kevan did with Lord Lannister" Sarya explained.  

Alysanne set her goblet down and turned her attention to the young woman. "Martyn is the youngest, isn't he?" she inquired.  

Sarya nodded. "I'm curious to see how likely it is for Ser Arthur to take in that haughty child, Willem Lannister, as a squire."  

Alysanne nearly chuckled. "I can't say for certain, Sarya. Tywin intends for me to take in little Janei as a ward."  

"The girl is only two years old. You'd have to wait five years. Take in the boy instead," Sarya suggested.  

Alysanne promised to discuss the matter with her uncle. "Who else among the Lannisters concerns you the most?" she asked.  

"With Cleos Frey's demise, his widow suddenly remembers her Darry heritage. No doubt she has her sights set on those lands," Sarya replied.  

"Darry is secure," Alysanne assured her.  

"Tyrek Lannister has also experienced a sudden recollection. He often requests to see his beloved wife, and his mother frets over his potential melancholy," Sarya continued.  

Alysanne rolled her eyes. "Darlessa Marbrand should be grateful she wasn't sent to a motherhouse for her role in aiding Cersei Lannister."  

"If only," Sarya remarked dryly. "The woman despises you, naturally."  

"I'll make sure to include her on the list," Alysanne remarked wryly. "What are your thoughts on Joy Hill?"  

Sarya gave her a knowing smile. "She's a timid girl, not like the spirited ones you tend to favor. She shows promise as a refined young lady but is at an age where fostering might benefit her."  

"How is she treated?" Alysanne inquired.  

"Lady Genna raised her out of love for her brother and because she lacked a daughter of her own. However, the girl understands the implications of her status as a bastard very well," Sarya explained.  

"And her mother?" Alysanne pressed.  

"Briony. By all accounts, a good woman still in her twenties. She serves as a nursemaid," Sarya replied.  

"I am in need of maids," Alysanne remarked thoughtfully. "And nursemaids as well, in a sense. Winterfell will soon be bustling with children."  

Sarya nodded. "You should speak with her about it."  

"And what about the rest of the West?" Alysanne inquired.  

"If I were you, I'd be cautious of the Serretts. Their heir married a Freya Footly," Sarya warned.  

"Ah, yes," Alysanne mused. "And who else are the Tyrellls attempting to ally with?"  

"They initially pursued House Crakehall, but they remain loyal to Tywin," Sarya explained. "So now, the Tyrells are turning their attention to houses closer to the Crownlands. The second son of House Peckledon secured a position at court, Orielle Payne serves as a lady companion, and Ryman Sarwyck assumed lordship after his cousins perished in battle. He sent his cousin Elyana and her wife of twenty years to a motherhouse."  

Alysanne set down her cake, a furrow forming on her brow. "And what did Tywin do about it?"  

"Tywin intended for Elyana to marry a Lannister of Lannisport or a Crakehall. However, once Margaery informed Robert, you can imagine what ensued," Sarya replied.  

"And who did he end up marrying?" Alysanne inquired further.  

"Elyse Inchfield, a vassal of House Tarly. No doubt to curry favor with Randall Tarly, as her mother is a cousin of his. It also serves as a marriage alliance with a secondary house of the Reach not under House Tyrell's influence, demonstrating to Randall Tarly that Margaery is committed to promoting all Reachwomen," Sarya explained.  

"And Tarly has three daughters," Alysanne noted.  

Randall Tarly's name had long been stricken from the list of potential allies. The man was staunchly opposed to Alysanne, one of her most vocal adversaries. However, unbeknownst to him, he had committed a grave error. Samwell Tarly was now stationed in Mole's Town, having been dissuaded from taking his vows by Maester Aemon and to await her return north. Young Samwell had penned the letter himself, filled with gratitude and expressions of loyalty.  

"Lord Lannister intends to secure Lydden's loyalty before Margaery sinks her claws into the largest vassal close to King's Landing," Sarya remarked.  

Alysanne hummed in satisfaction, pleased that Tywin had heeded her counsel and ensured Sarya was well-informed about their political maneuvers. The woman was truly formidable, possessing an extensive knowledge of the houses across five of the kingdoms. It was evident that Lord Mallister had prepared her exceptionally well for court. And likely, Sarya was learning all she could about the other kingdoms.  

"Does Tywin have any specific plans in mind?" Alysanne inquired.  

"Marriages, as always. I'm attempting to leverage the connections of both my grandmother and mother," Sarya replied.  

"Lord Celtigar?" Alysanne pressed.  

"He's my great-uncle, though he tends to forget it," Sarya explained. "But it's risky to seek alliances with houses in the Narrow Sea, especially given your prior associations with the Velaryons."  

"And the Vances?" Alysanne questioned further.  

"My mother had two brothers, after all," Sarya responded.  

"Lord Vance fell in battle against Jaime Lannister, Sarya," Alysanne reminded her gently.  

"Cousin Karl reminded me of that when I invited him to the wedding. However, my mother had another brother, and Uncle Dafyn will undoubtedly seek a favorable match for his daughter," Sarya explained.  

"I'll await your letter regarding your negotiations with Lord Lydden," Alysanne remarked.  

"Oh," Sarya replied with a dismissive tone. "I won't offer him a cousin of mine without ensuring his daughters are placed in positions that guarantee his loyalty. I've proposed to Tywin that he wed his eldest girl to Daven."  

"Truly?" Alysanne couldn't hide her surprise.  

"The man is dangerous, Alysanne," Sarya emphasized.  

"He's certainly a formidable warrior," Alysanne conceded.  

"Daven is the most respected Lannister nowadays, after Lord Tywin, of course. And he harbors a strong animosity towards you and the Starks," Sarya continued. "As for the Redwyne girl, Mace Tyrell has proposed a marriage between them. The daughter of the Lord of the Arbor wed to a second cousin of Tywin Lannister? It would be unacceptable if not with certain assurances. Worse still, he's courting Lady Lefford, reminding her of their shared lineage on his mother's side and how they both lost their fathers to the Stark army."  

"I cannot afford even the slightest opening for dissent at the Golden Tooth," Alysanne emphasized.  

"I understand," Sarya responded with equal gravity. "I think that Alysanne Lefford should wed to a Riverlander, as I'm certain she would not entertain the idea of marrying a Northerner."  

"What about Lord Bracken's brother?" Alysanne suggested.  

"Wyllis? He's in his thirties and lacks prowess on the battlefield. Why him?" Sarya inquired.  

"I made no secret about my close ties with the Blackwoods. You know how those two houses operate," Alysanne explained.  

"And Jonos is on his deathbed. You intend to diminish Wyllis's influence in the region by offering him a suitable match," Sarya deduced.  

"Barbara's position as her father's heir would be secure," Alysanne confirmed.  

"Jayne mentioned she's considering the audacious move of pursuing a Blackwood match," Sarya revealed.  

Alysanne wasn't surprised. After all, Sarya acted as an intermediary between Jayne and herself. However, she couldn't help but offer her friend a sly grin.  

"Barbara playing the court for fools? I must say, I'm surprised, given her blunt nature," Sarya remarked, genuinely taken aback.  

"They wouldn't dare risk such a union. But that doesn't mean there can't be other arrangements. Just not at this moment," Alysanne replied confidently.  

Sarya leaned forward, a glint of mischief in her blue eyes. "Lucas and Hoster are your companions. Lucas shadows Arthur Dayne for a reason, and he's the most skilled fighter in the family."  

Alysanne merely arched an eyebrow, her grin threatening to break free. Sarya had hinted in one of their coded letters that the Game was far more entertaining than she had imagined, and Alysanne couldn't help but concur.  

"But Brynden... Tall, sharp Brynden Blackwood," Sarya continued, shaking her head. "Though you intend to keep that card close to your chest."  

"Tytos Blackwood has no shortage of sons; he has no urgency to marry them off," Alysanne remarked.  

"So, one of the three youngest, even if they are already all flowered" Sarya surmised.  

"Alysanne Bracken is five-and-ten," Alysanne supplied.  

Sarya chuckled. "You'd pursue her solely for the name."  

Alysanne shrugged. "Let them with whom Brynden could get a better match. The last thing we need is failed Blackwood-Bracken unions."  

"And what about our dear Barbara?" Sarya inquired.  

"I'll leave it to Jayne and you to orchestrate in a manner that leads our dear queen to believe the Blackwoods and Brackens are once again at each other's throats," Alysanne replied with a smirk.  

Sarya's laughter rang out, sharp as a blade.  

.  

.  

Sarya Mallister wed Lancel Lannister in a gown of indigo and gold, her hair styled in the exact same fashion Alysanne had worn when she danced with Willas back in Highgarden. Alysanne couldn't help but hide a smile at her friend's petty gesture. The event was attended by only those within the West and Sarya's famil, yet, Sarya still felt the need to make a political statement, and one that likely wouldn't reach the ears of the court.  

"We never had a Lannister named Alysanne," remarked Genna Lannister after her husband made a comment about the exchanged looks between the newlywed couple as they danced.  

Alysanne almost burst into laughter when Genna winked at her discreetly while her husband's attention was elsewhere. Seated in a place of honor near the dais, Alysanne was summoned over by Lady Genna once the dancing commenced. It was evident that the perceptive woman was fully aware of Alysanne's true identity, and Alysanne found herself appreciating her all the more for it.  

"Why would a Lannister be named Alysanne?" her husband inquired, prompting Genna to shoot Alysanne a look that clearly conveyed 'see what I have to put up with.'  

Alysanne concealed her smile behind her goblet as she observed her uncle, who was struggling to suppress his amusement, his eyes twinkling with mirth.  

"Last time I checked, one of our sons was named after a Lannister. And our two grandchildren are also named for Lannisters. Thank the Gods! The world has enough Walders!" Genna leaned forward conspiratorially. "My youngest was cursed with that name. I lost far too much blood birthing the red-haired boy, and Emmon decided in his wisdom to name him after his father. How many Walders are there by now?"  

"Far too many, my lady," Arthur replied with a laugh, clearly delighted by the exchange. Alysanne was pleased to see her uncle in such high spirits, and for that reason alone, she made a mental note to fulfill Lady Genna Lannister's hinting for one of her grandchildren to accompany her North.  

"Now, Arthur! That is a name," Genna leaned in even closer, her ample bosom drawing even more attention, to the point where her husband and those nearby likely couldn't focus on anything else. "I tell you, Alysanne... If Jaime had found a girl to wed when he should have, we would have a future Arthur Lannister, given the way the boy gazed longingly at your uncle. I swear, I still think the lad took the white just to see your uncle naked as often as possible. Not that I don’t blame him if it was the case."  

Arthur nearly choked on his wine, and Alysanne couldn't help but stifle a giggle. Stark family dinners were always pleasant, but such daring conversations were unheard of. Lady Catelyn would likely have caned or whipped anyone who dared to speak so boldly in front of her children.  

"If I notice any developments in that department, I'll be sure to write to you, my lady," Alysanne replied with a smile.  

"Do that, Alysanne, write, I mean. I could use the amusement," Genna quipped back.  

Alysanne promised to do so, then added, "I rather like Gerold for a boy."  

"For the Golden Lion?" Genna inquired.  

"Or the White Bull," Alysanne suggested with a mischievous grin, knowing Genna would understand the subtle reference. It was a pity, the septas who had raised both Genna Lannister and the Mallister girls were not present in Winterfell.  

"Gerold Tyrell," Genna tried the name with a tone of utter disgust. "Not proper enough. If I were you, I'd name a boy after your father or your great-grandfather."  

“Why would Lord Willas even allow his wife to name his heirs with a Northern names?" Emmon Frey interjected, attempting to join the conversation but only managing to annoy Alysanne.  

"Alysanne will name her children whatever she wants, Lord Willas," Genna stressed the name, clearly indicating she did not consider Willas as her husband. "He won’t get a say."  

"I'll take your advice to heart. I do have some ideas," Alysanne replied with a smile, fully aware of the double meaning behind her words.  

Emmon Frey eyed her up and down before bluntly asking, "When will you give your husband a child?"  

"Emmon... Go dance with your gooddaughter. That woman is far too despondent for a marriage," Genna Lannister practically ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.  

"Idiot," Genna muttered as soon as her husband was out of earshot. "Did you ever find a Frey who wasn’t an idiot?"  

"The children of Bethany Rosby," Alysanne answered.  

Genna nodded thoughtfully. "One of them squires for you, doesn't he?" she asked Uncle Arthur.  

"A very good lad. Honorable, brave, and diligent," Arthur confirmed.  

"Are we sure he came from Old Walder’s loins?" Genna joked.  

"Not all children resemble their parents," Arthur remarked.  

"Don't I know that," Genna agreed before turning her attention back to Alysanne. "The eldest Rosby Frey? Is he married? Or about to be?"  

"Most likely the latter, my lady. You'll find I have as many good words about him as my uncle does for Olyvar. Their brother died in the war, and their middle brother is already a maester," Alysanne explained.  

"What a lineage! If only I had a daughter," Genna lamented. "That woman sure had more luck than the rest of her family. Gyles Rosby has been widowed twice and has no child to speak of."  

"A pity about those Rosby lands," Alysanne remarked with a knowing look. Glancing at the dance floor, she couldn't help but smile as Olyvar shared a dance with Joy Hill. The girl seemed pleasantly surprised that he had even asked her.  

"Nothing a good marriage won’t fix," Genna remarked.  

"It seems there's no shortage of marriages of late," Alysanne observed.  

"Your family famously says winter is coming. Everyone wants someone warm to sleep with during those times," Genna quipped.  

A heavy look passed between Alysanne and her uncle. If only Lady Genna knew the true weight of those words.  

.  

.  

Willas  

I write to you now from Lannisport, relieved to report that I have arrived safely. Please forgive my delay in correspondence; I was quite taken aback upon my arrival. Sarya greeted our party at the harbor and promptly informed me of her intention to wed Lancel while I am here at the Rock. To say I was shocked would be an understatement!  

At least, the hastened marriage arrangements seem to have somewhat curtailed the extravagant spending, although I still believe the festivities were too much of a lavish affair. But you already know how displeased I am with the amount of food wasted on weddings.  

In the days ahead, I plan to dedicate my time to negotiating trade deals with the West. Given Lord Stark's aversion to dealing with Lord Lannister, such agreements have been neglected for far too long. But Winter is Coming and the need for provisions grows ever more pressing.  

Oh, how I wish I own my own gold mine! I often dream of acquiring the Pendric Hills! If only such a fortune were within my grasp. The wealth from those mines could sustain the North for generations, or so Lord Westerling boasted. Alas, husband, such dreams remain beyond my means for now.  

As for the other matters at hand, you know well the nature of people and my own tendencies in regard to them. Nevertheless, amidst the complexities, Sarya's presence is a breath of fresh air. Myrcella also appears to find solace in her surroundings, despite the circumstances. I am resolved to have little Joy Hill accompany us back to the North; her companionship may prove invaluable to Myrcella, given their shared understanding.  

About companions, I am starting to understand why Uncle Arthur doesn’t come south. The poor man cannot train against anyone without two youths almost begging to be their squires. And Uncle Arthur has been spending so much time in the yard. I worry because I fear it is his memories that are getting to him.  

At least, no one has died. I fear if Prince Oberyn were here... actually, Thank the Gods Prince Oberyn isn’t here. Blood is very hard to wash away from clothes.  

House Lorch is also no more. You must tell that to Prince Oberyn in your next letter to him. After what befell Ser Amory in Harrenhal, his kin decided to join the Faith or run to exile. I have explained that Ghost wouldn’t just kill them like he did that monster of a man. But it seems people fearing me will always follow me.  

I do miss you, at least the amusement we would have at the idiots. Idocity is also abounds in the Rock.  I am sensing a recurring theme, Willas. Perhaps one day I can tell you about it.  

Oh, Lady Jeyne Westerling is learning the healing arts! I almost cried with excitement when she shared this news with me. Finally, a woman of high birth who recognizes the importance of such skills. She cared for her ailing uncle until his passing, with the maester's assistance, and now seeks to extend her healing touch to others. However, her mother disapprover.  

I think I’m stealing her away, Willas. (Remind me to tell you one day what that means in Free Folk culture)  

Speaking of women who will go North with me, Lady Cerenna's inquiries about Lord Bolton have grown incessant, bordering on impertinence. She asks the most trivial matters! Does she truly expect me to know his favorite color or food? The notion is preposterous! And to suggest he has a pet akin to my dear Ghost is downright absurd.  

Ghost isn’t a pet, by the Gods!  

I will stop amusing you with my ramblings. I trust all is well with you. Please convey my regards to your mother and Garlan, using all the flowery language you're accustomed to from the Reach. I hope they are safe and content, just as I wish for you.  

Alysanne.  

.  

.  

“You have a letter, my lady,” Briony interrupted, her voice breaking Alysanne's focus as she was about to seal her own letter to Willas. Alysanne turned to see the blonde handmaiden holding a rolled parchment.  

“A letter?” Alysanne's confusion was evident in her tone.  

“The maester just delivered it. It bears the direwolf seal,” Briony explained.  

Bran? Alysanne's thoughts immediately turned to her brother as she rose from her seat. Why would Bran be writing to her now? As Ghost shifted nearby, Alysanne's unease grew palpable. She snatched the letter from Briony's hand, breaking the seal without a second thought.  

Alysanne scanned the words once, then again. Then two. Then three.  

“My lady!” The urgency in the voice snapped Alysanne back to reality as she collapsed to the ground, leaning into Ghost. “My lady, Ser Arthur!”  

This couldn't be happening. It wasn't possible.  

“Alysanne!” Arthur's voice cut through the chaos that was her mind, his concern evident as he approached her.  

“Torrhen Square... The Glovers and the Ryswells... the Karstarks! Lord Flint!” Alysanne's words spilled out in a rush, her mind already racing ahead to the unfolding disaster.  

“Alysanne, what's happened?” Arthur's voice was steady, grounding her in the present.  

“Moat Cailin! Winterfell. I should never have entrusted that Glover as Castellan!” Alysanne's words were frantic, her thoughts already flying northward.  

“Alysanne,” Arthur's voice was firm but gentle as he tried to reach her, but her mind was already set on the path ahead.  

“We must go for Barrowton! With haste!”  

Chapter Text

Chapter 14 – Catelyn II  

Catelyn felt a pang in her heart as she read her brother’s letter and telling her how he refused to intercede with His Grace on her behalf. It saddened her deeply to know that her father, Lord Hoster, lay sick, for he was a strong and noble lord who would never stand for his favored daughter to endure such disgrace in the way his son did. It seemed her brother had forgotten his duty to their family, and Catelyn lamented that she could not be by Lord Hoster's bedside in his final days. She reached out to Lysa, her sister, but even she seemed to have forsaken their familial obligations to House Tully.  

However, Petyr offered her a glimmer of hope, promising her the support of his troops. While the North appeared impenetrable from the outside, with sudden internal dynamics working in her favor, it made an entirely different matter. Catelyn spent each day since bastard departure for the South meticulously laying the groundwork for her plan.  

In this endeavor, Lord Ryswell proved to be her most steadfast ally, with only Petyr coming ahead. He demonstrated his loyalty when his machinations secured the allegiance of Arnolf Karstark and his children. Catelyn knew such alliances came at a price. Alys Karstark would be betrothed to Cregan Karstark's eldest son, thereby securing their claim to Karhold. Meanwhile, Cregan Karstark, twice widowed, would marry Lady Barbrey Dustin, as per an agreement brokered by her father. This arrangement would ensure that the Dowager of Barrowton and her daughter would be under their influence, preventing any further scheming.  

Catelyn had entertained thoughts of banishing the spiteful Lady Barbrey to a secluded motherhouse to wither away in her bitterness, but Lord Ryswell vetoed the idea.  

Furthermore, Lord Ryswell successfully negotiated an agreement with Lord Flint, who harbored a deep dislike for the bastard, to lend his forces in taking Barrowton.  

Their plan, though seemingly straightforward, required the eventually cooperation of Lord Manderly and Lord Bolton, whomever they were.  

Catelyn knew that she must compel both lords to comply for their scheme to succeed. Petyr had his own ideas for how to accomplish it, but she wasn’t entirely sure.  

"I shall leave you for the night," her new husband said, rolling off her. Catelyn nodded and dutifully wished him a good eve, though her thoughts were consumed by her beloved Ned.  

Once her husband had departed, Catelyn wasted no time in dressing herself in furs and velvets before leaving her chambers in search of her children. She wrinkled her nose in disapproval upon finding them sleeping in the bastard's bed. This had to end.  

"We must speak," Catelyn declared in a crisp tone, rousing her children, who were feigning sleep.  

Arya, now the self-appointed leader of their small group since the bastard's departure, rose from the bed and positioned herself protectively in front of her siblings, arms crossed and wearing a scowl—an uncharacteristic display for a lady girl of her birth. Catelyn feared the influence the bastard might have had on her daughter, turning her into an untamed, undesirable woman before she could intervene.  

"Where is Bethany? And Aunt Barbrey?" demanded Arya.  

Arya had become little more than a feral creature since Catelyn's remarriage, and even Bran, her gentle son, seemed to be growing distant. He, who had once been so warm and supportive of his mother's pursuit of happiness until she could reunite with Ned.  

"Lady Ryswell has returned to Barrowton with Bethany to handle some brigands. She will remain there, and a new septa will be appointed as your governess."  

"No!" Arya protested vehemently, turning to Bran. "She's lying, Bran. Alysanne promised us. You know she did."  

Ignoring her unruly daughter's outburst, Catelyn approached the bed. She was relieved that, before things turned sour, she had convinced the children to cage their wolves. The wolves seemed to grow more resentful of her with each passing day.  

"A new septa will be arriving to teach you how to behave like proper ladies, Arya. Your conduct has been unacceptable. Soon you'll be married, and your future husband will expect a refined young lady, not a wild creature."  

"Arya isn't marrying!" Bran interjected from his seat. "Alysanne promised we'd be together for years to come, and she won't let anyone tear us apart."  

"You shouldn't listen to a liar, Bran," Catelyn asserted firmly before softening her tone. "I apologize that your half-sister has revealed herself as the scheming and conniving woman bastards often turn out to be. But I am here now to guide you, my children. I will secure you fine matches, perhaps with Lord Flint's heir or, if the Greatjon can be persuaded, with his heir."  

"They are older than Alysanne!" Bran, her astute son, protested. "Lord Flint's son has been married twice! He's nearly your age, Mother!"  

"Arya requires guidance, Bran," Catelyn replied gently. "Don't you wish for your sister to find happiness in marriage and motherhood?"  

"Stop!" Arya erupted, hurling a book in Catelyn's direction. Only her swift reflexes prevented it from striking her head. "I hate you!"  

"You're mean," Rickon chimed in from the bed. "I want Aly."  

Catelyn's patience waned, her frustration simmering. "Enough!" she commanded. "This behavior is unacceptable. You will show respect to your mother. Why must you hurt me so much? Your father would be ashamed to see you speak to me in such ways."  

Arya scowled defiantly, but Bran's expression softened with a hint of remorse. "I'm sorry, Mother," he murmured, casting a glance at his sister.  

Arya remained stubbornly silent, her arms folded tightly across her chest and Rickon seemed to want to follow her lead.  

Catelyn's disappointment deepened, but she knew pressing further would only exacerbate the tension. "I will not tolerate such disrespect again. Tomorrow you shall welcome the new Septa Arya and stop any other lessons you have been taking. And you will return to your rooms," she warned sternly before turning to leave the chamber, her steps heavy with frustration and hurt..  

.  

.  

“You can be sure, my lady, that I will keep the castle safe from any possible harm from the outside,” Master Glover told her.  

“You shall not open the gates to Lord Bolton nor his sons. I hope that the briganges keep them away until we have the North under control.”  

“My lady,” Master Glover, the Steward of Winterfell, spoke in a careful tone. “What about Lord Manderly?”  

“He shall stay under careful watch. I mean to approach him with a marriage between his youngest granddaughter and Bran. Once I have the regency secure, he will turn on Alysanne for that reason alone. But I cannot be sure of his loyalties for now. And if he were to know about the troubles in the Hornwood and Bolton lands.”  

"What about this bastard who has been wreaking havoc? My lady, publicly accused this Ramsay boy of colluding with Lady Alysanne, but I struggle to believe such claims. I have my doubts about Lady Alysanne, but she would never agree with such chaos.  

“Ser Rodrik will no doubt get to the truth of it," Catelyn assured him confidently . “I have sent word to Lord Umber, hoping he too can help us against these broken men.”  

And by doing so, Catelyn would strip Alysanne of much of her support. Before Ser Rodrik or the Greatjon could intervene, Alysanne would be stripped of her title.  

Petyr's cunning plan had been executed flawlessly, with men dispatched through Weeping Waters to support the bandits in Hornwood and Bolton lands. With Lady Lynessa confined to Winterfell in her final months of pregnancy, Widow's Watch would inform Winterfell of the ships crossing their borders to before taking action, playing right into Catelyn's hands.  

Lysa was right. Petyr was very clever.  

.  

.  

"I am being kidnapped!" Arya's voice pierced the air, drawing the attention of onlookers, and Catelyn fought the impulse to silence her with a slap.  

"You are not being kidnapped, you foolish girl. You are coming with me to Tallhart," Catelyn snapped, her patience wearing thin.  

"You betrayed us!" Arya's accusation rang out as they approached the looming walls of the castle. "You are not my mother!"  

Catelyn's heart clenched at Arya's words, but she knew she had to stay resolute. She would forever regret the slap she had administered to her daughter in her heartbreak, who met her gaze with cold, tear-filled eyes. Taking a deep breath, Catelyn turned to her precious son, Bran. He had protested vehemently upon learning of their departure for their own safety, unable to speak with Lord Manderly or take their wolves. But once Arya had exposed Catelyn's plans—how she had discovered them, Catelyn couldn't fathom—Bran had grown silent, compliant, but unnervingly so. He spoke only to Arya, uttering a few words in a subdued murmur that Catelyn could barely comprehend.  

"My lady," a tall, rugged man with a distinct Northern appearance called out, surprising Catelyn as he opened the gates for them, not Lord Cerwyn. "I am Harrion Cerwyn, heir to Cerwyn."  

Robart Cerwyn's son, Catelyn deduced quickly—a cousin of the late Lord Cerwyn, who had perished in Robert's Rebellion.  

"Lady Jonelle is the rightful heir and regent," Catelyn stated, attempting to conceal her confusion.  

Harrion's cold gaze softened, tinged with a hint of sadness. "Have you not heard, my lady? Lord Cley fell in battle at Torrhen's Square."  

"In battle?" Catelyn's stomach tightened with dread. "What battle?"  

"When news reached us of the turmoil in the northeast and reports of troop movements near the Rings and Flint's Fingers, Lady Barbrey wasted no time in sending out word," Harrion continued. "Tallhart attempted to lend assistance, but they encountered Lord Ryswell's forces, and to Lady Barbrey's dismay, Lord Stout's as well. They suffered heavy losses. Lord Cley Cerwyn, Leobald, and Benfred Tallhart, along with many of their men, have all perished."  

Bran gasped, gripping Arya's hand tightly, while Catelyn called for the septa to attend to her children.  

"Perhaps it would be best to discuss this matter indoors, my lady. No doubt you'll want to freshen up before departing for Barrowton," Harrion suggested, a knowing glint in his eyes.  

"And what of Lady Jonelle Cerwyn?" Catelyn inquired.  

"Jonelle remains secluded in her chambers, consumed by grief. I fear for her well-being. I trust you understand, my lady. Rest assured, I will ensure your comfort and safety," Harrion assured her.  

Catelyn nodded in acknowledgment. She knew that Jonelle Cerwyn was one of Alysanne's closest confidantes. It was likely that in addition to mourning her brother's loss, she was being kept isolated by her ambitious cousin.  

.  

.  

Barbrey Ryswell stood tall and unyielding despite being flanked by two guards. Her gaze, sharp as steel, bore into Catelyn with undisguised hostility, her young daughter clinging to her skirts.  

"I will relish the day you meet your end in the depths of hell, Catelyn," Barbrey spat, her words dripping with venom.  

"This castle is not yours to claim, Lady Barbrey," Catelyn retorted, her confidence unwavering. She had always harbored a deep disdain for the woman before her, and now she reveled in the prospect of witnessing Barbrey's proud facade crumble. "It rightfully belongs to the Dustins."  

"My mother was a Dustin—Arsa Dustin, daughter of Lord Rickard Dustin and Lady Alysanne Stark. After William's demise, it was my family who held the rightful claim to these lands, Lady Catelyn. Your own husband acknowledged it when he reached an agreement with my treacherous father. I was to inherit these lands and bear children with Benjen," Barbrey declared, holding her daughter close. "Would you care to read the agreement since you seem to have forgotten?"  

"Lord Roderick Dustin has proven his loyalty and bears his family name," Catelyn countered.  

"To you, perhaps, but not to the North," Barbrey shot back. "That traitorous bastard will receive his just punishment as well, mark my words."  

"You have lost, my lady," Catelyn replied with graceful courtesy, then turned her gaze to the trembling young girl at Barbrey's side. "You have no reason to fear me, Bethany. You are kin to my children, a Stark by blood. I know you've been told otherwise, but that is your true heritage. However, rest assured, I understand this castle is your home, and Lord Roderick is without a wife."  

"You vile woman!" Barbrey seethed. "Roderick is four-and-thirty!"  

"Mind your tongue, Lady Barbrey," Catelyn admonished her sharply. "You are still a lady despite your conduct. Speak accordingly. Your father wishes for your return home. You are still a handsome woman, and there are many in the North who have been widowed and would welcome a caring companion in their twilight years."  

And a man who would not be swayed by the likes of you , Catelyn thought.  

"Mama, am I to marry an old man?" the girl piped up, her voice softer than Arya's ever was.  

"Of course not, my dear," Barbrey reassured her daughter. "I made you a promise, remember?"  

The little girl nodded, her trust in her mother unshaken.  

"Ser Gryff," Catelyn called out, beckoning the tall, blond man forward. Gryff Whitehill, youngest son of Lord Ludd of Highpoint, had pledged his service to Catelyn, likely expecting a handsome reward for his loyalty. "Please escort Lady Bethany to her grandfather."  

Barbrey made a move to intervene, but the two guards swiftly seized her arms, preventing her from interfering. Meanwhile, the young girl began to cry out for her mother, her desperate pleas echoing through the room as Barbrey stared icily at Catelyn. It struck Catelyn as odd—she had half-expected Barbrey to protest vehemently. Perhaps this cold woman cared little for her daughter after all.  

"Beth," Barbrey's voice was low but devoid of softness, evoking in Catelyn the image of a predator ready to strike. A foolish thought, Catelyn knew—Barbrey was restrained and without allies. Nevertheless, the crying girl turned to her mother, seeking reassurance. "You must be brave, as I know you are. Your grandfather will keep you safe. And soon, I will return to your side."  

The little girl lifted her chin defiantly, a gesture that reminded Catelyn of Arya and the bastard. "Do you promise, Mama?"  

"I promise by the Old Gods," Barbrey vowed solemnly.  

As mother and daughter departed, Catelyn knew Lord Ryswell had been correct. Once they had taken Bethany, Barbrey's pride would crumble, and she would fall in line.  

.  

.  

The bastard entered the courtyard with a defiant posture, seemingly impervious to the disdainful glances and very few muttered curses.  

Catelyn noted with resentment their lack of hospitality, a sentiment she suspected had been fostered by Barbrey Ryswell's influence over the years. But they were protected within the castle walls.  

As the bastard drew nearer, Catelyn seethed at the absence of guilt, decorum, or even fear in her gaze—only pity, a sentiment that stoked the flames of Catelyn's fury. She allowed Lord Ryswell to take the lead, knowing he would serve as her staunch ally in the regency to come.  

"You are to sign a document relinquishing your regency, my lady," Lord Ryswell declared, his voice firm and unwavering. "It is evident that your rule has been fraught with incompetence and mismanagement. You have surrounded yourself with false friends, and proven yourself to be one as well, listening to the counsel of those who seek to sow discord and chaos. The regency shall be entrusted to hands more deserving and capable, individuals who have been born and raised for such responsibilities. Subsequently, we shall dispatch the documents detailing your admission of misrule to His Grace, King Robert, along with the esteemed individuals who have helped remove you from power."  

Throughout Lord Ryswell's speech, the bastard's cold expression remained unchanged as she fixed her gaze on Catelyn. It was only when Lord Ryswell concluded his enumeration of their allies that she spoke, her words directed solely at Catelyn.  

"You have plunged the North into internal strife, my lady," she accused, her voice cutting through the tense silence. "You have aligned yourself with treacherous men, traitors, and schemers who seek to manipulate your son as a puppet. You have deprived my kin of their rightful positions and ordered the deaths of loyal men. I will hold you accountable for these crimes. You entrusted the Keys of Winterfell to a traitor and abducted Lord Eddard Stark's children. For these transgressions, you shall face justice. And as for those who supported you—Lord Rodrik Ryswell and his sons, Lord Flint and his, Master Galbart Glover, the so-called Lord of Cerwyn, the Karstarks whose loyalty proved fleeting—they shall all face Northern Justice. Any Southern backers of your treachery will feel the might of the North as well."  

Catelyn fixed the girl with a steely gaze. "Your deceitful words hold no weight now. It is the misguided affection my husband held for you, the same misguided affection my children harbor, that will determine your fate with the Faith. Your conduct will dictate whether you are to be sent to a motherhouse or the Silent Sisters."  

Catelyn could sense the murmurs rippling through the crowd. Even Lord Flint cast her a disapproving glance. They had all opposed her plan. It was common knowledge that Alysanne's ws a loyal flowerer the Old Gods, disregarding the Faith of the Seven entirely. Many had argued that the North would not take kindly to one of their own, a woman of Stark lineage, being coerced into serving the Faith.  

Yet Catelyn was resolute in her duty. Alysanne required correction, a purging of the sins that tainted her blood, and only service to the Seven could achieve that.  

Alysanne's soft laughter sent a shiver down Catelyn's spine. "I may be persuaded to consider a compromise, my lords," she announced, her gaze sweeping across the courtyard. Catelyn noticed how many averted their eyes. "We could convene a Northern Council. Each of you could air your grievances, how you were swayed by your loyalty to the Stark name and perhaps believe that Lady Catelyn, as the Dowager of Winterfell, would better serve the interests of Winterfell and the North. But this," she practically spat the word, "forcing a daughter of the North, a follower of the Old Gods, into the service of a Faith that views us as uncivilized savages? Lord Stark erected a Sept for Lady Tully out of love—what justification have you, my lords?" Her challenge rang out, each word piercing the air like a sharp blade as she fixed her gaze on every Northern lord in turn. They all looked away, and for a moment, Catelyn felt a flicker of doubt.  

She is alone, Catelyn assured herself. But then she realized—where was Ghost? Where was Dayne?  

"My lady, we can assure you—"  

"Silence, Lord Flint," Alysanne interrupted icily. "I will not sign any document of yours. You will have to torture me to make me do so. And I doubt you will succeed in dragging me to the Sept and forcing vows from my lips."  

Some began to voice their protest, but Catelyn realized with a sinking feeling that it was not against the bastard, but against them.  

"We must remain calm. Perhaps we should summon Lord Stark here. He can persuade his sister that our intentions align with his own," Lord Flint suggested, attempting to restore order amidst the escalating tension.  

"And where are they? Lord Eddard Stark's children?" Alysanne's voice cut through the murmurs like a blade, her words laden with accusation. "The children whose cries echoed throughout the North as you dragged them from their home? And Rickon? My baby brother would never willingly leave Arya and Bran. They are a pack. We are a pack."  

The murmuring grew louder, fueled by the bastard's poisonous rhetoric.  

"They are inside the castle. Bran did not need to witness this," Lord Flint replied.  

"He is not inside," a voice called out from the castle. "They have escaped. Their guards have been slain," Gryff Whitehill's voice carried over the courtyard.  

"Escaped? Guards slain?" A wave of disbelief swept through the crowd. " Are Lord Eddard Stark’s children nothing more than mere hostages? It does not surprise me. How did you take this castle, Lady Tully? Barbrey wouldn’t yield without someone threating her daughter. Her half-blooded Stark," the bastard continued, and Catelyn realized whispers were spreading, suggesting Lady Barbrey had been imprisoned and Lady Bethany torn from her mother's embrace.  

"Where are the children?" someone demanded.  

"Where is our little lady?" another voice cried out.  

Alysanne raised her hand, silencing the tumultuous crowd. "You have chosen to rule according to your own desires, Lady Tully, despite your many years in the North. But you are not of Stark blood," the bastard spoke with ruthless candor, eliciting a surge of anger within Catelyn. "I highly doubt that Lord Brandon Stark would endorse such a document. You are banking on my compliance, hoping that I will yield first, and that Bran will follow suit. I will not."  

"You are the conniving and ambitious one," Catelyn retorted in anger. "Proof that we should never raise bastards alongside trueborn children, lest they too become poisoned by your influence."  

"You never understood the North, Lady Tully," the bastard spoke with icy finality, her words ringing out across the courtyard. "I am relieved that my siblings will no longer be tainted by the Southern ways. They shall be raised as their father and forefathers were—like wolves, not trout. And where are the direwolves? My siblings would never part from them. I have seen enough to know that you are all traitors to House Stark, and I will not negotiate with such individuals."  

Catelyn's anxiety surged as the bastard's words pierced through her. Where were her children? Barbrey knew the castle's layout intimately, yet they had confined her to house arrest. And Dayne—where was Dayne? How had they captured the ship without encountering any resistance aside from Alysanne?  

A sudden realization struck Catelyn—Alysanne had allowed herself to be taken without a fight. But the ship... the ship was still docked at the harbor.  

"Throw her in a cell," Catelyn ordered, her voice ringing out over the chaos. The men moved to comply, but she could hear the clamor of dissent rising around her.  

"My lady," her goodfather began to approach her.  

"Dayne is missing! We are not safe," she exclaimed, her fear palpable. Then, raising her voice, she issued a command: "Close all the gates. Lock that bastard away in a dark cell, and find my children!"  

Chapter Text

Chapter 15 – Arthur III  

Arthur wondered who had written the Kingsguard vows and why he continued to fail in fulfilling them. He prayed to the Gods that witnessing Catelyn Tully order Alysanne to be thrown into a cell, while he restrained a screaming Arya Stark, his hands pressing against her mouth to silence it, would be the worst moment of his life. Arya's silent screams and kicks were seared into his memory.  

Arya had screamed, and so had Rickon against Hallis. But Bran's reaction had been the hardest to bear. He had been in Alysane Mormont’s husband's arms, silent and tearless, his eyes fixed on his mother with an utterly broken expression.  

“How could you!” Arya shouted at Arthur as they made camp far away from Barrowtown. Hallis Mollen held her back from attacking him, and while Nymeria watched with a sharp, alert gaze, the direwolf did not move from her place in the pack. “You left Aly behind! You said you were her knight! You left her there! You betrayed her!”  

“Lady Arya,” Hallis began, but Arthur shook his head, stepping towards her with open arms.  

“I hate you. I will never forgive you if they hurt Aly,” Arya whispered into his chest as she cried. Arthur felt his own tears threaten to fall, but he held them back. He would allow himself to cry later, when the children were asleep. He glanced at a tearful Rickon and a heartbroken Bran, giving them a small smile that drew them into his embrace as well.  

Arthur tried his best to hug all three children. “Aly knew the risks, my wolves. She had a plan before she even left her ship, I promise you. She just needed to keep you all safe,” he assured them, making sure to look each child in the eye. Even Myrcella, who was valiantly trying not to cry, and Bethany, who had small, silent tears whenever he glanced her way.  

They are children, Arthur thought. They did not deserve to see this.  

“Alysanne’s actions were not in vain, little ones. With your safety secured, we can take back Winterfell and order Aly’s release,” Arthur said firmly. “I know you will all be brave in these moments.”  

“A person is only brave when she is afraid,” Arya whispered tearfully.  

All the children nodded. Even Myrcella seemed to know the saying, likely something Alysanne had told her.  

“We will be brave,” little Bethany said. “For Aly and Mama.”  

“And the North,” Bran whispered, showing the great lord he would grow up to be. “But how? We are alone.”  

“Lord Reed is using the distraction to take back Torrhen’s Square with the help of the Mormonts and the men of the Wolfswood.”  

“But the Glovers?”  

“They forgot who they were dealing with,” Arthur told them. “Remember Lady Sybelle?”  

“Ser Robett’s wife,” Bran said.  

“Do you remember what she is to you?” Arthur asked.  

“She is a cousin, isn’t she?” Arya said, surprising Arthur. “Through Great-grandmother Marna.”  

“Yes, she is. And House Locke is loyal. She sent her children to Bear Isle and intends to take control of whatever forces remain in her husband’s lands, sending anyone who wishes to fight to Torrhen's Square.”  

“So, we are going there?” Bran asked.  

Arthur nodded. “As soon as Lord Reed sends his children to us. We will know it is safe.”  

“Then we’ll go to Barrowtown and free Aly?” Arya asked.  

Arthur gave them a sad smile. “No,” he whispered, pushing down all his fears. “We will go to Winterfell. The Greatjon and whatever forces wish to join him will lay siege to Winterfell from the north, while we take it from the south.”  

“What about Aly?” Arya pressed. Behind her, Myrcella’s eyes shone with worry.  

“We can’t leave Aly behind,” Bran proclaimed.  

“Lord Reed, Lord Locke, and Lord Mallister will ensure Barrowtown is under siege, and once Winterfell falls, they will realize their cause is lost.”  

“Lord Mallister?” Bran asked, shocked. “From the Riverlands?”  

“Yes. Aly contacted him. Lucas Blackwood and Olyvar Frey were sent there to gather forces and inform them of the plan. I wouldn’t be surprised if more Riverlander houses join.”  

He hoped not. Jason Mallister needed to act swiftly; there wasn’t time to gather the most powerful vassals. If they did, it meant Aly would spend far too much time in a cell.  

“I want to know every detail,” Bran said.  

.  

.  

They arrived at Torrhen's Square to find that Ned Woods had led the men of the Wolfswood to the outskirts of the castle and was ready to heed Arthur’s command.  

Arthur was surprised by how easily everyone deferred to him. It was such a stark contrast to the distrust and hateful looks he had received during the first years of his exile.  

“Ser Arthur,” Hallis called, “we have visitors.”  

Arthur nodded for the visitor to enter. He looked at Eddara Tallhart, the new lady of Torrhen's Square, and wanted to shake Catelyn Tully. For their loyalty, Leobald and the young Lord Benfred had died. Leobald had been the castellan for his nephew while his wife was away ruling Hornwood. The new lady was just ten.  

Arthur composed himself as he watched the tall, slim man enter the room. The visitor wore simple travel clothes, and his large, crooked nose and brown hair and eyes gave away little about his identity. The woman beside him had the strong features of a northern lady but was dressed no differently than a peasant.  

“I’m Arnolf Ashwood,” the man said, removing his hood, “and this is my wife, Lady—”  

“Aunt Clarissa!” young Eddara exclaimed, running towards the woman who welcomed her with open arms. The two women whispered to each other.  

Arthur nodded at the man, allowing the kinswomen a moment to reconnect. “As I was saying, my wife is Clarissa Tallhart, a cousin of Master Helman. We were sent by Lord Bolton,” Arnolf said, looking at his wife and the girl still clinging to her travel-weary clothes with a soft gaze. “They sent us, no doubt hoping my wife would be recognized.”  

“You are Lord Hallis Ashwood’s brother,” Arthur realized. He had fought alongside Hallis, and now, looking at his younger brother, he could see the resemblance.  

“Yes, ser,” Arnolf said. “We came to give you news.”  

Arthur leaned forward, signaling his interest. “What news do you bring?”  

“How is Lord Bolton? We’ve had no word of him since all this began,” Arthur asked, his voice edged with concern. Roose Bolton was a cunning man, but Alysanne had been confident they could trust him. Arthur hoped she was right.  

Arnolf took a deep breath. “Lord Domeric Bolton is faring well, considering everything,” Arnolf replied, prompting gasps around the room. The assembled woodsmen leaders, the Starks, the young Tallhart, and the Reeds all leaned in closer.  

“What happened to Lord Bolton?” Bran asked, his tone shocked.  

“He was murdered by his bastard son. Domeric barely escaped with his life. He found refuge in Sheepshead Hill and joined my brother and Lord Locke. They sent me to inform you that Hornwood and the Dreadfort are under control and await orders from the Dreadfort.”  

Bran looked hopefully towards Arthur, who scrutinized the men. “Do you have proof of this?”  

Arnolf gave a wry smile. “Lord Bolton anticipated your response0. He gave me a letter, assuring it contained things that would prove my words. I have not opened it.”  

Arthur nodded, and Arnolf approached with the letter. The pink seal of the Dreadfort was unbroken, and Arthur’s years of experience confirmed its authenticity. As he opened the letter, he immediately recognized it was Domeric’s words.  

There were four people in the North who spoke High Valyrian. That Maester Luwin, Alysanne, and Arthur did was no surprise, but Domeric had learned it to impress Alysanne, who loved the language, and never told anyone but them.  

“I want to know,” Bran whispered, frowning at the letter. Beside him, Bethany nodded, and Arya leaned so close to the paper that Arthur had trouble reading it.  

Arthur looked around the room and nodded to Lord Reed.  

“Why don’t we leave Lord Stark and his kin,” the crannogman suggested. “We shall find accommodations for you all.”  

Once they were alone, Arthur began to read the letter, slowly translating it for the children.  

Ser Arthur,  

I doubt you have heard the news of my father. It appears he fathered a son in ways that, while disturbing, should not truly surprise me even if they did. My brother, Ramsay, unfortunately took the cruelty of his birth and amplified it. When word of Lady Catelyn’s coup spread, Ramsay was the first to put his sword to work. He captured me and my father, no doubt informed of our travel plans by the lady herself.  

He killed my father because he couldn’t get to me. I barely escaped, and I will forever be thankful for the horseriding competitions with Aly and Harwin.  

That you can confirm with Arnolf. We sent him because he would blend in better, and his wife was desperate for news of her kin. Also, Arnolf is not much of a warrior.  

When we reached Hornwood, Lady Berena Hornwood was holding out under siege. She had no news of her kin nor her husband passing until we arrived. Given the similarity in army numbers, even if ours were lower, or perhaps because the Karstarks are cowards as well as traitors, they abandoned us. Hornwood is safe, and so is the Dreadfort. I write to you from there.  

The Greatjon is arriving in two days. With him rides Alys Karstark at the behest of her brother. I never believed he would betray Alysanne, despite the losses he suffered. His uncles took advantage of Harrion's weakness; we both knew he was never the same after the war, body in body and soul. Alys said he was better now, but he has to recover. Still, he would ensure his house did not fail in their duties and entrusted his sister with the men he managed to gather. They are not a quarter of what his uncles took to Winterfell.  

You know the Greatjon's numbers well. Smalljon went to the Mountain clans, who are more than willing to fight for the Starks. He will join through the Wolfswood. The Greatjon will command this side with his men and Alys.  

You once told me, not long ago, when I planned to marry Alysanne in secret, that you would hit me in the head. You said Alysanne would fear a secret marriage, and while her mother would approve of me three times over—after demanding a horseriding competition, which I would likely not win—Alysanne’s father would ensure I was the best candidate for his fiery wolf. We both know what you meant, and I never told anyone this story. I believe my words were, “I would die for her, no matter her name.”  

I will leave the Dreadfort in two days in my army, but not for Winterfell—for the south towards the Barrowlands. You have all the numbers you need, Ser Arthur. I will see Alysanne free with my own eyes.  

Domeric  

Arthur finished reading the letter aloud, his voice steady.  

“Domeric should have married Aly,” Arya said as soon as Arthur finished reading the letter.  

“What did he mean?” Bran asked, curiosity in his eyes. “Lord Bolton said that ‘we both know what you meant’. What did he mean by that?”  

“And since when is Lady Ashara such a horserider? Domeric is as good as Aly and Harwin,” Arya added.  

Arthur looked at the children, these youths who had gone through so much, forced to grow up so fast. He hoped Alysanne would forgive him for telling them without her presence.  

“What I am about to tell you, and Lord Reed—he should be here too—cannot, ever be said anywhere unless you know absolutely that no one is listening to you. People could die,” he stressed. “Alysanne will die if you say it.”  

The three children nodded solemnly.  

.  

.  

Bran held his reins firmly as they left the now freed Cerwyn Castle. All the loyal lords rode behind him, but he stood tall, flanked by Arya and Bethany on either side. Arthur couldn’t have been prouder of Bran’s strength as he gazed upon Master Glover, Roger Ryswell, Lady Catelyn, and their entourage.  

“Winterfell is mine by right,” Bran declared before his mother could even speak. “Everyone knows me to be the son of Lord Eddard Stark, and from him, I learned a great deal. I also learned from my sister, whom many in the North seek to hurt. Lady Catelyn Tully taught me that half of my roots are in the words ‘Family, Duty, Honor.’ I have followed those unlike the woman who grew up saying them. Alysanne shall return to her place as Regent. Those who open the doors of Winterfell to me without trouble shall be pardoned or offered a place at the Wall, depending on their previous crimes.”  

Arthur could not see Bran’s face, but he noticed the growing paleness in Lady Catelyn’s expression.  

“Bran, as your mother—”  

“You are not my mother,” Bran interrupted in a tone that belied his years. “My mother would not have done what you did. From this day forward, I exile you from the North under the pain of what all exiles shall suffer when breaking it,” Bran said, his voice shaking slightly, a testament to the burden of the sentence. “If you wish for true forgiveness, Lady Catelyn, take the septa vows you wished to force on a follower of the Old Gods. Perhaps you can find redemption there. You can all go now; I won’t listen to traitors.”  

Lady Catelyn’s face turned ashen, her eyes wide with disbelief and sorrow. She opened her mouth to speak but found no words. Those around her exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared to challenge Bran’s authority.  

“Arya —”  

“The Lord of Winterfell, my brother, spoke,” Arya’s voice was even colder than Bran's. “Sansa once told me she asked you if there had been no mistakes and her real sister had been stolen by some grumpkins. She said you laughed. Then she told me it had to be true because no one would lie about having a daughter like me.”  

Oh Arya, Arthur thought. He wanted to hug that poor girl.  

“Well, consider me mothered by a direwolf from this moment on.”  

“Lady Catelyn,” Arthur spoke up, his voice calm but firm, “it is time for you to leave.”  

Catelyn’s fury was visible, but her husband whispered something to her that made her nod. She turned her horse and rode away, her entourage following her. Finally, Arthur could see the children’s faces.  

Arya’s gaze was unwavering, her expression so alike Alysanne's. Bethany mirrored Arya’s determination. But Bran seemed unable to turn towards them. Myrcella rode her horse towards him and whispered something in his ear that finally made him turn. He held onto Myrcella’s hand with a shaky smile. No one commented on the tear that fell from his eye.  

Arthur placed a reassuring hand on Bran's shoulder. “You made the North, your father, and Alysanne proud, Bran.”  

Bran nodded. “Thank you, Uncle Arthur.”  

.  

.  

Arthur was not surprised when a shaken Lord Manderly stood behind as the gates of Winterfell fell. It had not been the traitors who had the chance to talk and come to a decision, but the people of Winterfell themselves who freed the castle and released the prisoners.  

Bran made sure to shake hands with each of them.  

Arthur was not surprised when a shaken Lord Manderly hoped the Winterfell gates. It had not been the traitors who got the time to talk and come to a decision, but the people of Winterfell itself that freed the castle and released the prisoners.  

Bran made sure to shake hands with each of them.  

But as he did, Lord Manderly whispered.

"Lady Catelyn left as soon as she returned from your parley. Someone from the South came for her."

Chapter Text

Chapter 16 – Alysanne VI

Alysanne surveyed the scene from her bird's-eye view. The banners were unmistakable: the bronze crossed keys on a white pale over purple for House Locke, the black lizard-lion on grey-green for House Reed and all his bannermen, and the white knife on a blue pile over white for House Burley. She also saw the per pale white and green, a fir tree line between, with three brown pinecones on the white for House Liddle. To her surprise, Domeric was leading the council meetings outside the besieged city, clad in black ringmail and the pink cloak of House Bolton. His eyes often sought the town walls.

From the Riverlands, she was pleased to see the silver eagle on indigo of House Mallister proudly displayed amidst all the Northern bannermen. But it wasn't just House Mallister; she spotted Lucas Blackwood with Blackwood men, the pink maiden of House Piper, and the green weeping willow of House Ryger.

They actually came, Alysanne thought.

.

.

The darkness had once terrified Alysanne. As a child, it whispered to her of terrible things to come. But now, it had become her comfort. They thought they could break her spirit by confining her to the darkest cell in Barrowton. Little did they know, the darkness only enhanced her warging powers. Most of her waking hours were spent seeing through the eyes of Ghost or birds. When she slept, which was often, she saw Bloodraven. He always had much to tell her.

Her old uncle had far too many opinions about her actions or inactions.

But her time away from the dark cell allowed her to see how utterly doomed her captors were. Winterfell and the North remained loyal to House Stark. And in King’s Landing, according to a letter Lord Flint had received from his allies, Robert Baratheon was furious that the North had turned on her. Worse, Stannis Baratheon was ready to send Ser Davos and Ser Justin Massey north to hang the traitors.

“We surrender, then what?” Rickard Ryswell, the coward, shouted at the Lord of Flint's Finger. “We die!”

“Perhaps His Grace will be merciful,” Cregan Karstark spoke calmly. Alysanne wondered if Aunt Babrey would be the one to kill the traitor. “He has been many times before.”

“But that black bastard won’t be,” Lord Flint said. “You heard what she said to us. We will all hang for this. She has the status of both Warden of the North and Protector of the Peace to put us all to the sword, and I doubt Robert Baratheon will do anything but wash his hands of it.”

“The Tully woman will send men from the Vale,” Ryswell defended. “What was the point of my brother marrying the trout if she does not lift a finger to help?”

“She ran away!” Lord Flint shouted.

“What did you expect of a woman?” Cregan scoffed. “They are all useless and cowards at heart.”

“We can take the Black,” Lord Flint said. “It would allow us to keep our lives.”

Karstark scoffed again, “Do you plan to fly to Castle Black? How do you plan to escape the siege with your life?”

“Then we kill the bitch,” Ryswell said, his tone dark.

“Are you out of your mind?” Old Flint shouted. “You kill Alysanne Snow and Domeric Bolton will skin us alive! I’d rather die by the sword than be tortured to death!”

“Then we die by the sword,” Cregan Karstark said. “No doubt the men will be willing to fight for us, and we can take as many of those outside these walls as possible.”

Alysanne opened her eyes to the darkness. They were truly idiots, she thought. They had sent most of their forces to Winterfell, leaving Barrowton poorly defended. Barrowton had been loyal to Lady Dustin and Bethany, not them. The loyalty of the people within these walls was fragile at best, ready to crumble at the first sign of true leadership

A image of a man in pink cloak and cold eyes flashed in her mind.

Her captors were deluding themselves with talk of mercy and surrender, hoping to face her rather than Domeric . She smiled grimly in the darkness. She was the deadly prey. Not Domeric.

.

.

Alysanne woke to the muted sounds of death and struggle. The noises were faint, but enough for her to guess that her guard had just been killed. Her suspicion was confirmed when the door of her cell creaked open, and the flickering light of a candle pierced the darkness. The warm glow revealed a man with golden hair and a cat-like grin, holding the candle aloft.

“They were that scared of you?” Jaime Lannister asked, his voice dripping with irony as he pointed to the heavy chains that bound her arms and feet to the cold stone wall.

“If they weren’t,” she replied, her voice raspy from disuse, “they are about to be.”

Jaime's grin widened, and the candlelight cast dancing shadows across his features.

Her time in the cell had not broken her spirit; it had only sharpened her resolve.

She was about to show them what happened to traitors.

.

.

Alysanne stared at the three dozen men kneeling before her and the guards. She stood proud, forcing herself not to squint despite the painful glare of sunlight after weeks in darkness. It wasn't just physical darkness she sensed looking at these men; it was the darkness of their treachery and despair.

Some knelt with their heads bowed, praying or simply broken by the certainty of death. Others begged her for mercy, their voices trembling. Lord Flint had been brave enough to spit at her, which prompted Domeric to punch him so hard with his gauntleted fist that it shattered his lips and teeth, leaving a spray of blood on the cobblestones.

As she surveyed these men, Alysanne considered the many ways they could be punished, be made examples of. Her anger threatened to cloud her judgment, but she knew she needed to remain clear-headed. The main square was filled with townsmen and soldiers, silently awaiting her verdict.

“You will all hang from the walls of the town you tried so hard to take,” she declared, her voice echoing through the square. “Your bodies shall decay and serve as food for the crows. You will be made examples of for those who dare to harm House Stark, who seek to bring war and anarchy to the North. Your names shall be expunged from history. There will be no more House Ryswell or House Flint of the Fingers. Your names shall die with you all.”

The crowd erupted into cheers as she finished her speech, cries for justice rising around her. Alysanne looked into the eyes of Lord Flint. The once-proud and scheming man was now broken, especially since they had thrown his two sons into the group of traitors. Lord Ryswell, on the other hand, remained defiant, his gaze locked on hers with a burning hatred.

“I am your grandfather,” his voice was stern and cold, his eyes fixed on the man standing beside her. “What type of weakling of a man lets his slut harm his kin?”

Domeric's voice was colder than winter itself. “What kind of man betrays his liege? His countrymen? His own daughter? I shall see life leave your eyes, Grandfather, and in the end, I shall toast to House Stark, who once again is ruling the North as they always shall!”

The crowd erupted, emboldened by Domeric's speech. Alysanne could hear the cries for judgment all around them. Soldiers struggled to keep the enraged people from approaching and lynching the condemned men.

“Your ancestors must be rolling in their graves. You could have been a Red King, you fool!” Lord Ryswell snapped, then turned to the woman by her side. “And you, my ungrateful daughter, I could have made a dynasty. A Dustin by marriage and birth. Your poor mother must be crying.”

“She is,” Barbrey said in a harsh tone. “Crying that her husband sought to rise so high that he took her sons with him. The Dustin name will live on, Lord Ryswell, as it has done for thousands of years. Yours ends today.”

“I have had enough of this,” Alysanne said, bathing in a sense of grim satisfaction. “Bring the rope!”

The crowd's fervor grew as the executioners stepped forward, ropes in hand. The air was charged with a palpable sense of anticipation and vengeance

If Flint had broken at the end, Lord Ryswell's defiant gaze never wavered, even as the noose was slipped over his head and he could see the ground from the tall wall. His eyes burned with a hatred  but Domeric stood tall beside Alysanne, his presence a cold and unyielding pillar of support. The crowd's cries for justice echoed in her ears from the ground bellow. She could feel the darkness inside her, roaring like a dragon.

.

.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. The scent of lavender and herbs filled the air, mingling with the steam rising from the hot water.

She could feel Dacey’s soft hands gently combing through her hair, soothing her as Domeric poured the hot water over her arms. Alysanne felt it all, even if her mind was elsewhere.

“I cannot decide what is to happen with the Rills, Flint’s Fingers, or any other assets they might have, without Bran. Even the Karstarks—there will have to be some discussion of this. But Bran needs to be seen as lord, not me,” she whispered into the silent room.

“Aly,” Dacey said softly, her tone comforting. “Soon you will be in Winterfell and all will be well. We can turn the page now. Just rest.”

I can never rest, she thought. She had rested. Back in the Reach, back in the West. She had not kept a close enough eye on the North. It had been her mistake.

“I cannot allow any hint of treason. Not anymore.”

“The North will be by your side,” Dacey reassured her.

“War is coming. Winter is coming. I cannot have distrust amidst the northern lords,” Alysanne said, her voice firm. She knew that Ryswell had cousins, and the Flints had them as well. The Glovers, once so loyal, now traitor, and one day when she turned North, what would the Umbers do? They, who hated the Wildlings the most?

“They respect me. But they don’t fear me,” Alysanne said. Bloodraven had told her that many times over the last weeks.

“People didn’t fear Lord Stark, Aly,” Dacey murmured. “They loved him. And they were willing to die for him and his children. That is far more powerful than fear.”

Alysanne thought about the men who would want to take the North, and not just those in the North. The South too. She was no idiot. Alysanne was very aware of who supported the coup. Who wrote to Flint and Ryswell about the happenings in King’s Landing.

“Would you all go South once more?”

Domeric gave her a knowing look. “Sword in hand, Alysanne. Just say the word.”

“There is something I want both of you to know,” she said in a heavy tone.

.

.

Alysanne could feel the tears welling in her eyes as she hugged her siblings and Bethany tightly to her.

“I miss you all, my little wolves,” she whispered to the four of them. All of Winterfell had gathered to witness the Stark family reunite once more. Alysanne had been welcomed back in glory, but amidst the cheers and embraces, her heart only yearned for her siblings and Bethany.

As she scanned the crowd for familiar golden hair, Alysanne spotted Myrcella wrapped in a tight embrace with Ser Jaime.

.

.

“You came for me,” Alysanne whispered to Domeric as they both retreated to the Godswood, seeking solace from the revelry of the feast held to celebrate the liberation of the North.

“You should never doubt it, Aly,” he replied in a soft tone, his pale eyes gazing at her lips.

“You are the Lord of the Dreadfort now,” she commented, trying hard to push her desires away.

“I could have saved him,” Domeric said softly, causing Alysanne to turn fully towards him. “My father. I could have saved him.”

Alysanne knew there was nothing she could say to ease his pain, so she simply took his hand, offering her silent support.

“He excused it, Aly. Said Jaehaerys abolished the lord's right to the first night to appease his shrewish queen. Acted like him raping women in his lands was something I should understand. So when time came, I left him behind. Does that make me a kinslayer, Alysanne?”

Alysanne glanced towards the weirwood tree and the Old Gods, then closed the distance between her and Domeric, gently cupping his pale face in her hand. His troubled eyes reflected more deeper turmoil than they should.

“No, Domeric,” she whispered his name with tenderness. “You did the right thing.”

“He told me the Umbers and the Mountain Clans still practice it,” he confessed, leaning into her touch.

“I will bring them to justice if it’s true,” Alysanne vowed, addressing both Domeric and the Gods. “It will give me an upper hand if they prove less loyal.”

She studied the troubled man before her, the man who loved her so deeply. Though her feelings for him were not as intense, she cared deeply for him. But she had made vows, and Alysanne could be many things, but she did not break vows made before the Gods.

“You are no kinslayer,” Alysanne assured him before feeling Domeric leaning forward. “Domeric,” she whispered with a broken warning. “I can’t.”

“Fuck him, Aly,” Domeric cursed, his lips almost brushing hers. “Where was he? Likely celebrating with his family over your imprisonment.”

He wasn’t, Alysanne knew Willas Tyrell had no knowledge of the plans his family had made with Catelyn Tully. But revealing this to Domeric would only complicate things further.

Stepping back, Alysanne turned towards the weirwood, but Domeric did not let their hands part.

“You are no kinslayer, Domeric. But soon, I may become a Kingslayer,” she confessed.

.

.

Bran sat in the high seat of Winterfell's Great Hall. Flanking him were the thrones of the Heir of the North and the carved seat of the former Queens of Winter, now occupied by Rickon and Alysanne respectively. Alysanne observed the reactions among the assembled lords, taking particular satisfaction in the approving nod from Lord Umber at the sight of the restored seats.

Bran's voice resonated with duty and solemnity as he proclaimed Hallis Mollen the new Lord of Withered Heath, echoing ceremonies from moons past, such as that for the now-widow Berena Hornwood. The lands of the Rills would be subdivided into their ancient lordships, with all territories directly under Winterfell's sovereignty. The Lordship of Rillwater Crossing was bestowed upon Arnolf Ashwood and Clarissa Tallhart in recognition of their services. Despite their decade-long marriage remaining childless, so it was stipulated in the decree that upon their deaths, if they were without heirs, the lands would revert to House Stark. Coldbrooke, one of the North's largest towns once held by House Ryswell, was now under Winterfell's administration.

“We will convene with the town elders and appoint a lord mayor, a bailiff, and a chamberlain,” Bran addressed the assembly. “Regarding the Lordship of the Rills itself, my dear sister Alysanne has been appointed Lady Constable of the Rills and Chief of Justice for the High Rills and Flint’s Fingers.”

Alysanne bowed respectfully to her brother. Since Bran had not granted her a lordship by decree, ceremony was unnecessary.

“As for the lordships in the Fingers,” Bran continued, projecting authority and showing not a hint of weakness, “They will be governed by constables and chamberlains appointed by myself.”

Bran's announcements prompted subdued mutterings, though it shouldn't have been surprising. Sea Dragon Point and Stony Shore were already overseen by Winterfell's appointments due to the shortage of Stark men to rule them. It was a strategic move to reward Northern loyalty to House Stark without sowing future discord.

“As for the Lordship of Blackpool,” Bran’s voice cut through the silence in the Great Hall. “Blackpool once belonged to House Locke, and no family has proven as loyal as the Lockes have been to us.”

Lady Sybelle Locke, now regent of Deepwood Motte, and her father, Donnel Locke, smiled warmly at the Lord of Winterfell.

“We have not forgotten that Lord Ondrew Locke’s own sister was my great-grandmother,” Bran continued. His gaze then turned to the young man standing before him. “Benjen Locke has shown valor in battle and steadfast loyalty. He shall take Lady Perra Slate to wife and rule as Lord of Blackpool.”

Benjen Locke knelt solemnly before the ancient Throne of Winter, pledging his fealty. As the second son of Donnel Locke, he was respected among his people. Perra Slate, a cousin of the main Slate line, had been chosen by Benjen himself, as he had refused to wed any daughter of Roger Slate and Barbara Perryn, staunch followers of the Faith of the Seven. Perryn had been sent back to her kin in disgrace, and it was likely she would soon join the Faith, with her daughters following suit. Meanwhile, Benjen's action was seen as just by those who had helped him.

“As for the Lordship of the White Knife,” Bran declared, prompting murmurs throughout the Great Hall. The recent defiance by House Wells had stirred Winterfell's discussions. These fervent religious zealots that had become House Wells, believed it their duty to cleanse the North of what they deemed barbarism. Alysanne had responded decisively, executing the men and sending the women and boys to Riverrun, where Edmure Tully assured they would be accommodated in septs and motherhouses, or sent into exile.

“Harmond Umber has proven loyal to every Lord of Winterfell he has served, and I have no doubt he will continue to do so as Lord of the White Knife.”

Harmond Umber knelt, visibly surprised by the decision. The Umber family had debated this appointment, fearing backlash due to northern tensions. Despite Roose Bolton's warnings and their longstanding enmity toward Wildlings, the Umbers had remained steadfastly loyal. Moreover, Harmond had entered a childless but contented marriage with Arnolf Karstark's third daughter. With Arnolf’s eldest daughter, Gisela, now regent of Tallhart, this strategic move by Bran demonstrated magnanimity toward those who had unwaveringly supported House Stark, despite their problematic relatives.

Arnolf Karstark's small lordship within Karhold lands would be granted to Alys Karstark by her brother. This decision revived the ancient precedent of "virgin ladies." While women couldn't inherit Winterfell during its days as a kingdom, they could manage castles and lands as long as they remained unmarried. Alys Karstark thus became the first lady in her own right, akin to princesses of old.

The allocation of numerous lordships and castles under House Stark's purview clearly conveyed Bran's message.

Harmond delivered a traditional oath of loyalty, reminiscent of those pledged to the Kings of Winter. Alysanne glanced at the Greatjon as his brother spoke. He nodded deeply, then gestured toward Ser Arthur Dayne, who stood beside Domeric and Arya. Alysanne swallowed hard, striving to maintain composure despite her racing heart.

“I'll conclude this court gathering, as I'm sure many are as weary as I,” Bran interjected with a mischievous grin, eliciting laughter from the room. “Many have approached me regarding the Lordships of Highpoint and Overton.”

Silence enveloped the room, dispelling the previously light atmosphere. House Whitehill had become a problem. Lord Ludd Whitehill's betrayal had cost him and his heir their lives, with Domeric executing his youngest son, Gryff. Only Lady Gwyn remained. Despite suggestions, Domeric had adamantly refused to resolve the matter by marrying Gwyn. After all, Highpoint belonged to House Bolton, and he could easily absorb it into his own lands.

Complicating matters further, the rivalry between House Forrester and House Whitehill had reignited when Gwyn's betrothed, Asher Forrester, was slain by Whitehill's men. The Forresters, loyal supporters, now demanded the eradication of House Whitehill.

“Lady Gwyn has agreed to wed Ser Tristifer Keath,” Bran announced, drawing attention to the solemn and stoic knight, youngest brother of the Lord of Gravesham and a trusted vassal of Lord Mallister. At six-and-thirty, Ser Tristifer was known for his loyalty, while Gwyn, at twenty, was noted for her grace and composure—a stark contrast to her volatile siblings. “In exchange for her dowry paid by House Stark, Gwyn has renounced her claims to Highpoint.”

Alysanne could sense the relief among the assembly, though she couldn't help but feel sorry for Gwyn. Gwyn Whitehill knew she would never truly be accepted in the North, especially since she had been raised in the Faith of the Seven. Allowing her to retain lordship would have sparked outrage and potentially worse.

“Therefore, by law, the Lordship of Whitehill should revert to Lord Domeric Bolton, as the last surviving heir of House Bolton,” Bran continued, prompting murmurs of discussion.

Once rulers of half of Karstark lands, the Boltons now held two lordships and several vassals, rivaling even the Dustins in territorial size. Although Karhold and Umber lands were larger, they were less fertile. Highpoint's fertile lands and strategic proximity to Winterfell made it a valuable asset.

“Lord Bolton has chosen to appoint Ser Arthur Dayne as Constable of Highpoint,” Bran announced. A mixture of surprise and disapproval flickered across her uncle's face as he glared at Domeric. In response, Domeric praised Ser Arthur, emphasizing that to them he was as much as a northern as most of them, and the invaluable lessons he had imparted to many of the younger men.

When Ser Arthur protested his inability to hold lands, both Bran and Domeric clarified that overseeing lands did not breach his vows, as recognized by the Iron Throne.

“Just accept it, Dayne. You deserve it,” the Greatjon declared. “It's not like you'll be passing it on to children or anything.”

Bran redirected the attention to the lordship of Overton, situated between Widow’s Watch and the Dreadfort. Overton, a market town overseeing numerous fishing villages, held strategic importance as a link between the fertile lands of the Dreadfort and along the White Knife and the salty shores of Widow’s Watch. Its value made it a coveted piece of land for Houses Flint of Widow’s Watch and Manderly and even the Bolton’s and the Karstarks.

“Once, House Bolton and House Stark were natural enemies,” Bran began, and Alysanne maintained a neutral expression. “But Lord Roose Bolton proved his loyalty by sacrificing his life for his son and the North.” Alysanne struggled to suppress a laugh at Bran’s proclamation. “Lord Domeric Bolton has also shown unwavering loyalty and is as close to me as kin.”

Aware of the scrutiny on her and Domeric, Alysanne avoided making eye contact with him.

“Therefore,” Bran continued, “I see no issue in rewarding his honor, loyalty, and dedication with the lordship of Overton.”

Surveying the room, Alysanne was surprised by the absence of envy or dissent regarding the decision, which effectively elevated Domeric to the most powerful northern lord whose surname wasn't Stark.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17 – Willas IV

Willas Tyrell sat in his chambers within Roseford Castle, the late afternoon light streaming through the tall, narrow window that overlooked the lush gardens below. Despite its name, Roseford Castle was more of a grand manse than a fortress. Situated on the northern border of Blackbridged, a well-walled and sizable village, the castle's design favored comfort and refinement over defence. Its elevated position and separation from the rest of the town by sturdy walls were the only true sign of defence.

"Blackbridged," Willas mused aloud, "was established by Jaehaerys the Conciliator after the completion of the Roseroad. It was meant to be a border town, straddling the Reach and the Crownlands. The Boningale is a mere three days' ride from here, and the Varners—who had long been overshadowed by the Caswells—were far from foolish.”

He glanced over at the pale-haired beauty lying on the bed, her blue eyes half-closed as her head rested on a plush pillow. Alyce made a noncommittal sound, clearly only half-listening to his historical musings. Willas rose, using his cane for support, and walked to the bed, settling beside her. Alyce shifted, resting her face against him as he leaned back against the bedpost, his hand gently stroking her soft tresses. Amused, he continued, “By the time Aegon V took the throne, the Varners had tightened their grip on the town to the point that it was more theirs than the Crown’s. The town had grown as well, and though the Spring Sickness claimed many lives, Blackbridged fared better than Bitterbridge—especially since it never had to fear dragons reducing it to ash. But when the Varners turned on the King, like so many others did, Aegon tore the town from their grasp, returning it to the Crown's control. It’s has been in their control since."

Willas was about to delve into the history of the new wall, completed during the early reign of the Mad King, when he noticed Alyce had drifted off to sleep. He sighed inwardly, realizing he had once again bored her with his scholarly discourse. Alysanne, his erudite wife, would have asked questions—about the townspeople, their crafts, who ruled over them, and how they managed the transition of power. They would have talked for hours, until some unfortunate servant would have to beg them to come to dinner.

As Willas contemplated writing another letter to his estranged wife, who had not written him since the Lannister wedding, the door to his chamber swung open. Willas was about to make a jest about his brother's constant interruptions when he noticed Garlan’s disheveled state. His face was flushed, his expression troubled, and his hair still damp, as though he had run straight from his chambers to Willas’s without pausing to fully dress.

“What’s the matter?” Willas asked, concern replacing his earlier amusement.

“I need to speak with you,” Garlan said, his voice low and urgent. “In private.”

Willas nodded, sensing the gravity of the situation. He glanced at his lover, still fast asleep, before carefully slipping out of the bed. The two brothers left the chamber, stepping into the quiet corridor where only the muffled sounds of servants preparing for the evening feast could be heard. Garlan walked beside Willas, his steps brisk, his expression heavy with concern.

They reached a secluded alcove just outside Garlan’s chambers. Garlan looked around, ensuring they were alone, before turning to face Willas, his face etched with worry.

"Willas," Garlan began, his voice barely above a whisper, "there’s something else you need to know. Something I didn’t want to say in front of her. She probably even knew," he added, frustration and anger seeping into his tone. “It sure explains why she’s been so clingy lately.”

Willas studied his brother carefully, sensing the tension—and above all, the anger—in his words. Alyce had been unusually eager in the past week. Willas had intended to distance himself from her, his thoughts consumed by Alysanne. He had even discussed with Garlan the possibility of traveling North after the tourney. But since they left Highgarden, Alyce had made herself a constant presence in his bed at night.

“What is it, Garlan?” Willas asked, his worry growing.

Garlan hesitated, glancing down the corridor once more to ensure their privacy. "I heard gossip earlier from the washerwomen," he finally said, his tone grim. "They were talking about the war in the North."

Willas’s heart skipped a beat. "War in the North?" He struggled to comprehend his brother’s words. “What war? There’s been no talk of war."

Garlan took a deep breath. "They said half of the North has taken up arms against the other. The bastard regent against the dowager lady, they call it. It’s a full-blown conflict, Willas."

A cold wave of dread washed over Willas. "Alysanne," he murmured, his thoughts immediately turning to his estranged wife. "I haven’t heard anything from her, Garlan. Not a word."

Garlan’s expression darkened further, his eyes avoiding Willas’s for a moment. When he finally met his brother’s gaze, there was a deep sadness in his eyes. "Willas… there’s more. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but the latest rumor is… that Alysanne has been captured."

Willas felt his knees weaken, and he sank into the window seat of the alcove. Alysanne would have loved this spot, he thought distantly. They could have read together here, pausing occasionally to share thoughts. She would have admired the gardens and the lighter rooms. Despite the typically darker, more spartan Northern architecture, Willas had come to realize that Alysanne favored brighter tones in decoration.

His breath caught in his throat, and only then did he notice that Garlan had helped him sit down. For a moment, he was unable to find his voice. "Captured?" he repeated, the word heavy with fear and disbelief. "By Lady Stark? How is that possible? The Northerners love her!"

"The washerwomen didn’t say," Garlan replied, his voice tinged with frustration. "They only mentioned it in passing, as if it were common knowledge. I tried to press them for more, but they didn’t know anything else. Just that everyone was talking about Alysanne’s capture. And there are rumors from King’s Landing—whispers that Lord Stannis sees it as an attack on the King’s Peace. Even the washerwomen in Blackbridged seem to know the Baratheon brothers would be furious."

If it were any other moment, Willas might have made a jest about Renly never having been furious a day in his life despite his house words.

"We have to find out more," Willas said, his voice steady but laced with determination. "We can’t just leave her to her fate, Garlan."

Garlan nodded, his expression mirroring Willas’s resolve. "I agree, but I think you need to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” Willas asked, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“How is it that washerwomen seem to know, and yet the two of us were kept in the dark?” Garlan’s voice was edged with suspicion. "If the rumor is true, it’s more than just a matter of gossip slipping through the cracks. Someone has been deliberately keeping this from us, Willas. And we both know who."

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.

Willas Tyrell forced a smile onto his face as he entered the solar, his mind still reeling from the news Garlan had shared. He couldn’t afford to show any signs of distress, not with so many eyes watching. The solar was warm and well-lit, the walls adorned with tapestries that, on any other day, he might have admired. Today, however, his thoughts were too clouded to care. Servants moved discreetly among the tables, their presence barely noticeable as they attended to the needs of the gathered guests.

As Willas approached, he was introduced to the Governor of Blackbridged. The man stood tall and sturdy, his sharp features accentuated by the dark clothing he wore—black with trim and lining of grey and icy white, instead of the silver accents Willas had expected. The Governor’s black hair was cropped short, and his eyes were just as dark, almost unreadable as they flicked over Willas with a cool, assessing gaze.

"Ser Willas Tyrell," the man said, inclining his head with a politeness that was almost perfunctory. "I am Beron Rogers, the Governor of Blackbridged."

"An honor, Ser Beron," Willas replied smoothly, bowing slightly. Despite the exchanged courtesies, it was clear that Ser Beron was not overly charmed by the presence of the Tyrells. Willas couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something oddly familiar about the Governor, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Before Willas could dwell on it, Ser Beron gestured to the woman beside him. "This is my wife, Lady Manysa Westerling."

The woman was clearly a Westerlander, no doubt some minor cousin of Lord Westerling. Her features were unmistakable, but her attire was far more severe than Willas had expected. Her blonde hair was styled in two bun braids, held in place by pearls—a stark contrast to the softer or more elaborate styles typically favored by southern ladies. Willas blinked in surprise; he hadn’t seen such a style since his time in Winterfell. It was a look Alysanne would have admired. And he needed to stop thinking about his wife.

"A pleasure, Lady Manysa," Willas said, bowing again, though his mind was already racing. The Northern influences on these people were becoming clearer, but the implications were still just out of reach. Why would a Stormlander do it? Show is preference for a Stark queen instead of the one they had? He didn’t like that thought.

As he was guided towards the table by polite conversation, Willas couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that everyone in the chamber knew more about Alysanne’s situation than he did. His smile remained fixed, but his thoughts churned. How much did they know? And why hadn’t he been informed sooner?

When he took his seat, Willas’s eyes drifted to his grandmother, Lady Olenna, who sat across the table. Her expression was carefully composed, revealing nothing but the pleasantries and sharp wit she was known for. But Willas, who had grown up under her watchful eye, could see from the way her gaze met his that she had known about Alysanne’s capture all along. And Garlan was barely keeping himself from glaring at her.

A cold knot formed in his stomach. He tried to distract himself, to keep the conversation flowing and avoid showing any sign of the turmoil within the Tyrell family. They could never afford that. His gaze shifted to the hosting family, and he found himself looking at the young woman seated two places down from him.

He froze.

The girl was striking, her slightly curled lip and grey eyes sparkling with a glint of mischief—eyes that were far too familiar to Willas. She had the unmistakable look of the North, her features a refined blend of an older Arya Stark and Bethany Ryswell. It was unsettling.

Ser Beron noticed his attention and leaned forward slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. Willas had seen that exact look in Arya.

"Allow me to introduce my eldest child," Ser Beron said, his tone tinged with pride. "This is Lady Branda Rogers, named for my dear mother, the Lady Branda Stark."

Willas’s breath caught in his throat as everything clicked into place. The grey and icy white trim on Ser Beron’s clothing, the Northern style of his wife’s dress, the starkness in the girl’s features—it all made sense now. Ser Beron Rogers was Alysanne’s first cousin once removed.

Willas glanced at his grandmother again, and this time, the truth was undeniable. The way she pressed her lips together, the way she sipped her Arbor gold with deliberate ease yet an unusually tight grip—it all showed how she must have been raging within.

"Lady Branda," Willas finally managed, inclining his head to the young woman, who regarded him with cool interest. Her dress was a blend of Northern practicality and the square necklines that Alysanne often wore.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you," he continued, though his voice felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else. The realization that Ser Beron, the Governor of Blackbridged and the gateway to the Roseroad, had Stark blood and was boldly proclaiming it, still shocked him to the core.

.

.

The sun shone brightly over the tourney grounds, casting long shadows across the colorful tents and banners that flapped in the breeze. The air was filled with the sound of laughter and cheers as knights in gleaming armor prepared for the day’s contests. Yet Willas’s expression remained neutral as he observed the festivities.

His mind was far from the celebration. The cruel jest from a Crownlander knight still echoed in his ears, the mocking words cutting deeper than he let on. “Planning to rescue your damsel bastard wife, Ser Willas?” the man had sneered. Willas had forced himself to stay calm, even as anger simmered within him. As the knight turned away, laughing with his companions, Willas shot a dark look toward his grandmother and sister, who were surrounded by the ladies of the court, their attention fixed on the jousting. Margaery’s soft laughter drifted through the air as she leaned in to speak with one of her companions, no doubt boasting about how Loras would win the tourney in her name.

I hope Ser Barristan wins, Willas thought, clenching his jaw. He hadn’t spoken to his family, except for matters of public perception, since that fateful conversation with his grandmother, when she had dismissively informed him, “Yes, the bastard was finally captured, as the North united against her.”

His gaze flickered to Margaery, who looked the epitome of grace and beauty, laughing and chatting with the ladies around her. But all Willas could see was the memory of her confession, the words that had shattered his trust in her and, in many ways, the image he had always had of her.

It had been just after he had confronted their grandmother, demanding answers about Alysanne. He had been angrier than he had ever been in his life. When he arrived in King’s Landing, he turned to Margaery for support, only to have his sister admit—proudly, no less—that she had aided Lady Catelyn Stark in her efforts against Alysanne.

"It was for the best, Willas," Margaery had said, her voice soft and reasonable, as if explaining a simple truth that he was too obtuse to grasp. "A woman like Alysanne... she needed to be brought down. Now you’re free, brother. Free to marry a great lady, one who can truly elevate our house."

Willas had stared at her, his disbelief mounting with each passing moment. Did she not see his sleepless nights? Did she not notice how Garlan shadowed him constantly? "And who would you suggest, Margaery? Who is this great lady?"

Margaery had only smiled, that sweet, knowing smile of hers, and Willas’s heart had sunk.

Back in the present, he turned his gaze toward Sansa Stark, dressed in a gown of Stark grey and Tyrell green. The young girl smiled shyly at him, her auburn hair arranged in a style reminiscent of a Reach maiden, her hands folded demurely in front of her. A perfect little replica of Margaery, but lacking any of his sister’s cunning.

Willas’s thoughts swirled with conflicting emotions as he regarded Sansa. The tourney grounds seemed to blur around him, the laughter and cheers fading into the background as he grappled with the weight of his family’s actions and the painful reality of his own situation.

As Ser Lothor Brune was unhorsed by Ser Balon Swann, one of the new Kingsguard, Willas found he couldn’t care less about the outcome. His gaze drifted to King Robert Baratheon, who sat at the head of the dais, already deep into his cups. The king looked noticeably more morose than usual, his heavy brows drawn into a permanent frown. The absence of Northern lords was glaring, and it clearly weighed on the king as much as it did on Willas. Lord Stannis Baratheon had departed for Dragonstone days before, offering thin excuses about attending to his holdings. Willas wondered when the King would finally announce that Stannis was sending the royal fleet North. He also wondered how he could persuade Garlan to accompany them, since Willas was useless in battle. Lately, he found himself feeling useless altogether.

Lost in his musings, Willas didn’t notice his grandmother’s approach until she was seated beside him, her small, sharp eyes fixed intently on his face. The crowd’s excitement roared as the next pair of knights prepared to joust, providing a convenient cover for their conversation.

"Willas," Olenna said, her voice low but firm, "your lack of attention to your duties is disappointing."

Willas turned to her, forcing his expression into one of polite interest. "Is it, Grandmother? I wasn’t aware that watching men knock each other off horses was such an important duty."

Alysanne would have been so pleased to hear he cared little for tourneys, he almost smiled, picturing the wolfish grin she would have, the sparkle in her eyes. But he couldn’t smile, because Alysanne wasn’t here to see it.

Olenna’s gaze narrowed, and she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You may find another pretty wife, a proper one this time, to sate your desires. There are plenty of women in the world, Willas, but that bastard—" she spat the word with disdain, refusing to utter Alysanne’s name, which only fueled his anger—"will no longer be a Tyrell."

Despite the surge of anger, Willas kept his voice calm. "The Baratheon brothers will march north soon, and they’ll put an end to Lady Catelyn’s folly. If anything happens to Alysanne, Grandmother, I’ll never look at our family the same way again."

Olenna raised an eyebrow, her expression dripping with condescension. "You’re a Tyrell, Willas, and your loyalty must lie with your family. Or Mace will see to it that Garlan is named his heir. You think yourself in love with a bastard who endangers us all? You’ve always been a disappointment where she’s concerned. I knew it the moment I saw you with her."

Her words struck Willas harder than he had anticipated. His grandmother, once his staunchest ally, had always defended him against his father's dismissive attitude. For her to speak of Garlan as a potential heir was a stinging betrayal.

"I’m not in love with Alysanne," Willas said, but even to himself, the denial felt hollow, a weak facade masking the truth he had long tried to ignore.

Olenna waved her hand dismissively, no doubt choosing to believe his words. "Of course you’re not. Deep down, you’re more calculating than that. You’re simply lost in your lusts, as men often are. But you can indulge yourself with other women, Willas. I’ll even turn a blind eye if that Dornish girl were to come around again. But you will marry Sansa Stark and sire some proper Stark-Tyrell children when the time comes. That’s your duty, and you will fulfill it."

Before Willas could respond, the crowd erupted in cheers as Loras unhorsed Ser Robar Royce. The roar of approval was deafening, and Olenna’s sharp gaze flicked towards the field with a satisfied smile.

Seizing the distraction, Willas turned away from his grandmother, shouting for his brother. The pain and anger inside him were almost unbearable, but he buried them deep, knowing he couldn’t afford to let them show. He had a role to play, and for now, he would play it. Yet, as he looked out over the field—watching Loras bask in the crowd's adulation, Margaery surrounded by her ladies, and even Garlan conversing sweetly with Leonette, his wife whom he had come to care for—Willas felt more isolated than ever.

He wondered if Alysanne felt the same or worse. Were they keeping her locked away in some dark, cold cell? The thought was tormenting. Every time he closed his eyes, he envisioned her trapped in a cell, shouting for help and cursing his name.

In his dreams, he always responded to her cries, but each morning he awoke to find Alysanne still far away, somewhere in the North, beyond his reach. The distance between them seemed insurmountable, and each day without her was a relentless reminder of his powerlessness.

.

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As always, it was Garlan who entered Willas’s chambers to deliver the news. But this time, Willas was alone, immersed in his books. They had become his true companions since arriving from Blackbridge. He had sent Alyce away the first day she had come to him, and had avoided her ever since. The situation had reached a point where he nearly pushed her out of his room upon finding her naked with another woman—a beautiful woman, but with dark brown hair, lacking the silvery sheen of Alysanne’s  darker curls and her beauty all wrong for what Alyce had in mind.

“She is free, Willas,” Garlan announced, his tone a mix of relief and joy. “And, well, as impressive as always.”

A wave of relief washed over Willas.

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The murmurs of the ladies reached Willas’s ears as he stood at the edge of the courtyard, partially hidden in the shadows. Their voices, charged with excitement and curiosity, pierced through the noise of the gathering, but this time, the chatter wasn’t about the knights training.

“They say he rode into town and single-handedly saved her from those unclothed barbarians,” one young lady whispered, her eyes wide with the thrill of gossip.

“But my father told me it was Ser Jaime who rescued her,” her friend chimed in, her voice equally eager.

“Perhaps they saved her together,” the first suggested, her tone full of hopeful imagination, as if picturing a tale of gallant knights joining forces to save the princess in the tower.

Before their conversation could devolve into more fantastical speculation, Leonette appeared beside them. Her presence immediately drew their attention. The girls likely anticipated more gossip from Garlan’s wife. “Or,” Leonette said calmly, “she saved herself.”

Willas’s lips curved into an almost imperceptible smile of appreciation for Leonette’s words. The ladies exchanged puzzled glances, their excitement momentarily deflated as they shook their heads, dismissing the idea.

Then the first lady’s eyes brightened with a new thought. “Do you think they’ll duel for her favor?” she asked, her voice rekindling with excitement.

Before Willas could respond, a familiar voice slid through the shadows with practiced ease. “Let’s get you out of here before you find yourself in the midst of such a duel,” it said, his tone laced with a hint of amusement.

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Baelor Hightower guided Willas away from the bustling courtyard and through a quieter part of the gardens. They moved into a small, secluded forest, where the only sounds were the crunch of leaves beneath their boots and the distant murmur of wind rustling through the trees. For a while, they walked in silence, the tranquility of the surroundings a stark contrast to the turmoil that weighed on Willas’s mind.

Their conversation began with the usual pleasantries, but Willas could sense that Uncle Baelor had something more pressing to discuss. It wasn’t merely about escaping the tension of the courtyard.

Finally, Baelor broke the superficial rhythm. “I was surprised not to see Alerie in King’s Landing. It’s her daughter’s nameday, after all. It’s not like her to miss such an occasion.”

At the mention of his mother’s absence, a dark cloud settled over Willas. “Yes,” he said tersely, “I found it odd too. She claimed she fell ill after something she ate. But now I see that wasn’t the full story.”

Baelor looked at him with a questioning expression. “And what do you believe the real reason is?”

Willas sighed, frustration evident in his voice. “My mother would never have agreed to keep Alysanne’s imprisonment from me. She stayed away because she was forced to.”

Baelor’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You mean to say you didn’t know? I would have thought... well, Matthis said if you did know, you were a formidable actor. But I wasn’t sure.”

Willas scowled, irritated that his uncle had discussed his marriage with Lord Rowan behind his back. But he chose not to dwell on it. “The truth is, I only learned about it in Blackbridge, from Garlan. He got the information from some washerwoman.” His voice lowered, laced with bitterness. “It hurt to be kept in the dark, but what angers me more is that my grandmother and Margaery not only knew about it but actively aided Catelyn Stark. Margaery even admitted to sending sellswords through Lysa Tully’s husband. It feels like betrayal from my own family.”

He couldn’t help but wonder what dark thoughts Alysanne might harbor about him. Did she see him as complacent, complicit in his family’s actions?

Baelor stopped walking and placed a comforting hand on Willas’s shoulder. “Not all your family, Willas. You’ve surprised me with how you’ve handled this. You didn’t wash your hands of Alysanne, despite trying to appear unmoved.”

Willas managed a weak smile, though his hurt was still evident. He felt like a craven, a crippled fool. “I always have Garlan,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Just last night, he gave me a bit of entertainment.”

Baelor’s curiosity was piqued. “Oh? What happened?”

“Margaery, with her honeyed voice, whispered in King Robert’s ear that Jaime Lannister committed treason by leaving his exile. But Garlan cut her off with, ‘Yes, let’s hang a knight for defending the innocent and saving the most powerful woman in the country. That’ll go over well.’”

Baelor chuckled softly. “Margaery must not have liked that.”

Willas shook his head. “Not at all. But she was all smiles this morning, talking about how bright the day was and how, even though it was her nameday, it was the gift she had for her husband that would make him look only at her.”

Baelor rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Alysanne would rather cut her own throat than become the Usur... the King’s Mistress.”

Willas noticed how the words caught in Baelor’s throat, the slip of “usurper” almost escaping him. He tensed and glanced around, realizing they had wandered deep into the godswood. The towering trees seemed to enclose him in a private sanctuary, and he felt a pang of longing for Alysanne.

Half-mindedly, trying to ignore what his dearest uncle said, Willas muttered, “Margaery’s probably with child again,” before turning to Baelor. “I need a moment, uncle, to be alone with my wife’s gods.”

Baelor nodded, understanding the unspoken request. “Take all the time you need, Willas,” he said softly, stepping back to leave Willas in the solitude of the godswood.

As Baelor’s footsteps faded, Willas moved deeper into the sacred space, the silence around him almost palpable. He knelt before the heart tree, feeling a dull ache in his leg from the movement. The heart tree, a grand oak with its broad, brown trunk and sprawling branches, was a stark contrast to the elegant, carved faces of the northern weirwoods. Alysanne’s voice seemed to echo in his mind, critiquing the tree’s lack of a carved face, her sharp wit a reminder of her presence, even in her absence.

“Do the Old Gods even hear me?” he muttered, his voice a soft whisper carried by the wind. “If you can, just keep her safe. She has always been devoted to you. It is the least you can do. And if you find within your great powers to offer some sign of what I must do...”

He paused, his mind racing with the impossibility of his situation. “You, or the Seven, have taken from me the power to protect her. I cannot infiltrate some prison or fight my way into a city. I couldn’t even convince half a dozen lords to follow me into the North for her.”

He looked up at the canopy, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. The day was bright and beautiful, but he could feel the creeping chill of autumn approaching, a reminder that time was slipping away.

“Just a sign of what to do,” he continued, his voice trembling slightly. “Should I go or not?”

.

.

The Throne Room was a sea of vibrant colors, rich fabrics, and glittering jewels, yet all of it seemed dull and distant to Willas Tyrell. The ball for Margaery’s nameday was meant to be a celebration, a display of the Tyrells’ power and influence at court. But for Willas, the grandeur of the occasion felt hollow, overshadowed by the dark cloud that had settled over his heart.

Margaery herself was a vision, her beauty and grace enhanced by her opulent attire. She was dressed as a summer queen, resplendent in cloth of gold and silver, with hints of silk white peeking through. The gown was provocatively cut to reveal her collarbone, a daring display that showcased both her wealth and her youthful allure but without being distasteful or too provocative. A golden crown adorned her head, topped with a veil of white gauze—a costly import from the Far East that spoke of luxury and exclusivity. The veil, a symbol of excess, was the talk of the town.

Despite Margaery’s radiance and the splendor of the occasion, Willas felt a gnawing unease. The opulence of the ball seemed to mock the gravity of the moment, and Robert Baratheon’s sudden sobriety only heightened his anxiety. The king’s clear eyes, usually clouded by drink, were focused and resolute, as if bracing for something ominous.

Willas’s heart sank as he saw the two coffins being carried into the throne room. The coffins were a stark contrast to the festive atmosphere. The room fell into a hush, the music and chatter silenced by the somber sight and the King’s order.

Robert Baratheon rose to speak, his booming voice filling the space with an authority that brooked no dissent. “Today,” Robert began, his tone both boisterous and grave, “we finally have justice for my Lyanna and all those who suffered at the hands of the dragons.”

A chill ran down Willas’s spine at the king’s words. His gaze shifted to Renly Baratheon, who stood at his brother’s side. Renly’s eyes rolled, but there was no surprise in his eyes—Renly had clearly known what was coming.

Robert’s speech continued, uncharacteristically clear and free from the usual slur of his drunkenness. He spoke of the Targaryens, their cruelty, and the justice he had longed for since Lyanna’s death. There was a note of sadness in his voice as he lamented that Ned Stark was not there to witness this moment. Like Ned Stark would approve of such.

Then, with a final flourish, Robert declared, “The Targaryens used to burn their bodies, but I will have them sent north to be devoured by wolves as the final justice. Lady Alysanne can do with them as she wishes. A gift from the crown for being a true she-wolf of the North. A woman with the spirit of my Lyanna.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Willas stared at the coffins, feeling an overwhelming sense of emptiness and fatigue. The sight of the bodies, destined to be a grim gift for Alysanne, only deepened his despair. He wondered if this was how Ned Stark had felt all those years ago when Targaryen bodies had been placed upon the Iron Throne. The difference now was that these bodies might was well be in green cloth he thought, almost in a state of delirium.

The celebration continued around Willas, but he felt a profound sense of detachment, as though he were adrift in a sea of opulence and sorrow. The spectacle of grandeur seemed a cruel mockery of the somber reality unfolding before him. As he forced himself to look at the open coffins, a strange sense of disconnection enveloped him, as if he were a mere observer to this grim pageantry.

Viserys Targaryen’s face, barely visible through the blood and grime, was gaunt and pallid. His body, thin and lifeless, spoke of a tragic end. Daenerys, on the other hand, had grown from the child of old tales into a vision of Targaryen beauty—delicate features, full lips, and a heart-shaped face. The contrast between her youthful grace and the harshness of her demise only deepened Willas’s sorrow.

Willas closed his eyes, attempting to conjure a more peaceful image of her death. He wished he could believe that she had passed away in her sleep, but the image of her innocent face, now forever marred by the brutality of her death, burned itself into his memory. It was a haunting reminder of the price of the conflicts that had ravaged the land.

His father’s words echoed in his mind: “The Targaryens gave us everything.” Those words, so ingrained in his childhood, now felt like a bitter jest. Loyalty seemed meaningless when faced with the stark reality of betrayal and violence. The grandeur of the Iron Throne was full of display, but all he could see were the two large banners behind it. Yet in his mind’s eye, they were the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, not black and gold.

Willas forced himself to look back at the bodies. He felt a hollow ache in his chest as he stared at the lifeless forms of Viserys and Daenerys. This was not justice—they were children when it happened, now, they innocent victims of a war that should have ended almost two decades past. The pageantry around him felt like a twisted celebration of their deaths, a cruel spectacle that mocked the very idea of justice.

His gaze drifted to his uncle, Baelor Hightower, whose face was stern and unyielding. Unlike most of the courtiers who had turned their eyes away, Baelor’s gaze remained fixed on the bodies. Willas recalled how Baelor had served the Targaryens, growing up alongside the Silver Prince. Aunt Malora, who had once been Queen Rhaella’s companion, had retreated into silence after the Sack, almost living in solitude, dedicating all her times to bookkeeping.

Lord Rowan and Lord Ambrose stood nearby, their faces a mask of discomfort and nausea. Lord Velaryon and Justin Massey, both skilled at hiding their emotions, managed to maintain their composure, though their eyes betrayed their true feelings. Beric Dondarrion, holding his squire, looked pained, while young Lord Dayne’s face was a portrait of anger and bitterness.

As the festivities resumed, the music and laughter felt hollow to him. He was trapped in a moment of profound sorrow. He had never felt that way before, and in truth, he couldn’t explain why this was what broke him.

The Tyrells had gained power and prestige, but at what cost?

No one stopped him when he retired earlier.

.

.

The salty breeze from Blackwater Bay brushed against Willas Tyrell's face as he stood at the harbor of King’s Landing, watching the preparations for the ship’s departure. The harbor was unusually somber, the usual hustle and bustle of the docks muted under the weight of the grim task at hand. The war galley chosen to carry the bodies north was not the Lady Lyanna, as King Robert had initially intended, but another vessel from the royal fleet—the Queen Alysanne. The irony was not lost on Willas; his wife, Alysanne, would have found little amusement in the choice. Apparently, the Lady Lyanna was in Dragonstone with some of the best war ships of the feet, which showed Willas, and the court, that Stannis Baratheon did intent to travel North and offers assistance to Alysanne.

Willas's heart was heavy as he observed the scene. The gold cloaks were out in force, alongside the Tyrell guardsmen, keeping the growing crowd at bay. Since Margaery’s nameday, the city had been a tinderbox, with outbreaks of violence becoming increasingly common. It was a small miracle that the situation had not erupted into full-blown chaos when the Targaryen bodies were unceremoniously brought to the ship. Of all the Tyrells, Willas was the only one who had come to witness this travesty, the others perhaps too burdened by their own guilt or discomfort to show their faces. Or, worse, they just didn’t care.

The common folk, however, had turned on their precious Rose Queen with frightening speed. No one in the city would have cared much if the Targaryens had simply died in obscurity across the Narrow Sea, but the brutal deaths of Viserys and Daenerys, followed by the ostentatious feast, had left a bitter taste in the mouths of many. The memory of the Sack of King’s Landing still lingered, and another woman paying for her crown with the blood of innocent Targaryens had stirred old fears and resentments.

The memory of Margaery’s defense of herself still stung. Her attempts to disassociate herself from the bloody events rang hollow in Willas’s ears. Her insistence that her crown was not bought with blood felt like a feeble excuse, a way to shift the blame from herself to the political machinations that had taken place. Her wide, innocent eyes and soft voice were becoming increasingly grating to him, her pleas for understanding seemingly designed to placate rather than to confront the reality of the situation.

But it had been his grandmother, Lady Olenna, who had truly pushed him to the edge. Over a familiar family dinner, with the walls of the Maidenvault closing in around them, she had once again admonished him.

"Willas," Olenna had begun, her voice sharp and biting, "you're letting your feelings cloud your judgment. We are Tyrells. We do what needs to be done to survive, to thrive."

"I am no fervent loyalist," Willas shot back, his voice rising in defiance. "But I am still a Tyrell. I know who we owe all our good fortune to, all this 'Growing Strong' nonsense. It wasn’t the Stags who raised us up, and now we’ve turned on those who did, as if honor meant nothing."

Lord Mace Tyrell, usually so blustery, paled under the force of Willas's words. Garlan looked away, his face flushed with shame. He had been silent ever since the feast where Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen had been paraded like trophies. Loras, however, remained dismissive.

"It was crucial to end the Targaryen line," Loras had insisted. "Renly agrees. We need to prove ourselves to Robert—more than the Starks, the Arryns, or the Lannisters ever could. We must be more influential than Stannis. We must outwit the Lannisters."

Willas had felt his blood boil at Loras's careless attitude. "There was no need to assassinate innocents across the sea," he had almost screamed, but Loras had rolled his eyes, dismissively.

"You know nothing, Willas," Loras had retorted, his tone dripping with condescension. "We needed to cut off all other claims before it was too late, before the old loyalists got any ideas."

"What schemes do you have with Renly now, Loras?" Willas had demanded, his voice shaking with anger. "What else are you planning?"

Loras had sneered, a smirk playing on his lips. "You’re the one being led by your cock," he had taunted. "The mighty Willas brought down by a bastard’s cunt."

"Enough!" Olenna had commanded. "Stop acting like fools, both of you. The walls have ears in King’s Landing, and you’re all being careless."

She had then turned to Willas, her gaze piercing. "Loras is not wrong, Willas. You’re turning into Ned Stark, getting your head stuck in honor and forgetting where it belongs. Sometimes, I curse that Catelyn Tully didn’t end Alysanne back in Barrowtown, so obsessed as she was with sending her to the Silent Sisters."

The realization of what his grandmother meant had been the final straw for Willas. He had finally had enough, the dam of his patience breaking under the weight of their schemes and betrayals.

"If anything happens to Alysanne," Willas had said, his voice cold and steely, "I will never look at this family the same way again."

Olenna had dismissed his threat with a wave of her hand. "You cannot do a thing, Willas. Alysanne will never be Lady of Highgarden. Her power will end with Bran Stark’s regency, if not before. You have no army, no great scheme, nothing to carry your threats forward."

"And scheming is what we’ve been doing for years," Willas had countered, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and despair. "I was young, but not stupid."

Olenna had scoffed, unimpressed. "After what has just happened, Robert Baratheon won’t care about old plots of Targaryen restoration. If you press this, you’ll be signing the Martells' death warrants, just as you seem as foolishly enamored with them as you are with that bastard."

Defeated, Willas had stared at his father, Lord Mace Tyrell, with a look of utter contempt, but he was unable to meet his son’s gaze.

Without another word, Willas had left the room, feeling more alone than ever.

“They were once closer to gods than men,” his uncle Baelor Hightower remarked quietly beside him, pulling him back to the present.

Willas nodded, his gaze distant as he watched the procession. “With them, the last of the dragons are gone.”

Baelor made a face at his words, prompting Willas to add, half-serious and half-jesting, “If the Hightowers looked deep enough, you might find a drop of dragon blood in your veins, no doubt, uncle. But then again, so might half the houses in Dorne and the Stormlands.”

Willas chuckled lightly, though he noticed a strange look pass between his uncle and Lord Rowan, who stood beside them. As the bodies were loaded onto the ship, his attention was drawn to a solitary figure at the edge of the bridge, cloaked in grief. It was Prudence Celtigar, a woman who had not concealed her mourning, unlike the rest of the city. Her grief was loud and palpable. Her husband’s bastard son, the one who seemed to carry the blood of the Sea Snake, was the ship’s second-in-command—a demotion from his usual rank, but Willas understood why the young man had taken the position. He wanted to be present, to pay his respects in his own way.

The day after the ball, Willas had visited the Velaryons, witnessing firsthand the depth of their sorrow. He had assured Lady Prudence that Alysanne would do her best to see that the prince and princess received proper burial rites, as best as the circumstances allowed. Lady Prudence’s response had been a simple, grief-stricken “I know.”

Now, looking at her figure on the bridge, Willas turned to his uncle and Lord Rowan. “While no man is more accursed than the kinslayer, there is no doubt that a kingslayer is a close second.”

Lord Rowan shook his head slightly. “Viserys was not officially the king. There are those who doubt Rhaella even crowned him.”

Willas frowned. “I believe the Dowager Queen did, in fact, crown him. After all, Prince Rhaegar’s children were dead.”

Lord Rowan’s voice grew somber. “I pray this is the last innocent blood we see spilled, though I know it’s a foolish hope.”

Willas, eager to change the subject, asked, “Will you take the position of Master of Laws?”

Rowan shook his head, a weary smile touching his lips. “No. I wish to return home, to hold my daughters in my arms. I would ask if you might join us on our journey back to the Reach.”

Willas exchanged a glance with his uncle, a silent understanding passing between them. “I’m going onto the ship,” he admitted quietly.

Lord Rowan’s smile broadened, pride evident in his eyes. “Then I wish you the happiest of marriages, Willas. You and Alysanne will no doubt accomplish great things—something for the history books you both enjoy so much.”

They shared brief farewells, each man understanding the gravity of what was left unsaid. As Willas walked toward the ship, the weight of his decision settled on his shoulders. Yet, alongside the weight, there was a sense of resolve. He stepped onto the gangplank, ready to face whatever awaited him in the North, and whatever fate had in store for him and Alysanne.

.

.

Willas had expected a brief stop at Maidenpool on their journey north. However, as their ship approached the docks, something unusual caught his eye—a sleek swan ship from the Summer Isles, anchored beside theirs. It was an unexpected sight, though he dismissed it at first. Maidenpool was a known trade hub, and ships from distant lands were not uncommon. Still, the presence of such an exotic vessel stirred his curiosity.

On the second day in town, Willas returned to the ship, his thoughts often drifting to Alysanne as he made his way below deck. The ship was mostly quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood or the distant murmur of the crew. But as he passed the captain's cabin, he was halted by the sound of voices—soft, insistent, and strangely familiar.

Frowning, Willas moved closer, the voices becoming clearer. His curiosity piqued, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Seated around the table were not only Aurane and Lady Prudence but also Prince Oberyn Martell, his presence as bold ever. But it was the fourth figure, out of the five, that made Willas pause—a man with a lined, leathery face, streaked with gray hair, and pale blue eyes that seemed to pierce through the dim light of the cabin as they regarded him. Judging him.

Before Willas could speak, Oberyn’s lips curled into a knowing smile. "Ah, Willas," he greeted, his tone as casual as if they had simply bumped into each other in the streets of Oldtown. "Allow me to introduce you to Jon Connington."

"Ser Willas," Connington said, his voice low and measured, as if Oberyn had introduced a man of little consequence rather than Jon Connington—the former Hand of the King who had fought fiercely for the Targaryens during Robert’s Rebellion and was widely believed to have perished in exile. “This is Laswell Peake,” Connington added dryly.

“I thought we were going with different names, Jon,” Peake said sardonically. “I always fancied myself a Lyonel.”

Oberyn rolled his eyes but Connington’s face remained impassive. “If the boy can’t handle a few exiles paying their respects, he can return to the Reach. Where no one seems to care about such things anymore.”

Oberyn leaned back in his chair, a wry smile on his lips. “And here I thought Franklyn stayed in Essos because he couldn’t hold his tongue against Reachmen. Willas won’t do anything, I assure you.”

Willas frowned, a sense of unease settling over him as he looked at the supposed exiled lords. “Do you promise that no harm will come to anyone in the North while you are here?”

“I can’t promise that some fool won’t die from an injury or some old lady from a fever,” Connington replied. “But we mean no harm.”

Somehow, Willas believed them.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18 – Alysanne VII

The soft glow of twilight filtered through the narrow windows of Alysanne Snow’s private office, casting long, golden shadows over the cluttered surface of her desk. Parchments, missives, and maps were strewn about. The fire in the hearth crackled steadily, as Alysanne sat behind the heavy oaken desk, her dark curls bound neatly but beginning to unravel as the day wore on.

Across from her stood Ser Rodrik Cassel, his grizzled face full of concern.

“The Ryswell and Karstark lands have been pacified,” she said, her voice steady but edged with weariness. “Lord Harrion has bent the knee again, pledging his loyalty to Winterfell. Lady Alys remains with him, much to her relief.”

“And remains unmarried, I hear,” Rodrik replied. His brow furrowed, lines deepening with the weight of his concerns. “Lord Harrion ought to see to that.”

Alysanne arched a dark brow, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. “Yes, you’ve made your thoughts on marriage quite clear, Ser Rodrik. But it pleases Lady Alys—and me—that she stays by her brother’s side. Harrion was not hard to convince. A few letters, a few well-chosen words to remind him of the tales of the virgin princesses of the North—those women who governed lands so long as they remained unmarried, and Alys had a town of her own.”

Rodrik’s lips twitched in reluctant amusement, though he shook his head. “A clever argument, my lady. But I wonder how long Karhold can thrive without an heir to secure its future. Lord Harrion is a lord, and lords must wed. It is their duty.”

Alysanne leaned back in her chair, her fingers toying with the edge of a map on her desk. Her smile faded into a pensive frown. “You’re not wrong, Ser Rodrik. There are many in the North who should wed. Perhaps I should start keeping a ledger of all these unwed lords and ladies,” she mused, her tone half-dry. “Plan marriages that do have fruits and good fortune?”

Even as she spoke, her mind drifted elsewhere, unbidden. She thought of her own marriage to Willas Tyrell. The memory came not with regret but with a bittersweet pang. She thought of Marigold, the quaint town where they had spent their last days together. There had been laughter there, and an ease she had rarely known since returning to the cold embrace of the North. With Willas, she could shed the chainmail of duty and be simply herself. His erudition, his warmth—it was a joy she carried with her, memories that she used to warm the coldness of her duty.

Rodrik’s voice cut through her reverie like the crack of a whip. “Forgive my bluntness, Alysanne, but I worry. There are too many unwed women in positions of power—regents, heiresses. Without husbands to protect them, they are vulnerable. Easily taken advantage of.”

Alysanne’s eyes narrowed, the momentary warmth in her expression vanishing. “Was that meant as a critique of my own marriage, Ser Rodrik?” she asked, her tone sharpening. “Do you believe that if I had married some Northern lord, none of this folly would have happened?”

Rodrik did not flinch. “Yes,” he said, his reply straightforward. “A Northern marriage might have done much to stabilize these lands. Your father himself sought a Karstark match for you.”

Alysanne’s jaw tightened, her voice growing colder. “My father sought to marry me to a third son,” she said icily, “to appease Lady Stark. It was a match designed to keep me away from Dom-” she stopped herself. “Are you suggesting that I should annul my lawful, consummated marriage to Willas Tyrell and auction myself off to the highest bidder, a loyal one this time around?”

Rodrik had the grace to look abashed, though a faint smile lingered on his lips. “That was not my meaning, my lady. You did your duty with your marriage, and I see no fault on your part.”

“Many do,” Alysanne replied bitterly, her voice dropping. “A wife’s place is by her husband’s side, or so I’ve heard. I imagine you hold such beliefs yourself, Ser Rodrik. You’ve known me all my life—tell me, do you not think my place should be in the Reach?”

Rodrik hesitated, his expression softening. “Some circumstances defy expectation. Not all men think so narrowly.”

You didn’t reply, she thought.

“Rarities,” Alysanne muttered, a wryness to her tone. But Rodrik’s next words hit like a knife to the chest.

Rodrik’s voice landed like a blade between her ribs. “Like Lord Bolton?”

The room fell silent. The fire crackled softly, its warmth doing nothing to temper the chill that had settled between them. Alysanne's knuckles whitened against the arm of her chair, her composure fracturing for the briefest of moments. It stung more than she cared to admit, coming from Rodrik—he who had once vehemently opposed her betrothal to the then-heir of the Dreadfort. For him to wield that memory now, of all times, was a betrayal she did not anticipate.

She couldn’t let her mind wander to Domeric. Not now. She had spent so much effort dragging him out of Winterfell to oversee his lands, only for the fool to write her five letters in the fortnight he’d been away. He’d complained about the loneliness of the Dreadfort, about the cold halls and colder faces of his bannermen, but he also gave lengthy reports of his work. Alysanne let her gaze flick briefly to a particular letter in her collection, resting near the edge of her desk.

Stafford Lannister’s relentless letters had grown almost laughable. Three in the past month, all written with the same purpose: to secure her confirmation of the old betrothal between Domeric and Stafford’s daughter. As if Alysanne herself had the authority to sign the marriage contract. Yet she knew why Stafford wrote to her and not Domeric. Domeric likely hadn’t even opened the man’s letters.

Alysanne pushed the bitterness down, letting none of it touch her voice. “Yes,” she replied finally, her tone cool as frost, her fingers flexing against the chair’s edge. Unsure what response Rodrik wanted—or expected—she shifted the conversation with a practiced ease. “Speaking of marriage, how fares Lady Donella?”

The question seemed to lighten Rodrik’s mood. He cleared his throat, his tone softening. “Well, my lady. Hornwood’s harvest will be strong this year, and we’ve put away stores enough to last through a five-year winter.”

Alysanne’s brow lifted in surprise. “That is better than I expected.”

“Lady Donella is a skilled steward,” Rodrik said. “She and her husband were a good match. But we’ve found a great deal of common ground despite... the grief we both carry. I like to think we’ve found a way to mend each other.” His voice softened. “It’s a partnership, my lady. And my Beth absolutely adores her.”

Alysanne smiled faintly, the warmth of it just reaching her eyes. “As someone who cares for your happiness, I am beyond pleased to hear it. But as Regent...” She hesitated, weighing her next words carefully. “I had hoped you might take up governance in Coldbrook.”

Rodrik blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Me, my lady?”

“Yes, you,” she said firmly, leaning forward slightly. “You are like family to House Stark. To me. Few hold my trust as you do, Ser Rodrik.”

His expression hardened, his bluntness cutting through the moment. “Did you trust that I would remain loyal to your regency, my lady? That I would not take Lady Catelyn’s side?”

Alysanne did not flinch, meeting his gaze with steady resolve. “I trusted that you would keep faith with House Stark.”

Rodrik’s lips twisted into a faint, half-smile, though there was a lingering sadness in his eyes. “Arthur Dayne taught you well, my lady,” he said after a moment.

He wasn’t the only one, Alysanne thought. “Were you tempted?” she asked softly.

Rodrik hesitated, his honesty finally breaking through his restraint. He nodded. “I’d be lying if I said otherwise,” he admitted. “Lady Catelyn was the Lady of Winterfell for nearly two decades. She knows her role. She even ruled Riverrun for a time after her mother’s passing.”

“And since I am no great lady with a keep to her name, you thought I couldn’t manage it?” Alysanne’s voice was sharp, her tone cutting through the room like steel. Her expression, however, remained unreadable.

Rodrik’s pause was telling, but he eventually nodded again. “I’d be lying if I said otherwise,” he repeated, his words heavy with meaning. “Lady Catelyn is the Dowager of Winterfell. Her experience speaks for itself. The North needed to be commanded from someone who  had the respect of lords and smallfolk alike.”

“And I do not?” Alysanne pressed.

Rodrik lowered his gaze, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment. “In the end, it did not matter, my lady. The North rose for you, as much as it did for Bran.”

The tension between them hung thick in the air, palpable and unresolved. Alysanne studied Rodrik, her mind churning. Did he see her as a potential threat in the long term? A regent unwilling to relinquish power when the time came? His insistence on marriage, on propriety, was starting to make more sense. He likely believed she would step aside willingly if she had her own keep and children to occupy her time.

She pushed aside the bitterness threatening to rise. Rodrik was not her enemy.

Reaching for a folded letter on her desk, Alysanne slid it across to him. “This came today.”

Rodrik took the parchment, his sharp eyes scanning the words. As he read, his expression darkened, lines deepening across his face. “How long has this been happening?” he demanded, his voice low with anger.

“Since the Ryswell men were sent to the Wall,” Alysanne replied evenly. “They never made it. The smallfolk learned who they were and took justice into their own hands. The youngest was three-and-ten.”

Rodrik’s fists clenched, his face flushing with restrained outrage. “This is no justice. These lynchings cannot be allowed to continue.”

“It is loyalty,” Alysanne countered, her voice sharpening. “Loyalty to House Stark. I cannot hang men for defending our honor, even if it was brutal.”

“This kind of devotion is dangerous,” Rodrik shot back. “It sets a precedent. If you condone this, you condone chaos. What’s to stop them from turning on others when it suits them?”

Alysanne leaned forward, her gray eyes like storm clouds. “What chaos? The Bolton lands have been quiet of late. No talk of the Lord’s Right or worse. Barrowton has been reshaped, firmly loyal to House Stark. The Ryswells are finished, their lands absorbed into our domain. Tell me, Ser Rodrik, why should I prosecute smallfolk for rising against oathbreakers and traitors?”

Rodrik’s voice dropped to a grave tone. “What does Lord Stark think of this?”

Alysanne’s expression hardened. “Lord Stark,” she said icily, “is a boy of not yet ten. I am his regent. It is my duty to shield him from the darker truths of ruling. Let him focus on growing into a just and beloved lord. Let him meet his people as a boy unburdened.”

Rodrik’s gaze lingered on her, his jaw tightening as if weighing unspoken thoughts. But Alysanne had said enough. She straightened in her chair.

Finally, Rodrik gave a reluctant nod. “A progress, then.”

Alysanne allowed her tone to soften. “Yes. He and Arya both. They’ll visit Coldbrook to appoint its governor in person, spend a few days at Rillwater, and attend Lady Gisella’s wedding at Torrhen’s Square. From there, they’ll travel to Deepwood Motte and visit Aunt Sybelle.”

Rodrik stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Your father often said there was wisdom in progress.”

Alysanne’s faint smile lingered. “Yes,” she murmured, her thoughts drifting to memories of her own childhood. She had followed her father on such tours, though Lady Stark had refused to have her in the keep. Her father had ensured she wasn’t left behind, taking her everywhere as a reminder of her place. Later, Theon Greyjoy had joined their shadow—a second stray under her father’s care.

“We’ll plan further travels on the return,” she added, shaking off the weight of nostalgia. “The Barrowlands, perhaps. Even the Fingers, if time allows.”

Rodrik’s voice grew heavier, laced with concern. “And Rickon? The boy is wild. I worry for him.”

“He’s young,” Alysanne replied, her tone softening with understanding. “But he grieves as we all do. Winterfell is his home. He belongs here, and I mean to help him find his footing.”

Rodrik inclined his head, though there was a flicker of sadness in his expression. “It seems you’ll have little use for me.”

“If you won’t take up the role of Governor, which I respect, then I cannot deny you your rest, Ser Rodrik. You’ve earned it a hundred times over.”

Alysanne reached for another folded letter on her desk and passed it to him. “I’ve been preparing this for Bran.”

Rodrik took the parchment, his eyes scanning the lines. His brows furrowed before rising in surprise. “A lordship?”

“Your family have been the Knight of King’s Course for generations. I cannot grant you much more land, but the villages of Emmsbirch and Cutter’s Wood, near your hall, will be yours.”

Rodrik exhaled slowly, as though the weight of the words finally settled on him. “More than enough, my lady,” he said quietly. His voice cracked with emotion as he added, “A legacy for Beth.” His frown returned, thoughtful and hesitant. “My little girl—now the heir to a lordship.”

Alysanne offered a small, reassuring smile. “I imagine you’re worried. That’s why I have a proposal for her future. Or rather, for Beth.”

Rodrik’s posture straightened, his interest piqued. “Who?”

“Olyvar Frey,” she replied without hesitation. “He’s loyal and steady—a good man. Arthur knighted him during the war, and though he has a few years on Beth, that only makes him better suited to protect her.”

Rodrik considered this for a moment before nodding. “A knight who will keep her safe,” he murmured. “I’ll see the boy myself.”

Alysanne gave him a satisfied nod, allowing him to take his leave. As the door closed softly behind him, she reached for the next letter waiting on her desk. There were still hours of work ahead. She replied to Lyessa Flint with quick, practiced strokes of her quill, though her eyes kept straying to another letter bearing a broken lilac seal.

Her hand froze mid-sentence, and she let out a slow sigh, setting the quill down. She pinched the bridge of her nose, massaging the tension from her temples. That letter. She needed to reply to Ashara—needed to find the right words to soothe her worries—but how? What could she say that wouldn’t ring hollow?

A soft flutter of wings broke the silence. The raven perched on her shoulder, its small claws pressing into her gown. Alysanne gave the bird a curt nod, resolving to call Harwin. She’d instruct him to ensure she was not disturbed for the next few hours. Harwin, ever loyal, would think nothing of it; her solitude was nothing unusual.

As the raven took flight, she leaned back in her chair, exhaustion tugging at her. Her mind cataloged the growing list of tasks yet undone. A new captain of the guard needed appointing. A master-at-arms to replace Rodrik. Another score of guards to secure Winterfell.

She pressed her fingers against her forehead, closing her eyes. Beyond the walls, the raven flew.

.

.

The early morning light filtered through the windows of the private solar of the Stark family, illuminating the long table where the Stark children sat together. The fire crackled in the hearth, warding off the chill of the Northern morning. Bran, Arya, and Rickon were busy breaking their fast, their plates piled with bread, bacon, and steaming porridge.

“Why can’t you come with us?” Arya asked abruptly, her tone tinged with frustration as she pushed her porridge around her bowl.

Alysanne smiled faintly, meeting her sister’s stormy gaze. “Because, Arya, Rickon and I will remain as the Starks in Winterfell,” she replied gently. “Winterfell must always have a Stark, and as Bran’s regent, I have responsibilities here. But you will have Lady Nera with you, and there’s no better guide for you and Bran.”

Arya’s frown deepened, but she didn’t argue further. Rickon, however, perked up from his seat at the mention of their youngest aunt. “Lady Nera?” he asked, his face brightening. “Is she the one who taught us to make snow birds?”

“Yes,” Alysanne said, her voice warming. “She’s also the one who taught Arya how to embroider with her left hand.”

“I still hate embroidery,” Arya muttered, earning a chuckle from Bran.

Alysanne let herself relax a little, the tension of the morning easing as she thought of Lady Nera Flint. At nine-and-thirty, Nera was the image of a Northern lady: tall, lithe, and severe, with stony features and piercing grey eyes. Like her elder sister, Lady Lyessa of Widow’s Watch, Nera had wed a cousin in a double marriage meant to consolidate Flint inheritance. While Lady Lyessa ruled the stronghold and took care of her three children, Nera had borne four children—three daughters and a son—while traveling alongside her late husband, Owen Flint. Unlike most Northern lords, Owen had been a wanderer, and Nera had accompanied him on his journeys, gaining an education few Northern women could rival.

“I am glad you like your governess so much,” Alysanne said, setting her cup of tea down.

Lady Nera had been put to the task  to teach her siblings all she knew  of the North, its people, and its history. She wasn’t  just there to teach Arya northern dances, the flute, and sewing but also mathematics, geography, and even some healing arts. Most of all, she was hired to teach  her siblings the importance of  household management.

Bran leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “Lady Nera always said we should be prepared for winter—more than just storing food. She talked about helping the smallfolk, too.”

Alysanne nodded approvingly. “Exactly. You’ll learn more from her during your travels. And you won’t be going alone. Twenty skilled guards will accompany you with Ser Arthur,” Alysanne said carefully, but before she could say more, Bran interrupted.

“No,” Bran said firmly. “Ser Arthur should stay here. You need him to keep you safe.”

“You should still come,” Arya said, “that way Ser Arthur can come too.”

“You’ll have Smalljon Umber, Jorella and Lyra Mormont, and Ser Wendel Manderly,” Alysanne countered. “They’ll be by your side the entire time, helping with the political matters you’ll face.”

Bran’s face twisted with frustration. “But I want you with us.”

Alysanne’s heart twinged at his words, but she kept her tone even. “Bran, the North needs to see you. Without me shadowing you, they’ll recognize you as their true lord, not just my brother.”

Bran scowled but didn’t argue further. Arya leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “At least Theon’s coming,” she muttered. “He’s used to traveling with Father.”

“Yes,” Alysanne confirmed. “He’ll keep you safe. He knows the North’s roads better than most.”

The table fell silent for a moment as they returned to their meals. Alysanne took the opportunity to ask, “How are your lessons progressing?”

Bran perked up, his earlier annoyance fading. “Maester Luwin says I’m improving at reading maps. I like learning about healing, though.”

Alysanne blinked in surprise. “Healing?”

Bran nodded earnestly. “I want to know how to help my people—how to mend them if they’re hurt.”

Alysanne smiled, her pride evident. “That’s a noble pursuit, Bran. I’m proud of you.”

Arya, not to be outdone, piped up. “I want to learn how to build a castle.”

Alysanne laughed softly, ruffling Arya’s hair. “Of course you do.”

“And I just want to ride my horse,” Rickon added, his face smudged with porridge.

Alysanne’s gaze softened as she looked at her youngest brother. “I’m proud of you all,” she said sincerely.

Rickon slid out of his chair and ran to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “You’re our mother,” he said fiercely, his small voice muffled against her dress.

Alysanne froze, her hands hovering uncertainly before resting on Rickon’s back. “No, Rickon,” she said gently, her voice thick with emotion. “Lady Catelyn is your mother.”

Arya’s face darkened. “She left us. I don’t want anything to do with her.”

Bran’s expression mirrored Arya’s anger. “Her letter was clear enough. She won’t apologize to you.”

Alysanne’s throat tightened. She glanced away, her mind drifting to Lady Catelyn in the Vale. What was her life like now? Alysanne’s frustration grew as she recalled Robert Baratheon’s decision to overrule Stannis and leave Baelish and Lysa in control of the regency there. She thought of Lord Stark’s fondness for his time in the Vale, for Lord Yohn Royce and the sturdy, honorable lords of the mountains. But despite her lingering doubts, she couldn’t bring herself to suggest fostering Arya or Bran there. Not yet.

Clearing her throat, she returned her attention to her siblings. “We must focus on the future,” she said firmly. “The Survey is nearly complete, and I’ll teach you more about it before you leave. You’ll see why food stores, firewood, and community matter so much in the North.”

Arya groaned. “We’re not stupid, Alysanne. We know that.”

Bran leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “What about Old Nan’s stories? Do they teach us anything?”

Alysanne’s appetite disappeared at the mention of Old Nan’s tales, her mind momentarily clouded by darker thoughts. But she forced herself to reply. “The stories remind us of the importance of preparation. Winter is harsh, but we’re stronger together. Don’t forget that your people depend on you.”

The children fell quiet, absorbing her words. Alysanne allowed herself a small, wistful smile. “You’re all going to do great things,” she said softly.

Rickon’s arms tightened around her, and Bran and Arya exchanged glances, their annoyance melting into something warmer. For a moment, it felt like they were all a happy family once more.

.

.

The solar was dimly lit, the late morning light struggling against heavy clouds outside. Alysanne sat at a large oak table, its surface crowded with maps, lists of inventory, and reports from the bannermen. Maester Luwin stood beside her, his face a mask of calm concentration as he pointed at a map of the surrounding lands.

“This region here, near the White Knife, could still be cultivated,” Luwin said, his tone thoughtful. “The soil remains fertile, though the harvests would likely be modest.”

“And here?” Alysanne gestured toward the lands west of Deepwood Motte.

Luwin shook his head. “Too rocky and cold. The snow is already creeping south in patches. The soil wouldn’t support even barley or rye.”

Alysanne leaned back, her fingers steepled under her chin as she oversaw the marked map. There were more places that couldn’t be cultivated than those who could.

 “The Citadel hasn’t sent confirmation of autumn yet,” Luwin added. “Without their declaration, it’s possible we might still have more time.”

Alysanne frowned. “You don’t feel it, Maester?”

Luwin tilted his head, curious.

“Autumn is here,” she said firmly. “The air carries it. The animals are moving differently. It won’t be long now before the Citadel sends a raven.”

Luwin’s brow furrowed. “If you’re correct, my lady, there’s still the matter of manpower. We lack the labor to cultivate on the scale you propose. The men are spread thin enough.”

Alysanne’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Then we’ll prioritize the most fertile lands and the crops that can survive even the frost. Carrots, cabbages, turnips. Anything we grow now, we’ll store for the years to come.” She paused, her gaze hardening. “The North is already close to its limit. Even with the stores we’ve set aside, it may not be enough. Not if we consider the possibility of a decade-long winter.”

Luwin adjusted his chain, a small frown tugging at his lips. “Long summers don’t guarantee long winters, my lady.”

“Perhaps,” Alysanne replied, knowing she was correct. “But I’d rather overprepare than leave the North vulnerable. If the worst comes, I will not have Winterfell look to the South for aid.”

“Why not?” Luwin asked cautiously. “The Baratheons are your allies, and there is a strong bond now with the Reach. Surely, they would provide assistance in such a dire time.”

Alysanne let out a dry laugh. “Do you believe Mace Tyrell would loosen his purse strings because we’re kin? Or that he would send us food at a fair price simply because I married his son? They will care little for it. I may be able to count with some of the Riverlands for support, but if they own people need the food? Our people mostly rely on themselves and the land they’ve toiled over for centuries, with a few exceptions.”

Luwin’s expression turned contemplative. “Perhaps it would be wise to strengthen southern alliances, then. Arya and Bran are more than of age to be betrothed.”

Alysanne’s hand paused over the map she’d been studying. Despite it being just five days since her siblings had left for their progress, she felt their absence acutely. A pang of longing made her voice softer when she replied, “Bran will marry a Northerner. After everything that has happened, it’s what the people need to see.”

Luwin hesitated. “Isolation does not benefit the North, my lady.”

“Nor does forgetting who we are,” Alysanne countered, her tone resolute.

They were silent for a moment, the tension thick between them, until Luwin cautiously broached another subject. “There is, of course, the possibility of a royal marriage.”

Alysanne’s eyes narrowed. “A royal marriage?”

“The king has no legitimate heirs yet, but should Robert and Queen Margaery have a child, it might be worth considering. There’s also Shireen Baratheon.”

Alysanne sighed, rubbing her temples. “I’ll think on it, Maester. But for now, my concerns are with food stores and preparing for winter. Alliances will mean nothing if the people starve.”

Luwin observed her quietly, his gaze shrewd. “Is that what you intend for the restoration of the First Keep? To make it a storage site?”

Alysanne nodded slowly. “In part. It would serve as both a granary and a refuge. But I still don’t know how to make it work. I’ll need architects, someone capable of managing such a project.”

“I’ll send word to the Citadel” Luwin promised. “Lord Stark’s bookkeeping has been meticulous. With the funds King Robert provided, the project is feasible.”

Alysanne’s lips quirked into a small, humorless smile. “For once, his coin might be put to good use.”

Luwin hesitated, then broached a more delicate subject. “And the… production of moon tea? Are you still planning to proceed on that scale?”

Alysanne’s gaze sharpened, her tone unyielding. “Yes. Women in the North often use it during the winter years. A healthy, living woman is worth more to her family and community than one dead from complications or starvation. Dead women and children don’t tend to work.”

Luwin opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor. A moment later, Samwell Tarly appeared, breathless and clutching a sealed letter in his trembling hands.

“My lady,” Samwell said, his voice shaking as much as his hands. “A raven arrived—from the king.”

Alysanne’s heart stopped for a fraction of a second, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. “Take it to my office,” she said calmly. Rising from her chair, she glanced back at Luwin. “Send for Ser Arthur. At once.”

As Samwell scurried away, clutching the letter like it might explode, Alysanne followed with a steady stride. But inside, her mind raced with possibilities, her stomach a tight knot. Whatever news awaited her, it would demand all the strength she could muster.

.

.

The hearth in Alysanne's chambers crackled faintly, but the warmth did little to ease the chill that gripped her. She sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, clutching Ghost’s thick white fur. The direwolf sat unmoving, sensing her torment, her glowing red eyes filled with quiet understanding.

The raven’s message lay discarded on the floor.

Her shoulders trembled, a faint quiver at first, but it spread through her body like frost creeping over a windowpane. She tried to hold it back, clenching her jaw, willing herself to stillness, but the dam inside her gave way. A sob tore from her throat, jagged and raw, then another, until the room filled with the sound of cries of grief.

Ghost nudged her hand, her cold nose pressing against her trembling fingers, a low whine coming from her. Alysanne buried her face in her fur, clutching her as though the direwolf was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.

Her words spilled out in broken fragments, each one a shard of glass. “Viserys… Daenerys… they had nothing left but each other… Why?” Her voice cracked. “Why do this? After all this time, why now?”

Her mind spiraled, dragged down by the weight of her anguish. Maester Aemon’s words came unbidden, his sorrowful voice echoing from the Wall. He had carried his grief for decades, and now it was her turn to bear the unbearable.

The faces of the dead blurred in her mind, shifting and blending—Daenerys as a child, bright and full of life; Viserys as a babe in his mother’s arms. They were half-dornish, this version of them. But then their faces twisted, became Lord Stark’s, his steady gaze boring into her, stern and unyielding. Judging her.

Her chest heaved, the ache spreading until it felt like her heart might burst. She pressed her face harder into Ghost’s fur, her voice breaking. “Why do they leave me to fight alone? Why always me?”

She clung to Ghost, her fingers twisting into his thick coat, as if holding him could keep her from slipping into the abyss. Tears soaked the wolf’s fur, and her whispers turned to incoherence, fragments of thoughts she couldn’t hold together.

The three heads of the dragon. The words came unbidden, taunting her. Viserys. Daenerys. Me. She let out a bitter, humorless laugh that turned into a sob. Images flashed before her—ice cracking, snow falling, the blue glow of unearthly eyes.

“I’m the last,” she whispered, her voice hollow and devoid of hope. “And I’m not even a useful one.”

The door burst open, and Arthur Dayne strode in, his face pale and drawn with worry. “Alysanne!” he shouted.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She could only rock back and forth, her fingers clutching Ghost, her tears flowing unchecked as her mind spun further out of control. Could she have stopped this? Had she been to focused on the North? Why didn’t she sent someone to Essos?

Arthur dropped to his knees beside her, his hands gripping her shoulders, his touch grounding. “Alysanne, look at me!”

Slowly, her head lifted, her tear-streaked face turning to him. The depth of pain in her eyes made him flinch.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice thick with concern. “What has done this to you?”

She swallowed hard, forcing the confession out past the lump in her throat. “They’re gone,” she whispered, the admission breaking her all over again. “Viserys… Daenerys… their children are they are gone. They’re gone…”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening even as he pulled her into his arms. She collapsed against him, her trembling growing worse as the memories resurfaced—their bodies presented in the Throne Room like trophies, the apathy on the faces of those who watched.

“The gods…” she choked out, her voice muffled against his chest. “The gods are so cruel, Uncle Arthur. So cruel.”

Arthur held her tighter, his hand cradling the back of her head as if to shield her from the world. He said nothing, his silence a steady presence against her unraveling.

Her sobs began to quiet, though the tears didn’t stop. She pulled back slightly, enough to meet his gaze, her face etched with raw, unfiltered anguish.

“It’s time,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “It’s time for Robert Baratheon to breathe his last.”

Arthur froze, his eyes searching hers. But there was no doubt in her gaze, only a grief so profound that it had turned into something cold and sharp.

“Alysanne…” he began, but the words failed him.

She looked away, her fingers brushing against Ghost’s fur once more. “The gods have given us no justice,” she said, her voice flat. “We’ll take it ourselves.”

Arthur remained silent, his grip on her tightening as if afraid she might crumble entirely. And perhaps she already had.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19 – Arthur IV

                Moon 4, 300 AC

Arthur entered the room quietly, the door closing softly behind him. His eyes immediately settled on Alysanne, who sat hunched over a stack of ledgers, her brow furrowed in concentration. Papers, maps, and the Great Surrey were scattered across her large desk, an organized chaos that was so like her.

"How is it looking?" Arthur asked, his voice cutting through the silence. He moved toward the desk and sat across from Alysanne.

Alysanne glanced up from her work, her expression unwavering. "The harvest is good," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with weariness. "The North can feed itself for three to four years, especially if we get one more good harvest before winter."

Arthur exhaled a relieved breath. "That’s great news."

Alysanne nodded, but there was a shadow in her eyes that cut the optimism of her words. "It’s great news for the North, but that’s all. I can feed only the North. We will have to plan carefully to make sure we’re prepared for what’s coming."

Arthur leaned against the edge of the desk, folding his arms as he studied her. He saw the fatigue lining her face, but also the fierce determination that refused to give way. "Are you still thinking about the Wildlings?" he asked, his voice softer now. "Is there really any chance of peace with them?"

Her lips twisted slightly, a look of frustration flickering across her face before it disappeared, replaced by resolve. "We have to try," she said, her tone unyielding. "I know it’s difficult, but we can’t afford to ignore them. The Wall can’t stand forever, and neither can we. We need to make a deal with Mance Rayder."

Arthur felt a knot tighten in his chest, a deep sense of unease settling in his gut. "I don’t see it working," he said. "Between the cultural differences, the legal issues, and a thousand years of fighting... We have food, land, yes. But the North won’t like seeing their food and lands go to those they’ve fought for generations. How could we possibly trust them after all that’s happened?"

Alysanne met his gaze without flinching, her eyes steady and unblinking. "We have to try," she repeated, her voice unwavering. "The alternative is war—and more bodies for our enemy. We need Mance on our side, and he needs us to survive. He doesn’t have the strength to hold the wildlings together on his own anymore. I’m willing to take the risk, Arthur. We have no choice."

Arthur considered her words, the weight of them pressing down on him. He stared at her for a long moment, his mind racing. The idea of trusting the Wildlings, of trying to broker peace with them, felt impossible. But Alysanne’s conviction made him pause, made him wonder if perhaps he was underestimating the situation.

He nodded slowly, his voice quieter now. "I’ll follow your lead."

Alysanne’s lips twitched into the barest of smiles, a fleeting thing, but it was there. "I don’t take that lightly."

Arthur straightened up, taking a deep breath. "What else is weighing on you?"

Alysanne shifted in her chair, reaching for a fresh letter that had arrived. She hesitated for a moment, then sighed, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "Stannis Baratheon sent a letter. There’s been tension between the Hand of the King and the regency in the Vale. Stannis wants Lord Royce in charge, not Baelish through Lysa. He wants to foster young Lord Arryn with someone who can toughen him up, but Robert has been overruling it and the discontent lords of the Vale continue writing to the Hand. Lord Stannis hopes I side with him. The situation is... not good."

Arthur gave a short, humorless laugh. "Robert’s the biggest fan of Baelish’s whorehouses. They must be getting along well for years. With Jon Arryn to knock some political sense into Robert, it  should be expected this would happen"

Alysanne’s brow furrowed, and she muttered, "I’ll bet." She moved to another letter, the frustration clear in her voice. "I just wish they’d leave me in peace to handle the North. It’s all I can manage right now."

"What about the West?" Arthur asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

"Devan Lannister’s letters continue," Alysanne sighed deeply, her exhaustion becoming evident. "Pushing for the Bolton marriage. Tywin’s pushing for a Stark-Lannister one too, especially now that Sarya is pregnant." Her expression darkened, and Arthur could see the weight of the news settling on her shoulders. But then he realized her last words.

"Pregnant?" he asked, surprised. "Sarya?"

Alysanne nodded. "Yes. She’s pregnant. I only know because of her letter. It’s far too soon to make any announcements, though. We need to keep that quiet."

Arthur was silent for a moment, digesting the implications. "How involved do you want to be with the South?" he asked cautiously, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched her stiffen. Alysanne paused mid-motion, as though caught off guard by the question.

She met his gaze, her eyes clouded with something he couldn’t quite place. "I wish I didn’t need to be involved at all," she said slowly. "I need stability here. The South is a mess, and I don’t know if I’m ready to walk into the brewing storm. We have our own problems in the North."

Arthur couldn’t shake the anger that still burned within him. "You know I want Robert dead," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I want that. I want a future with no Baratheon on the throne."

Alysanne’s face tightened. "We need stability. Mance Rayder will likely attack the Wall soon, and we need someone at the Wall to broker peace with him—someone the North will trust, someone who can convince them of the real problem."

Arthur tilted his head, confused. "What do you mean?"

Alysanne hesitated, "I want to go to the Wall after the funeral."

Arthur’s mind raced. "The Wall?" His voice edged with disbelief. "You want to go there after all this? When you know war in the South is a likelihood with each passing day?"

Alysanne’s gaze hardened, and she spoke with an unyielding certainty. "Yes. Mance will come, and I need to be there."

Arthur’s heart sank as he realized what she was asking. He wanted to protest, to demand she stay, but he knew better. She wasn’t the type to ask for help unless it was absolutely necessary.

"But who will manage here while you’re gone?" Arthur asked, his voice low.

Alysanne met his gaze evenly, her eyes unwavering. "You."

Arthur blinked, caught off guard. "I can’t administer the North. I’m Dornish."

Alysanne didn’t flinch. "You understand the North better than most, and I trust you more than anyone," she said, her voice firm. "The triumvirate was supposed to work when I was away. Lord Wyman Manderly oversees the taxes, Smalljon handles justice... Roose Bolton handled the administration."

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. "Roose Bolton’s dead. But we still have a formidable competent Lord of the Dreadfort’s."

Alysanne’s tone became sharp. "I know that. But I can’t make Domeric my right hand. Not with the tensions between us. And his complete refusal to marry a Lannister—of all people!"

Arthur felt a slight smile tug at the corner of his lips. "There’s no problem with Domeric. He’s the number one lord in the North you can trust."

Alysanne’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but she didn’t respond to the challenge in his words. Instead, she said abruptly, "Willas is coming North."

Arthur blinked in confusion. "For what?"

Alysanne’s lips quirked into a thin, tired smile. "He’s had enough of his family and the games in the South."

Arthur stared at her for a moment, trying to make sense of it. "Well, I suppose that’ll make things interesting."

.

.

The snow crunched softly beneath their boots as Arthur stood by Alysanne, watching the solemn procession approach Winterfell’s gates. The air was crisp, heavy with the weight of mourning, and the stark silence was only broken by the muffled sounds of hooves on the packed snow. Two simple coffins were borne forward by riders, draped in black banners but without the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Alysanne, cloaked in black and grey, her head held high despite the chill in the air, stood unmoving and alone since she had insisted the young Starks remain inside. Yet, despite her poise, Arthur could see the tension in her jaw, the way her hands gripped the folds of her heavy cloak.

The so called mourners arrived, Arthur’s sharp eyes scanned the arrivals. He expected Baratheon and Tyrell cronied but instead his breath caught up to him.

Prince Oberyn Martell dismounted his horse with practiced grace, assisting a woman down from her horse. Prudence. She was veiled in mourning garb of dark grey and black, the high-necked white chemise beneath her bodice offering protection from the northern chill. She moved with a somber dignity, leaning briefly on Oberyn’s arm before walking toward Alysanne. Her face was mournful and heartbreaking.

But before he could continue thinking what the Red Viper was doing with Prudence, Arthur’s attention was soon stolen by another figure. His heart seemed to stop, a shock colder than the northern winds coursing through him. It had been almost twenty years since the war, yet here he was—Jon Connington.

The fiery red beard that had once been Connington’s pride was gone, replaced by a short, grizzled one of only a week’s growth. His face bore the marks of time and hardship, lined and worn, but there was something unbroken in his bearing. A quiet strength, a poise that seemed more formidable than in his youth. Arthur’s mind flashed back to the letter Robert Baratheon had sent Ned Stark all those years ago, cold and curt in its delivery of grief: Jon Connington, dead. A death Robert had only bothered to send a note to the Lord of Winterfell, not just because he’d once been Aerys’s Hand, but as a slap in Arthur’s face.

Yet here Connington was, alive and strong. And ignoring him.

“Lady Alysanne,” Jon’s voice was deep, measured as he greeted the regent, barely sparing Arthur a glance, kissing her hand gently and with great care.

Arthur wanted to punch him, to shout at him for making him mourn so deeply, for making Arthur carrying a burden that apparently hadn’t even been true. But he held his tongue, his knuckles tightening in frustration at his sides.

The introductions continued as another man stepped forward, tall and slender, with striking features that commanded attention. His angular face was framed by dark hair, his eyes sharp and knowing.

“I am Laswell Peake,” he said, bowing slightly. His voice was smooth and composed, though his accent carried a trace of some esssosi accent. His skin tone also hinted at some other family connection. Peakes were dark skinned, after all.  

Alysanne’s brow lifted slightly, betraying a flicker of surprise. “Peake?” she echoed. “Are you by chance related to Lord Titus Peake?”

Laswell offered a faint smile, polite yet distant. “Distantly, my lady. It has been a few generations since my branch separated from the so-called main line.”

Alysanne inclined her head, her expression softening with understanding. “I see. Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Laswell. I trust you will not mind that it is the mere regent who greets you.”

Laswell’s dark eyes glinted with something unreadable as he replied, “I could not have been welcomed better, Lady Alysanne.”

Arthur watched the exchange, noting the ease with which Alysanne commanded the situation despite the somber occasion. She turned to Prudence, her voice softening as she offered words that only the two women could hear. Prudence’s composure faltered, and she surprised Arthur by hugging Alysanne tightly in return as she whispered some words back.

Then Willas Tyrell approached, his presence instantly shifting the mood. There was tension there, an unspoken weight in the air, but the way he moved toward Alysanne was steady, unhurried. Arthur could sense the history between them, an intimacy that lingered in the way Willas’s eyes found hers with ease.

Taking her gloved hands in his, Willas kissed them softly, his lips curving into a warm smile. “Winter has done nothing to dull your radiance, my lady,” he said with quiet affection. “I feared the cold would steal you away entirely, but I see now my fears were misplaced.”

Alysanne’s lips twitched into a faint smile, her tone lightening as she replied, “You flatter me, my lord.”

Willas held her hands for a moment longer before adding, “I missed your letters, but not nearly as much as I missed seeing you in good health and spirits.”

To Arthur’s astonishment, Alysanne leaned forward and kissed Willas lightly on the cheek. “And I have missed you, husband,” she said simply, her voice low but sincere.

Arthur studied her carefully, noting the flicker of something genuine in her gaze as she looked at Willas. She wasn’t lying.

The moment passed quickly as Alysanne turned back to the gathered mourners, her poise returning. But Arthur couldn’t shake the strange mixture of emotions that swirled within him—grief for the past, anger at old wounds, and an unspoken sense of foreboding for what lay ahead.

.

.

The fire crackled softly in Lord Stark’s receiving chamber. Alysanne sat at the head of the room, as  Arthur sat nearby, with a goblet in hand, his sharp gaze flicking between the gathered faces. Oberyn sprawled languidly in his chair, exuding a dangerous ease, while Prudence sat quietly by his side, her expression unreadable. Across from them, Laswell Peake nursed a warm drink, his slender fingers wrapped tightly around the mug as if drawing strength from its heat.

After a measured sip, Laswell broke the silence. “When they came for the Targaryen children,” he began, his voice steady but laced with something heavy, “they didn’t just take them. Viserys was dining with a mother and her daughter when it happened.”

Prudence shifted slightly, her brows knitting. “A mother and daughter?”

Laswell nodded. “Larra and her child, Daella. They spared the girl, but Larra... she didn’t survive. A cruel twist, given her dreams of seeing Westeros, of being buried among her kin.”

Alysanne’s gaze sharpened. “What of her husband? Does he live?”

Laswell set his mug down and clasped his hands. “Luco Prestayn complied with her wishes. Her body will be laid to rest as she wanted, near her family. He’s taken on the care of their daughter now.”

Arthur’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on his goblet as Alysanne stiffened. “Luco Prestayn?” she repeated, her tone edged with disbelief.

Oberyn leaned forward, a smirk curling his lips. “Oh, Alysanne,” he drawled, his voice laced with mockery. “Surely you know the name well enough. Luco Prestayn—his brother, if you recall, is the great Ashara Dayne’s lover. You’ve heard the whispers. The mother people claim is your mother.”

Alysanne didn’t even blink at the provocation. Her tone remained cool as she turned back to Laswell. “No matter her lineage or her previous intentions, I will do what I can for Larra. Blackfyre or Targaryen, it matters little now. They deserve as proper a burial as I can provide. The question is—what faith did they follow?”

Laswell’s expression softened slightly. “Larra was raised in Lys,” he explained, “but in her later years, she turned to the Faith of the Seven. She was close to a Septa Lemore, who was more like a sister to her than a confidante. She’d want to be buried with Faith rites, but... cremated like a Targaryen.”

There was a heavy pause before Arthur’s voice cut through the quiet. “Viserys and Daenerys were also raised by the Faith.”

All eyes turned to him. Arthur met their gazes, his tone unyielding. “Let’s stop pretending. Everyone in this room knows more of each other’s plots and schemes than they let on. There’s no point in denying it.”

Oberyn’s smirk widened. “Indeed,” he said, his tone lazy. “It’s why I’ve always wondered why Viserys was planning to marry the Blackfyre girl, as he was betrothed to Arianne. Surely those around him would know of it.”

Laswell opened his mouth to respond, but Alysanne cut in sharply. “Marriage pacts made by Willem Darry carried no weight,” she said, her tone decisive. “Unlike Prince Oberyn, I don’t have six links of a maester’s chain or the luxury of being raised as a prince of Dorne, but even I know that much. The pact was a tool to pressure Viserys into acting the part of a king and put Martell’s back as the second family in the realm… if he ever returned that is. He didn’t. If not for...” She hesitated, her eyes flickering briefly to Arthur. “If not for his allies, the Targaryen children would’ve starved long ago. Those plans, whatever they were, died with Viserys and the last Blackfyres.”

Oberyn’s golden eyes gleamed dangerously. “But there’s still Daella Prestayn to crown,” he said smoothly.

Laswell scoffed, his usual composure giving way to open disdain. “The girl is ten. She looks more Braavosi than Targaryen. Worse, Luco has no interest in playing the Game of Thrones. Whatever his feelings for Larra, his daughter is another matter entirely. She’s traumatized. He won’t put her through more of this madness. He has no reason to risk his very secure, rich and powerful position in Braavos for the idea of a crown.”

For the first time, Jon Connington spoke, his voice quiet but cold. “And yet, here I am. Told for years that all that was left of House Targaryen were fake dragons and mad sons. Now, I find Rhaegar’s daughter before me.” His sharp gaze fixed on Alysanne. “A woman raised in Westeros, proven in battle and council, married to a Tyrell. Why aren’t we crowning you?”

Arthur tensed, ready to interject, but Alysanne raised a hand to stop him. She met Connington’s gaze evenly. “I have no interest in war,” she said, her voice firm. “At least, not that war.”

Oberyn’s voice was soft but cutting. “No, her eyes are on the North.”

Alysanne’s focus snapped to him. “And what do you mean by that, Prince Oberyn?” she asked, her tone laced with warning.

Oberyn leaned back, his expression one of feigned nonchalance. “I’ve been to the Isle of Faces. I’ve seen the truth of what lies ahead. Perhaps Rhaegar did, too. But unless you plan to march the entirety of Westeros to the Isle, how exactly do you intend to unite them all?”

The tension in the room thickened as Alysanne’s voice broke the uneasy silence. “I’ll find a way to convince them,” she said, her words laced with quiet determination.

Oberyn tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “I saw it with my own eyes, Alysanne. And even I have trouble believing it.” His tone was uncharacteristically grim, the usual humor in his words gone. “If the Others truly come back, a queen prepared for it is better than petty kings doing nothing.”

Connington frowned deeply, and Arthur wondered if he too had heard Rhaegar speak of this prophecies.

Alysanne rose from her seat, her cloak brushing the floor as she moved. Arthur followed her gaze to the window, where a raven sat perched in the pale light of dusk. Its black eyes glinted, unblinking, as if waiting for her command.

Alysanne met his gaze, unflinching. “Then we’ll work with Stannis,” she said simply.

At her words, the raven perched near the window stirred, letting out a sharp caw before flying closer, landing her arms. Its beady eyes fixed on her sternly, as if it disapproved of her choice.

Laswell’s brow furrowed as he broke the silence. “The Others,” he said slowly, his tone betraying his confusion. “What are they?”

Jon Connington snorted from his seat. “The Others are nothing more than winter monsters from old wives’ tales. Stories meant to scare children into behaving.”

Prudence’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “They’re real.”

All eyes turned to her, and Oberyn nodded in agreement. “The girl is right. They’re real, Connington.” He shifted slightly in his seat, the firelight casting sharp shadows on his face. “I’ve seen things in the far North, things that would chill even your black heart.”

Laswell’s gaze darted between Oberyn, Prudence, and Alysanne, skepticism and unease warring on his face. Finally, his eyes settled on Alysanne. “And what do you say to this, my lady? Monsters? Stories?”

“I say they’re more than stories,” Alysanne replied evenly. Her gaze drifted to Prudence, then back to Laswell. “And I say we’re running out of time to pretend otherwise. I know also how mad it sounds when I say it. But they have been haunting my dreams for years.”

The raven cocked its head. “Dragon,” it croaked. “Queen.”

Alysanne scowled at the bird. “Shut up,” she muttered under her breath, her voice low but unmistakably commanding.

Laswell leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “I have a gift for you,” he said softly. Reaching beside his chair, he lifted a small wooden chest, with no intricate work. Something a travel would use. He placed it gently on the table before him, its weight evident in the solid thud it made upon contact.

All eyes turned to the chest, curiosity thick in the air. Laswell’s hands hovered over the latch for a moment before he undid it with deliberate care. The lid creaked open, revealing its contents: nestled in soft, dark velvet lay three dragon eggs.

A sharp intake of breath was heard—Arthur wasn’t sure if it came from himself, Alysanne, or Prudence. The eggs were unlike anything he had ever seen. One gleamed a deep green with flecks of gold, another shimmered like pale silver streaked with veins of white, and the last was a rich, dark crimson, its surface glowing faintly as if it held embers within.

Alysanne’s face remained composed, though Arthur noticed her hands clench slightly on the arms of her chair. “Where did you find these?” she asked, her voice steady but tinged with something that sounded almost like awe.

Laswell’s gaze didn’t waver. “The Blackfyre’s spent all their time trying to find dragon eggs. According to rumours these came from Elissa Farman, I don’t know. I just know they’ve been passed between the family since. Once the Blackfyre line was spent, I decided to returned them to where they belong.”

The raven cawed sharply from its perch, flapping its wings as if in approval. “Dragon,” it croaked again, louder. “Queen.”

Alysanne’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes flicked toward the bird. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached out to touch the edge of the chest, her gloved fingers brushing the velvet that cradled the eggs.

“They turned to stone,” Laswell said, his voice reverent and low, “but the fire never truly dies.”

Arthur exchanged a glance with Prudence, whose expression was a mix of wonder and unease. “Not for long,” Oberyn murmured, his tone carrying a strange certainty.

Alysanne finally spoke, her voice calm yet filled with unyielding resolve. “Dragons belong to no one, least of all me,” she said, pulling her hand away from the chest. “But I will safeguard them. If they are to have a purpose, it will not be for crowns or thrones. After all, how can one defeat monsters made of ice?”

The room fell silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone present. Even Jon Connington seemed struck by the sight, though he quickly masked it with his usual stoic demeanor.

Alysanne turned her gaze to Oberyn, her voice calm but insistent. “You said you saw a dragon. I need to know exactly what you saw.”

Oberyn’s dark eyes held a flicker of something between curiosity and mischief, but his tone was grave as he replied. “I didn’t see just one dragon, Alysanne. I saw three. High above me, their wings blackened the sun. They were real as the wind on my face.”

Alysanne’s jaw tightened, and she turned to look at Prudence. Their eyes locked, and an unspoken understanding passed between them. Arthur noted the heaviness in their expressions, the unspoken words that neither seemed willing to voice aloud.

Connington broke the silence, his voice sharp and skeptical. “The last time anyone tried to bring back dragons, they nearly wiped out every Targaryen alive. None of us here—none in this world—know how to bring them back, even if such a thing were possible.”

The tension in the room deepened as his words settled over them.

Before anyone could reply, the raven flapped its wings sharply, drawing everyone’s attention. It hopped from its perch and glided down to land atop the chest, its talons gripping the wood with startling precision. Its dark, intelligent eyes fixed on the eggs beneath it, and it cawed loudly.

“Blood,” the bird croaked, the word slicing through the silence like a knife. “Blood.”

The air seemed to grow colder, and Alysanne’s face turned pale. No one spoke as the raven shifted, its beady gaze sweeping over the room as if daring anyone to challenge its proclamation.

.

.

Arthur leaned against the cold stone of the battlements, watching the archery training below. Theon and Alysanne moved among the girls, correcting stances and offering encouragement. The young trainees included Myrcella, Arya, Bethany Dustin, Lyanna Mormont, Minisa Mallister, Wylla Manderly, Marna Ashwood, and Branda Umber. Their determined expressions brought a rare smile to his face, though he kept it to himself.

Footsteps approached, breaking his quiet reverie. Arthur turned to see Jon Connington stepping beside him, his gaze also fixed on the training yard.

“I’m surprised to see so many ladies training,” Jon remarked, his tone neutral.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I expected disapproval.”

Jon gave a dry chuckle. “Exile has a way of giving a man new perspectives on life. Strength doesn’t come from gender, Ser Arthur.”

Arthur tries not to show his true feelings at the title, and stop himself from correcting it as a familiar voice joined the conversation. “I’d adore teaching them to wield a lance,” Oberyn said with a grin as he sauntered over. “I’ll have to write to my girls—especially Obara. She’d relish training with the girls.”

Jon’s lips twitched in amusement. “Have you recovered from young Lord Bran’s threats about Lady Arya?”

Oberyn laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of stealing away his beloved sisters for one of nephews. Besides, direwolves are deadly, and I rather like breathing. How does Willas sleep at night?”

“With one eye open,” Arthur replied dryly, though his attention shifted to the courtyard below. In the distance, Domeric Bolton engaged Smalljon Umber and Rodrik Forrester in sparring. The Bolton heir bested both in swift succession, his strikes precise and efficient.

“Bolton is deadlier than he looks,” Oberyn observed, watching the duel with interest.

Jon Connington nodded. “I see Arthur’s hand in his training.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “Domeric served as my page for a time, but he went to squire in the Vale.”

Oberyn smirked. “A demotion, then? Does it have anything to do with the tension between Bolton and Willas?”

Arthur’s frown deepened. “There are just rumors.”

Oberyn’s grin widened. “Rumors of a scandalous and romantic nature involving Bolton and Alysanne?”

Arthur’s silence spoke volumes, and Oberyn let out a low chuckle. “Just rumors. How dull.”

Arthur’s gaze wandered to Alysanne and Willas, who stood in animated conversation near the shooting range. She gestured toward the archery targets, while Willas motioned toward his bad leg. Their voices were low, but their body language betrayed a shared determination. Then, Alysanne turned to Arya, raising her voice loud enough to carry across the yard.

“Arya, what do you know of the Dothraki?” Alysanne called.

Arya straightened. “They’re horse people who shoot arrows from horseback. I want to learn that!”

Alysanne nodded, turning back to Willas. Arthur could almost hear their unspoken agreement.

Oberyn exhaled sharply. “Willas was a fine archer before his accident. Stupid of me not to think of the Dothraki.” He shifted his gaze to Myrcella. “The little lioness is better with a sword than a bow, though.”

Jon Connington’s eyebrows rose. “Better with a sword?”

Arthur nodded. “She has natural talent and trains daily.”

“What of the other northern lion?” Oberyn asked, his grin now playful. “What’s Jaime Lannister up to?”

“Training girls and boys at Torrhen’s Square,” Arthur replied. “Perhaps soon he’ll become a bear.”

Oberyn looked confused, while Jon Connington leaned closer. “Why save the Kingslayer, Arthur?”

Arthur hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “To draw Tywin Lannister into our camp.”

Oberyn’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of anger. “You should have kill him, not get in bed with him! I can’t believe that monster still breathes?”

“Not for long,” Arthur said. “But for now, we need him. Campaigns are where men like Tywin often meet their ends.”

Understanding settled between the three men.

Jon Connington broke the silence. “Alysanne doesn’t seem entirely set on the throne.”

Arthur’s expression grew thoughtful. “Her life of late has been full of unpleasant surprises. The youngest Stark children have grown attached to her, and she’s still focus on the North. I think all that has happened made her think to stay in the North forever.”

Jon Connington frowned. “She’s indecisive. That’s not good in a ruler.”

Athur scoffed. “She is not indecisive. She writes to Stannis Baratheon, and seems to think she can work with him. He earned her respect. It is hard to turn Alysanne against him.”

Oberyn leaned against the stone parapet, his gaze flicking over the training yard below. “Most of the lords hate Stannis, you know,” he said casually. “If half of his court weren’t against him and overruling his ideas, he’d have been dismissed ages ago.”

Arthur gave a faint shrug. “Alysanne isn’t exactly enamored with the lords either. She’s likely to be a new Aegon V if she takes the throne.”

Oberyn chuckled. “The Unlikely? I liked his rule well enough. Not perfect, but he tried to do right.”

Jon Connington, standing stiffly nearby, chimed in. “I have no problem bringing a few lords down. So long as we don’t all burn in another Summerhall, I’m fighting for her—Alysanne. Not Stannis Baratheon.”

Oberyn’s grin turned sharp. “Stannis wouldn’t last long as king. Especially not with the Reach. They’ll turn on him before the ink dries on his decrees.”

At that moment, the three men’s attention shifted below. Willas Tyrell, seated atop a horse, held a bow in his hands. He struggled to balance the weapon while maneuvering on horseback, but his determination was evident.

Oberyn watched with a raised eyebrow. “Now that’s ambitious.” His grin widened.

Arthur observed Willas in silence for a moment

“Let him try,” Arthur said at last, his voice low. “Sometimes, ambition grows from struggle.”

.

.

Arthur stood by the weirwood, the biting chill brushing against his exposed face. The fine silk white cloak of the Kingsguard draped over his shoulders did little to ward off the cold, but he hardly noticed. Nor did anyone comment his choice of cloak. His focus was on Alysanne. Her long curls were loose for the funeral, a Valyrian tradition, spilling over her shoulders and down her back. The white velvet robe she wore swished softly as she moved, the dark red fur lining it complementing the intricate weirwood embroidery. Red and white—mourning colors of the North.

Northern lords and ladies stood respectfully on his side of the pool, their faces pale and solemn in the flickering light of the torches. Prudence was at the front of the court, holding arms with the old Maester Aemon, who had just arrived the day before.

Alysanne stood alone by the water’s edge, the coffins of Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen before her. The tension in her stance was visible to him, even from a distance. He wondered if the others saw it too.

Arthur felt the familiar weight of grief settle in his chest. He glanced at Jon Connington beside him, who stared at the coffins with a stony expression. On his other side, Oberyn Martell shifted his weight, his ever-present smirk replaced by a rare moment of solemnity.

When Alysanne finally spoke, her voice rang clear and strong over the stillness.

“I do not know if Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen were raised in the faith of the Seven, the Valyrian one, or any other Essosi religion,” she began. “But I do know that most of the North’s dead are laid to rest in crypts or within the sacred grounds of Godswoods. The followers of the Seven are buried in Septs, and many Targaryens were laid to rest within those same Septs. But the Valyrians—they cremate their dead.”

Arthur’s gaze never left her, though he heard a quiet rustling among the crowd. Alysanne continued, her voice unwavering.

“I have learned, through readings and discussions with the Black Brothers, that cremation is common beyond the Wall too. Perhaps, once, the followers of the Old Gods practiced this tradition, just as the Valyrians did. Different cultures may separate us, but in some ways, they bring us together.”

She moved forward, lifting the torch high in her hand. The firelight cast a warm glow against her pale skin, the shadows dancing across her solemn features. She hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then whispered some word as she lowered the flame to Viserys' coffin. The wood caught quickly, the fire leaping hungrily over the kindling and spreading upward. She turned to Daenerys’ coffin and repeated the gesture.

As the flames roared to life, Arthur closed his eyes and prayed silently. His thoughts drifted to the lives lost, but most of all, he thought of the need for revenge inside him.

(Second line: Alysanne's black gown and her funeral robes | Last line: Jon Connington, Prudence Celtigar, Laswell Peake)

Chapter Text

Chapter 20 – Willas V

                Moon 4, 300 AC

The last time Willas Tyrell had visited Winterfell, it had taken him four days to steal a moment alone with Alysanne. This time, it took only two—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. When he entered her solar, he was struck by how little had changed. Alysanne still claimed the third-largest solar in Winterfell, rather than the grand chambers befitting the Lady of the castle. She remained, in all ways that mattered, very much Alysanne.

She sat at her broad, dark desk, which was as orderly as ever, despite being piled high with ledgers and letters. Her simple blue gown, paired with a high-necked chemise, spoke of practicality rather than ostentation, yet it couldn’t mask her natural beauty. She glanced up at him, her expression softening briefly as she greeted him.

“Good morning, husband,” she said, setting her quill aside. Willas couldn’t help but adore the way she spoke that word—husband. She said it neither as a jest nor an insult, but with a quiet candor that warmed him.

“Good morning, my lady,” he replied, his voice measured, though he hoped she felt even a fraction of what he did when he said it. He took a seat across from her, his eyes wandering the familiar room. A new bookcase stood against one wall with ledgers from the Northern lords. “I see Winterfell remains as it was. That brings me no small delight.”

In truth, it brought him relief—a relief Alysanne would remain steady. When so much of his world had changed—family, friends, alliances—it was soothing to find the North as steadfast as its reputation.

“And how do you find your stay?” she asked, her eyes darting briefly to his attire. A sly smile tugged at her lips. “Is there some fault in your chambers, husband? You look as though you’ve slept elsewhere.”

Willas chuckled at the playful spark in her gaze. She already knew where he’d spent the night; of that, he was certain. “My chambers are most accommodating, but I spent much of yesterday in the library—and woke there this morning.”

“I understand the temptation well,” she said, a faint wistfulness creeping into her voice. “Father often sent Uncle Arthur to drag me from the library tower for breakfast.”

Her eyes grew momentarily distant, her expression touched by melancholy. Willas offered her a gentle smile, though his thoughts turned to her father. What would Lord Eddard Stark make of his children now? Of his eldest daughter’s marriage? Would he, like so many lords, revel in his bastard-born child’s rise? Willas doubted it. The late Lord Stark seemed cut from a different cloth.

Arthur Dayne’s disapproving glances lingered in Willas’s memory, as did Bran Stark’s open challenges, Arya’s threats to stick him with Needle—not a sewing needle, but the slender sword Alysanne had gifted her on a namesday—and Rickon’s frequent vows to set Shaggydog on him.

“I confess, I was surprised you gave me rooms in the family wing,” he said after a moment.

“You are family now,” Alysanne replied simply.

He nodded. The words carried more weight than she perhaps intended. The chambers were generous—larger than he required—with a small solar and two adjoining bedchambers. These were clearly meant for a branch of the Stark family, not a mere visiting lord.

Alysanne’s eyes flickered with curiosity. “And what held your attention in the library?” she asked.

Willas leaned back in his chair, his smile returning. “Justice and Injustice in the North: Judgments of Three Stark Lords by Maester Egbert.”

“A fine book,” she agreed, though her tone turned analytical. “But Egbert relies too heavily on secondhand accounts, particularly of Cregan Stark’s era.”

“True,” Willas conceded, “but those accounts were drawn from chronicles written by the maesters who served him.”

“Southern maesters,” Alysanne criticized, “often struggle to grasp the nuances of Northern customs. The maesters were too detached from the culture they chronicled, and it showed. That said, I do concede that Egbert’s work is among the better accounts. He had a rare curiosity about the North and enough respect for its justice to avoid being overly swayed by his own beliefs.”

Willas raised a brow, intrigued. “Is it true, then, that Jonnel Stark imprisoned his brothers, Edric and Brandon, and their wives for marrying without his consent?”

Her gaze sharpened, and she gave him her full attention. “He did. And they were fortunate he didn’t send them straight to the Wall.”

“That sounds… cruel,” Willas countered. “And not entirely justified. After all, he allowed Brandon Stark and his wife to share a cell, though he took their children away as they were born. Yet he didn’t extend the same courtesy to Edric.”

“It might seem cruel to an outsider,” Alysanne said, her tone steady but firm, “but you must consider the context. When Cregan Stark died, the North teetered on the edge of civil war. By southern tradition—and the laws of the Iron Throne—Sansa Stark should have ruled. But the North would never have accepted a female heir. To prevent bloodshed, Sansa was married to Cregan’s second son. Both were under ten at the time, but it had to be done. Serena, Rickon’s other daughter, was wed to Lord Umber.”

“In the North,” she continued, “a woman was disinherited when she marries a lord or heir outside her family. Thus, Serena couldn’t pass her claim to her children. But by 170 AC, she was widowed and childless.”

Willas frowned thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t that mean Serena was disinherited for marrying without her lord’s approval?”

“That would be the case under Andal law,” Alysanne said with a small smile, “but not the way of the First Men.”

“But it’s in the Book of Laws,” Willas countered. “Every Stark lord swears to defend it.”

Alysanne scoffed lightly, an almost playful exasperation in her tone. “The Book of Laws is little more than a copy of Andal legal codes. Why do you think Jaehaerys the First faced so much difficulty dealing with the North?”

“Because of the New Gift and the abolition of the lord's right to the first night,” Willas said confidently.

Her lips twitched, as though she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “The so-called New Gift was barely claimed land. Contrary to southern belief, no one in the North opposed ceding it—so long as it wasn’t given to the South. It was good land, yes, but unused. The problem was that the Night’s Watch was given no means to make it useful. Queen Alysanne, like many before and after her, thought granting land solved everyone’s problems. She likely believed it was a show of the Crown’s power over Winterfell. It earned her no love in the North, especially since the Crown never considered how the land would be cultivated when the Watch had too few men even to defend the Wall.”

The speech surprised Willas with its passion and clarity, and for a moment, he felt an urge to take notes. But before he could comment, Alysanne offered a brief apology. “I’ve strayed from the subject. You were asking about Jonnel.”

“Yes,” Willas said, leaning forward slightly. “Why didn’t Jonnel simply marry Serena?”

Alysanne’s eyes widened in disbelief, and then understanding dawned. She shook her head, her expression softening into one of faint amusement. “You Andal nobles truly don’t understand. In the North, a man doesn’t marry his brother’s widow. It’s considered sibling incest.”

Willas tilted his head, puzzled. “It’s… controversial, even the Faith disapproves, but it’s not unheard of. Serena wasn’t married to his father—that would be far worse.”

“In the North,” Alysanne explained patiently, “your married family becomes your family in full. If Jonnel had wed Serena, her kin—including the Umbers—would have had just cause to demand a duel to the death for such an affront to the gods.”

Willas grimaced. “And Serena?”

“She would be considered guilty unless she proved she was forced into the marriage,” Alysanne said matter-of-factly. “If Jonnel had died, it was expected she would die as well.”

Willas rubbed his temples, clearly unsettled. “This is… harsh.”

“It’s the North,” she replied with a shrug. “Jonnel chose to wed a Ryswell instead. And yes, he imprisoned Serena and Edric because they posed a direct threat to his rule. But he showed weakness in sparing Edric, allowing him to have children—likely out of fear for the succession.”

“What happened to Edric and Sansa’s sons?” Willas asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. “Egbert mentions their birth but not their fate.”

“They were sent to the Wall,” Alysanne said bluntly. “Jonnel had to disinherit them to secure his line with Robyn Ryswell. That was almost certainly a demand from the Ryswells.”

Willas nodded slowly. That he understood all too well. It wasn’t uncommon for unwanted heirs to be sent to the Faith or the Citadel to remove them from succession disputes. His own father had once encouraged Willas’s passion for knowledge, subtly fostering an interest in becoming a maester. Had he been younger and more pliable, that might well have been his fate.

“And the girls?” he asked.

“They were married off quickly,” Alysanne said, her tone pragmatic. “Which caused its own problems. Osric Umber took Arrana Stark as his wife and agreed to host Serena in his home. But instead of treating her kindly, he imprisoned her. That imprisonment and what came next sparked the blood feud between the Manderlys and the Umbers.”

Willas leaned forward, his interest fully captured. “A blood feud?”

Alysanne nodded. “The Umbers and the Manderlys always had their differences—stubbornness and pride clashing. But Osric Umber’s second marriage made things far worse. By his first wife, a Manderly, he had two sons. The youngest died as a child, but the eldest was his heir. When Arrana gave him two strong sons, Osric sent his heir—the Manderly son—to the Night’s Watch, securing his line through the Stark-born children.”

Willas frowned. “That’s... bad.”

“Very much so,” Alysanne agreed. “The Manderlys were furious. They appealed to Winterfell, but Barthogan Stark, who ruled at the time, was no help. He is what I call the second-worst Stark to come from Cregan’s loins.”

Willas raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Second-worst? Barthogan is often praised as a warrior—just and able-minded. What earned him that title?”

“Because he nearly plunged the North into a civil war,” Alysanne said sharply, “whose echoes can still be felt today.”

Willas leaned back in his chair, his curiosity piqued. “How so?”

“Barthogan tried to play peacemaker,” Alysanne explained, “by taking the Manderly and Umber children as pages at Winterfell to keep the peace. But his attempt backfired. The tensions only worsened, and his mistakes paved the way for his brother Brandon—the Stark who was far too stupid—to inherit the mess.”

Interested and fully engaged, Willas leaned forward. “What do you think Barthogan could have done to stabilize things?”

“He should have married,” Alysanne declared, her voice rising in frustration. “The North is too vast and divided to rule without a proper partner to manage its affairs. My father often spent his rule away from Winterfell, but Lady Catelyn—despite everything—was an exceptional steward. Barthogan had no such support. His refusal to marry left a power vacuum, and chaos followed.”

Willas nodded thoughtfully. “A lord must wed, that much is clear. But why was it so particularly damaging in Barthogan’s case?”

“Because the Northern houses were already on edge. The Ryswells, Hornwoods, and Flints had long been tied to the Starks through marriage, but that stability ended with Jonnel. Barthogan’s inaction forced his younger brother Brandon into an unofficial leadership role, and that angered many families.”

“How so?” Willas asked, his curiosity sharpening.

“Brandon heavily favored the Karstarks, but half the North despised his wife, Alys Karstark,” Alysanne explained. “She was a shrewd woman, which many lords saw as scheming. They believed she had been quietly consolidating influence for years without any repercussions. Meanwhile, Osric Umber wasted no time and married his eldest daughter to a Karstark, further strengthening the faction opposed to the Manderlys.”

Willas frowned, considering this. “Perhaps Barthogan should have married a Manderly girl. It might have calmed some of the tensions.”

Alysanne let out a dry chuckle. “It could also have pushed the Umber-Karstark faction deeper into opposition. Still, refusing to marry at all made things worse. His inaction angered the Manderlys, the Tallharts—since the Manderly girl in question was half Tallhart—and many other families.”

“But Osric Umber was clever,” she continued, a gleam in her eye. “Who do you think he married his eldest son by Arrana to?”

Willas thought for a moment. “A Tallhart,” he guessed. It seemed the logical choice. His wife simply nodded with a smile. “At that point, Barthogan should have married an Umber himself,” Willas said decisively.

“Stupidly, he didn’t,” she said with a shake of her head. “When the Skagosi Rebellion broke out, Barthogan saw it as a chance to unite the north. But he died before resolving anything, and Brandon—the ‘I-almost-caused-a-civil-war-that-ended-my-family’ Stark—took over.”

“So Brandon didn’t fare much better,” Willas said in grin.

“Worse,” Alysanne replied sharply. “When Brandon became Lord of Winterfell, the mountain clans, the Ryswells, and the Manderlys all had grievances with him. To make matters worse, it became obvious that Osric Umber and Alys Karstark were the true powers behind the throne. And, of course, the rumors about their relationship had been circulating for years.”

Willas raised an eyebrow. “Rumors?”

“None of it proven, but enough to stir mistrust,” Alysanne continued. “Meanwhile, the Dustins and Flints were watching carefully, and the Boltons—well, the Boltons were unpredictable. But soon, the Flints of Widow’s Watch began marrying into the Manderly family, and the Dustins were being promised a wealthy Manderly bride.”

Willas leaned back, a new frown creasing his brow. “Surely Brandon could have mended things by arranging strategic marriages with those he offended?”

“He tried,” Alysanne said with a wry smile. “At least he married his heir to Gisela Dustin, who was kin to the Umbers. But his son, who had been fostering at White Harbor, ran off and married Myrianne Manderly instead—the girl who had been half-promised to a Dustin.”

Willas sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can see where this is going. How did the Umbers and Dustins take that?”

“Badly,” Alysanne said simply. “To them, it was proof that the Manderlys were throwing their daughters at the Starks with no regard for promises or propriety. In their eyes, Myrianne was no better than Alys. Worse still, Brandon died not long after.”

“And Alys Karstark?”

“Was soon shunned,” Alysanne replied flatly. “She returned to Karhold, cut off from the Starks financially and politically by her son. Rodwell Stark tried to stabilize things, though. He married his sister to the Bolton heir and arranged for his brother to wed a Royce, thinking it would avoid favoritism among northern houses.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Willas ventured.

“It wasn’t,” Alysanne snapped. “Everyone believed it was Myrianne Manderly meddling behind the scenes. Worse, Rodwell’s choice of a pious Royce wife—devoted to the Faith of the Seven—alienated many Northern lords. When Rodwell died from a fall off his horse, his brother inherited the mess. We all know what happened next.”

Willas nodded solemnly. “The alliances fell apart, didn’t they?”

“Completely,” Alysanne said with a touch of exasperation. “It’s the reason Beron Stark married all his daughters to Northern lords, avoiding southern ties entirely. And why William Stark, after his first wife and son died, took a Blackwood to wife instead of northern match.”

Finally, Willas leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “And do these old grudges still haunt your regency?”

Alysanne laughed, the sound a mix of amusement and weariness. “Of course. Why do you think both the Umbers and Manderlys have seats on my council? It’s the only way to keep the peace. But now, with the lands House Stark controls and the changing politics, the lords seem more interested in writing to me about marriage proposals.”

“And your siblings?” Willas asked. “Couldn’t they marry into the South to ease tensions?”

Alysanne’s wry smile returned. “After the chaos Catelyn Tully caused? Not likely. They’re all marrying Northmen. The problem is figuring out who will be the next Lady of Winterfell.”

Willas, noticing the weariness creeping into her frame, leaned back thoughtfully. “Perhaps a visual would help. Show me the family connections.”

.

.

My Dearest Mother,

First, allow me to extend my deepest apologies for coming North without first informing you. I realize that my departure was abrupt, and it would be even more thoughtless of me not to assure you of my safe arrival. Garlan will soon meet with you, and I hope he may help you understand the reasons behind my sudden decision to journey here. Please know that I hold you and your counsel in the highest regard, even if my actions may suggest otherwise.

I miss you, Mother. I miss the serenity of your presence and the comfort you bring me. The North is beautiful in its own way, stark and vast, but it is nothing like Highgarden or the world we are used to.

I must also ask for your assistance in a few matters, if you would be so kind. The work I entrusted to Olymer Tyrell in Marigold weighs on my mind. I would feel greatly reassured if you could ensure that he carries out those tasks diligently. In addition, I am hoping you might help me convince Olymer to allow his younger son, Rickard Tyrell, to come North and squire for Ser Arthur. It would bring me some comfort to have a kinsman here with me.

Also, Uncle Baelor has kindly offered his ships to send North with a shipment of food collected through his tax collections. However, he never mentioned the name or the number of the ships he was willing to let me use. Or spoke of any costs. Could you inquire for me and send word? It would be most helpful to inform the Lady Regent of Barrowton of its arrival.

Life here keeps me busy. Alysanne has made me her unofficial steward, though the work is fulfilling. The North has its charms, and it a land of endless task

Alysanne, ever determined, is planning a journey to the Wall, and I shall accompany her. It is a venture I look forward to, though it means I will be traveling again soon, so I might to get your reply before my return. I promise to try and write more frequently, but I will eagerly await your reply. Please take care of yourself, Mother, and know that you are ever in my thoughts.

With all my love,
Willas

.

.

Garlan,

You were, of course, correct about the reception awaiting us in the North. Both I and the Targaryen remains were received with all the gravity and caution one would expect of the Starks. Alysanne, however, stood apart. Poised and graceful in her uniquely Stark way, but she was the most welcoming of her family. Her presence has been a balm amidst the cold winds and colder stares.

By my command, you are now acting lord of Marigold. I trust you implicitly in this role. You are well aware of my plans for the town and the projects I have developed; they are already in motion, so your task will simply be to oversee the constructions. I also ask that you convince Architect Bertram to come North. His design for the tithe barn in Marigold was formidable, and I believe his talents—along with his silks—would be welcomed here. Assure him that his payments will be more than fair, and if he wishes to bring his family, they too will be well provided for. But I do need his reply swiftly.

As for provisions, please send the following North:

• 300 tons of wheat, barley, and rye
• 1,000 heads of cattle
• 10,000 eggs
• All dried fruit and vegetables, butter, and cheese from Marigold’s tithe barn

If possible, send half the chickens and pigs, ensuring proper compensation on the farms. And yes, I mean the animals must be bred—do not simply raid the coops. As for the cows, I need confirmation that they can be sent, so do not trouble yourself over them until I send word.

Additionally, please send me reports on the tithe collections, my private library, and, most importantly, my horse. Keep me as updated as you can on all matters.

In response to your inquiries, yes, Ser Arthur has taken squires and pages. Tell Loras he may groan about it all he likes. As for Alysanne, she seems as concerned with the troubles of King’s Landing as Margaery is with the Northern tax collection.

As for what which interests you. Yes, I am sleeping alone—truly alone. Alysanne, however, shares one meal with me daily. During these meals, we speak mostly of work, as I’ve taken managing of Winterfell and the daily supplies, aided by Ser Arthur and, much to everyone’s surprise, Lady Arya. When she is not mastering the art of dispatching potential suitors with her sword, she is showing quiet the head for management and numbers. We do not dare let her know this, but she is proving herself an excellent steward and lady. Alysanne has even gifted her a sword, and no one wishes to know if she can make a man bleed. Worse, Oberyn in his chaotic nature has decided to spent his days training the young she-wolf.

Yes, Garlan, Oberyn is here at Winterfell. That alone will surely set tongues wagging. If court gossip claims he has come North to steal me away from my blessed marriage, then, by all means, confirm it with a straight face. The truth, however, is that he seems intent on convincing Arya to allow him to adopt her. He is being utterly Oberyn about it, and I hear whispers of plans to bring all his daughters North to meet their “new sister.”

I shall leave you with this to spread as you see fit: the North is cold, but the company is far warmer than I expected, especially when Oberyn decides to stir the pot.

Be well, brother, and do keep me updated.

Your favorite brother,

Willas

.

.

Day 16, Moon 5, 300 AC

As Willas made his way to the rookery, letters for his mother and Garlan clutched in hand, the faint echo of approaching footsteps drew his attention. From the shadows of the corridor emerged a figure moving with deliberate grace: Lord Domeric Bolton.

Willas had heard much of the man— tongues swirling of how Alysanne Stark, in her youth, had nursed a fleeting affection for him. Now, seeing Domeric in the flesh, Willas could understand why. The lord was striking, though not in a way that put one at ease. His attire—a dark blue tunic of rich fabric—seemed to heighten the pallor of his skin, lending his pale blue eyes an unsettling brilliance. His dark hair, combed to perfection, framed a face that teetered on the edge of composed civility and a subtle menace. Willas begrudged him this, silently conceding that Domeric likely haunted the dreams of more than a few Northern maidens.

As their paths converged, Willas inclined his head, his voice measured and polite. “Lord Bolton.”

Domeric returned the gesture with a faint curl of his lips, a smile that seemed almost amused but never warm. “Lord Willas,” he said, his tone devoid of hostility, yet wrapped in that cool detachment he wore like armor.

Seeking to bridge the silence, Willas ventured conversation. “How fares the day, my lord?”

Domeric’s gaze narrowed slightly, not in anger but with a calculating sharpness, as though weighing the intent behind the question. “I’ve concluded my training for the day,” he replied, his words deliberate and soft. “Now, my attention turns to matters of governance. Letters to oversee the Survey, reports from my stewards—tedious but necessary.”

The answer was pointed, and Willas understood the subtle flex. . The man could fight, govern, and command respect.Refusing to take the bait, Willas maintained his civility. “A busy day, then. One imagines your correspondences reach far and wide. Perhaps even to the West? There’s been talk of unions, I hear.”

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and for a brief moment, Domeric’s faint smile faltered. His eyes darkened, but the mask quickly returned. “Blonds are not to my taste,” he said, his voice still soft but now edged with steel. His gaze lingered on Willas’s hair, which had lightened to a near-golden hue in his youth. “A sentiment shared by many in the North.”

Willas caught the glance and allowed a sly smile to play on his lips. “Ah, yes. The North holds fast to the belief that true beauty lies in darker locks. A sentiment I find most agreeable.” He let the words hang, thinking briefly of Alysanne Stark’s raven-black hair.

Domeric’s posture stiffened ever so slightly, his composure unbroken but his meaning unmistakable: he was no fool. “You must miss the South,” Domeric said at last, his voice cool and measured, though a faint barb laced the words. “The warm winds, the scent of flowers—such comforts must seem distant now.”

Willas replied smoothly, “Highgarden holds many charms, but the North has its own beauty. I intend to see more of it when I journey to the Wall. I understand your duties kept you from joining us, my lord. You will be sorely missed, of that I am certain. Perhaps you might accompany us another time.”

Domeric’s lips twitched, as though tempted to remark on the permanence of Willas’s stay in the North. Instead, he said coolly, “I wish you a safe journey in the northern wilds, my lord. They are not for those of… delicate constitution.”

Willas’s smile deepened, his eyes gleaming with playful defiance. “I am quite fond of the wilds, my lord. There’s something fiery and untamed about them that fascinates me. Still, I wonder if even you might one day find a taste for something sweet—honey, or perhaps sweet gold—in your life.”

Domeric’s expression grew inscrutable. “I do not foresee that in my future.”

“Ah,” Willas said, his grin widening. “But the future, my lord, has a way of surprising even those who believe themselves certain.”

Before Domeric could offer a reply, the creak of a door heralded Samwell Tarly’s arrival from the rookery, his arms laden with letters. He greeted them warmly. “Lord Willas, Lord Bolton,” he said with a polite bow before turning to Domeric. “There’s a letter for you, my lord. From the West and the Dreadfort.”

Willas seized the moment to slip past them into the rookery. The cool, quiet space brought a brief respite from the tension of his encounter with Domeric. Setting his letters on a desk, he began his preparations, only to have his peace interrupted moments later by a familiar voice.

“You should just bed them both and be done with it,” Oberyn Martell said, lounging casually against the stone wall, his dark eyes alight with mischief.

Willas rolled his eyes, though a grin tugged at his lips. “Not everything is solved that way, Oberyn.”

The Dornishman’s soft laugh echoed in the chamber, as sharp and sly as his smile. “Perhaps not, but you must admit, it would make life far more entertaining for those of us observing.”

“And by ‘those of us,’ you mean yourself,” Willas countered.

Oberyn pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, my friend. I would, of course, offer my services to the three of you. Purely as a matter of diplomacy.”

Willas threw his head back and laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Don’t you have others to pursue, Obe?”

Oberyn’s grin widened. “There are women of remarkable skill in Wintertown,” he replied with a wink. They speak of you often enough.”

Willas fought to suppress memories of his own fleeting visit to the brothel there, brushing them aside with a faint frown. “I’ll take you at your word.”

With a chuckle, Oberyn straightened from the wall and clapped Willas on the back. “Better you than me, my friend. Let’s see how long you last here.”

Willas shot him a glare, though there was no real malice in it. “I am neither a compulsive flirt nor a wandering womanizer, Obe.”

Oberyn raised his hands in mock surrender. “No, you are not. But you’ve not been long acquainted with the pleasures of the flesh. And as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the North has no shortage of lovely women—or men.”

Willas shook his head, suppressing a laugh. “Do let me know how your seductions fare, and try not to cause too much scandal.”

Oberyn’s grin grew roguish. “Where’s the fun in that?”

.

.

Willas Tyrell stepped into Alysanne's solar, the room softly illuminated by candles and lamps, the glow a necessary warmth now that the sun had long set. He shed one of his fur layers, grateful for the heat emanating from the hearth, while Alysanne sat in her usual place, draped in a simple blue gown.

As always, she was immersed in work. Half-reclined in her chair, her posture more one of exhaustion than comfort, she held a letter in one hand, a frown of concentration etched into her pale features. Her dark hair, once neatly braided earlier that day, had loosened, strands falling free from their ribbon, soft curls framing her sharp, intelligent face with a kind of quiet artistry.

Willas's gaze drifted to the small table by the hearth, where untouched food sat. He noted the addition of the table and chairs, no doubt Ser Arthur’s attempt to encourage Alysanne to eat and have company. The sight stirred a faint smile in him. They have shared many quiet meals together. But the smile faltered as his eyes traveled back to his wife, and he noted the weariness in her shoulders.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice breaking the quiet.

Alysanne looked up, her expression softening as she met his gaze. “Willas,” she greeted him, sitting up straighter. “How are the household accounts?”

He leaned his cane against the edge of her desk and settled into a chair across from her. “Winterfell’s balance is strong,” he replied with a hint of wry humor. “Much better than Highgarden’s, that’s for certain. Not many tourneys to host up here, I gather.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips, but Willas could tell she was waiting for him to continue.

“It’s impressive,” he said, “but I noticed that the accounts here are… rather dispersed. I had some ideas to make things more efficient.”

Alysanne’s brows lifted, curiosity evident in her expression. “What do you mean?”

He gestured broadly as he explained. “At Highgarden, we separate the accounts for different households—my father’s, Garlan’s, my own, my mother’s… Even my grandmother has her own. It keeps budgeting clear and oversight more manageable. Here, everything is lumped together—the castle’s household, personal accounts, even the Stark children’s expenses. If we separate them, it would make management easier.”

Alysanne listened thoughtfully, her mind quickly processing the idea. She nodded, her eyes sharp as she asked questions, offering suggestions of her own. Soon, the table was covered in parchment, and Willas found himself reworking drafts as they exchanged ideas, their conversation animated and productive. They emerged with a solid plan—one that even Lord Manderly would heartly approval.

But as the work wound down, there was still something weighing on him, something he needed to address, even if he wasn’t eager to bring it up. He hesitated before speaking. “There’s something else,” he said carefully, his tone tightening with the subtle strain of an unspoken concern.

Alysanne’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze sharpening. “What is it?”

“The guardsmen,” Willas replied, his voice laced with concern. “The numbers are dangerously low. Before Lord Stark went south, there were 120 guards stationed here. Now…” He paused, counting quickly in his mind. “There are only 24. And that includes Theon, Olyvar Frey, and Lucas Blackwood. Twenty of them went with your siblings.”

Alysanne sighed deeply, the weight of his words pressing visibly on her. “I know,” she said quietly, her fingers tapping absently on the desk as she stared at the floor. “I need to address it—and find a master-at-arms to oversee recruitment. We need to return to the previous numbers. Perhaps even exceed them. Winter is Coming, after all.” Her voice trailed off as she muttered to herself. “150 would be too few, but 300 might make people frown.”

As she spoke, Willas found himself wondering why she was so consumed with levies and guards. Winter was harsh, yes, but her level of urgency seemed… unusual. Still, he pushed the thought aside. Perhaps the growing harshness of the season often drove criminality to rise. Or perhaps there was something more. But now wasn’t the time to question her further.

Instead, he broached the more delicate matter at hand. “I couldn’t help but notice,” he began carefully, “that close to 140,000 golden dragons have been spent since you became regent.” He paused, gauging her reaction. There was none. “But I can’t figure out why. And to make the budget you asked for, I probably need to know.”

Alysanne’s expression faltered, clearly taken aback. Her brow furrowed as she sifted through her thoughts. “That would be… the pensions,” she murmured, realization slowly dawning on her.

Willas blinked. “Pensions?”

She nodded. “For the men lost or injured during the war. With so many men gone, pensions were necessary—for the families, for the wounded.”

Willas leaned back in his chair, struck by her words. “The pensions,” he repeated softly, his voice quieter now, tinged with disbelief. “That’s… a staggering sum.”

Alysanne’s lips pressed into a tight line. “The men gave their lives and part of themselves for the North. It’s my duty to care for them—or for those they left behind.” Her voice was firm, unwavering in its resolve.

Though her words were confident, a flicker of confusion lingered in Willas’s mind. He had volunteered for the task of managing the annual budget, mostly because he needed a task, and because Alysanne had admitted that numbers weren’t her greatest skill. He couldn’t help but wonder if there had been some mismanagement—or worse, if she had been deceived in some way.

“Still,” he said slowly, “I don’t understand how it’s so much money. The Stark levies were only 14,000. I’ve confirmed those numbers six times today.” He hesitated, the thought gnawing at him. For a fleeting moment, after Lord Manderly had left his solar, Willas had wondered if Alysanne might be moving funds elsewhere. But then he dismissed it—such a notion was completely out of character for her.

Alysanne met his gaze, her expression hardening. “Willas,” she said, her voice sharp and steady. “I paid all the soldiers.”

“All of them?” he echoed, truly stunned.

“All of them,” she confirmed without hesitation. “It’s the duty of the Warden of Winterfell to pay the armies. It always has been.”

Willas sat there for a long moment, trying to process her words. “Your vassals should have paid for their own men,” he said finally, his tone almost incredulous.

Alysanne shook her head, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. “No. The Greatjon and Manderly paid for half of their armies themselves—out of pride more than duty—but the rest?” She gestured toward the hearth, as though the answer was as plain as the stone walls around them. “That burden falls to Winterfell. Who should I have asked? The King?”

Willas muttered, more to himself than to her, “That wouldn’t have been a bad idea…”

Alysanne frowned, her voice firm. “It’s my duty as Regent of Winterfell. The Starks always did so.”

Her conviction silenced him for a moment, but the shock lingered. “How is it even possible?” he asked, struggling to grasp the enormity of it. “How did Lord Stark manage the Rebellion without bankrupting the North?”

Alysanne leaned back, her gaze drifting into the distance, as if searching for an answer. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly. “Perhaps Grandfather left a good reserve. Or perhaps the King was generous to his supporters. I truly don’t know.”

Willas leaned forward slightly, his mind whirring. “In summer, the Lord of Winterfell has a positive balance of at least 50,000 golden dragons a year,” he said, still surprised by the figures he’d uncovered. The household accounts, though somewhat disorganized, were impressive. Especially for a great lord who still managed to collect 40% of his taxation from food and basic necessities. Willas knew all too well how difficult it had been for the Tyrells to reduce such levies over the last three centuries, with little success.

Alysanne tilted her head slightly, her expression turning thoughtful. “The Rebellion was during the spring,” she countered. Willas almost smiled at her correction. His wife knew the season of the year during the conflict, but not the intricacies of the finances behind it. It was both endearing and vexing in equal measure.

“Still,” Willas pressed, “Lord Stark was even more frugal—he nearly doubled that in 297.”

Alysanne muttered something under her breath. “It was a very long summer,” she said, her voice thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts. As she leaned forward slightly, Willas couldn’t help but notice the low neckline of her gown, more scandalous than anything he’d seen all week—but somehow still more demure than he was used to.

He shook the thoughts from his mind. “He left over 872,000 dragons in reserve,” Willas said, confirming the numbers in his mind.

Alysanne nodded, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the letter in her lap. “It was a relief,” she confessed, her voice quieter now. “Otherwise, I couldn’t have paid the levies without great suffering. It’s good to know I’m nowhere near bankrupting the North.”

Willas saw the faint strain in her eyes as she took a deep, steadying breath. For a moment, he considered asking about the letter she’d been reading, but he held his curiosity in check. There were always more questions to ask, but his wife was only one woman, no matter how much she bore on her shoulders.

“Come,” he said at last, standing with a wince and offering her his hand. “You’ve worked enough for today. Let’s eat before the food turns to ice.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile as she rose to join him, her hand slipping into his. “Thank you, Willas. For the help.”

“I told you I came here for that,” he replied, his voice gentle, but with a warmth that seemed to melt some of the tension between them.

.

.

The fire crackled warmly in the hearth as Willas and Alysanne sat together at the table, their plates filled with simple yet hearty fare. As they dined, the ease of their conversation lightened the heavy burdens they both bore, their voices the only sound that broke the quiet of the room.

Alysanne, with a teasing smile, took a sip from her goblet and looked at him. “I was surprised not to see you in the yard this morning.”

Willas’s mood soured slightly, his shoulders tensing as the memory of his failed attempt surfaced. “I was needed elsewhere,” he said, his voice tight. “Besides my attempt at archery was a disaster.”

Alysanne’s expression softened with amusement. She leaned back in her chair, eyes twinkling. “You’re better than you think,” she reassured him, her voice warm. “No one expects you to become a Dothraki archer in a moon’s turn.” She raised a brow, a sly grin forming. “Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “my husband told me we lack guards. Shouldn’t I be desperate to keep you practicing?”

He chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he leaned back. “Your husband must be a very intelligent man, then,” he quipped. “And worried, too. A beautiful, intelligent woman like you? Many would try to take you from him.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched upward in a faint smile.

On a more serious note, she continued, “Ser Laswell said it’s the bow that’s wrong for you. Dothraki bows are smaller and curved.”

Willas raised an eyebrow. “So, I must send someone to the Dothraki Sea to fetch me a bow? Perhaps even a teacher?”

“Or,” Alysanne mused thoughtfully, “you could ask Prince Oberyn. He’s surely met a few during his travels.”

Willas tilted his head, a smirk curling his lips. “Has he finally charmed you, then, my dear wife?”

Alysanne rolled her eyes again. “He’s been driving half the men in Wintertown mad with his antics,” she replied. “But somehow, they’re more interested in him than anything else.” She grinned mischievously. “Perhaps I should hire him as a guardsman.”

Willas barked a laugh. “Please, let me be there when you invite a Dornish prince to guard Winterfell.”

“At least this one doesn’t throw marriage proposals my way,” she teased. “Only indecent ones.”

“Who’s asking for the Lord of Winterfell’s hand this time?”

Alysanne sighed, her amusement fading. “The king. He’s hinting at a match between Shireen and Bran. I’m trying to figure out how to tell him, politely, to go to hell.”

Willas frowned, sensing the anger simmering beneath her words. He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “Robert Baratheon isn’t a man who’s easily told no,” he said gently. “You’ll need to act quickly. Bran must be betrothed soon to keep the south out of Winterfell’s business.”

“I’m tired of the letters,” she muttered.

“Then why not a daughter of Lady Flint?” Willas suggested. “They’re not tied to any major northern families. One grandmother was a Manderly, the other a Locke, true, but they’re both gone. It’s a solid northern match. Perhaps one of her daughters for Rickon?”

Alysanne nodded slowly. “That’s a good idea. And if we arrange an Umber-Flint marriage alongside it…”

“Or a Stark one,” Willas added.

Alysanne tilted her head, considering. “I did think about it, but Arya is out of the question.”

“Why?” Willas asked, curious, though the name he had in mind wasn’t Arya.

“Bran plans to name Arya Lady of Sheepshead Hills,” she explained. “It would connect three small villages to the holdfast. It’s a week’s ride from Winterfell.”

“That will only make her more appealing,” Willas pointed out.

Alysanne’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “He’s invoking the old infantado tradition, like Lord Karstark did for his sister. Arya will have control over the land while she remains unmarried.”

Willas nodded. “Clever. That’ll reduce the number of proposals, since Bran clearly won’t accept any. But Arya wasn’t the sister I had in mind.”

Alysanne raised an eyebrow, confused. Then her expression shifted to shock. “Sansa? Married to Smalljon? An Umber? Sansa?”

Willas chuckled. “They have less than a decade between them. And unlike the Lord of Karhold, Smalljon isn’t in a rush to marry—he has brothers and cousins to secure his line until Sansa is old enough. You get that feud controlled for a generation at the very least.”

Alysanne frowned. “Would Manderly favor the match? The West has made no secret of wanting northern alliances, and Manderly would make the most sense. That man probably dreams of blonde-haired grandchildren.”

Willas’s expression darkened slightly. He wasn’t keen on strengthening the West-North bond unless Lord Bolton finally wed a Lannisters. He turned to his wife. “But Bran could promise a future betrothal of his children.”

Alysanne laughed, shaking her head. “Bran isn’t even old enough to understand how children are made, and you’re already betrothing his children!” She sighed but conceded, “It’s worth considering. Still, Sansa would never agree to marry Smalljon.”

“She’s a Stark daughter,” Willas pointed out. “Bran is her lord, and you are his regent.”

“Sansa is a ward of the crown,” Alysanne countered firmly. “They’ll have a say in her marriage, and she’d never forgive me.”

Willas leaned back, considering her words. “I wouldn’t marry Smalljon myself,” he said with a faint smirk. “But the man is brave, strong, and strangely gentle for someone who’s half a giant.”

Alysanne’s hand froze mid-reach for her goblet. She drained the remaining mead in one swift gulp. “I’ll think about it,” she replied finally, her tone distant.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I’ve been considering a Stark-Reed marriage.”

Willas blinked, trying to recall who the Reeds were. “Why?” he asked.

“Lord Reed was one of my father’s dearest friends,” Alysanne explained. “I’d like to see him.”

“Then invite him to the Harvest Feast,” he said, “not offer him a marriage.” Alysanne was so queer at times, he though trying not to smile.

Her lips twitched, but she said nothing more, her eyes glinting with unspoken thoughts. Then, as if deciding it was time to shift the conversation, she leaned forward, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Dacey’s pregnant.”

Willas froze, his goblet hovering halfway to his lips, brow furrowing in disbelief. “What?”

Alysanne’s grin widened, clearly delighted at his shock. “You heard me. This time, I’ve been informed a Mormont actually stole a lion, not a bear.”

Willas set his goblet down with exaggerated care, his expression turning serious. “I don’t think that’s funny,” he said flatly.

“Oh, but I do,” Alysanne replied, unfazed by his disapproval. “Just picture Tywin Lannister’s face when he receives my letter, telling him how his precious golden son finally managed to get a woman pregnant after all these years. And she’s a she-bear of all people.” Her grin was wicked now. “Who refuses to marry him or take the Lannister name.”

Willas stared at her for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “I shouldn’t laugh,” he said, but the thought of Tywin’s usually stoic face cracking under such a revelation was too much. A low chuckle escaped him, growing into full-blown laughter.

Alysanne tilted her head, thoroughly enjoying his mirth.

“Oh, let me help,” he begged between gasps of laughter. “I want to help write the letter.”

Alysanne raised an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. “You? A proper Tyrell lord from Highgarden? Surely you wouldn’t want to insult the mighty Tywin Lannister.”

Willas waved her off, still chuckling. “On the contrary, my love. This is too good an opportunity to pass up. It’s not every day you get to picture the great lion of Casterly Rock at a loss for words. We should also call Oberyn.”

Alysanne leaned back, crossing her arms with a satisfied smirk. “Then we’ll make it a collaborative effort. Tomorrow. I would like to retire.”

Willas glanced down at his empty plate, realizing there was nothing left to linger over. He began to rise, intending to bid her goodnight. “Then I’ll leave you to your rest, my dear wife,” he said softly, though his reluctance to part from her was clear in his tone.

Alysanne tilted her head, her expression softening as she watched him. “Willas,” she called, her voice quieter now, almost shy.

He paused, glancing back at her with a curious look.

“Why don’t you join me?” she asked, her cheeks faintly flushed, but her gaze steady. “I’ve missed you there.”

The invitation hit him like a warm breeze in the cold northern air—unexpected but deeply welcome. For a moment, Willas simply stood there, taking in the vulnerability in her words—the way her usual sharp wit had given way to something softer, something just for him.

A gentle smile spread across his face, and he stepped closer, his movements deliberate and sure. “If that’s the case,” he murmured, “how could I possibly refuse?”

Alysanne’s lips twitched upward, but she said nothing more, rising from her chair to extinguish the lantern on the table and pick up a simple candle. She took his hand, her touch warm against his, and led him toward the bedchamber.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21 – Ashara II

        Day 12, Moon 3, 300 AC

To the Most Noble and Gracious Lady Ashara,

I write to you, above all, to assure you that all is well. My siblings, Uncle Arthur, and I are in good health and safe. No doubt you have already heard the rumors of recent events, and I am certain Uncle Arthur has written to you in detail. I will not bore you with war reports, as I know he has already done so. Instead, I will tell you this—we shall endure. We shall remain strong, as we always have.

Still, I fear for Bran, Arya, and Rickon. They have me, of course, and I intend to find them a good Northern governess, but the women who once guided them are either exiled or gone. I fear Winterfell will lack a mother’s touch. I love my siblings dearly, but I am not their mother, nor do I possess the experience to be a true maternal figure to them. I strive to lead by example, your example—for you have been the most noble, gentle, and wise woman in my life. I must also warn you that I find myself seeking your counsel more and more, my quill often moving of its own accord to write to you.

For now, I ask this of you. The North is ruled largely by youths, women, and regents, all facing pressures you no doubt understand. Lady Jorelle Cerwyn, the Lady of Cerwyn, has already asked for my assistance in finding both her and her cousin and heir, Vivian, a husband. She is but one example. As I have written to you before, such matches are not easy for me. I fear making the wrong choice—not just politically, but personally.

At present, the Flints of Widow’s Watch, the Locks of Oldcastle—whom I hold in great esteem—and the Umbers, ever loyal, have younger sons and cousins enough to put minds at ease. Yet Lady Cerwyn and Lord Manderly have both voiced their concerns that these ruling women may be pushed aside by their husbands. Lady Jorelle knows this fear well—her cousin locked her in a tower after her brother’s death. The Northern lords are not Dornishmen. As much as I love them and would die for them, they are not known for allowing their wives to rule, nor even to stand as equals beside them.

I ask, then, for your advice. And if it is within your power, for possible candidates for Wynafrei Manderly’s hand. Lord Manderly seeks a match further south than any had anticipated, and I understand his reasoning. As he has made clear, his granddaughters will inherit White Harbor in time, and their matches must be chosen carefully. Still, I am surprise he looks to Dorne for husbands for them.

I trust you would not steer me wrong. I have assured Lord Manderly that I would gladly act as a bridge between the two of you, until you may speak on these matters yourselves.

Now, I ask after those I call kin, despite the distance. Your last letter spoke of Lord Beric Dondarrion’s wish to court Lady Allyria. Has that matter progressed? I know little of your sister, but all you have told me speaks of a great lady deserving of the finest match. I hope Lord Dondarrion proves himself worthy. If not, there will be no shortage of men in Westeros eager to bow before her.

As for Edric—I agree it would be best for the Lord of Starfall to be betrothed, and for his future wife to be fostered with you, so that she may learn the ways of Starfall. I know which match you have hinted at, and I am not blind to the fact that Arya would be happiest in Dorne. But I fear what such distance would do to her, to all of them. The children have grown so attached to one another, and I hesitate to even raise the idea, lest she think I mean to send her away—to separate the Pack.

Were my cousin Bethany not heir to Barrowton, I would put her name forward. But have you considered looking a little farther south? Bethany Lydden, the youngest grandchild of Lord Lydden, or Alys Marbrand—both are said to be bright and clever girls. If you seek more possibilities, I could also write to Lord Frey regarding his great-granddaughter, Walda. I met her briefly at the Twins, though I confess my mind was elsewhere at the time. I know your opinion of the Freys is not high, and rightfully so, but this Lady Walda is the daughter of Deana Hardyng, and her grandmother was Lady Anya Waynwood’s aunt.

I leave this decision to you and young Edric, who I know is quite set in his ways. That, I suspect, is the Dayne blood in him—too much like the Starks at times.

Ashara set the letter down atop her ever-growing pile of correspondence. She had been struck by fear when news of Catelyn Tully’s folly first reached her. And yet, some small, traitorous part of her had wondered—why had the gods made Ned wed that woman?

She closed her eyes and let her head rest in her hand. She was happy, far happier than most women in this life, so why must her mind wander to what-ifs? Ned had been lost to her long before he lost his life. And still, she wanted to shout at him. To demand why he had risked everything for the Usurper of all people. To ask why he had let them crown another when a far worthier choice had stood before them. To know why he had never made Catelyn Tully see reason.

Most of all, she would forever be haunted by the questions she never asked.

Did you make the decision lightly, Ned? Did you ever consider telling Hoster Tully no? Did you ever think to tell him you were mine, as I was yours?

What folly. She knew the truth—she would have done the same in his place. She would have slept with the Stranger himself if it meant keeping her family safe.

Pushing such thoughts aside, Ashara rose from her chair and stepped to the door, asking Ser Maron to call for Edric. When she returned to her seat, she picked up Alysanne’s letter once more.

Alysanne sent her well wishes to Delonne and Ronnel, extending an invitation to any member of their family. She also hinted, yet again, at the Lord of Seagard’s intentions—as if Ashara did not already have two letters filled with the man’s flowery compliments and even poetry. Alysanne had assured her that she had advised Lord Mallister to seek his fortune elsewhere.

Men liked challenges, Ashara thought dryly. Especially men like Jason Mallister.

She remembered Jason Mallister from her youth. She had been sent to King’s Landing at eleven, and he had been a frequent presence at tourneys. Handsome and knightly, he had been one of the most sought-after heirs of his time. He was more refined now, if his letters were any indication. But it changed nothing. She would not leave Starfall. She would not leave Moredo.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Ser Maron’s return. He stepped inside, bowing slightly before announcing the arrival of her nephew—the Lord of Starfall.

Edric entered and took a seat across from her, his posture straight and attentive. "You called for me, Aunt Asha?" he asked.

At three-and-ten, Edric had the pale blond hair and dark blue eyes of his father. He was a dutiful boy, always listening intently to his tutors and to Ashara herself, but he was shy as well. He was not a lord made for courtly life or revelry. In Dorne, she had heard whispers that he was too withdrawn—and in time, Ashara feared, they would say he was no true Dornishman at all.

She slid the letter across the table. He picked it up, reading carefully, his brow furrowing in thought. For the past year, she had slowly begun trusting him with some of her correspondence, and she waited now for his reaction.

It was, unsurprisingly, a boy’s reaction.

“A Frey?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. “They’re all weasel-like.”

“Edric,” she chided, leveling him with a sharp look. “I’ve told you not to say that, nor to judge an entire family by the actions of their lord.” She blamed Oswell for this. “I want you to think about why these names were proposed. Consider the entire letter.”

Edric sat straighter, recognizing the lesson before him. “Lord Manderly of White Harbor wants Dornish husbands for his granddaughters,” he answered carefully. “Because they will let them rule.”

“Yes, and you can see that Alysanne alludes to the idea of Lady Cerwyn taking a Dornish husband as well.”

Edric nodded, eyes still scanning the letter. “Lady Alysanne also doesn’t want to favor just three families.”

Ashara smiled, proud of him. “And she doesn’t want any one family gaining too much influence. The Karstarks and the Ryswells already have too many connections to pull. Luckily, Alysanne has the Boltons and the Dustins on her side.”

“Lucky? Or planned?” Edric asked, his quick mind shining through.

Ashara gave him an approving look. “Both. Marriage alliances can be carefully arranged, built on mutual benefits, trust, or even loyalty—and yet still fall apart in the end.” She tapped the letter lightly. “Now, what about the names she proposed for your future wife?”

Edric made a face. “She didn’t say no to Lady Arya.”

Ashara fought the urge to roll her eyes, instead fixing him with a look.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Bethany and Alys are both Westerlanders, and she has an alliance with them. They come from great houses of the West. Marbrand—” He paused, thinking. “That was Tywin Lannister’s mother’s family, right?”

“Correct,” Ashara said. “Alys is Ser Addam Marbrand’s only daughter. Do you know anything of her family?”

“He has two sons? And his wife died recently?”

“Unfortunately, he lost his second son to a fever, and yes, he is a widower.”

Edric turned to her, considering. “So he’ll remarry.”

“Likely,” Ashara agreed. “Ser Addam spent time as a prisoner of the Starks, and while he’s not one to hold too deep a grudge, he is still the heir to Ashemark. No doubt the Crown is paying close attention to that.”

Edric tilted his head in thought. “So it’s likely he’ll wed someone from the Reach or someone loyal to the Tyrells?”

“We don’t know that,” Ashara said. “But it is something to watch for. Lord Lydden belongs to the older generation. His mother was Queen Betha’s niece, and his father served in King’s Landing.”

“So he’s a loyalist.”

“Again, we don’t know where his true loyalties lie,” she corrected. “He didn’t call his banners for Aerys, but his men were not present at the Sack either. However, his youngest son voluntarily joined Prince Rhaegar at the Trident—and died there.”

Edric hummed in thought, then abruptly said, “I could squire in Winterfell.”

Ashara blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. “With your uncle?”

Edric had originally been set to squire for Lord Beric Dondarrion before the war broke out—no doubt Jon Arryn had intended for the future Lord of Starfall to be well connected to a Stormlander who had been loyal to Robert. Ashara thanked the stars that the war had made Robert Baratheon forget about that arrangement.

“With Lord Domeric Bolton,” Edric clarified.

Ashara exhaled slowly, steadying herself. “Edric, why would you want to squire for Domeric Bolton?”

He gave her a cheeky smile. “That way, I can convince Lady Arya to marry me and stay in Winterfell until she’s confident enough to leave.”

Ashara took a measured breath. “You do realize Lady Arya is not just the girl Alysanne writes about, don’t you? There is far more to her.”

Edric’s dark blue eyes widened with excitement. “She has a sword! And a direwolf! Its name is Nymeria!”

Ashara couldn’t help but smile at the remnants of childish wonder in his voice.

Still, if war broke out again, she would want Edric serving under the most capable. And perhaps, if he were in the North, it would prevent the Crownlands from pressuring her to send him elsewhere. The Tyrells had forgotten about them for now, but Ashara was no fool—she knew that would not last forever.

“I’ll think about it,” she told him.

.

.

Day 20, Moon 3, 300 AC

Sarra and Ashara shared a quiet meal in Sarra’s solar, the scent of the sea breeze drifting in through the open window, as they had they usual talk about the running of Starfall. The afternoon sun cast warm light over the table, and Ashara at times close her eyes and moved a bit, to feel it on her face.

“I’ll be leaving for Harrenhal soon,” Sarra announced between sips of her tea.

Ashara’s hand stilled over her plate. “You’ve made your decision, then?”

“I have.” Sarra glanced down, running her fingers over the rim of her cup. “I’ve spoken to Edric about it. He doesn’t like it, not completely, but he understands. I need to see my home again.”

Ashara exhaled slowly. “You’ll be missed.”

A small smile touched Sarra’s lips. “I’ll have my twins born in Harrenhal. Seven moonturns from now.”

Ashara’s stomach twisted. She should have been nothing but pleased for Sarra, but the weight of her goodsister words all months ago lingered in her mind. Still, she forced a smile. “Then I shall send prayers for an easy birth. You know you can always return to Starfall.”

Sarra reached across the table, giving her hand a squeeze. “I know.” With a sigh, she set her tea aside. “We’ll need to be much more careful with our correspondence from now on.”

Ashara nodded. “Varys’s latest report said that Queen Margaery is feeling the pressure to prove she can quicken with child. No one is pleased with her failure—especially now that Robert has gotten some knight’s daughter pregnant.”

Sarra let out a sound of disgust. “The Usurper is worse than Aegon the Unworthy.”

“He is,” Ashara agreed, “but Varys has assured me that the Tyrells will never have a true heir from him.”

Sarra smirked. “Between him and Tywin, they’ll see to that.”

Ashara tapped her fingers against the table. “Perhaps, but the Tyrells are no fools. Unlike Cersei, who thought herself too clever to be caught in her affairs—when in truth, many knew. We just wanted her not to give Robert trueborn sons.”

“A clever scheme, in its own way,” Sarra said.

“Clever, but not careful,” Ashara corrected. “And we must be careful. This game is not one the Tyrells play blindly.”

Sarra hummed. “Given what’s happened, Robert’s days are numbered.”

Ashara’s grip tightened around her cup. She had failed, so utterly failed at one of the most important tasks she had. How? She had been so careful.

Sarra placed a hand over hers. “Ashara, this is not your burden to bear. Viserys and Daenerys’ deaths are on Robert’s hands. And the Tyrells.”

Ashara said nothing about the subject. There was little to say that they hadn’t spoken before. “I am not entirely certain we can trust Varys,” she admitted.

“No one is,” Sarra said. “But his loyalty was always with the Blackfyres, and now he has no one to put on the throne but Alysanne.”

“Or so he claims,” Ashara murmured. “I still wonder if he had a hand in Viserys and Daenerys’ deaths.”

Sarra tilted her head. “If he saw Alysanne as the better option, perhaps he only allowed the other side to do his work for him. But he wouldn’t have needed to if the Tyrells were already looking for ways to gain favor. It was no great secret they were in Pentos.”

Ashara sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Robert plans to name Renly to the Small Council again. As an advisor this time.”

Sarra arched a brow. “Lord Stannis won’t like that.”

“He’s already threatened to leave his position as Hand,” Ashara said. “He claims the whole realm will know Renly bought his seat with the blood of children and that he is deep in the Tyrells’ pockets.”

“Well, he isn’t wrong,” Sarra remarked, setting down her spoon.

“No, but in some ways, if Stannis falls out of favor, it will be better for us once Robert dies.”

Sarra studied her for a long moment. “Because it will make it harder for him to take the throne.”

Ashara gave a slow nod. “He would have fewer allies when the time comes.”

Sarra considered this, then leaned back. “What else is troubling you?”

Ashara hesitated before speaking. “I received word from the Prince of Dorne. Doran wishes for me to visit him.”

Sarra did not look surprised. “Then I’ll stay behind at Starfall until you return from the Water Gardens, if needed.”

“Allyria can hold the castle while I am away,” Ashara assured her.

Their conversation drifted to softer topics, the weight of war and politics momentarily set aside. Sarra was telling her a tale of one of her maids, threatening her husband after she found him abed with a young girl. But their peace was short-lived.

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Maester Kyle entered, his expression carefully neutral. He was a stormlander by birth, from House Penrose, and Ashara had long kept a careful eye on him. Until this moment, he had never given her reason to doubt his loyalty.

“Forgive the intrusion, my lady,” the Maester said, bowing his head. “A message has arrived from Casterly Rock.”

Ashara nearly rose from her seat but stopped at the last moment, extending her hand for the rolled parchment. Maester Kyle placed it gently in her grasp. She turned it in her fingers, frowning. Not the golden lion of House Lannister, but a silver one, with the letters ‘SL’ at the bottom.

“I shall leave you ladies to your meal,” the Maester said, retreating.

As soon as the Maester turned his back to them, Ashara glanced at Ser Maron. The knight, ever watchful, met her gaze and gave a subtle nod. She would need to keep an even closer watch on Maester Kyle, just in case.

She look back at the unfamiliar seal. Frowning, she broke the seal, her pulse quickening with unease.

“Who is it from?” Sarra asked, watching her closely.

Ashara’s gaze dropped to the signature. “Lady Sarya,” she murmured.

Sarra straightened. “What does she say?”

Ashara did not answer immediately. Instead, she began to read.

To the Illustrious and Virtuous Lady Ashara,

I trust this letter finds you in good health, my lady. My name is Sarya Mallister, the wife of Lord Lancel of House Lannister, and someone who considers herself a great friend of Lady Alysanne, our most illustrious Lady Regent. I hope I do not greatly disturb you, nor that you find me too brazen in writing such a letter to a woman whom I have never met.

In the few but very cherished conversations I have had with Lady Alysanne, your name has come up often, and there is little doubt how highly the Lady Regent places her trust in you. And I am sure you know how difficult it is to find women of like mind in this country of ours. And so, I hope you find within your heart—and your very occupied time—some little place for my letters. Knowing that one day, I am certain, we shall meet at some glorious event, no doubt one both of us think about.

Sarra exhaled sharply, her lips pressing together. “She knows.”

Ashara lowered the letter slightly, meeting her eyes. “Yes,” she admitted. “Alysanne has hinted as much before. She says Lady Sarya is as clever and formidable as a lady can be.”

“A high compliment,” Sarra muttered, reaching for her tea.

Ashara nodded before continuing.

I have found myself in a new home, with a good and kind husband, and a new mother in Lady Genna. Considering my father’s latest folly—trying to court a lady far above him and with no interest whatsoever—I curse the gods that I cannot have him wed Lady Genna. It would amuse us all. Alas, I have no such luck, for the lady is… I won’t say well, but wed.

A quiet snort escaped Sarra. “Lord Jason still persists in his pursuit?”

Ashara hummed in response, eyes still moving over the letter.

I fear my father’s persistence, Lady Ashara, especially since an accord between him and Lord Paxwell Redwyne regarding my brother’s marriage seems close. My father’s last letter assures me that it is likely the Lady Desmera Redwyne shall arrive at Seagard in six moons for her marriage to my brother. I, unfortunately, will not be able to attend, should this marriage go ahead, as my condition does not allow me. If my father invites you, my lady, please inquire if Lady Alerie Hightower shall be attending as well. It would be of great interest to the lady in question, since I have been told you were once childhood companions. Unfortunately, I have also been told she has been ill of late.

Sarra raised a brow. “What a delicate way of asking you to seek an audience with Alerie.”

Ashara set the parchment down for a moment, fingers tracing the edge in thought. “It is. And I have little reason to trust that Alerie is truly unwell. The Tyrells for some reason don’t trust Alerie, or at least don’t want her at court.”

Ashara picked up the letter again.

As for the true reason for my letter, I confess Lady Alysanne has spoken of the Daynes of Starfall a great deal, and I cannot help but think my father has been looking toward the wrong kind of marriage to your house. Lady Allyria is, according to my friend, of an easy-going nature, fond of hawking, and very well-educated—as a woman whose sister is the Lady Ashara can only be. I cannot help but think how good a wife she would make for my brother, whom I greatly love and want to see happy above all.

A knowing smirk tugged at Sarra’s lips. “And there it is.”

Ashara shook her head with a faint chuckle. “Did you expect anything less? I cannot help but applaud the woman for her ways.”

I also confess I have a great desire to see myself calling you kin, and I am sure my father can find it in his heart to forgive his son for looking to a house of such great repute and falling for one of its stars. And I am sure Lord Redwyne, who has expressed his great desire to see House Mallister and House Redwyne linked, can look to another great marriage. My dear father has, after all, inherited his cousin’s title, and while not as grand as Seagard, the Lordship of Mistcore is close to the ocean. I am sure an Arbor-born lady would enjoy knowing her son will inherit such a title. Mistcore is, after all, meant to be inherited by my father’s second son—which, unfortunately, my father has not yet been blessed with.

Ashara let her lips curl up.

“She knows we need the Redwynes or at least a way into the Arbor when Redwyne turns his support to the Tyrells,” Sarra said, drumming her fingers lightly against the table. “But at the same time wants Seaguard connected with the Daynes.”

“She is well aware that one day when Alysanne sits on the throne our house will rise in favor. And Mallister is set on rising with us.”

In my attempt to see my family happy, and myself as well, I begged my husband and his uncle to invite your house—and especially the Lady Allyria—to a tourney being hosted in Lannisport in four moons. It shall not be a grand affair, in truth, but Lord Lannister wishes to celebrate my one-year marriage to Lancel, and I could not say no to such an event. I shall have Lady Allyria as a guest of honor at the Rock for as long as she desires and, of course, any other family member that wishes to join.

In case such love is not found, I am sure another of my brother’s dear friends would find in Lady Allyria a perfect wife. If the rivers of my homeland are contaminating those fools, I shall be happy to have such a lady in my presence.

Please, my lady, tell this foolish woman that you will let me have this one little scheme. I live for these follies, as I am frequently told, but I do not seem capable of stopping.

With the utmost esteem,

Lady Sarya Mallister-Lannister

“There is another letter,” Ashara said, noticing the second parchment carefully wrapped around the first. The handwriting was bolder that the small one from Sarya.

“Well?” Sarra prompted, watching her closely.

Ashara unfolded it, her eyes scanning the signature before exhaling. “It’s from Barbara Bracken.”

Sarra raised an eyebrow. “That should be interesting.”

Clearing her throat, Ashara began to read aloud.

To the Most Esteemed Lady Ashara,

First of all, I ask that you forgive me for writing in such an unconventional manner. As I am sure you are well aware, my full-blood sister, Lady Jayne, serves as a companion to Queen Margaery since my dear father’s passing, leaving me in charge of our great house—with the guidance of my father’s widow, Lady Margot Starsfield, whose support has been invaluable in these times. I hope she will continue to be so.

As I explained, my dear sister is part of Queen Margaery’s entourage and has, to my great displeasure, expressed her desire to wed one of those Blackwood barbarians. It appears she has fallen in love with some unworthy Blackwood—the eldest son of Lord Blackwood’s brother. I had hoped my fool of a sister would at the very least set her sights on Lucas Blackwood, who, perhaps because of the hints of Bracken blood, has proven himself capable enough to serve as Ser Arthur’s squire. Unfortunately, she now threatens to run away and wed this other fool.

I have written to my dear friend, Sarya, who has confirmed that this man will attend the tourney at Lannisport. My sister has written to inform me that the Queen intends to accept the invitation—without her husband, who refuses to return to the West. I fear, then, that my sister will undoubtedly seize the opportunity to elope. It is as if the Gods themselves conspire to bring them together in that place.

“What a strange letter,” Sarra commented.

“It isn’t,” Ashara countered, tapping the parchment. “The Brackens are playing the Queen. Especially the elder daughters of Lord Jonos. But I find myself confused—I thought a double marriage between the Blackwoods and Brackens was inevitable, once things settled. Yet Lady Barbara seems determined to stop it.”

Sarra frowned, considering the implications. “And you would expect Lady Jayne, as a second daughter, to at least aim for Lord Blackwood’s heir. Not a mere cousin.”

Ashara sighed. “I am beginning to think this entire tourney is a great scheme to make certain things happen. Like a marriage that I think everyone knows it will happen, and even the protesting Lady Bracken,” Ashara stopped her line of thought. “Lady Bracken is on the scheme.” Ashara re-read the letter, and now she could see there was an hint of sarcasm in it. “No doubt Lady Bracken feared the letter falling to the wrong hands and made sure to say the proper words.”

“And they are making a scandal of the marriage so they can have Jayne removed from Queen Margaery’s service,” Sarra noted shrewdly.

Ashara nodded. “And if the elopement happens in the West, Margaery will be unable to claim credit for arranging a respectable Bracken-Blackwood union. And the marriage, if turn into a scandal, makes very likely that the pious Margaery would ask for another Bracken girl.”

“And without that, she loses the ability to strengthen her hold over the Riverlands,” Sarra finished.

Ashara hummed in agreement before returning her attention to the letter.

You must wonder why I have taken quill to parchment and, worse still, entrusted my friend to bear this missive unto you. My late father, in his final will, named me his heir—but with one condition: I must be wed within a year. I have thus far delayed this fate, invoking the seven months of mourning, of which three have already passed. It is my desire to secure a husband of a particular kind, one suited to my purpose, lest I forfeit my birthright to my scheming uncles and grasping cousins. My father, it seems, cared not for the qualities of the man who should wed me, so long as I took a husband. Perhaps he suspected that I harbored dreams of becoming the Maiden of Stone Hedge, much as the Lady Jeyne Arryn once did.

My dear companion, Lady Ella—Lady Margot’s natural sister—knows well that I am not easily pleased, and that men oft prove an annoyance to me. Yet she has wisely suggested that in Dorne, I may find a husband likeminded to myself.

Ashara nodded, finally understanding the letter. “She seeks a husband who will not touch her bed. Poor woman. I can well imagine the vultures circling.”

“Delonne’s cousin has a paramour knight,” Sarra mused. “One of the Orphans.”

Ashara merely hummed and continued reading.

I am certain you are aware of the long-standing tensions between my family and those accursed Blackwoods. It was my sister Jayne’s duty to weave herself into Queen Margaery’s court, even secure for herself a fine husband from the Reach. And now suitors arrive at my doorstep. Queen Margaery boasts six unmarried cousins—though some are yet too young for my tastes.

As for a husband, beyond what I have already stated, I have no great demands. Yet I trust a woman of your sharp wit understands well that I shall not suffer a Blackwood-loving fool to stand beside me as my lord. One must be found, and I have heard it said that the Yronwoods are loyal.

Ashara smirked. “She seeks a husband who will make the Tyrells believe she stands against Alysanne.”

Sarra gave a thoughtful hum. “You must speak with Prince Doran Martell. If Oberyn indeed travels north, as he has hinted, the Tyrells will take it as a sign of Martell allegiance to Alysanne.”

“Which is why she speaks of the Yronwoods,” Ashara noted. “She needs a house that appears easily swayed, yet remains firm in truth.”

I eagerly await word from a noble house of Dorne—or better still, a visit. It seems I am prepared, at last, to entertain suitors from your lands.

With all due appreciation and gratitude,
Lady Barbara Bracken, Lady of Stone Hedge

They exchanged glances, but it was Sarra who gave voice to the thought they shared. “Robert is going to die while all eyes are turned upon that tourney.”

“Poetic,” Ashara said dryly.

.

.

        Day 26, Moon 4, 300 AC

The sun hung high over Sunspear, its golden light spilling over the sandstone walls, illuminating the palace in hues of amber and ochre. The scent of citrus lingered in the warm air as Ashara Dayne stepped into the courtyard, her violet eyes sweeping over the assembled party.

At the head of the welcoming party stood Princess Arianne Martell, resplendent in cobalt blue silk that clung to her like a second skin, accentuating every curve of her body. It was an undeniably deliberate choice, sensual but not scandalous—at least not in Dorne. A woman who knows the power of her beauty and wields it like a blade, Ashara thought. The last time she saw the heiress of Dorne she was still a pudgy girl, demanding attention from everyone and running away from her governess.

Their eyes met. Arianne’s dark gaze was assessing, but there was something else beneath the surface—a gleam of challenge that left her surprised.

Ashara curtsied, taking the opportunity to study the woman before her.

"Lady Ashara," Arianne greeted. She extended a hand, palm up, in welcome. "You honor Sunspear with your presence. I am Arianne of House Martell, heir to Dorne."

Only then did Ashara incline her head, taking the other woman’s hand briefly before releasing it. "I thank you for your welcome, Princess Arianne. It has been far too long since I saw Sunspear."

Arianne’s lips curled, her expression warm, but there was an edge to it. Ashara wondered why Arianne Martell believed her an adversary, and why the young woman was being so clear about it. The Daynes and the Martells were not as close as they been before the Usurper’s War, but they had no blood feud between them.

Arianne gestured to those flanking her. "Allow me to introduce my companions. This is cousin Ser Manfrey Martell, our loyal castellan."

Ser Manfrey, a broad-shouldered man of about Ashara’s age, but with streaks of silver in his dark hair smiled at her in welcome.

"And Lady Janyce Jordayne," Arianne continued.

Ashara’s gaze softened slightly as she inclined her head. "It is a pleasure meeting you, my lady. Would you allow me a question?”

The woman nodded with a smile, and Ashara had a feeling Lady Janyce already knew what she would ask.

“Your mother, how does she fare? It has been many years since last I saw her."

Lady Janyce’s cheeks dimpled as she smiled. "She is well, my lady, and content. My parents serve Lady Toland in Ghost Hill."

Lady Janyce’s mother, the lady Jeyne Hayford, had been one of the ladies at court when Ashara was a lady there as well. Her husband, Ser Daemon Jordayne, was a knight in service to Elia, and despite Ashara considering Lady Jeyne a companion, they had long ago lost contact. Still, she was pleased the lady was well.

Ashara smiled. "I am pleased to hear it. She was always kind to me in my youth."

Arianne, watching the scene with tense smile, did not let the moment linger. "And this," she continued, gesturing toward an older man, "is Ricasso Solhart, seneschal of Sunspear."

The old man inclined his head, but it was his companion who caught Ashara’s attention.

"And his wife, Rogga."

Ashara’s gaze lingered on the woman—tall, dark-eyed, still young despite standing beside a man well past his prime. Elia, years ago, told her that upon Mellario’s arrival in Dorne, the Norvosi woman was forced to free her servants upon her marriage to Doran. Ashara was almost certain Rogga was one of them.

Ashara smiled at Rogga then, and the woman, seemingly caught off guard by the gesture, hesitated before dipping her head in return.

Arianne observed the exchange with an unreadable expression before turning her attention elsewhere. Quite deliberately, she smiled as she extended her arm toward Gerold Dayne.

Ashara watched the moment unfold with quiet scrutiny. She had chosen Gerold for this very reason, hadn’t she? Out of all the Daynes she could have ask to keep her company in her travels, she had brought her cousin. And now, seeing the way Gerold smiled, the way his hair caught the sunlight, and the way he stepped forward to place his arm around Arianne’s, she knew it had worked.

Ashara saw the flicker of satisfaction in Arianne’s eyes, the way she pressed slightly closer to him, the way she let her fingers linger against his sleeve.

Arianne was known for her flirtations, her coy glances, and sultry smiles. She was a true Dornish beauty, sensual and unapologetic. And if there was one thing that was been well-known about Arianne Martell, it was that she had a particular fondness for beautiful men, especially those who carried a hint of danger.

Gerold was such a man.

Ashara might have laughed had it not been so predictable. She thinks he is another knight to play with. Another handsome fool to fall for her charms.

She saw the way Gerold’s gaze flickered—hovering just long enough on Arianne’s neckline to make his interest clear, but not long enough to betray how little he actually cared. He was indulging her, nothing more.

And Ashara was not the only one who noticed.

Daemon Sand, Arianne’s ever-loyal shadow, stood a step behind her, arms crossed, his expression impassive. But his eyes… his eyes told another story.

He sees it too.

Ashara hoped the heiress was not expecting to marry Gerold and keep Daemon Sand. Gerold would kill Daemon Sand the moment he had an agreement to wed Arianne.

But Arianne, in her endless confidence, was blind to it.

Ashara pitied her for it.

Ser Manfrey cleared his throat. "You must be weary from your travels, Lady Ashara. A bath and fresh garments have been prepared for you."

Ashara inclined her head. "That would be most welcome, Ser Manfrey."

Arianne’s smirk remained as she leaned ever so slightly into Gerold’s side, her fingers tightening around his arm. Her cousin’s cold eyes said it all. He would get much more information out of Arianne than Arianne out of him.

Ashara turned away, following the attendants into Sunspear, but she did not miss Daemon Sand’s lingering stare, nor the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly.

.

.

The Water Gardens were a place filled with the laughter of children and the smell of a soft summer. For two days, Ashara had walked its shaded paths, watching the young ones play in the pools, unburdened by the weight of names and duty. It was a rare thing, this softness. A place where no banners flew, where no swords were drawn, where the heat of Dorne was tempered by the coolness of marble and still waters.

But peace, she knew, was always fleeting.

On the third day, Prince Doran summoned her for a private lunch.

She found him seated on the balcony of his private solar, his wheeled chair positioned so that he overlooked the gardens below. But despite the beautiful scenery around them and its warmth, there was something solemn about the man before her.

Doran Martell was not the sort of ruler Dorne favored. He was cautious where Dorne preferred boldness, ponderous where his forebears had been quick to action. But even as gout twisted his body, stealing his mobility, his mind remained sharp, his dark eyes keen as ever.

Ashara saw in him the ruler Edric Dayne might have become—a steady, deliberate lord, shaping the future with careful hands rather than rash impulses. A part of her was pleased by the thought. Another part, the part that understood how easily a ruler could be swallowed by their own people’s expectations, felt only sadness.

Dorne had never loved Doran as they did Oberyn and Elia.

It was not endless unfaithfulness that defined Dornish culture, as the rest of Westeros believed, but passion. To see their prince alone, without a companion at his side, had raised more than a few whispers. A man so withdrawn, so careful, was one that could inspired respect but little devotion.

And yet, Ashara knew what many overlooked.

The Shadow City had swelled in size under Doran’s rule. New walls had been raised to protect the part that was growing outside the old ones. The people were sheltered behind fortifications stronger than those of the last century. Trade routes had flourished, secured with the Free Cities—Tyrosh, Lys, Norvos, and Volantis. Three new towns had been founded under Doran’s rule.

Dorne was prosperous. Dorne was stable.

And yet, Doran Martell remained unappreciated.

Their conversation began simply, with words of family and softer things. It was not until the servants brought their meal—figs drizzled in honey, spiced lamb, white cheese and olives —that Ashara reached into her sleeve and withdrew a letter.

She placed it on the table between them, wordlessly sliding it toward him.

Doran unfolded it with slow, deliberate movements, his gaze scanning Lady Barbara Bracken’s words while Ashara took a measured sip of Dornish wine.

He did not rush. He never did.

When at last he finished, he placed the parchment aside and steepled his fingers.

"Yronwood would be a good idea," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Considering the history between our families. But Quentyn’s time there made him well liked. I had hoped he would wed Ynys Yronwood."

Ashara nodded, setting her goblet down. "Andres Yronwood put a stop to that plan."

Doran inclined his head. “Yes. And he disinherited Lady Ynys when she wed the heir of Godsgrace."

A moment passed before he added, almost as an afterthought, "Andres offered his youngest daughter for Quentyn."

Ashara stilled.

"Andres would press Quentyn to force Arianne to abdicate," she surmised.

Doran did not confirm it outright, but he did not need to.

Ashara let the matter settle, did not press further. If there was one thing to be learned, it was when to let silence carry weight.

"Do you have a name in mind?" she asked instead.

Doran exhaled, rubbing slow circles into his wrist. "Now that Oberyn has thrown his lot with you and your queen." He studied the horizon for a moment before continuing, "At this point, I would not trust Vaith or Santagar."

Ashara nodded in understanding. Both families easily turn in favor of the new regime. Not loudly but it had been clear they saw the Baratheon’s as the future and had no desire to avenge Elia or fight for Targaryens.

"But in truth," Doran went on, "the girl would be better off with a Qorgyle or a Gargalen."

Ashara frowned slightly. "Both houses are fearsome in their Dornish ways," she mused. "They make little effort to hide their disdain for the Usurper."

Her gaze flicked to Doran, watching the way his hands folded over his lap. He did not disagree.

"Worse," she added, "it would be you suggesting the Ullers."

“The Ullers lack the kind of man Lady Bracken desires,” Doran mused, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his wheeled chair.

Ashara remained unconvinced. “And yet, a marriage to such loyal houses—Qorgyle, Gargalen, Uller—might not be in our best interests,” she countered.

“Or perhaps it would be. When said houses are very much against the Lannisters,” her prince countered.

“They are too outspoken,” she continued. “Too set in their ways. It is one thing to despise the Lannisters and the Baratheons openly in Dorne, quite another to do so in the Riverlanders.” She exhaled. “A Bracken husband from Dorne must be careful. Too Dornish, and he will be distrusted. Too brash, and he will be discarded.”

Doran studied her for a long moment before speaking. “Still, a Dornish husband must be,” he said at last. “I can interview the men myself, and together we can pick the best candidate.”

She accepted that with a small nod.

A silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant laughter of children in the gardens below. Then, as if weighing his next words, Doran asked, “And Gerold Dayne?”

Ashara’s lips curled downward. “My cousin is no fit consort for anyone.”

Doran’s gaze did not waver. “And yet, there are rumors of his prowess in battle. And he was raised in a house ruled by women.”

“That much is true,” she admitted. “But Gerold is loyal, above all, to himself. A wife would come, at best, in third place, behind the Daynes. At worst, she would be nothing but a tool to him.” She took a sip of wine before adding, “If I had a man I wished to dispose of through violent means—rather than a more cautious approach—I would send Gerold and he would do the task without question. If a man tried to court his wife, he would slowly disembowel him and sent his wife to a motherhouse.”

Doran hummed his understanding, fingers curling over the carved wood of his chair.

Ashara leaned back slightly. “Would you look north of the Red Mountains for a consort for Dorne?”

Doran hesitated. “I have thought on it,” he admitted after some time. “But Arianne is too hot-blooded, and her reputation is… well known.” He exhaled slowly. “In Dorne, a paramour matters little. What matters is her children inheriting, the claim comes through her, not her husband. But outside of Dorne?” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Outside, her reputation is in tatters. I have approached many, and though their refusals come with polite words, the excuses remain the same. Some are better phrased than others, but the answer is always no.”

Ashara studied him. There was no bitterness in his tone, only a quiet resignation.

Then, as if confessing a great failing, Doran sighed. “I am to blame.”

She did not speak, allowing him the space to continue.

“I imagined her wedding a king,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “And so I prepared her for that. Those plans were not to happen and so I tried to make her a ruler. As my sickness progressed, I gave her more power in Sunspear, hoping she would rise to the task.” His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest again. “The results have not been in her favor.”

Ashara listened on. She would confess the heiress left much to be desired. In her youth, Ashara would applaud Arianne’s boldness, but as time went on, she knew a ruler should be more like Doran than Oberyn. And, perhaps much less kindly, she couldn’t help but compared the dornish princess to another one, one Ashara loved greatly, and find her lacking.

“Arianne is skilled in the court schemes of Sunspear,” Doran continued, “but she has little interest in much else. She has not read a single book on Dornish law and history that I gifted her. She leaves administration and justice to others.” His gaze drifted toward the gardens below. “For now, Sunspear and the Shadow City are under the command of men I trust. But for how long?”

Ashara remained quiet for a moment before saying carefully, “Perhaps it is time to bring Arianne into our plans. To make her see the greater picture.”

Doran’s lips pressed into a thin line. “She will tell her companions.”

Ashara arched a brow.

Doran sighed. “Arianne cannot keep a secret for long. She does not have the mind for long-term plotting.”

It was an assessment that stung, even Ashara could admit.

“Would it not be better, then,” she asked slowly, “to have her and Quentyn work together? They could counter each other’s disadvantages.”

It had been so with Doran and Oberyn, the brothers were partners for two decades. Why couldn’t it be so in the new generation?

Doran exhaled, rubbing his temple. “There is little love between them. Arianne will see it as yet another slight—proof that I favor my son over my daughter.”

Ashara fell silent at that.

Tentatively, she asked, “Would you consider marrying Arianne to a great lord?”

Doran’s gaze was distant as he looked out at the sun-drenched gardens. “Hoster Tully made his opinion of Arianne very clear,” he said at last, then gave her a wry glance. “I will not try the Tyrells.”

Ashara exhaled, sipping at her wine. She pitied the weight on his shoulders.

For a moment, she allowed him the silence before they returned to their planning.

Prince Doran, Lady Sarra Whent, Lady Ashara Dayne | Arianne Martell, Sunspear, Asharar's clothes when meeting prince Doran | Lady Janyce Jordayne, Ashara's cloak when getting to Sunspear 

Chapter Text

Chapter 22 – Alysanne VIII

Alysanne curled into Willas beneath the heavy furs, the warmth of the heated stones doing their best to ward off the cold. They had caught snow every day in their journey, and not the summer snows, and the days were growing far too shorter to still be considered the first days of autumn. Yet, they had no raven announcing the autumn. Alysanne wondered why, and every single possible answer was not one she liked.

This was no normal autumn.

“I will never complain about the size of our tent again,” Willas murmured, his voice thick with drowsy amusement.

Alysanne hid her smile against his collarbone, her breath warm against his skin. “We could bring a bigger one, if you truly wished it,” she whispered. “But then we’d be sharing it with others.”

Willas huffed a quiet laugh. “You were always the smarter one in our marriage” he admitted, his hand slipping beneath the furs, trailing a slow, knowing path between her legs.

Alysanne shivered at his touch, but caught his wrist before he could go further. “We should be sleeping,” she murmured, though there was little conviction in her tone. “We still have a long day’s ride to Long Lake.”

“At least there, we’ll have a bedchamber,” Willas countered, his lips grazing her temple.

Alysanne tilted her head up, giving him a wry look. “A bedchamber, yes. But we’ll likely have to share with Myrcella, Branda, and Marna. And probably Prudence, too.”

Willas sighed, though his tone was curious when he said, “I’m surprised they all came.”

Alysanne hummed. “Branda is hoping the Greatjon shows up, so she can see her father. And Myrcella… I think she was more interested in coming than I expected, despite the dangers.”

Willas made a thoughtful noise, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her spine. “We have had many surprising guests.” There was something pointed in his tone, “And Jon Connington? Does he mean to the Black?”

Her breath caught for half a second before she forced herself to remain relaxed.

Willas chuckled softly. “I’m not that stupid,” he said. “The man carries himself like a lord. And over time, his actions made it clear enough. It wasn’t hard to piece together who he really was.”

 “You think he means to take the Black?” Alysanne asked, surprise he came to the conclusion.

Willas shrugged. “Why else?”

She huffed at the glint in his eyes. “He probably just came along because he didn’t want to stay in Winterfell with my uncle Arthur in charge. They do fight like an—”

Willas gave a knowing smirk as she failed to find the correct words. “Estranged couple,” Willas finished for her making her wrinkling her nose.

Willas laughed at her expression, but when her gaze turned more serious, he quieted. “Does it trouble you, hosting an exiled lord?” she asked.

Willas shrugged. “My father fought for the Targaryens, too.”

Alysanne studied him. There was something weighing on him, she could tell. She reached up, cupping his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. “What is it?”

Willas hesitated for a moment before exhaling deeply. “The deaths of the Targaryen exiles,” he admitted. “They weigh on me. I have never liked violence—especially senseless violence.” His fingers tightened slightly against her waist. “And…” he took another breath, as though steadying himself, “I know we will see things differently. In this, we may always disagree.”

Alysanne said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“Robert Baratheon should never have been king,” Willas said finally, his voice steady but firm. “If he had any decency, he would have avenged the murder of Prince Rhaegar’s children and put Viserys on the throne.” A wry smile ghosted his lips. “But everyone knew Robert meant to be king from the moment he won at Gulltown. Considering the amount of Targaryens around at the time, it says a lot about the Usurper.”

Alysanne stared at him, momentarily speechless.

She did not let him look away.

“I never took you for such a loyalist,” she murmured.

Willas’ eyes darkened slightly. “The Targaryens gave my family all we have. I spent most of my boyhood in Oldtown, and I won’t pretend the city has much love for the Baratheons.” He gave her a small, sad smile. “I heard, more than once as a child, that I might have wed a princess, had things been different.”

Alysanne frowned at that. That made far too uncomfortable. Just the thought of it. But in truth, it would be that strange would it? There was a Targaryen princess of an age with him, why would she marry the heir of the Reach. “You were no more than five when the war ended,” she pointed out, trying to shake the strange feeling coiling inside her. “How could you remember such things?”

Willas arched a brow.

“Oh,” Alysanne breathed, realization settling over her. The talks had happened after the Rebellion.

Words of treason.

Willas was telling her about treason. His family’s and his own. But didn’t she share her own treason with him by admitting that Jon Connigton was here with them? A strange thought, but not an unwelcome one. It was a comfort, in a way, that he was willing to share those thoughts with her.

After a moment of silence, Willas smiled slightly. “No doubt the honorable daughter of the honorable Lord Stark would never think such things—much less speak them.”

Alysanne huffed. “I didn’t go south for Robert,” she told him plainly. “I went for my father and the Northmen who followed him. Not for whoever sat the Iron Throne.”

Willas studied her carefully.

“But you care about things like treason and loyalty more than most,” he pointed out.

Alysanne smirked faintly. She thought of the king who would soon die. She wouldn’t be the one to put the dagger into him, but she might as well have been. Not that Robert lacked people who wished to see him gone.

“I am loyal to the North,” she said. “And I would commit treason for them.”

Willas smiled at that, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“When spring comes—perhaps even before, if I can pry you from the North—I will take you to Oldtown,” he murmured. “You would like my uncles. And the Citadel.”

Alysanne scoffed. “The Citadel is for men.”

Willas grinned, that charming, clever smile of his. “There are always ways inside. You should ask Prince Oberyn about his daughter Sarella.”

Alysanne frowned slightly, but nodded. Then, because she felt like it, she kissed him.

.

.

The day had gifted them with a rare reprieve from the snow, and as such, the entire party had opted for horseback rather than the litter that Lady Prudence had insisted on bringing. The crisp air carried the scent of pine and damp earth as they rode through the Kingswood, the tall trees looming around them.

Alysanne rode at the front, her voice carrying as she spoke to the girls, and Willas and Prudence, about House Lake.

“The house is in its third resurgence,” she explained. “It was thanks to Lonnel Snow who took to wife a woman named Arsa Lake, distant kin to the last lords. They were farmers. But for Lonnel’s service, his nephew, Lord Willem Stark, granted him the castle of Long Lake. And so, the Lakes once more ruled their ancient home.”

Myrcella, wrapped tightly in her furs, tilted her head. “I cannot see it. Only trees”

Alysanne smiled at the curious girl. “The castle sits near the border of Umber lands but we have at least five days until we get there.”

Before Myrcella could ask another question, Ghost suddenly stiffened, the great white direwolf’s ears pricking forward. Without hesitation, he bolted, disappearing into the trees with barely a sound.

The movement sent a ripple through the guardsmen, hands going to their swords. Theon Greyjoy and Olyvar Frey reacted first, spurring their horses forward. Alysanne made to follow, but Willas caught her wrist.

“Stay with us,” he murmured.

Her fingers twitched at the restraint, but she obeyed, though her hand went to the long dagger strapped to her saddle. She was surprised to see Lady Prudence had a short dagger, herself.

The shouts came soon after. It felt far too long before the party returned, no one visibly harmed, but Olyvar was dragging a figure—a woman, tall and lean, her arms bound before her.

Theon rode up beside them, wiping his sword clean against his cloak. “Six brigands,” he said. “We killed the others, but this one was a woman, so we spared her.”

Alysanne slid off her horse, her boots sinking into the snow. She approached, studying the woman.

“I am Lady Alysanne,” she said clearly, “Regent of Winterfell.”

The woman’s head lifted slightly, her hair a matted mess, her face streaked with dirt. Her sharp eyes fixed on Alysanne. “You’re a Stark?”

B Before Alysanne could reply, Olyvar spoke. “My Lady is the daughter of the late Lord Stark.”

At Olyvar’s words, the woman dropped to her knees, her bound hands held before her. “Give me my life, m’lady of Stark,” she said, her voice raw but steady. “And I am yours.”

Alysanne noted the accent immediately—not Northern.

“Your name,” she demanded. “And where did you and your companions come from?”

Alysanne wondered if the Wildlings knew of the tensions in the North. They probably didn’t, or Mance would have already attacked the Wall. Was Mance already attacking? No, the Watch would have sent word to Winterfell if so. Was there raidings? She really hoped that was not a headache she had to face.

The woman lifted her chin. “Stiv and Wallen fled down off the Wall, and the others were Free Folk—like me.”

Alysanne’s gaze flickered to Ghost. The direwolf sat beside her now, his white fur streaked with red, but his posture was calm.

Theon scowled. “We should kill her.”

Alysanne turned on him. “Think with your head for once, Theon.”

He sneered. “I am.” His gaze flickered over the woman—her ragged clothes, her wild, unkempt hair—with clear distaste.

Alysanne ignored him. Instead, she called over one of the guardsmen. “Do we have bread and salt?”

It took a moment, but a small chunk of hard bread was brought forth. Alysanne held it up to the woman who looked at her with curious eyes. “We are on our way to the Wall,” she said.

The woman’s brow furrowed. “Why? The Wall’s no place for women.”

Alysanne studied her. “Do you know Mance Rayder?”

The woman’s expression remained neutral, but her gaze flickered over the gathered men. There were twenty guards, a number Willas had insisted upon.

“I know Mance,” she admitted.

Alysanne arched a brow. “We won’t torture you for information.”

Osha let out a short, sharp laugh. “No? And what about your beast?” She nodded toward Ghost.

Alysanne smirked faintly. “Ghost has been mine for three years. As I am his. He wont’ do anything without my asking, and if he does it is because he felt threatened. Why are you not with your King?”

Osha let out a breath, watching the direwolf warily before shaking her head. “He can call himself King-beyond-the-Wall all he likes,” she said, “but he’s just another old black crow who flew down from the Shadow Tower. He’s never tasted winter. I was born up there, like my mother before me, and her mother before her. Born of the Free Folk.” Her eyes darkened. “We remember.”

Brave little Myrcella, who had been listening intently, tilted her head. “Remember what?”

The woman turned to her, frowning.

Before she could answer, Alysanne spoke. “She means winter, Myrcella.”

The girl frowned. “You can’t run from winter. It a season.”

Innocence laced her words, but Osha’s eyes turned hard, old wounds visible in her expression.

Alysanne met the woman’s gaze, then flicked her eyes toward Ghost before returning them to her. “You can join us,” she said. “You’ll be under guard—and in chains, for a time.”

Osha nodded slowly. “Better than dead.”

“Good,” Alysanne said. “You’re on skinning duty.”

Osha blinked. “What?”

“You can’t hunt,” Alysanne pointed out. “So you’ll make yourself useful some other way.”

Osha let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Fair enough, m’lady of Stark.”

.

.

Lord Cassyon Lake greeted Alysanne with warm embraces, his strong arms wrapping around her as if she were a beloved niece rather than the sister of his liege lord. When he pulled back, his sharp eyes flickered to Willas.

He did not frown.

Alysanne counted that as a victory.

Willas had taken care to dress like a proper Northerner—sure his black furs and leathers were finely-made, but only hint of the Reach in him was the fine golden shirt peeking from beneath his doublet. The weeks of travel making a clean shave impossible and he ha d gain a rather attractive dark gold bear.  

Alysanne turned to properly introduce him. “Lord Cassyon, this is my husband, Willas Tyrell.”

Cassyon inclined his head, his expression giving away little. “Lord Willas.”

Before the silence could stretch, he gestured to the woman beside him—a tall, slightly stocky woman with greying dark auburn hair and broad shoulders. “My wife, Caren.”

Lady Caren Umber dipped her chin in greeting.

Willas bowed his head in return, courteous but not overly so. Alysanne had trained him well for this. Lady Caren, in turn, did not overdo her own courtesies, and Alysanne decided she liked that about the woman.

Soon, Lady Caren led them inside.

The castle of Long Lake was larger than Alysanne had expected, its halls built with thick grey stones, the scent of old wood and pine filling the air. But there were not so many chambers as to allow true luxury.

Jon Connington and Ser Laswell took the largest room and asked if Theon and Olyvar wanted to share it with them instead of sleeping in a cell. The two younger men had looked surprised, but Jon and Laswell were long accustomed to the life of the road, sharing chambers was nothing new to them no doubt. Alysanne herself had slept in a tent with Mormont women during the war as they were the only women in the camp.

Prudence, of course, happily volunteer to stay with the girls.

And that left Alysanne and Willas with the remaining chamber.

The moment they entered, Alysanne heard Willas make a pleased noise behind her. She turned just in time to catch him eyeing the desk by the window.

“I’ll have them bring another chair,” she said, already knowing that they’d end up writing their letters together. It had become a habit of theirs.

Willas only grinned, putting his message bag on the table as Shadd entered, carried their trunk inside.

Alysanne pulled off her wool cap, embroidered with delicate red leaves, and was about to thank the guardsman—

But Willas beat her to it.

“Thank you, Shadd,” he said smoothly.

Alysanne ducked her head, pretending to unlace her boots to hide her smile. He had called the man’s name correctly, and that pleased her more than it should have.

She barely had time to react before Willas joined her on the bed, his long fingers threading into her hair, idly playing with the strands that left her braid.

“You’re getting too comfortable,” she murmured.

Willas smirked, brushing his knuckles against her temple.

Alysanne let him continue for a moment before teasing, “We should bathe before you get any ideas.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Do you think they have public baths here too?”

Alysanne snorted. “You’ve been in enough Northern holdfasts to know the answer.” But then she glanced at him, softer now. “Though… I suppose I might use my privileges for once. I could ask if we might have the bathhouse to ourselves.”

Willas’ hand stilled in her hair. Then, ever so slowly, a wicked grin spread across his face.

.

.

                Moon 7 , Day 10

"By the gods, that is one big Wall," Laswell Peake muttered, half in awe, half in dismay.

Alysanne sat astride her horse, her breath hitching as she took in the towering stretch of ice before them. The Wall loomed impossibly high, swallowing the sky in its frozen grip. She had grown up in the North, had heard the tales of its staggering immensity, yet standing before it now, she felt small.

But could it truly protect them?

At the entrance of Castle Black, a small party awaited their arrival. Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, stood at the center—broad, grizzled, every inch the warrior he was reputed to be even in his advanced age. Beside him, three men regarded her company with varying degrees of disapproval. No doubt, they opposed the idea of women at the Wall.

Alysanne dismounted, stepping forward to greet them. “Lord Commander Mormont.”

The old bear gave her a nod. “Lady Alysanne. I’ll not waste words—we are grateful for the food you sent.”

She smiled. “House Stark sent the food.”

Mormont inclined his head, his voice gruff. “Aye. The Starks have always been friends of the Wall.”

At that, one of the men beside him scoffed.

Mormont turned sharply, his stare cutting like a blade.

 “This is Bowen Marsh, our Lord Steward” Marsh had a face far kinder look than the others. Likely, his gratitude for the supplies softened his expression.

“This is Othell Yarwyck, our First Builder,” Mormont continued, gesturing to the tall, weathered man beside Marsh.

Then, his tone cooled as he introduced the last man—the one who had scoffed so openly. "And Ser Alliser Thorne, Master-at-Arms."

Ser Alliser sneered as he gave a stiff nod.

Alysanne returned it with the barest curve of her lips before proceeding with her own introductions, listing the names of those who had accompanied her north. Willas, ever composed, inclined his head at the proper moments, his gaze sharp as it flicked between the brothers of the Watch. There was no judgment in his eyes, only quiet interest. She had no doubt who would be the first to ask to go to the top of the Wall.

Bowen Marsh stepped forward, gesturing for them to follow. "You’ll be staying in the King’s Tower. It’s old but sturdy. The best chambers are on the third floor." He cast a glance toward Willas before turning to Prudence and the younger girls. "The cells haven’t been used in years, so I’m afraid comfort will be… minimal. We did our best."

Alysanne gave a gracious nod. “It will be more than enough. We might look fancy but we are well with just a bed.”

At her side, Willas gave Bowen a measured look. “Then the better chambers should go to the girls and Lady Prudence.”

A voice from the stairwell cut through the conversation.

“Lady Prudence will stay with me in the rookery.”

Alysanne turned sharply to the speaker—an ancient man, clad in a maester’s robes, slowly descending the steps. She barely had time to register him before Prudence swept past her, crossing the courtyard with purpose.

Silence fell as she embraced the old man, her voice clear in the still air. "Uncle, it is so good to meet you."

Murmurs rippled through the men gathered, confusion evident in their faces.

Alysanne wondered how many of them truly knew who the old man was.

Maester Aemon lifted a frail, wrinkled hand and touched Prudence’s face with a gentleness that did not match his age. There was warmth in his blind eyes, and the small, wistful smile he wore made Alysanne feel like she was intruding in a family moment.

At her side, Willas leaned in, his voice low. “What does she mean by ‘uncle’?”

Alysanne turned to her husband with a knowing smile, but before she could speak, Prudence turned to them, her voice bright with excitement.

“Come meet Uncle Maester Aemon, Alysanne, Willas.”

Willas stiffened at the name, his eyes wide with shock. His lips parted slightly as he whispered, “Maester Aemon.”

Alysanne nodded.

Still looking faintly stunned, Willas followed as she stepped forward.

She met the old man’s sightless gaze and dipped her head in greeting. “Maester Aemon.”

“I have been eager to meet you, Lady Alysanne,” he said, his voice warm with quiet wisdom.

Alysanne smiled. “The honor is all mine.”

.

.

                Moon 7 , Day 12

Willas and Alysanne walked side by side toward the Lord Commander’s Tower, their boots crunching against the frozen ground. The cold air bit at their skin, but Alysanne barely noticed. The weight of watchful eyes pressed upon her.

She turned her head slightly, her sharp gaze sweeping the courtyard. Among the men training, one pair of eyes stood out—cold and filled with open disdain. Ser Alliser Thorne was glaring at her, his expression a mixture of resentment and contempt as he barked orders at the recruits.

She had expected the men to stare at her, she was afterall, a woman at the Wall, but something about Ser Alliser’s glare was different.

They reached the steps of the tower, and Willas paused beside her. His voice was low, just for her ears. “Thorne and Othell Yarwyck were both Targaryen loyalists. They were forced to take the black or die.”

Alysanne exhaled, glancing back at the knight who still watched her with thinly veiled hatred. “I didn’t think of that,” she admitted. “Perhaps he doesn’t just hate me for being a woman at the Wall… or a bastard at that.”

Willas followed her gaze, his own expression darkening as he glared at Ser Alliser. Then, with a sigh, he turned back to her, offering his gloved hand as they resumed walking. “If he should hate anyone, it should be the Tyrells. The Starks did no harm to the Targaryens.”

Alysanne said softly. “Some would say the rebellion would say otherwise.”

She let the thought settle in her mind before musing aloud, “I wonder how many more men up here share such loyalties.”

Willas’ answer was immediate. “Jarmen Buckwell, Thoren Smallwood, and Jaremy Rykker, that I know of.”

Alysanne turned to him in surprise. “You’ve been here two days, and you’ve already studied the politics of this place?”

Willas smirked slightly but said nothing.

Alysanne shook her head, amused, then leaned in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “I like being married to a clever man.”

Willas’ expression shifted, his eyes darkening with something else entirely. His fingers curled slightly against her palm, but then he grumbled, “Your new clothes most of the places I can kiss.”

Alysanne laughed. “It’s traditional winter wear. We can go all showing or hair and ears in the cold, can we?”

Willas sighed dramatically, then gave her a teasing smile. “You look very pretty.” Before she could respond, he dipped down and kissed her nose.

Alysanne blinked in surprise, startled by the unexpected affection.

Willas chuckled at her expression. “It was that or your lips,” he explained, a playful glint in his eye. “And if I did that, you’d probably hit me. The stairs are too wet for that risk.”

Alysanne rolled her eyes. “The Lord Commander is waiting for us.”

Still, as they climbed the steps together, her fingers tightened slightly around his.

.

.

Lord Commander Mormont was already inside when Alysanne and Willas entered, deep in conversation with Maester Aemon. She had spent her first day exploring Mole’s Town, allowing Prudence to have time with the maester. Alysanne had expected to speak with the old Targaryen soon, but for now, this meeting took precedence.

“We are glad you have come to visit us, Lady Stark,” Lord Commander Mormont said, his voice rough as stone.

“Please, just Alysanne,” she corrected, shifting at the weight of the title.

The old bear gave a short nod, then turned his keen gaze to Willas. “I think you are the first Tyrell to come to the Night’s Watch, Lord Willas.”

“One day, it had to happen,” Willas replied with an easy smile.

“Still, I am glad you came. There is much troubling the Watch.”

Alysanne had already seen the state of things for herself. “You are understaffed,” she noted. “More than I thought.”

Mormont exhaled heavily. “Aye. And our casualties grow as well. The villages nearby send us stableboys when they can, but more often than not, we get thieves and rapers.” He grunted. “The Watch has no shortage of stableboys. That seems to be all they send us these days. The last true knights we had were those who took the black after the war, and even those were few. And nowhere near to replace those we have lost.”

“Are you still sending men south to recruit?” Alysanne asked.

Mormont shook his head. “You almost cross paths with Yoren. But once he returns, I doubt he’ll go south again. Winter is coming.”

Willas straightened slightly. “You could send more silver-tongued men. I’ll even write a letter to my sister in King’s Landing.”

Mormont’s gaze was sharp. “Speak to them for us. Tell them of our need here. You have seen for yourself, my lord. The Night’s Watch is dying. Our strength is less than a thousand now—six hundred at Castle Black, two hundred at the Shadow Tower, even fewer at Eastwatch. And of those, barely a third are fighting men. The Wall is a hundred leagues long. Think on that. Should an attack come, I have three men to defend each mile of it.”

“And Mance is coming,” Alysanne said.

Mormont’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So, you know.”

“My father told me before he left for the south.” She let the words settle before adding, “One of the last things my father did before leaving was execute a deserter.”

Mormont exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. “Gared was near as old as I am and longer on the Wall. Yet it would seem he forswore himself and fled. I should never have believed it, not of him, but Lord Eddard sent me his head from Winterfell. Of Ser Waymar Royce, there is no word. One deserter, two men lost… and now Mallador Locke has gone missing.”

“Royce?” Willas asked.

Alysanne nodded. “Lord Yohn Royce’s son. I remember when he passed through Winterfell to take the black. His father took the opportunity to meet with mine.”

“The Royce boy was green as summer grass,” Mormont muttered. “But he insisted on the honor of his own command, saying it was his due as a knight. I did not wish to offend his lord father, so I yielded. I sent him out with two men I deemed as good as any in the Watch. More fool I.”

The raven sitting by the window flapped its wings and hopped to the back of Alysanne’s chair. “Fool,” it croaked.

Mormont frowned at the bird in confusion.

Willas leaned forward. “I’ll write to my sister and my lord father. See if they can send men.”

Mormont nodded in thanks, then turned his gaze on Willas. “How many winters have you seen?”

Willas hesitated. “I was born in the first year of a short summer. But I have seen three.”

“No doubt all of them in the Reach. And all short,” Mormont said. “What do you think of the North’s autumns?”

Willas didn’t bristle at the man’s tone. Instead, he answered plainly, “They are worse than the winters I remember.”

Mormont leaned back. “When I was a boy, it was said that a long summer always meant a long winter to come. This summer has lasted nine years.”

Willas frowned. “Do you truly believe we’ll have nine years of winter?”

Alysanne spoke before Mormont could. “I do.”

Willas turned to her, concern on his eyes.

“I can feed the North and the Watch for three years,” she continued. “No more. We’ll have to take loans. The best we can hope for is one last autumn harvest, but we lack men to plow the fields. The Gift is proof of that—it has been left to ruin for decades.”

Mormont nodded grimly, then turned his attention back to Willas. “You must make them understand. I tell you, my lord, darkness is coming. There are wild things in the woods—direwolves, mammoths, snow bears the size of aurochs. And I have seen darker shapes in my dreams.”

“Dreams,” the raven croaked.

Alysanne stood abruptly, startling the men in the room. Only Maester Aemon remained still, though his blind eyes seemed to hold an understanding that made her skin prickle.

Mormont didn’t notice the shift in the air. “The fisherfolk near Eastwatch have glimpsed White Walkers on the shore.”

Before Willas could react, Alysanne’s voice cut through the chamber, heavy with something unspoken. “It’s true. I dreamt it.”

Willas turned to her sharply. “What?”

Alysanne refused to meet his gaze, keeping her focus on Mormont. She couldn’t stand the thought of Willas looking at her like she had gone mad.

“Denys Mallister writes that the mountain clans are moving south,” Mormont went on. “Slipping past the Shadow Tower in greater numbers than ever before. They are running. But running from what?”

“Winter is coming,” Alysanne murmured. She turned her gaze to the training yard, watching the recruits fumble through their drills. She had seen pages with better skill. What use were they to the watch? She would rather they be planting in the Gift. But Mormont would not go for it. Especially with the threat of Mance.

Mormont’s voice came from behind her. “Tell the king and your sister what I have told you. When the Long Night falls, only the Night’s Watch will stand between the realm and the darkness. The gods help us all if we are not ready.”

Alysanne let out a slow breath. “You cannot hope they will believe you.” She turned her head slightly. “They will say these are old tales. But they won’t believe. The South will not come.”

She felt Willas step behind her, close enough to share warmth. But even his presence couldn’t chase away the cold creeping into her bones.

He called her name softly.

She turned to him, her voice quiet but certain. “Not even you believe it.”

Willas hesitated. “I believe there is a threat,” he admitted. “Mance has gathered all the wildlings. That alone means a great army—one that knows the land better than we ever could. Perhaps they are using fear to make the rangers believe in other things.”

Alysanne gave him a small, sad smile and turned back to Mormont.

“How do you know Mance’s numbers?” the Lord Commander asked.

“I have contacts,” she answered. Then, glancing at Maester Aemon, she added, “I mean to call the lords of the North to the Wall. The most distant ones are already on their way. They just think it is for Winterfell.”

“The Harvest Feast,” Mormont muttered.

Alysanne nodded. “Bran will host the children and others that will come. But the great lords will come here.”

She exhaled. “We cannot waste any more time.”

.

.

She had left the three men behind, almost feeling sorry for Willas. But she knew that if she stayed any longer, she would break.

Alysanne made her way to the rookery, needing the silence it offered. The room was empty when she arrived, save for the flutter of restless ravens in their cages. She had expected nothing more than perches and parchment, but to her surprise, a staircase let to an open door and a small library. She ran her fingers along the spines of old tomes, but her mind couldn’t settle on a single book. And they looked like they seen better days.

How could she convince them?

How could she make them see the truth?

How could she make them see that peace with Mance was the only way?

The sound of soft footsteps behind her made her turn.

“Dreams are hard things,” Maester Aemon said, his voice like brittle parchment. “Especially in our family.”

Alysanne watched as he moved toward an old chest, one she hadn’t noticed before, tucked away in the shadows. He reached for it with unsteady hands, and she stepped forward without thinking. “Let me,” she said gently.

Aemon’s milky eyes turned toward her, though he did not truly see. “I have much I would like to say to you, my dear. I hope I will still have time to say it. But you were right, back in that room. There is urgency to be had.”

Alysanne wrapped her hands around the wooden chest, feeling its weight. It was heavier than she expected, but she managed to lift it onto the table. Dust scattered from the lid.

The old maester let out a slow breath. “That was left for you a long time ago.”

Alysanne frowned. “By who?”

Aemon’s lined face shifted into something unreadable. “Open it. You’ll know.”

Alysanne hesitated only for a moment before lifting the lid.

Inside, nestled on aged deep crimson cloth, was a sword. Not just any sword—her breath caught as her eyes traced its form. It was slender and elegant, its hilt carved into the shape of a golden dragon. The pommel was adorned with gold, its craftsmanship intricate, unlike anything she had ever seen.

And the blade—dark, rippled, unmistakable.

“Dark Sister,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23 – Margaery II

Moon 7, Day 7

The wheelhouse came to a halt, and Margaery Tyrell—Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, wife to King Robert Baratheon—stepped out into the pale sunlight of Lannisport. The crowd’s cheers were polite and good, but not what she was accustomed to. There would be no cries of love. It was to be expected. She had taken Cersei Lannister’s place, and though the lioness was a traitor and adulteress, the West would take some time to grow to love her.

Tywin Lannister’s city fears his wrath more than it loves its queen.

She smiled, gracious and warm, as the people bowed. The absence of true adoration stung, but she would not let it show. Instead, she blamed Robert. The oaf had remained in King’s Landing, nursing his wounds—both the ones from battle and the self-inflicted ones from wine and whores. Their last argument still burned in her memory: his cruel words, her practiced piety, kneeling in silence while her mind spun darker thoughts. And worst of all, his bellowing had ensured the entire Red Keep knew of her moonblood. Again.

His seed withers in my womb, yet no one faults him—not when his latest whore swells with child.

At the head of the welcoming party stood Lord Tywin Lannister, proud and unyielding as the Rock itself. Margaery despised how age had not softened him—how he remained lean and formidable, unlike the drunken king whose touch she endured.

To his right stood Lancel Lannister.

Margaery nearly did not recognize him.

He was a pretty man, like all Lannisters. She remember him well with his sandy-hair, green eyes,  and that foolish little mustache. Now, the boyishness was gone. His shoulders had broadened, his stance firmer, but his courtly words rang hollow. His smile did not reach his eyes.

Beside him stood his wife, Lady Sarya Mallister-Lannister, radiant in her pregnancy, her hands resting on the curve of her belly. Lancel’s gaze lingered on her with something akin to devotion. How quaint, Margaery thought bitterly. No doubt he still keeps his whores away from his wife, unlike her husband..

“My lady,” Margaery said, her voice honeyed. “How lovely to see you in such health.”

Sarya curtsied deeply. “Your Grace honors us with your presence.”

She should have been at my side as a lady companion, Margaery mused. Or sent a sister in her stead. Instead, the girl had opened her legs to Lancel and secured one of the finest matches in the realm. Clever. Too clever. And no surprise, given who she once called friend. The bastard in the North—the one who had stolen the Mallister girls from Margaery’s grasp.

I’ll steal your brother, you bastard-loving bitch.

Forcing another smile, she allowed herself to be led toward the great canopied table set for the royal party. Behind her, Loras and Renly were too busy questioning Lancel about his training to gather anything useful. Fools.

Then, a ripple of movement caught her eye.

Her mother—Lady Alerie Tyrell, who had written of her attendance—broke her flawless composure to embrace a tall woman in flowing Dornish silks.

Margaery froze.

Ashara Dayne.

The woman was meant to be past her prime, yet she stood as striking as the tales claimed—violet-eyed, regal, undimmed by time.

Margaery’s jaw tightened. How dare Mother welcome her so warmly? She was the queen’s mother; she should act with the dignity befitting her station. Especially when this woman’s bastard had sunk her claws into Willas, turning him against his own family.

Willas—the clever one, the rational one—reduced to a fool for some baseborn girl’s charms. Had his injury made him weak? Or had the Stark bastard simply played him like a lute, and showed he was weak after all?

“Your Grace,” her mother said, beckoning her forward. “May I present Lady Ashara Dayne?”

Margaery forced her lips into a smile, though every fiber of her being wanted to lash out—to demand why this woman had ever opened her legs for Eddard Stark, why she had birthed the bane of Margaery’s existence.

But a queen did not snap.

A queen endured. And with grace.

“Lady Ashara,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “What a pleasure.”

And the game went on.

.

.

Moon 7, Day 9

The morning sun spilled through the windows of Margaery’s chambers as her ladies fluttered about, chattering like sparrows over the previous day’s jousts. Loras would win, of course—everyone in the room knew it—but Margaery allowed them their little fantasies, smiling indulgently as they debated the merits of this knight or that.

Lord Bryce Caron. Ser Barristan. Robar Royce.

"Ser Robar Royce asked for my favor. For tommow!,”  Merry Crane, ever the romantic, said, with her hands clasped together. "Can you imagine if he makes it to the finals?"

"Against Loras?" Elinor laughed, though her eyes flickered toward Margaery, as if seeking approval. "A sweet thought, but—"

"But unlikely," Margaery finished smoothly. Still, she noted the way Elinor hesitated. Since when does she measure her words around me?

Sansa, sweet and guileless, blushed as she recounted how gallantly Alyn Ambrose had begged for Elinor’s favor and how all knights should be like him. Elinor nodded along, though her own betrothal loomed in two moons’ time. Why does she still play the maiden’s game? Margaery frowned. Once, Elinor had been her closest confidante, but lately, there was a distance between them—one Margaery could not quite name. Is it the betrothal that bothers her so much? Or something else?

Then there was Megga.

Gods save me from foolish girls.

Freshly flowered and already reckless, Megga had been caught kissing a potboy—like some common tavern wench. Margaery’s blood had boiled when Taena Merryweather whispered the news.

"You will not shame me again," she had hissed, gripping Megga’s wrist so tightly the girl winced. "Or would you rather be sent back to Highgarden in disgrace, branded a wanton like Alysanne Snow?"

The memory still curled her lip.

Their chatter turned to Jayne Bracken, who had been unusually quiet since their arrival in the West. The girl flushed under their sudden attention, and Merry, ever mischievous, leaned in.

"Out with it, Jayne. Which knight has you so tongue-tied?"

Margaery arched a brow. Jayne was pretty enough, but vapid—but at least she knew that was not a threat. Then, to her surprise, the Bracken girl confessed an interest in Ser Jon Redfort.

Redfort?

Sansa clapped her hands. "Oh! He danced with you three times at the feast!"

"Did he?" Margaery’s voice was light, but her mind raced. Since when does Jayne notice knights? How did I miss that?

"We could invite him to court," she offered smoothly. "He fought well—only Loras bested him."

Jayne’s eyes lit up. "Might I be the one to tell him, Your Grace?"

Margaery granted her a queenly nod. A few kisses would do no harm—so long as they were discreet. Jayne, at least, did not seem the sort to shame herself.

The girls ask a few more questions about the Redfort knight, but Margaery was more concern about that shrewd wed to the heir of Casterly Rock. Margaery tried to approach Ser Lancel about returning to court, but the man seemed uninterested in it. Nor where close kin. What use would Margaery have or some distant cousin?

It had to be that Mallister’s shrewd. And Alysanne Snow. The bastard who had slithered into Willas’s bed. Father would disinherit him once Margaery was regent for her son. But they had yet to tell Garlan about it. But her brother was dutiful to the family. Unlike Willas.

Once Margaery returned to the conversation, they were speaking of Lord Redfort’s talent for training great knights. She had heard that before, of course. Old Horton Redfort had been a formidable tourney knight and a hero of the War of the Stepstones. His son’s talent was prove of that.

Still, that didn’t matter now. To pretend she was paying attention to her ladies, Margaery turned to Sansa, and so all eyes did too.

"What of you, sweetling?" Margaery coaxed, turning to Sansa. "Has no knight caught your eye?"

She adored Sansa—her loyalty, her obedience, her utter lack of ambition. The girl’s hopeless infatuation with Loras had provided endless amusement at private suppers.

Sansa’s cheeks burned crimson. "It shames me to say," she whispered.

Wait. Not Loras? Who made her stop daydreaming about her brother?

"Is he married?" Margaery pressed.

A frantic shake of that auburn head. "N-no. He’s not even a knight yet. He’s my age, but—" She bit her lip. "I didn’t know Dornishmen could be so pretty."

Margaery was the first to understand. "Edric Dayne?"

The room erupted in sighs and giggles. The young Lord of Starfall was handsome—dark-haired, violet-eyed, with the effortless grace. No doubt he would grown into one of the most desirable men in Westeros with time.

What is it with Starks and Daynes?

Elinor, ever the peacemaker, leaned forward. "Did he dance with you?"

Sansa nodded, then wilted.

"Why the long face?" Margaery prodded.

"He only asked about Winterfell. And—and her." Sansa’s tone made it clear: Alysanne Snow.

Her.

The word hung in the air, sharp as a knife. Was she to be tormented by the bastard? But if Edric Dayne continue to make Sansa turn that shade of envy… she could explore that even more.

"They are cousins," Elinor offered quickly. "It’s only natural he’d ask."

Megga, ever blunt, cut in. "But did he fancy you?"

Sansa shrugged. "He asked about Arya too. I think he was just... curious."

Curious.

Or sent.

Margaery’s mind raced. Why was Ashara Dayne here? She had been hidden in the Dornish sands for a reason. Mother was all happy to see her friend to the point she barely spend time with Margaery. But she had seen Jason Mallister in their company more than once. Lord Tywin too.

Did she want to marry the Old Lion?

The whore that birthed Alysanne’s would be that bold to try it. Good luck, Margaery thought unkindly, that man had not look at a woman since Joanna Lannister. Everyone knew.

And behind it all—Lady Sarya. She could see in her eyes that the Lancel’s wife was plotting something.

The girl who had called Alysanne friend.

"He probably mentioned Arya because he wanted to court you but couldn’t," Alla said, then she huffed, "who’d want horseface sister when he could have you?"

Sansa nodded, though her eyes were downcast. "It doesn’t matter. He’s not a knight. I can’t give him my favor anyway."

Margaery almost laughed.

Oh, Sansa. Still so blind.

But her amusement faded as she studied her ladies. They were not all sweet and pliable like Sansa.

Lady Sarya would have seen the cracks.

The thought rankled. But who would break?

.

.

Moon 7, Day 10

The cheers of the crowd still rang in Margaery’s ears, the crown of golden roses resting lightly upon her brow. Queen of Love and Beauty. The title tasted sweet—sweeter still when bestowed by her own brother’s hand. She had barely taken three sips of her wine, savoring the triumph, and the claps.

She would win the West.

But her triumph was destroyed.

Lady Jayne Bracken fell to her knees, her face streaked with tears, her body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

Margaery’s grip tightened around her goblet.

"Explain yourself." Her voice was a whip-crack, sharp enough to make even her ladies flinch. Jayne cowered, but Margaery barely resisted the urge to seize her by the hair and shake her senseless.

The entire court had witnessed that upstart Roland Blackwood stride to her dais at the parting feast, bold as brass, and declare his clandestine marriage to Jayne before the assembled nobility. No grand reconciliation of feuding houses, no carefully orchestrated spectacle to bolster Margaery’s influence—just a reckless, stupid elopement that made her look like a fool.

The Blackwoods. Supporters of the bastard. Alysanne Snow’s allies. Margaery’s nails bit into her palms.

"We—we’ve known each other since we were children," Jayne stammered, her voice thick with tears. "I always loved him. When I saw him here, I tried to speak to him, but he—he said our love was folly. But then he grew jealous of Ser Jon, and—"

"And you ran like some common tavern wench?" Margaery’s laughter was venomous. "Gods, you’re even more of a fool than I thought."

Jayne flinched, but Margaery was already turning away, her mind racing. This cannot stand. A Blackwood in her retinue? To spy on her? A girl who defied her so publicly?

"You cannot remain in my court," she said coldly. "Not after this disgrace."

Jayne’s breath hitched. "My sister—she’ll be furious. She might… she might disinherit me."

Good. Margaery’s lips curled. Lady Bracken had younger sisters—more pliable, more obedient.  Not wed to spies. And the lady herself was not yet wed. Even if there were rumors of men going to Stone Hedge to court her.

"You had a Reach knight waiting for you," Margaery snapped. "A future, a place. And you threw it away for him." She waved a dismissive hand. "Get out of my sight."

Jayne scrambled to her feet, her sobs fading as she fled the room.

Margaery did not see the grin that split the girl’s face the moment the door closed behind her

.

.

Moon 7, Day 25

Margaery could no longer look at her ladies the same way—not after Jayne’s betrayal. Only sweet, dutiful Sansa remained untainted in her eyes, the girl’s disgust at the scandal mirroring her own. At least one of them still understands propriety.

She had prayed in every sept they passed on the journey back to King’s Landing, begging the Mother for a child—just one son, just one heir to end this torment. If Robert could not give her one, then perhaps…

Renly.

He looked like a younger Robert—strong, handsome, his smile easy where the king’s had turned sour. And with the rumors of his preferences, no one would suspect them. He had even suggested it himself once, half in jest.

"Name me regent when your son is crowned," he had murmured, wine staining his lips red. "And we’ll send Stannis back to his rocks to rot."

The idea had thrilled her. Let Stannis choke on his bitterness in Dragonstone, his grim-faced wife and sickly daughter his only company. Let him die there, forgotten.

Margaery was just turning to retire for the night, Sansa already asleep in the smaller bed, when the door burst open with a crash.

Loras and Renly stood in the threshold, their faces pale, their breaths ragged.

"What in the Seven Hells—?" she began, her voice sharp with alarm.

Renly did not let her finish.

"Robert is dead."

The words struck like a warhammer.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped.

Then, slowly, the pieces began to fall into place.

Dead.

Robert is dead.

And with him—everything.

Her crown. Her future. Her power.

Margaery’s hands trembled, but her mind was already racing.

Stannis is king now.

Stannis!

And Margaery?

She was nothing.

No.

Her nails dug into her palms. This is not the end.

She looked at Renly, at Loras—their eyes wide with shock, yes, but not defeat. There was  possibility.

And Margaery Tyrell, the once and future queen, smiled at her soon to be husband.

.

.

Moon 7, Day 27

Margaery sat at the center of the table in the small solar of the castle the Gold Road, clad in proper mourning black, her fingers laced together.

Her family surrounded her- Loras; Renly, her father, and her mother, who like always watched in silence. Margaery missed her grandmother’s wisdom, but her grandmother was in Highgarden with Garlan..

Loras leaned over the map sprawled across the table. "We ride to Tumbleton first. House Footly is loyal. From there, I secure Bitterbridge while Father calls the banners at Highgarden."

Renly nodded. "I’ll take Grassy Vale and cross into the Stormlands. My bannermen will flock to me—no one wants Stannis as king." His smile was confident, but Margaery saw the hunger beneath it.

"Stannis holds the city," Loras reminded them.

Mace waved a hand. "We raise the greatest army the realm has ever seen. The city will open their gates to us."

Renly’s eyes gleamed. "The people love us. Margaery, their radiant queen; me, a new Robert—younger, stronger, better." He turned to her. "Once the mourning period ends, we’ll wed. I’ll swear it before a septon of good standing. The realm will see our union as Destiny."

Margaery smiled. Sh would be a far happier queen.

But beneath her calm, her mind churned.

Who killed Robert?

Her father claimed the king had simply drunk himself to death, but Margaery wasn’t so sure. Her family had no reason—not without an heir. Her gaze flicked to Renly, now murmuring with Loras about which houses would declare for them.

He did.

Renly had everything to gain. A regency was power—but a crown was unless power.

Would Loras have known?

And if not Renly—who?

Stannis? Unlikely.

What about her?

But the thought slipped away as she voiced her real concern. "What of the North?"

The room stilled.

Mace frowned. "Willas will sway Alysanne Snow to neutrality—"

Like you weren’t telling us all you were going to disinherited him because he was weak and led by her, Margaery thought bitterly.

Renly dismissed the threat with a easy smile. "The North is weakened. The Riverlands won’t rally to Stannis, not when the Reach and Stormlands stand with us. And the Vale? Baelish is my friend. A title, a reward—he’ll deliver them."

Mace nodded eagerly. "We’ll offer Tywin a double marriage for your children. He’ll turn on the North gladly. We can offer him Brandon Stark if needed."

"Shireen will join the Faith," Renly said to a nodding Mace. "Or give her to Robin Arryn if needed."

As they plan continue and Margaery began to dream of her bright future, Alerie Tyrell rose from her seat.

"Fools," she said, her voice cutting like a blade through silk.

All eyes turned to her. Margaery didn’t know her mother was capable of such words and tone.

"Renly has no claim. Stannis is the elder. And you assume the Reach will follow blindly?" Her gaze swept over them. "After the Conquest, the Reach stood united once. During Robert’s Rebellion. And even then, houses stayed neutral. And we didn’t fight for the Baratheons."

Mace scoffed. "The Targaryens are gone, woman."

Alerie ignored him, turning to Loras. "Did you consult Lord Rowan? Lord Tarly? The Ashfords? How do you plan to take Brightwater Keep?"

Loras glared. "Uncle Baelor will secure it."

Alerie shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper as she looked at her husband. "This will folly will get my children killed. Our children, Mace."

Mace bristled. "Margaery will be queen."

"Our blood can still reach the throne," Alerie insisted, pleading now. "Trust me. Come to Highgarden. Let me show you."

Renly stepped forward, oozing false sympathy. "You have a mother’s heart, Lady Tyrell. But now is the time for men’s courage."

Alerie’s eyes flashed. "And you have a fool’s tongue." She turned back to Mace. "I will not support this."

Mace shrugged, dismissive. "Then I’ll send you back to Highgarden. There’s nothing you can do."

Alerie’s face hardened. Without another word, she turned and left, the door closing behind her like a seal on a tomb.

Silence fell.

Margaery exhaled, pushing aside the unease coiling in her gut.

Mother was being a weak woman. Grandmother always said she had no mind for schemes.

Forward. Always forward.

She would The Queen.

(Alerie | Sansa | Sarya; Margaery's tourney gown, Sarya's tourney gown;  Sansa's tourney gown | Margaery at the the war coucil  Ashara's gown)

Chapter Text

Chapter 24 – Willas

                Moon 7 , Day 24

Dawn crept into the chamber as Willas watched his wife toss and turn beside him, her brow furrowed, lips moving with words he couldn’t make out. Even in sleep, she was restless.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead, hoping his touch might calm whatever storm raged behind her closed eyes. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she seemed to ease slightly when he pulled her close against his chest.

He missed the days when nothing lay between them—not even cloth.

Gods, he hated this place. Not just the cold, though that alone was cruel enough. It was the Wall itself. The eyes of its people, too many of them looking at Alysanne with mistrust, or worse. At times, when he was in the library and the distant ring of steel on steel echoed through the corridors, his breath would catch in his throat.  He would sit frozen, heart pounding, waiting for the moment someone came to tell him the worst—that one of those black-cloaked men had finally acted on their lust for Alysanne.

What would he do if someone hurt her?

The question drove a spike through his gut. Would he hobble to her defense, swinging his cane like some half-broken fool? Would he call for help—guards, anyone—because he couldn’t be what she needed?

Pathetic.

A real man—a real husband—would have cut down her enemies before they ever laid eyes on her. He would duel those who shamed her with their words and eyes. He would have stood beside her in battle, not sat uselessly in some drafty library while others did the fighting.

Was he even a man, if he couldn’t protect her?

Was he even a husband?

Didn’t Alysanne deserve a true husband?

The questions gnawed at him, relentless as the wind beyond the Wall. He always heard how a husband’s worth was measured in steel and strength. A lord was supposed to be his lady’s shield, her sword, the one who avenged slights against her honor with blood.

He’d seen how men looked at her—admiring, coveting… and sometimes pitying. Poor thing, bound to that broken rose.

And the worst part? He couldn’t even blame them. If he were whole, if he were the knight he was meant to be, he would’ve silenced every whisper, crushed every threat. He would’ve given her more than words and gold.

But he wasn’t that man. Willas had no sword. His cane was his constant companion, his body a broken thing that had failed him long before he ever met Alysanne.

She was fire and steel—a woman who’d stared death in the face and straight her spine and hold her sword tightly. And what was he?

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she shifted again, her brow still creased. Willas pulled her in tighter, pressing his mouth to her temple, while his thumb brushed along the tense line of her shoulder.

She’d been restless for days.

They’d spent much of yesterday poring over crumbling maps, trying to make sense of the impossible, trying to come up with a proper defence plan. Nineteen castles stretched along the Wall, and only three remained remotely functional. The rest? Empty shells, sinking into snow.

He thought of what they'd discussed not long ago, and Lord Commander Mormont's grim words echoed in his mind: When the Long Night falls, only the Night’s Watch will stand between the realm and the darkness. The gods help us all if we are not ready.

But Willas didn’t believe it. Not truly. It wasn’t that he thought Mormont a liar—the man was too blunt, too severe for deception—but to Willas, it felt more like desperation than prophecy. This Mance Rayder, this self-proclaimed King-Beyond-the-Wall, was likely using the old tales to frighten people, to weaken them. Tales of white shadows and walking corpses. It was clever, really.

People once whispered that Alysanne Stark could turn into a direwolf. That she was made of snow and teeth and rage.

And he knew better than anyone—she was entirely, devastatingly human.

She stirred again, then slowly blinked awake, her dark lashes fluttering as her gaze found him. “Gods,” she muttered, voice thick with sleep, then sat up with a start. “I overslept.”

“You didn’t,” Willas said quickly, brushing her hair back from her cheek. “We went to bed late. No one will protest if you take your time getting to the yard.”

But she was already swinging her legs over the side of the bed, reaching for her fur-lined robe frowning in that determined way that made his chest ache. Willas leaned back against the pillows, watching her. She was so fiercely alive, so sure of her path—even when it terrified her. Even when it terrified him.

What use did she have for a man like him? Was he only a man to keep her bed warm at night?

His mind wandered—unbidden, unwise—to thoughts of children. Would they have her dark hair or his lighter brown-blonde? Gods, he hoped they wouldn’t be as stubborn as their mother, or they'd give him more silver hairs than he could count.

Alysanne caught him staring. She narrowed her eyes, a teasing glint in them. “Why are you looking at me like that? With that smile?”

He blinked, surprised. “Was I?” Then he smiled in full. “I was thinking of all the things we could be doing in this bed instead of leaving it.”

Her cheeks colored, just a little—but she didn’t shy away, not like she used to. Not like in those first few moons of marriage.

“We don’t have time,” she said, even as she crossed back over to him and kissed him slow and deep, her fingers curling at his shoulder.

He wrapped his arms around her, murmuring into her mouth, “We could make time. Or skip breakfast altogether. There are other things I wouldn’t mind eating.”

Her blush deepened, and she swatted his chest lightly, laughter bubbling past her lips. “You’re terrible.”

“You married me,” he grinned, trying to push aside the fact that neither of them had actually wanted the marriage to begin with.

“And I might regret it,” she said, lifting a brow in mock challenge, before kissing him again. He felt the curve of her smile even as they deepened the kiss.

“Come on,” she said at last, stepping back. “Let’s break our fast before the Wall freezes us solid.”

Willas groaned in protest but slowly sat up, reaching for his cane. His joints protested the movement—every morning was a battle against the cold, against the pain—but he managed.

He always did.

.

.

The common hall was mostly empty when he left it. Willas walked at Maester Aemon’s side, careful with his steps as he offered his arm for support. The old man, blind but still sharp as a blade, gripped him with surprising strength.

“You’re kinder than most,” Aemon said as they reached the library doors.

Willas snorted. “A kind lord—what every Reachman wishes to be called. Are men even supposed to be kind?”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Aemon murmured. “I’ve seen far too many cruel men in my time. I would take a kind lord every single time.”

Willas smiled at that. He wondered what his grandmother would think of this wise old man. She’d call him weak. A fool for not taking the crown when he could have.

“Kindness is not the same as weakness, Lord Willas.”

“Most would disagree, Maester Aemon,” he replied as they stepped into the library. It was a chaos of books, scrolls, and tomes stacked in mismatched piles. Dust hung in the air like cobwebs, and the cold seemed thicker here, as if the room itself had aged and given up on warmth. Willas meant to change that as best as he could.

Willas guided Maester Aemon to a chair near the hearth and took up his own seat across from him, his parchment already waiting for him. His list lay on the table—titles in need of repair, ones he’d flagged for transcription, ones he suspected might hide answers no one had bothered to seek in decades. Four days ago, he had unrolled an ancient scroll, its calligraphy nearly illegible, but he was certain it spoke of food preservation.

Alysanne might stay by my side forever if I find a way to build another glass garden.

He liked the work. No, he loved it. The quiet, the structure, the hunt for forgotten knowledge. And most of all, he loved these conversations with the old maester and Lady Prudence.

“We never finished our talk,” Willas said as he reached for a cracked leather-bound volume. A ledger of some sorts. “About Bloodraven.”

“Ah, yes,” Aemon said, resting his hands under the blanket he had placed over his legs. “Brynden Rivers. The most feared man in Westeros for half a century, and one of the loneliest.”

Willas glanced up. He wondered what Bloodraven would think of being described as lonely. He could almost see the arrow flying. “I didn’t expect you to speak so… favorably of a man who had spies in every hall, who made rivals disappear in the dead of night, and who was so obsessed with his brother across the sea that he ignored half the problems in his own kingdom.”

“He was harsh,” Aemon agreed. “But not cruel for cruelty’s sake. That distinction is often lost to history. Brynden did what he believed was necessary, and unlike most men in power, he didn’t do it for personal gain. He might even been the worse paid Hand in the history. Did he make mistakes? Many. But show me a perfect Hand or a perfect king, and I shall pray to him at night.”

The man had a point. Still, there was something else. Willas leaned forward. “You knew him well?”

“As well as anyone could,” Aemon said, his voice softening. “We spent two decades here together. Two of the handful of men who could read—and perhaps the only one besides myself who cared for debate. He missed books and intellectual discourse more than he missed the throne and courtly schemes.”

Willas nodded slowly, his mind racing. “I’ve read one of his letters to Baelor Breakspear at the Citadel. Their correspondence—it’s not what people expect. Thoughtful.. There was true counsel there. I didn’t realize they cared for one another. Or that two such different men would bother exchanging letters at all.”

“Few in my family took the time to understand what he truly wanted,” Aemon said. “He wasn’t driven by ambition. He was loyal—to the realm, to the memory of Daeron the Good, to the Targaryen legacy. And he didn’t care what it cost him. At times, that very vision blinded him to what the realm needed.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint crackle of the fire. He returned to his work for a time, resting only when he needed to add another log to the fire.

Willas hesitated once he sat again. “Has there been any word? From Oldtown? Or Highgarden?”

Aemon shook his head. “No new ravens since the last. The one from your uncle in Oldtown.”

Willas exhaled, looking down at his hands. He wasn’t sure if he felt relief or disappointment.

If I don’t get a reply, I can pretend. Ignore what I already know. His family wouldn’t help them without gaining something in return.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder.

“Family,” the old man said quietly, “can be harder than the Wall. We love them, hate them. Sometimes they put us in terrible positions. Sometimes… we put ourselves there, trying to be what they need.”

Willas didn’t answer at first. Then, after a pause, he gain the courage to ask what had long been on the tip of his tongue, “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened? If the Great Council had chosen someone else? If Aegon hadn’t won?”

If they’d chosen you.

“All the time,” Aemon said without hesitation, without guilt. “But I’ve never once doubted that he was the right choice. My brother was a good king. A just king. He cared, Lord Willas. That alone made him rare.”

Willas looked away. Maester Aemon knew he agreed with Aegon’s policies. He had since he was a boy. His grandmother had called him a fool for it, her disappointment sharp in her gaze, so he’d never spoken of it again. But he still believed it. He liked to think that, had he been born a Targaryen king, he would have done the same.

“And yet… none of it lasted.”

Aemon’s smile faded. He nodded, slow and sad. “No. It didn’t. But while it lasted, he changed things. There are few rulers who even try. Fewer still who succeed, even for a time.”

Willas tapped his finger against the table. “Sometimes I dream of what it could look like. A king who didn’t just patch the broken system but reimagined it. Changed it. Permanently.”

Aemon’s face lit with something like hope, dulled by years but still alive. Still hoping. Willas rarely allowed himself the same.

“So do I,” Aemon said. “I dream of that often.”

Willas fell silent, thinking of the books he’d pored over in his youth—the reforms of Jaehaerys I, the monetary brilliance of Viserys II, the bold compassion of Aegon V.

And yet… he also thought of Margaery. Her carefully managed smiles, her devotion to image and politics. Of his grandmother, Olenna, sharp as any blade, yet she barely bothered to learn the names of her household knights, much less her servants. Of Loras and his vain pride. Of the Tyrell name, and the lessons on their greatness—destined to rise above their vassals, not to lift them.

Growing Strong. But only House Tyrell, no one else.

Growing Strong didn’t mean ensuring the smallfolk had even a semblance of power.

“No one in my family,” Willas said softly, “would raise a child to be another Aegon the Unlikely.”

Especially not Margaery. She would raise her boy-king to be a schemer—a charming ruler, but one who performed kindness as theater, not compassion. He could see her son on the throne: Loras’s smile, Margaery’s sharp eyes, dispensing justice in ways that benefited their house. How she would mold him to appear strong, even harsh—until she stepped forward, the pious queen-mother, to plead for mercy and soften his rulings.

The perfect image of a King and Queen.

Still, it would be better than the rulers they’d had in his lifetime.

“Perhaps one day,” he added after a moment.

Aemon didn’t speak right away. Then, finally, he said, “Many things die in winter, Willas. But some are reborn in spring. Better than before.”

Willas looked up. The old man was smiling—enigmatic, wise, ancient.

And for the first time that day, Willas allowed himself to believe it might be true.

.

.

Moon 7 , Day 27

The hall echoed with the clatter of forks and the occasional bark of laughter. Breakfast at Castle Black had always been a strange affair to Willas, but what had begun as a hostile environment in those first days was now turning into something almost boisterous, especially as more Northern lords joined them.

Last evening, they had welcomed the Umbers, and Lord Jon Umber was just as Willas remembered him: loud, brash, wild, and twice as stubborn. The man thumped his cup onto the table hard enough to make Willas wonder if he’d cracked the wood.

“I’ll be damned if I sit here gnawin’ on stale bread and salt pork,” he declared, his voice booming off the walls. “I’m taking a hunting party beyond the Wall. Fill our stores proper.”

Several heads turned, but only a few with surprise. If anything, the mood in the room lifted at the prospect of a hunt.

Old Torghen Flint gave a grunt of approval. The man hadn’t bothered to hide his disdain for Willas when they’d met, still calling him “Southron flower” instead of his name. “It’s about time. There’s game enough if you know where to look.”

“I’ll let the Others cross the Wall before I let you tell us the way,” Big Bucket Wull bellowed with a toothy grin. “I’ll show you where to get proper deer.”

“What deer? Let’s hunt some proper beast,” the Norrey cut in, and soon the table erupted into competing boasts—elk, snow bears, even mammoths. Paths through the Haunted Forest were debated with the familiarity of men who had crossed the Wall more times than was strictly allowed.

Willas watched them all, amused. Alysanne had once whispered that the Mountain Clans—even the Umbers—often traded and hunted north of the Wall. Small wonder they know these woods so well.

Then he glanced at his wife and saw she was close to rolling her eyes. The smallest twitch of her mouth gave her away as each Northman tried to outdo the last with tales of beasts they might slay.

But then something shifted.

Ghost padded forward silently and nudged Alysanne’s arm with his nose, his red eyes fixed on her with unmistakable intent.

She stilled. Then glanced at Willas.

 He raised a brow in question.

She gave him that wiry, sharp-edged look he’d come to recognize—half challenge, half apology.

“I’ll join the hunt,” she announced, loud enough to cut through the noise.

The place fell silent for a heartbeat. Then Big Bucket Wull let out a howl of glee. “The Lady’s coming with us? Hells, we’ll bring back a giant!”

Jon Umber slammed his cup down again, grinning. “Now it’s a real hunt.”

Willas said nothing at first, simply watching his wife with quiet admiration and the faintest prickle of concern. Of course she’d go. She was never one to sit idle while others marched into danger—even if it was only for food.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping so only she could hear. “Try not to make the rest of them look too bad, won’t you?”

Her smirk was all teeth. “No promises.”

And just like that, Ghost slipped in beside her, tail swaying slightly, as though the direwolf, too, had decided the hunting party now had proper leadership.

Willas shook his head with a soft laugh. He couldn’t argue with the beast’s judgment. And if he happened to slip Ghost an extra sausage under the table, well. That would stay between them.

.

.

They set out early that afternoon, hooves crunching over the snow, dogs barking with excitement. Willas watched from atop the Wall as the hunting party disappeared into the trees, his wife among them, before returning to his books—some ancient Northern tales.

They returned just before sunset.

Willas was hunched over a crumbling text in the library, squinting at strange drawings of jars packed with cabbage alongside letters he could barely decipher, when the horns sounded at the gate. Setting the scroll aside, he made his way down to join the gathering crowd.

Bowen Marsh, the Lord Steward, looked nearly feverish with glee at the sight of the laden carts. "The gods be good," he breathed, hands twitching as if he might stroke a dead elk himself. "We'll eat like lords this week."

But then Willas saw Alysanne ride through the gate, her face tight with something he knew too well.

Not triumph.

Not pride.

Trouble.

He was moving before he realized it, cane biting into the snow as his gaze locked onto the last cart trailing the group.

It carried no game.

It carried men.

He recognized the black clothes the two pale, still faces wore.

“Othor,” someone muttered.

“And Jafer Flowers,” added another.

Ser Jaremy Rykker dismounted carefully, his expression unreadable. In recent weeks, the knight had grown more companionable, and especially warmer toward Alysanne than most of the Night's Watch, though not in the foolish, boyish way of young recruits. His respect was measured. Quiet. Willas appreciated that.

Lord Commander Mormont was already moving, his voice sharp as a blade. "Ser Jaremy, report. What were the conditions of your patrol? How far north did you go?"

"Near Whitetree," Jaremy said. "Found the bodies not far from an old camp."

Willas reached his wife's side, resting a hand on her elbow. She didn't glance at him.

"Who found them?" the Old Bear demanded.

"Ghost," Alysanne said.

"And how did they die?"

The silence stretched too long.

Willas stepped forward before his brain even decided to move, until he was at the cart. Jafer Flowers face had frozen in something like surprise: lips parted, eyes wide as if in shock. A brutal gash split his neck. Willas crouched, ignoring the protest in his leg as he studied the wound.

“An axe wound. Deep and fast,” Willas said.

The Greatjon appeared beside him, hefting a massive axe. "This the one?"

Willas compared the blade's curve to the wound's angle, and its width. He opened his mouth to answer, but Old Torghen Flint drew breath to interrupt.

Jon Umber turned a cold eye on the old man and Flint shut his mouth.

"It could be," Willas said at last. "Or one like it. The pattern matches."

A reedy voice piped up: "That axe belonged to Othor."

Willas turned to the second corpse.

Othor's body was a horror of precise cuts—slices rather than strikes, littering his chest, groin, throat. Willas frowned. "These wounds aren't from an axe. They're too careful. And if there was a fight..." He gestured between the bodies. "Why only one clean kill for Jafer?"

Ghost padded forward silently, something dangling from his jaws.

A hand.

The direwolf dropped it at Willas's feet. The wrist was ragged, torn, but no blood seeped from the wound. Not fresh. Not dried. Nothing.

Ser Jaremy moved closer, voice low. "The forest is vast. Wildlings could have ambushed them anywhere. I'd wager these two were the last of their party, trying to return when they were caught. The bodies are fresh—can't have been dead more than a day."

“No,” Willas said suddenly. “Look at the stump.” He pointed at the arm. “There’s no blood. If Ghost tore this off a freshly dead man, there'd be blood. Were they cleaned?"

The hunting party shook their heads.

The Greatjon squinted. "No one touched 'em, lad."

“If they’d been dead longer,” Ser Jaremy added, “they’d stink. They don’t even smell.”

Willas nodded slowly, still crouched. He studied the corpses again.  "No blood pooling. No worms. No sign of decay."

It made no sense. He tried to recall all he studied about the human body at the Citadel, but there was nothing to explain what was in front of him.

"Queer," muttered Lord Wull. "We saw plenty of beasts in the woods."

“There wasn’t any blood at the site,” Alysanne said softly.

Willas's head snapped up. “None?”

“Not a drop,” she said.

“Then they were moved,” he said after a pause.

The Norrey spat. "A warning from Mance Rayder."

Ser Jaremy moved closer again, and for a moment, his eyes lingered on Jafer Flowers’s face. His hand rose as if to close the man’s eyes, then stilled in midair. He frowned. “He didn’t have blue eyes.”

The silence that followed was thicker than the Wall itself.

“Burn them,” Alysanne said. Her voice was iron.

Willas turned to her, concern flashing in his chest. “Alysanne—”

“No,” came the deep growl of the Lord Commander. “Not yet. I want Maester Aemon to examine them first.”

She started to protest. She was so pale.

Ghost, as if sensing something in its mistress, stepped beside her again. They shared one of those strange, wordless looks, and then the direwolf seized the severed hand again and padded off toward the inner courtyard, vanishing into the shadows.

Willas stared after him, then at the way his wife straightened her spine like a sword being drawn. It made his skin prickle.

Something wasn’t right.

.

.

Alysanne had gone ahead to their rooms in silence, her footsteps quiet but not hurried. Willas lingered behind, speaking quietly to Dolorous Edd as the shadows stretched long across Castle Black.

“Would it be too much trouble to ask for a  warm bath,” Willas said, keeping his amicable, it wasn’t hard with Edd.

Edd blinked at him. “Ah, what luxury. Next thing you’ll be asking for scented oils and rose petals, Lord Willas.”

“I’ll settle for not freezing my bollocks off,” Willas replied dryly.

Edd sighed with theatrical despair. “At least you have a lot of creative ways to keep them from shivering in this cold. I myself only have my had to share my misery.”

Edd Tollet walked off muttering about nobles and their scandalous love of being clean. Grenn followed behind him, red-faced and embarrassed as Edd loudly wondered if lords bathed in pairs for heat efficiency. Willas rolled his eyes and made his way to their bedchambers.

The fire in their chambers had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Alysanne sat by the window, her hair loose and unbound, her gaze fixed on the icy expanse of the Wall beyond. The troubled furrow of her brow, the way her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the sill—Willas knew that look. She was lost in thoughts he couldn’t reach.

He moved quietly, his cane tapping softly against the floor, but she didn’t stir. Not until he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, his lips lingering in the silk of her hair.

“I had Edd draw you a bath,” he murmured.

Alysanne hummed, distracted, before turning toward him. The light caught her face—still pale, but softened when her eyes met his. She kissed him. No words, just warmth, urgency, the kind that didn’t come from lust alone. He let her take the lead, shrugging out of his heavy coat as she did the same with her own. He matched her, his own fingers working at the laces of her dress, his breath hitching as the fabric slid away, letting her stay in her woollen smallclothes.

They didn’t make it far—just to the edge of the bed, her back pressed against the post as his mouth found the curve of her neck, giving it little bits where he knew would heave her gasping for more. He stripped the rest of her clothes off and let his mouth turn to one breast, as his hand squeeze the other. She moan into his ear for more, pinching her nipple harshly, smiling against her nipple as she gave out a loud moan. Her breath came in sharp, sweet gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders as he worshipped her with lips and teeth and tongue.

He knew for the way she moan and begged, she was growing more than a little wet between her legs.

The bath.

Reluctantly, he pulled back just enough to murmur against her lips, “The water will grow cold, and you like it scalding.”

She nodded, her eyes dark with want, but didn’t move. So Willas took charge, guiding her toward the solar where the er tub waited, steam curling lazily into the chilly air.

“Playing maid for me now, my lord?” she teased, her voice husky.

“A terrible maid,” he countered, helping her step into the water. “I’d be dismissed at once by your husband for my staring alone.”

She laughed, the sound low and rich, and sank into the bath with a sigh that had to be sinful. Willas knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves before reaching for the soap. He worked it into her hair with slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers massaging her scalp, tracing the delicate shell of her ear.

Alysanne’s eyes fluttered shut, a soft moan escaping her as he dragged his nails lightly down the nape of her neck.

“Gods,” she breathed.

Willas smirked. “I hope your maids don’t get this reaction from you.”

Her grin was wicked as she looked at the tent on this trousers. She twisted in the water, sending ripples across the surface, and caught his face between her hands, pulling him into a searing kiss. Water sloshed over the edge as she deepened it, her tongue sliding against his, her body arching toward him.

Willas didn’t hesitate. His hands, still slick with soap, drifted lower—over the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist. His touch was no longer about washing. It was about claiming. About worship.

Alysanne's breath hitched as Willas's fingers continued their sweet torture inside her, his thumb pressing against that little bud that made her shout his name. He hoped the entire castle could hear her, scream his name. As she came from her high, he helped her wash, and once she was out of the bath, he wrapped her in warm furs.

Alysanne's eyes darkened, and soon her fingers were toying with the waistband of my trousers. "You're overdressed, my lord husband," she purred, her gaze never leaving his.

Willas lets himself relax and focus on her touch as she strips him of his own clothes, her movements much more slow and deliberate than his own. Her hands were gentle as they traced the lines of my body, her touch making his desire even more clear.

Willas let Alysanne him me to the bath. And much like she did before, he gave a moan as he sank into the water. He also gave his thanks to the Old Gods and the new that his wife liked scalding hot baths since the water was still warm.

She knelt beside me, her beautiful purple gaze never living his face, even as she took the hardening cock into her hand. "You've been so good to me," she whispered, her voice thick with desire. "And you rarely let me retribute the favor, my lord husband."

His wife stroked his cock with her small hands, and he let his hand fall into the edge of bathtub.

And then in a move that utterly surprised him, her breath hot against my ear, she whispered. "I want you to take me hard and fast" she murmured, her voice low and husky, as she quicken her stroking. Her  grip firm and steady and her voice was utterly sinful to the point he could barely pay attention to the things she had been whispering as his own peak came with her name on his lips.

.

.

Willas was utterly spent, his limbs pleasantly aching, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with his wife's. Alysanne lay atop him, her naked body flushed and damp with sweat after another high, her breath still catching in little gasps against his throat.

He shifted just enough to reach for the blanket and tug it over them, covering their tangled limbs despite the heat still clinging to their skin. He pressed a kiss into her hair, where damp curls clung to her temple.

Alysanne's voice was a whisper against his neck. “When all our problems are solved,” she said, “you’d best still be taking me three times a night.”

Willas let out a low, breathless laugh, the sound deep in his chest. “I’ll keep at it until I’m old and grey. And when I can’t anymore,” he added, voice laced with mischief, “I’ll send for those lotions and toys the Lyseni swear by. Exotic aids for exhausted husbands.”

Her head lifted, just enough for her to look at him, one brow arched and her expression sharpening with a cat like curiosity. “What do you mean?”

He smirked. “It is good to see Oberyn didn’t give you the same Lyseni books he gave me as a wedding gift.”

Alysanne blinked at him, clearly torn between amusement and annoyance. “He gave you Lyseni sex books and you didn’t let me read any?”

Willas chuckled, eyes half-lidded with sleep. “You tired me enough already, wife.”

“I want to see all of them,” she murmured, already drifting toward slumber, though she batted her lashes stubbornly. “Tomorrow.”

He kissed her forehead in quiet promise. “They are safe in my chest at Winterfell. But once we get back home, I’ll let you read very scandalous scroll.”

They lay in silence for a few heartbeats, the fire crackling low in the hearth. Then Alysanne stirred again, her eyes traveling lazily across the room to the flickering candles and half-forgotten robes scattered across the floor.

“If we don’t get our robes,” she muttered, “we’ll freeze solid before morning.”

Willas groaned, not moving an inch. But eventually, he did move to put his lined nightgown.

He really miss the summer.

.

.

Willas woke with a jolt as Alysanne sprang from the bed. Her feet hit the floor hard, and before his sluggish brain could catch up, Ghost was knocking on their chamber’s door.

“Aly—?” he started, but she was already moving, snatching up her sword from behind their bed, in a place he didn’t even knew she kept one. Her nightgown billowed like a ghost’s veil as she vanished into the hallway, Ghost hot on her heels.

Willas cursed, dragging himself out of bed and fumbling for the dagger he kept beneath his pillow. He barely paused to throw warmer cloak over him, then limped into the hall, ignoring the sting in his thigh with every step. Three flights down, every one of them more hurt then the other.

He muttered under his breath, each step hammering the pain deeper into his legs. “Seven bloody hells, what now…”

He saw Alysanne’s barely for a second as he got into the  Lord’s Commander Tower. Doors opened everyone as half-dressed men stumbled out, bleary-eyed. Some had swords, others just torches and whatever they could find at hand. The courtyard was filling with shouting, confused faces as Willas reached the base of the Lord Commander’s Tower.

And there—two guards, laid out on the ground like broken dolls. Blood pooled beneath their necks. Their throats had been cut clean.

Willas’s breath caught. A mutiny? But why? Jeor Mormont was respected, even loved by many of the men.

Then the shouting above pierced the clamor, loud and violent. A crash of something heavy. Steel on wood, if he had to guess.

The sound came from Lord Mormont’s chambers.

Willas pushed forward, heart pounding, but the crowd held him back. Flames burst from one of the upper windows, and gasps echoed around the courtyard. A lick of fire against the night sky.

A hand seized his shoulder—firm, gnarled, unyielding. Willas turned, startled, to see Old Torghen Flint, his craggy face lined with solemnity, no mockery, no jest in sight.

“You can’t help her now, lad,” Flint said low.

Willas froze. Alysanne. Gods, she was in there.

Then a scream cut through the noise.

Heads turned. From the smoke and flame, a figure lunged—straight from a broken window above, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The man rose slowly. His hood was still drawn, though the cloth hung tattered. He moved with a staggering weight, as if bones no longer bent as they should.

Then he looked up.

And all around Willas, the courtyard seemed to still.

Blue.

Blue, unnatural eyes. The pale cold of death.

Willas’s breath hitched. “No…” he whispered. “No, it can’t be.” He staggered forward. “He was dead—I pronounced him dead.”

Jafer Flowers.

Two black brothers went at him, blades singing as they slashed at the corpse. But Jafer didn’t fall. He turned, his face blank, his eyes still blue—and swatted one of them aside like a child’s doll. Blood spattered, hot and real.

More men joined. Still the thing didn’t fall.

Willas’s mind caught like a match to dry kindling, suddenly sparking.

“Fire!” he roared, voice cracking as he pushed through the crowd. “Burn him! You have to burn him!”

The courtyard snapped into motion—someone grabbing a torch, another shouting for oil.

But Willas couldn’t take his eyes off the fire slowly overtaking the Lord Commander’s Tower. Flames licked from shattered windows, their glow casting the stones in flickering amber. Smoke curled into the sky, black as pitch, choking the night.

Then—Ghost.

The direwolf leapt down the last of the stairs, white fur scorched and stained with soot. He growled low, ears flat against his skull as he cut a path through the gathering men.

And behind him—

“Alysanne!” Willas breathed, the air catching in his lungs.

She stumbled into view, her cloak pulled high over her mouth and nose, shielding her from the thick black smoke. Her hair was unbound and wild, tangled from heat and movement. Her clothes—gods, the hem of her nightgown was destroyed, and the sleeves singed through.

But she was walking.

She was alive.

Willas didn’t wait. He broke through the line of men, nearly falling over one of the guards trying to throw sand toward the base of the tower. She saw him then, her eyes wide, frantic, watering from the smoke.

She ran.

Straight into his arms.

Willas caught her in a fierce, desperate embrace, burying his face into her hair, not caring about the smoke or the ash or the way his shoulder burned where she clung too tightly.

“Seven hells,” he whispered against her ear. “You mad, stupid woman—”

Alysanne turned her face into Willas’s chest. “He’s gone,” she whispered, her arms trembling as they wrapped around him. “The Old Bear… he fell and then the fire...”

Willas held her tighter, feeling her heartbeat against his. “You did everything you could,” he said softly.  Willas kissed her soot-streaked cheek, cupping the back of her head. “You are safe. That’s all I care about.”

Ghost circled them once, a low growl still in his throat, eyes flicking back toward the tower and as the fire roared, he pulled Alysanne closer to him.

“Make way!” A shout came.

The crowd parted, men stumbling aside as a massive figure emerged from the smoke-choked stairwell of the Lord Commander’s Tower. His hair was matted with sweat, ash all over him, but there was no mistaking the sheer size and power of Greatjon Umber.

And in his arms—

“By the gods,” someone whispered.

It was Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, carried off by the strongest man in the North. His left arm hung limp at his side, and his face was bloodied and burned.

“Get a fucking Maester!” the Greatjon bellowed. “He’s alive!”

Alysanne gasped, twisting in Willas’s arms, her eyes wide. “He—he was down. I saw him fall—”

“He got back up,” Willas said, near breathless, as relief broke over him like a crashing wave. “The old bear’s too damn stubborn to die.”

Maester Aemon was already being led forward by Grenn and Dolorous Edd, the old man gripping his staff with pale knuckles. "Clear the way!" someone shouted again, and the men of the Night's Watch obeyed, stunned silent by the sight.

The Greatjon passed them, smoke rolling off his shoulders like steam from a dragon’s breath, and as he did, Lord Mormont stirred faintly in his arms.

“Still breathin’,” the Greatjon muttered. “Tougher than all o’ you lot put together. Except you, Maester.”

Willas looked at Alysanne—her mouth parted in shock, her body still trembling in his grasp.

“He lived,” she whispered. “Willas… he lived.”

“Come,” he murmured. “Let’s get you warm. You’re shaking.”

She nodded once, silent now, fingers clinging to his shirt like it anchored her to life itself.

And together, they walked away from the scene.

Let others handle that for the time being.

.

.

No one returned to bed after what had happened.

The hall had filled slowly at first—shell-shocked men, wide-eyed boys. The Greatjon sat on one of the benches, his daughter Branda curled on his lap with her head against his chest. Osha held Myrcella and Marna Stout close, whispering something low and steady to keep them calm. Even the hard-bitten rangers of the Watch looked pale in the flickering firelight.

Willas and Alysanne took the high seats at the dais. She looked like she might fall asleep at any moment, her head bobbing ever so slightly, her cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders. Willas, however, was wide awake. Too awake. His body hummed with tension he couldn't name.

He couldn't shake what he'd seen.

The blue eyes. The dead man walking.

He had examined the bodies himself. He had seen the wounds. It shouldn't have been possible.

And yet... it was real.

Willas had never felt so afraid in his life.

The doors opened. All murmuring ceased.

Maester Aemon entered, moving slowly with Lady Prudence steadying his steps. Even in the dim firelight, Aemon's face looked drawn and weary.

He stopped near the center of the room and said in a quiet voice that cut through the silence, "The Lord Commander will live."

A collective exhale swept through the room. Branda clutched tighter to her father. One of the younger boys sobbed into his hands. Even Ser Jaremy Rykker looked like he might collapse from relief.

Aemon continued, "His wounds are grave, and he was burned. But he breathes. He has been given milk of the poppy. He will sleep on and off through the week, at least."

Alysanne gave a shuddering breath, and Willas felt her lean slightly more of her weight against him.

"We need to send word to the King," Willas said into the silence. His voice came out steady—far steadier than he expected.

Maester Aemon hesitated. His old hands trembled slightly as he clutched his chain.

“A raven arrived just before the fire,” he said slowly. “From King’s Landing.”

Every eye in the hall fixed on the old man.

“The king is dead.” He turned his milky gaze toward Willas and Alysanne. “Lord Stannis has declared himself king.”

The world seemed to tilt sideways.

Alysanne sucked in a sharp breath beside him. Willas felt something cold grip the base of his spine.

The Greatjon cursed low and bitter under his breath, but he was the first to speak. “Then we write to King Stannis.”

The Norrey added, “Whatever comes next, we must hold the Wall. That is our duty.”

Willas pulled Alysanne closer, feeling the weight of her against his side.

“I dreamt it,” his wife had said.

Willas turned to her, brow furrowing

She knew.

She had known before. Before the fire. Before they left Winterfell.

Before the corpse got up and walked.

And Ghost… Ghost knew too. The direwolf sat behind them now, his pale red eyes fixed on Willas. As if in judgment. As if in knowing that Willas now knew.

Willas looked across the room, at the men arguing about messages and messengers, at Ser Jaremy whispering to a grim-faced Bowen Marsh, at Lord Wull and the Norrey in aow conversation.

Then his mind drifted to Mance and the people beyond the Wall. To the arguments in Highgarden, to his sister, to Renly and Loras, and all their unspoken ambitions. To the schemes he was never quite invited into but knew would come. They had always been too obvious in their ambitions.

“There will be war,” he said aloud.

All eyes turned to him again.

“What?” the Norrey asked.

“There will be war,” Willas repeated. He looked at Maester Aemon, then to the gathered crowd.

Yet sooner or later in every man's life comes a day when it is not easy, a day when he must choose. The maester had told him this when they spoke of his Night's Watch vows and the end of the Targaryen regime. At the time, Willas had been almost relieved to find someone with whom he could openly discuss such matters without fearing for his neck.

“My family won’t let Stannis sit the throne uncontested. The Reach won’t. The Stormlands certainly won’t.”

He felt Alysanne’s gaze on him, but he didn’t turn.

"Lord Renly is charming, young, and popular. He has the backing of most of the south. He'll claim the throne for himself, with my sister as his queen, and many will follow him. Perhaps more than those who follow Stannis." He looked at his frowning wife, seeing the realization in her eyes. Stripped bare, it was freeing. Willas felt like he could soar. "Not unless you convince the old rebellion alliance to pick Stannis over Renly."

A harsh, mirthless laugh cut through the tension.

Jon Connington’s mouth curled in bitter amusement.

“The south rots that fast,” he said, his tone mocking as he looked from Willas to Alysanne.

A chair scraped back violently. The Greatjon rose, hand drifting toward his sword. For a heartbeat, Willas thought he’d strike Connington down then and there. But there was no fury in the Greatjon’s face—only hard, cold resolve.

“Enough,” Alysanne said, and her voice rang out.

It was not the voice of the tired girl half-falling asleep minutes ago. It was command—pure and effortless. She really was born for this, Willas thought.

“Don’t even dare, Jon,” she said again, her eyes locked on Connington’s. “You will hold your tongue or I will silence it for you both.”

Even the Greatjon blinked. Willas had never heard anyone call him by his given name. The big man looked to Alysanne, then Connington, then Laswell Peake standing behind him. Finally, he gave a tight nod.

Alysanne didn’t flinch.

“Everyone needs rest,” she said. “We’ll gather again tomorrow. In the hall. At ten. So that we can all rest, and think about what we truly want to say.”

No one argued.

One by one, they began to stand, to shuffle away. The fire still burned high, and the night outside was darker than pitch—but Willas could feel the tension slowly ease in the room.

He looked down at his wife, who had already begun to slump against him once more, exhaustion retaking its hold.

She had known.

And now… so did he.

Gods, what would be of them now?

Chapter Text

Chapter 25 – Alysanne IX

Moon 7 , Day 28

Alysanne’s steps echoed softly against the cold stone as she made her way up the narrow stairs of the Maester’s Tower, Willas just behind her. The sun barely crowned the horizon, painting the sky in weak, wintry light. The days were growing shorter. The nights longer. As if she needed more signs of what was to come.

When they reached the top, she pushed open the heavy door and found Maester Aemon already there with Prudence Celtigar at his side.

The room smelled of healing herbs and damp stone, a scent that clung to the back of her throat. The old Targaryen maester lifted his head as they entered, his blind gaze somehow landing right on her.

"You came sooner than I expected," Maester Aemon said, voice tired but welcoming.

Alysanne offered a small smile. "We thought to check on the Lord Commander before the day truly begins."

But her smile fell as her eyes moved past Maester Aemon to the door of the adjoining chamber, where Lord Commander Mormont lay.

"He won't recover soon," Prudence said gently, stepping forward. Her hands were neatly folded before her, her face composed, but Alysanne saw the tightness at the corners of her mouth. "And we must accept that he might never do so."

There was a heavy silence. Alysanne glanced at Willas worried look. She didn’t need another crisis. She needed structure, unity — not chaos and squabbling when every man ought to be sharpening his sword for their true enemy.

"We should move him," Alysanne said quietly, voice steady despite the knot in her chest. "The King’s Tower would be warmer. More comfortable."

Maester Aemon tilted his head slightly, considering. "The thought is kind, my lady. But it would be best for him to remain here. Closer to healing hands and away from prying eyes. And the King’s Tower will soon be crowded with northern lords."

Alysanne nodded reluctantly.

"I'll be moving to the maester’s quarters to help," Prudence offered. "There is much work to do and I had some training in healing that could be put to use."

Willas shifted beside her. "Castle Black was built to hold five thousand men at full strength, and two of its towers are crumbling into dust," he said thoughtfully. The mountain clansmen have already brought twenty-four hundred. The Umbers added three hundred spears and a hundred archers. Once the rest of the North marches…" He trailed off, raking a hand through his hair. "The place will be bursting."

Alysanne's mind whirred. She could call at the very least 28,000 men to the Wall. But the Wall supplies wouldn’t feed the Wall for a long winter much less her numbers. She needed to talk with the Mountain clans about bring shaggy pigs and winter bulls to the Wall. But where? The place was not exactly made for animal husbandry.

"The Nightfort could house them," she said aloud. "It’s vast, even if it’s half-forgotten. If we can secure it we’ll have a much better base of operations."

There are also secrets there. The Nightfort had been the heart of the Wall until Queen Alysanne decided to propose to have the men move to Deep Lake, which had been abandoned before Cregan Stark died, and the Watch moved to Castle Black, a much smaller castle.

But the secrets stayed at the Nightfort.

Willas frowned, but nodded. "Perhaps. But I think our strengths are better served in manning the old castles again. And the beacons—" he added, his tone sharpening. "If they can be made to work."

Alysanne made a mental note at that. She didn’t even remember the beacons. They might be useless now, but if darkness truly fell again, they would need every ancient trick at their disposal.

Maester Aemon hummed lowly. "A sound thought," he said. Then, after a pause heavier than stone, he asked, "Will you take command, Lady Alysanne?"

She blinked. For a breath, she thought she had misheard. Her gaze snapped to the closed door where Mormont lay after the burns he suffered.

"Command?" she echoed.

Willas looked at her sharply. "What is the protocol here?" he asked.

Maester Aemon folded his wrinkled hands in his lap. "When a Lord Commander cannot perform his duties, his steward and the maester act in his stead. But Lord Mormont’s steward died last year, and no successor was named, and I am an old man. Very likely the burden falls to whomever the men and lords trust most."

Alysanne hesitated. Not out of fear, but out of awareness. Being the de facto Lord Commander would not be a honor, but necessity. And necessity was a brutal master.

Could she do it? Could she force hardened men to listen? No woman sat in the Lord Commander’s chair for a reason. She would have to rule them with an iron fist. She needed the men alive to fight, not hanging for refusing to obey her. "

"Bowen Marsh is the Lord Steward," she offered. "He’s diligent. He could do it."

He might be even pressure to obey her. Perhaps. He did respect her, but if she were to take control of the Wall would that respect turn to bitterness?

"A good man," Aemon agreed, "but not trained for war councils or to deal with lords. And the northern lords wouldn’t rally behind

There was a soft expectation in the air, a silent pressure. And not just for her to take control of the Wall.

"It would not be the first time," Aemon continued, voice almost a whisper. "Nor the second. Walton Stark did it in 50 AC. Artos Stark again in 226 AC. It is common, if you look deep enough. In times of crises, Winterfell often takes control. And it is no secret that House Stark also has the most Lord Commanders in history."

"I am no Stark," Alysanne said, though even as the words left her lips, they rang hollow.
No trueborn Stark, perhaps. But Robert had legitimized her. As Lord Stark’s daughter.

And another thought flickered to life, unbidden but not unwelcome: if she took the Wall, even for a time, she would hold in her hands something no lord or king-beyond-the-wall could ignore. Leverage. Authority. Power to bargain for what the North needed.

"Who would care for that now?" Maester Aemon asked softly. " You carry the blood of the North in your veins. You have the loyalty of the North."

Alysanne thought of Lord Umber. The GreatJon had made clear mere hours ago where he stood. And if she got the GreatJon on her side, she got the entire North in many ways. The other great houses were the Bolton, the Dustins and the Karstarks. She knew Aunt Barbrey and Harrion Karstark would not appose her. And neither would Domeric.

What were six hundred black brothers against the will of the Northern banners? She almost laughed at herself — almost. Tyrant’s thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

But wasn’t it more practical?

Willas shifted uncomfortably beside her. She noticed the worry written across his face.

"The northern lords may follow her," Willas said carefully. "But the Night’s Watch is another matter. The men here have never served under a woman. There are… fears. They don’t sing 'Brave Danny Flint' endlessly for nothing."

Alysanne reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his, grounding herself against the temptation growing inside her as much as to give him comfort to his worries.

"I am not Danny Flint," she said steadily. "I am no girl pretending to be a boy. I am Alysanne Stark, wife to Willas Tyrell, daughter of the Winterfell."

She squeezed his hand once, a promise in the gesture. She would not be foolish, but she would not be cowed either. I need the Wall.

"I’ll speak with Bowen Marsh," she said. "And with the northern lords. I will not move without their consent."

"And Bran?" Willas asked softly.

Alysanne nodded. "Bran must know what’s happening. I’ll send word to Winterfell. To him and to Ser Arthur. They must be prepared."

She hoped her uncle could explain as best as he could to the children what was happening. By the Old Gods I miss them.

Maester Aemon smiled faintly, a whisper of pride threading through his expression. "You will rule ably, Alysanne. I know it."

Alysanne said nothing, but inside, something deep and relentless stirred. It was not just a sense of duty and honor.

.

.

She moved into Willas’s embrace without hesitation, as the door of their chamber close behind her, resting her forehead against his chest. His arms curled around her instantly, steady and warm. They had an hour — maybe less — before all of Castle Black roused itself from the terrible night that had passed. An hour where she could be just herself, without duty pressing into her skull.

"Don't let me be a tyrant," Alysanne whispered against his frame.

Willas kissed her brow, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "You are as far from a tyrant as any soul could be," he said gently.

He doesn’t the darkness inside me, she thinks. Willas must have felt how her body tensed because he drew back slightly to study her.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, voice low, coaxing.

Alysanne hesitated, then looked up at him. "I fear what I’m becoming," she confessed. "That I’ll grow cold. Ruthless. As dead as winter itself."

Willas's hands slid up to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing lightly along her cheekbones. He did that a lot and she found it very relaxing. She never told him, but he must have read it in her expression because he did it often. "Winter is not just death, Aly," he said, voice sure. "It’s about enduring. About perseverance. About surviving against all odds. Like my beloved wife."

She couldn’t help but smile a bit at that,

"You’re not just a winter wolf," he added, the corners of his mouth lifting, teasing her heart into beating stronger. "You’re fire too. You must be — you’re the most passionate creature I know."

Alysanne gave a soft, reluctant laugh. "More than Prince Oberyn? Are you sure, he might take that as a declaration of war."

Willas laughed, a real, full sound, and kissed her nose in a playful, utterly tender gesture. For some reason, that simple kiss undid something tight inside her. She smiled — truly smiled — against him.

"In truth," Willas murmured, voice dipping lower as he pressed a kiss against her temple, "I would never dare claim you are anything but passionate. Especially in bed," he added, winking, making her blush. "But it's not just there — you burn in every way, Alysanne. In your love, your anger, your hopes. You could never be cold."

Alysanne looked up at him then, at the vivid dark blue of his eyes. She wondered, not for the first time, if their children would have his eyes or her softer violet ones. The thought curled warm in her chest before she pushed it away. She could not afford foolish dreams. Not now.

Still, Willas’s hand brushed her cheek again, so gentle, so knowing, and he asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"Children," she said simply.

He stiffened, just slightly, the way a man might when stepping onto thin ice. She felt it at once.

For a breath, Alysanne waited for him to mention her lack of pregnancy — to say aloud what others whispered behind closed doors. But he didn't. He didn’t say anything at all, only watched her with that patient, earnest gaze.

So she asked instead, softly, "Do you want them?"

Willas’s face eased into a small, almost shy smile. "Of course," he said. "One day, when we’re tired of chasing little wolves around the castle… or at least you will be." He chuckled, his tone self-deprecating. "I’ll blame your wolfblood."

Alysanne smiled at the image. She could see the laughing, wild children with tangled hair and unless energy, the smile faltered. Doubt crept in, as it often did when she thought of the future.

Willas noticed the change instantly. His hand tightened around hers.

"You mustn't feel pressured," he said quickly. "We’ve not been married long. And we spend half our time apart. The gods may yet bless us when the Mother sees fit."

He was rambling, something he rarely did but when he did was endless and very awkward. When his experience and education left him feeling lacking. It was endearing. Alysanne lifted a finger to his lips, quieting him with a soft, fond touch.

"I drink moon tea," she said.

The words fell between them.

Willas’s brows drew together. He didn’t pull away — didn’t rage or accuse — but there was hurt there, clear in his eyes, deep as a wound.

Alysanne guided them toward the bed, their hands still linked. They sat on the edge, close enough that their knees brushed.

She looked down at their joined hands, then spoke, voice low but certain. "True winter is coming. Not just snow and cold, Willas. You saw it. It will be a time when every day will be a battle just to survive. Where children will die of the cold or hunger. If something happens to me…" She faltered, then forced herself onward. "I am the only adult Stark left. The North needs me whole."

Willas’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing — just listened.

"I don’t want to bring a child into such a world," she said, her voice breaking slightly. What if there old tales of sacrifices are true? She couldn’t do a lot but not that.

 "I couldn’t bear it. Worse — if I die before Bran comes of age…"

Realization dawned on Willas’s face. She saw it — the understanding that childbirth could kill her. It would be expected he wouldn’t jump to it. He was not a woman and even Aly had grown up learning that to die in childbirth is a noble dead. And Willas had kinswomen who died in childbirth, at least not ones he would remember immediately.

"My mother died giving me life," Alysanne whispered. "My grandmother died in childbed too."

If she dies who is going to face the Others?

Willas let out a slow, pained breath. He pulled her closer, tucking her against him so she could hear the steady beat of his heart.

"Then we follow your lead," he said firmly. "No one else’s. And if the gods are kind, one day we’ll be old and grey and surrounded by grown children and grandchildren, bickering over who gets to sit near you to listen you your northern tales."

Alysanne closed her eyes against the fierce tenderness in his voice. She pressed her face against his chest, feeling the tears prick behind her lids.

"A dream for spring," she murmured.

Willas kissed the top of her head.

.

.

The Shieldhall was already packed with men by the time Alysanne arrived with Willas, with Theon Greyjoy and Olyvar Frey trailing behind her. The two men were silent and shaken by the night’s horrors; Alysanne would make time to speak with them — and the girls — later.

At the entrance, the Greatjon waited for them, clad not for council, but battle. His voice was a low growl meant for her alone. “Lord Willas spoke to the lords,” he said. “We are yours, Alysanne. Winter is Coming, and we’ll follow the lead of Winterfell.”

Alysanne nodded, saying nothing. What was there to say?

She had clad herself in black from head to toe for a reason. Since arriving at the Wall, she had been careful to avoid black. But it had been Willas who whispered she should wear it now before he left her to prepare. And apparently, to plot with the Northern lords at the Wall.

She moved through the hall and took her seat on the dais beside Maester Aemon, Willas settling stiffly to her right. The ancient maester’s milky eyes seemed to pierce the clamor of the room as he raised his frail voice, a thread that nonetheless silenced the chaos.

"Lord Commander Mormont fights against his injuries and burns," Aemon said. "And so the Night’s Watch must have another to lead. We all know what is to come... and that I am far from being a young man."

"Then I shall lead the Watch," Othell Yarwyck declared as he rose from his seat, and with the arguments erupted instantly.

Bowen Marsh shouted over the din, Three-Finger Hobb grumbled, others called for Denys Mallister or Cotter Pyke.

The Shieldhall became a roaring storm of clashing names and shouting men.

Alysanne exchanged a heavy glance with the Greatjon, who looked almost eager to wade into the fray with fists swinging. But Maester Aemon struck the table with a small wooden hammer, and the hall fell silent again.

The maester’s voice, soft but commanding, carried through the chill.

"By precedent," he said. "Starks have taken such seats in times of war. When the Watch was at its lowest in the last three hundred years, Walton and Artos Stark claimed regency over the Wall. Thus, I propose Lady Alysanne Stark serve as Regent, until the Lord Commander recovers — or, if our prayers fail, until we elect a new Commander."

The uproar was instant.

“A woman?” Bowen Marsh stood in anger. “My brothers, the Watch has never—the vows-”

"Lady Alysanne would not take the Night’s Watch vows," Aemon explained calmly. "She would vow to serve the Watch, and step down once the Lord Commander is capable. It had been done before."

Alysanne nodded her willingness to the men and let the arguments against her begin.

"Our brothers are not accustomed to women amongst us," Bowen protested. "What if someone rapes her? Will we have to fear the might of Winterfell? And if she kills one of us — can we execute  her?"

Alysanne let her hand rest on Willas’ legs as his hands turned to fists.

"Lady Alysanne would be within her rights to cut the throat of any idiot who tries!" Lord Norrey bellowed. "And if not her, I’d tear the bastard apart myself!"

"Let’s see if any of you can rape a Stark without a cock!" Old Flint barked, and to Alysanne’s amazement, the Northern clansmen roared their agreement.

“You speak of danger?” The Greatjon’s laughed. It was not pretty.

Alysanne had to link her hands to stop herself from talking. Let the lords defend you , Willas had counselled. Make it seem like they are pushing the responsibility onto you. Electing you.

"Aye, there’s danger! Corpses climbin' the Wall, and you lot pissin' yourselves over a woman’s skirts! That woman’s got Winterfell’s blood — you don’t!"

“She’s a bastard,” spat Septon Cellador, clutching the trembling Seven-Pointed Star necklace. “A baseborn temptress, flouting the natural order! The Maiden’s grace does not—”

"We’re in the North, Septon," Norrey snarled. "Your Seven have no sway here. The Old Gods made trees, not septs. And Lady Alysanne’s done more for the Watch in a moon than you have in a lifetime. If you left your cup, you might see it."

Laughter rippled through the Northmen. Cellador flushed, opening his mouth — but Othell Yarwyck spoke first, voice grave as stone.

"The Watch chooses its own leaders," he said. "Stark or no, she’s not one of us. What happens when the men rebel? When some fool decides a regent’s throat is easier to slit than a White Walker’s?"

Alysanne’s fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. He’s not wrong, she thought. Shame curdled in her gut — then sharpened. Ambition, Brynden’s voice murmured in her mind. The first sin of kings. But also the first virtue if you are a capable person.

"Any man who tries will answer to me," rumbled the Greatjon, his hand resting on the hilt of his greatsword.

"Soit’s you they answer to, Umber," Ser Alliser Thorne sneered, "what’s she then? A little girl playing at wolf. A bastard playing at lord."

The word hung, ugly and familiar. Alysanne met his gaze, cool and steady. A ruler owns the insult. Makes it a blade

"Some are born bastards, Ser Alliser," she said, voice soft as snowfall. "Others spend their lives earning the title."

The hall erupted. The Northmen roared the loudest, but even many black brothers chuckled.

Thorne’s face turned purple, but Dolorous Edd’s voice floated dryly above the noise, "I’d take 'bastard' over 'fool,' but maybe that’s just me."

"Enough!" Bowen Marsh slammed the table. "This is no mummer’s farce! My lady" — he spat the title — "you cite precedent, but Artos Stark took command with the Watch’s consent.Will you force us? Chain us to your ambition while the real war waits?"

Ambition, the word hissed in her skull. She saw it then—the path ahead, jagged and bright. The Wall hers, the North hers, the throne hers if she dared. 

Alysanne rose slowly.

"I chain you to survival, Lord Bowen," she said.

The hall fell still, even the banners hanging limp in the frozen air.

"The Nightfort will be reclaimed. The beacons relit. Every man will hold a sword but also a torch or a bow. And it will be the men of the North who make that possible. Or tell me to my face you can face both Mance and the Others alone."

Bowen Marsh looked away, his mouth pressed in a hard line.

"I cannot make the same vows you did," she said, letting the words travel through the quiet room. "I am a wife, a regent. I may have children of my own. But it does not mean I cannot swear my own vows. As long as I am needed, I will live — and, if needed, die — to see the Others defeated. I will be the watcher on the walls, the fire against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men."

A murmur ran through the Watch — a ripple of reluctant respect, simmering resentment.

She sat back down and let it happen.

She sat silent as the Septon ranted, as Ser Alliser sneered and called her a coward and soon-to-be oath breaker.

She sat silent as the northern lords fought for her.

Let them argue. Let them choose her.

Willas had been right. The most seasoned and intelligent men would see the division amongst them for the threat it was, and chose the one with the numbers to keep the peace. The one sitting straight where once the Lord Commander sat: woman or not.

But then — two black-clad men, Chett and Ollo Lophand, drew their swords.

Alysanne tensed, ready to rise — but to her shock, it was Willas who stood first, slamming his fist against the table with a sound like thunder.

The hall froze. Even the blades wavered.

"You fear a woman’s command yet squabble like children, as if read to feast on Lord Commander Mormont’s corpse! He is still very much alive, I’ll remind you." Willas’s voice was sharp, measured — and lethal.

Ollo Lophand shifted, but a harsh whisper made him lower his blade. Did the idiot though the could attack a Tyrell? The heir of Reach?

Willas’s voice never rose, but it carried, slicing through the hall.

"Maester Aemon has cited law. You claim Lady Alysanne’s a woman, a bastard, unfit — but the king himself named her Warden of the North. Do you think he named the first women in history for the position on a whim? Would you spit on royal decree?"

His mild tone made the accusation burn all the deeper.

He swept his gaze across them, lingering on every lord, every black brother.

"You cling to tradition? Then honor it. But Artos Stark was a lord, just a brother, who once commanded you. It was the blood of Winterfell that saved you then. Is it not the same blood that stands before you now? Is not Lady Alysanne the Regent of the North? Wouldn’t tradition say she should take the position?"

Willas’s smile was slight, almost mocking.

"But perhaps you would prefer the dead to rule you instead. I am a mere Reachman, and a crippled one at that. What would I know of your pride and honor? Perhaps you would rather see the Wall fall instead of claiming a Stark of Winterfell as your sister."

Silence. Heavy, suffocating.

Alysanne fought the impulse to kiss him in front of everyone and crossed her legs.

Then — a flutter of wings. A raven flew into the hall and landed on her shoulder.

“Regent!” croaked Mormont’s raven, flapping to Alysanne’s shoulder. “Regent! Regent!”

Uncle Brynden cannot let anyone else have the last word, she thought, fighting a smile. The bird’s beady eyes gleamed, and for a heartbeat, she felt Brynden’s presence, cold and keen. 

In the end, the Watch yielded.

Alysanne swore new vows before the heart tree, not as a brother of the Night’s Watch, but as a sister to the Night’s Watch.

.

.

The doors to the solar groaned shut, with Alysanne and her northern lords inside: Greatjon Umber, Lord Brandon Norrey, and Old Torghen Flint’s. Willas had excused himself telling her that his presence was not wanted, but Alysanne felt it.

“What of the raven, Lady Alysanne?” The Greatjon’s voice was a rumble from the depths of some primal cave. “You didn’t speak of it to the Black Brothers.”

Lord Norrey snorted. “If it’s from King Stannis, we ought to be sending ravens to him. Coronations won’t kill the dead.”

“Not that raven,” the Greatjon said, and the room stilled, as three pair of eyes turned to her.

Alysanne smoothed her skirts. Why must this be my life? She would be much happier in some library reading books until she died. “We received a raven from Renly Baratheon. He has crowned himself king.”

The room exploded into curses and growls.

“Does the boy not know the law?” Old Flint spat.

“Aye,” Norrey growled. “Thinks he can wear another’s crown like a maiden’s ribbon.”

Alysanne let the storm rage, her stillness a blade. When the anger ebbed, she said, “Willas says he plans to wed Dowager Queen Margaery Tyrell. The Reach will back him.”

Old Flint’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Robert’s widow? Has the woman no shame?”

“Aye,” Norrey grunted. “But she was left without a babe.”

“Southron crows,” Old Flint muttered. “No more loyal than cats in a creamery.”

“Clever cats,” Norrey allowed, a dry chuckle in his throat. “Shrewd. Might’ve been eyeing the younger brother all along.”

“Might spread her legs for a king beyond the Wall if he gifts her a golden crown,” Flint sneered.

Laughter rolled, thick and coarsening the air. Alysanne’s nails bit crescents into her palms. They see her as a broodmare or little better than a whore after some gold. Alysanne tried to have some kind thought for Willas’ sister, because she was his sister. But it was not easy. She wished she could be in Margaery Tyrell’s place, she would run away and wed some nice reachman like Sam and wash her hands of her family’s scheming. It must be nice, Alysanne thought, to have little more to worry about than what to dress and how to care for children.

“There are greater concerns than whomever the Dowager Queen takes to bed,” she said, voice cutting through the mirth. “The South’s chaos buys us time. I’ve ordered my uncle to call the banners with great strength than what I asked before. we know have an excuse to call all men to war.”

“More time wasted,” the Greatjon rumbled.

“We need every sword,” Alysanne said firmly. “The men marching now will not turn back, but those left behind will raise more. Every castle must arm every willing soul. Men, women, boys, girls. Those who can’t fight will learn to heal, to hunt, to fletch arrows, to dress and sew, to weave thick winter cloaks. No one will sit idle, combing their hair while the dead walk.”

Old Flint’s scowl deepened. “Women fighting.”

“My granddaughters train with spear and bow,” Norrey said, shrugging. “The Others don’t ask if you are a boy or a girl before they gut you.”

The Greatjon nodded, but his eyes were grave. “There’s more we should talk about. About your blood, my lady.”

No. Her pulse quickened. Not here. Not now.

“What do you mean, Greatjon?” she asked.

“Jon Connington told me,” the Greatjon pressed, relentless. “You’re Lyanna’s girl. Rhaegar’s.”

Old Flint muttered a curse. Norrey leaned forward, eyes like iron. Alysanne’s limbs trembled; she locked her knees, willed her breath steady. Two daggers in my cloak.  She could take down Old Flint, and perhaps even Norrey.  But the Greatjon. She had no change against him.

“Ser Arthur Dayne has proof,” the Greatjon continued, voice steady like he was not ruining her life. “Your mother wed Rhaegar before the old gods. Their children follow Elia’s in succession. Boy or girl.”

Old Flint slammed his fist. “Rhaegar was wed! The Seven curse such unions!”

“The Seven didn’t wed them,” the Greatjon growled. “The old gods did.”

Norrey stroked his beard, studying her. “That’s why the Sword of the Morning is here. He’s guarding you.”

Alysanne nodded, throat tight. They are your lords, she reminded herself. They stood by you. You can trust them.

She wondered if Elia Martell though that too at some point.

“I care little for southern laws,” Norrey said at last. “Lady Alysanne’d rule better than that prancing stag. But Stannis has rights. And he is a warrior.”

“Stannis’ll lose,” the Greatjon scoffed. “Too harsh. Renly’ll have the Reach, the Stormlands. What’s Stannis got? His rock. You want northern blood spilled to put another stag on the throne?”

Silence fell, thick as grave soil. Alysanne stared at her hands. The crown. Winterfell. The throne. Brynden’s voice slithered through her mind: Liar. It matters. You hunger for it.

“I think of it,” she admitted softly. “Taking the throne. But I have greater battles to fight here. The dead don’t care who sits the Iron Throne.”

You lie, my girl, Brynden whispered. Power is a blade. Wield it.

The Greatjon grunted approval. “Let the stags gore each other. But we’ll not blink to it. Sooner or later they will call for us, Alysanne.”

Alysanne straightened. “We aren’t. I've already sent letters to Lord Harmond Umber and Lady Barbrey Dustin to raise two hundred bowmen to hold the Neck.”

“That will hold the Moat, if any idiot from the South thinks of attacking,” Norrey agreed.

“Lord Manderly has been strengthening White Harbor’s defenses,” Alysanne continued. “And he has built twenty-three war galleys, with the great help of Lord Umber of course.”

The Greatjon gave a rare smile. “The fat lord is more capable then he looks.”

“Yes, but his crews are fishermen, more used to the Bite than battle or the sea,” Alysanne cautioned. “I've also sent funds to Bear Island to build ten war galleys.”

Old Flint frowned but didn’t speak.

“Who’ll sail them?” the Greatjon asked. “Manderly was going on about how he lacks the trained men, afterall, and we are going to build even more?”

Alysanne smiled. “Lady Prudence will, in a way.”

The lords blinked at her.

“Lord Manderly has agreed, after some pressure, to wed his granddaughter Wynafryd Manderly to Victor Velaryon, cousin to the Lord of Driftmark. Their expertise will be ours.”

There was a stunned moment of silence.

Norrey’s eyes narrowed. “Velaryons are Stannis’ men.”

“You should tell that to Lady Prudence,” Flint grumbled in disapproval.

“Not for long,” Alysanne said, ignoring the older lord. “King Stannis will soon find Driftmark emptied of ships and people.”

The Greatjon barked a laugh. Old Flint muttered about “Southron rats”.

“And if that is not enough,” Alysanne said, “I will seek Cotter Pyke’s help too.”

“And the Greyjoy boy?” Norrey asked.

Theon. Alysanne’s smile faded. “He has written to his father thrice. No reply.”

Norrey spat. “Balon’s always been a sour cunt with little care for his sons.”

“His uncle, Lord Rodrik Harlaw, is a wiser man,” Alysanne said. “But even he will not move against his liege.”

The Greatjon grunted. “Theon’s a good lad. Fought well.”

“Aye,” said Lord Norrey. “He has proved himself.”

“But he remains a hostage,” Alysanne said. Her voice was even, but the words tasted like iron in her mouth. “No matter how loyal. We must never forget that.”

I must never forget that.

Alysanne drew a steady breath and pressed on.

“But we should also consider marriages with the Ironborn.”

Old Flint let out a scoffing bark. “Marry one of them? Reavers and pillagers to the bone. They are no better than the wildlings.  I've lost a daughter, a niece, and a granddaughter to wildling raids. That's enough blood wasted on the likes of such!”

Norrey folded his arms. “Ironborn and wildlings are not the same, Flint.”

The old man sneered. “Wouldn’t expect you to see a difference. You went and married a wildling whore yourself.”

The air turned brittle. Norrey’s hand twitched toward his dirk.

It was not something spoken of openly, even if most knew: Norrey’s second wife was a wildling woman who had been his mistress beforehand.

Among the mountain clans, traditions bent much more easily. A clansman might marry a lord’s kinswoman, a miller's daughter, or even a wildling spearwife. They didn’t put much though to the bloodline and status. A clan leader came with the capacity to kill their enemies, withstand winter, and share his goods with his people.

Still, Norrey's marriage had once brought him and Old Flint to the brink of bloodshed. She remembered how they came to blows in the Great Hall, snarling and spitting like dogs. With Old Flint demanding the head of The Norrey or for the man to be sent to the Night’s Watch

Will I have to take their children as hostages, too? Alysanne wondered grimly. Another blood feud was just what she needed.

The Greatjon looked half-ready to laugh at the growing tension, but Alysanne had no time for it.  She slammed her fist on the table, the crack echoing like a bone snap.

“No one will be forced to wed an outsider if they do not wish it,” she said, her voice hard. “Not Ironborn, not wildling, not anyone.”

Silence answered her.

But she should be prepare for the talk of marriages stirred other similar talks.

Norrey leaned back, eyeing her narrowly. “Speaking of weddings... what of Willas Tyrell?”

Alysanne stiffened ready to knock the man down if needed. Breathe.

“Tyrells are southron snakes,” Norrey pressed on. “Careless of law and realm. There’s no shortage of real men from good Northern bloodlines for you to choose from.”

Anger flared bright and sudden. Before she could check herself, Alysanne slammed her fist down on the table as she got up.

“I will continue to be wed to Willas Tyrell,” she said sharply, barely keeping herself from snarling. “And if you doubt the strength of his manhood, Norrey, I’ll have you take the chamber next to ours so you can hear for yourself how real of a man he is. But if best your wife stay home  or wonder why she failed in her choice of husband.”

The Greatjon bellowed with laughter, rocking back in his chair.

“That’s Lyanna’s girl for sure!” he howled.

Even Old Flint cracked a reluctant smile.

Alysanne allowed herself a wolf’s smile, but inwardly her heart raced.

Marriage alliances are the least of my worries.

Dealing with Mance Rayder would not be so easy. The Night’s Watch would be against it naturally but even in her words old hatreds still burned. And even if she could make peace there, what then? Would the South rally against her? Call her traitor?

The Tyrells would like that. A way to free Willas from her.

The North could not protect them forever and she feared what would come out  once the South finished fighting. If Renly wins, it will be up to Willas in many ways to convince them to help the North.

She was well aware that if Renly won, it would not be a good future for her.

And she would take whatever awful septa vows they forced on her if it would protect the North. And she knew, Willas would protect her siblings if they were his own.

“We've more to speak of,” she said, gathering them back to order. “Supplies.”

The Greatjon sobered, nodding.

“Willas brought food enough to feed half the North for a year,” Alysanne said. “

“But no food lasts forever,” Old Flint pointed out grimly.

“Exactly. We must sow winter seeds,” Alysanne said. “The hardy crops. Snowwheat. Wintergrain. Kale. Ice turnips. We cannot afford to wait for the world to thaw.”

“They don’t catch in most of the North,” Old Flint grunted. “They Starks have tried many times before in their lands.”

Norrey tapped a finger thoughtfully against the table. “They might catch on the Gift. The soil there’s harder but with better water. More fertile.”

“We have no one to work the fields,” Old Flint pointed out sourly. “And only the wildlings have seed, too. Raymun Redbeard torched every plantation when he crossed the Wall. Your wife should know plenty about that, Norrey.”

“They also know how to tend the crops that grow in frost better then us,” Alysanne added before Norrey could continue the fight. “We might get some seeds however.”

“Where?” Norrey asked.

“Craster’s Keep,” she says and took noticed how the three men were very well aware of Craster’s existence. “I mean to put an end to that monster of a man. I shall offer the women there a place in Mole’s Town, a warm bed and security, as long as they help us set small vegetable patch for each to take care of.”

“They won’t be able to feed the Watch,” Norrey said confused.

“No,” Alysanne agreed. “But if each can plan enough to feed five people, it less five people we have to concern ourselves with.”

And if it work, you all might accept my deal with Mance much easier, she thought.

.

.

Moon 7 , Day 31

The wormways beneath Castle Black smelled of damp stone and old smoke.
Candles flickered in wall niches, their feeble flames casting long, twitching shadows as Alysanne and Bowen Marsh made their way through the maze of tunnels. Their footsteps echoed ahead of them, ghost-like.

In summer, the brothers rarely used these narrow, low-ceilinged passages. But once winter came, it was  the quickest way to move between towers without trudging through waist-deep snow. She had seen that most of Mole’s Town was similar. Only Mole’s Town was even more underground than Castle Black.

"The granaries are this way," Bowen said, leading her through another twisting turn.

They emerged into the cold, dry gloom of the storerooms. It smelled of smoked meat, hard cheese, and dust. Barrels and sacks and great wheels of cheese crowded the stone shelves. Strings of onions and garlic dangled from the rafters. Bags of carrots, parsnips, radishes, and yellow turnips filled every corner. One storeroom held nothing but salted meats stacked high: beef, pork, mutton, cod. In another, dried figs, peas, walnuts, and almonds shared space with clay jars packed with olives sealed under thick wax.

"You've kept it well," Alysanne said, genuinely impressed.

"We have enough for the Watch," Bowen said carefully. "Enough for a two years winter. But..." He hesitated, then pushed on. "We cannot feed a Stark army, my lady. Nor do our granaries would have the room for the food if you had it."

Alysanne touched a barrel of flour lightly. "I would not ask it. My men will have their own stores. And soon, we'll have Craster's food ease some burden. And his winter seeds."

Bowen gave a short nod. "A sound idea. But Craster’s blood was foul. Some of his kin might think to follow his ways."

"I'll see they don't," she said simply, her tone leaving no doubt.

They moved along the racks, past the spice stores — peppercorns, cloves, mustard seeds — and wheels of smoked salmon. At a stack of pickled beets and cabbages, Alysanne turned to him.

"I mean to have livestock too. Milk, meat, hides. Could we keep herds here?"

Bowen gave a reluctant chuckle. "My lady, you seem determined to make us farmers as well as archers."

She smiled.

"I made it clear archery would be taught to all, did I not? Best we add a few more strings to their bows."

His answering smile was tight. "We’ll try. But it won’t be easy. We're hunters, not herdsmen."

As they made their way back toward the courtyard, the clash of steel met them — sharper than the muttering wind.

In the pale daylight, the Greatjon and Ser Laswell Peake had the Watchmen drilling in pairs, striking at shields, moving in quick, hard steps. Their shouts rang off the walls.

Alysanne felt a small surge of pride. Progress. No one could say she had not taken action in the three days she had been the leader of the Watch.

Across the yard, she caught sight of Ser Alliser Thorne, arms folded, watching the drills with a face carved of ice.  Let him go sulk, Alysanne thought. The Night’s Watch needs leaders and good warriors, not bitter relics.

His lip curled when he noticed her, and with a snee. He turned abruptly, stalking toward a knot of brothers gathered under the rookery tower, his head bending low to speak. Alysanne narrowed her eyes. Let him whisper. I have louder voices than his.

She and Bowen parted ways, and Alysanne climbed the wood steps leading to the Grey Keep’s solar, where the Builders met. The steps were slick with frost, so she had to move with more care. Before reaching the door, she paused, glancing through the tall, narrow window overlooking the Builders’ yard.

There was Willas.

He leaned over a rough-hewn table with Othell Yarwyck and a handful of Builders clustered around him. A battered map was spread between them, pinned with stones. Willas spoke animatedly, gesturing with his hands, his cane forgotten on the chair. His face was alive with his enthusiasm.

Alysanne smiled and leaned into the window without meaning to.

Let him have his moment.

The Builders would welcome his ideas. She'd seen the careful drafts tucked into his desk: new granaries for Winterfell, great barns for Wintertown, even fortified walls to shelter the townfolk of both Winterfell and Mole’s Town. She’d glimpsed even grander dreams too — designs to rebuild the Lord Commander’s Tower and shore up the crumbling Hardin’s Tower.

Dreams worth building.

She watched him for a heartbeat longer, before a voice broke her reverie.

“Mace’s son was a surprise," Jon Connington said behind her.

She turned to see him leaning casually in the doorway.

"If you thought of him as Willas, not Mace's son, he'd surprise you less," Alysanne said, unable to keep her anger from her voice.

Jon gave a low snort.

"You’re still angry with me."

She arched a brow.

"You planted talk of crowns in the Greatjon’s head without telling me. Of course I’m angry!" she looked around but the sounds of the training stopped her words from reaching bellow.

Jon shrugged.

"It was already there. I only gave it shape."

"I have more pressing worries than a crown," she said, this time much more attentive to her tone.

"Aye," he said. Then, more gently: "Have you never thought that maybe your father and mother knew? That some part of them understood... a child of their blood might be needed? And not to rule the Night’s Watch."

Alysanne’s throat tightened. She could not think that way. She could not let herself believe her parents had somehow seen what was coming, had sacrificed themselves, and maybe even thousands knowingly.

She needed certainties. Stone-solid truths. Not ghosts and riddles.

"I can't," she said simply.

Jon studied her a long moment, then dipped his head in understanding.

"When you ride north to this keep," he said quietly, "I ride with you."

Alysanne gave him a ghost of a smile but Jon’s face darkened slightly.

"I don’t like you riding at all, Alysanne," he said, dropping all pretense. "You have commanders to lead men for you. You’re too valuable to risk on some raid against that filth."

"I can’t rule from a tower," she said. "Not now. Not yet. They need to see me there."

The women would much more willing to talk to another woman than a dozen of armed men. Alysanne didn’t want to scary them, she wanted to give them a better future.

He gave a grudging nod, but his mouth was grim.

"Don’t be like your father," Jon said. "He burned himself out too quickly."

Alysanne touched his arm briefly. She knew that Jon truly cared for her well-being.
Most would say his words needed a bit more honey, but Alysanne was used to men like Jon,  men who gave their loyalty sharp-edged and honestly. She preferred them.

"I’ll be careful," she promised.

Jon didn’t look convinced.

Before he could reply, the deep groan of iron and wood echoed across Castle Black.
Both of them turned sharply as the sound rolled over the yard.

The Great Gate was opening.

Men gathered near the walls and parapets to watch, black cloaks snapping in the cold wind.
Through the widening crack, they saw riders — a dozen men on tall, frost-dappled horses, their banners stiff with ice. At their head rode a figure in a black cloak trimmed in white fur, the blazon of a white sunburst on his surcoat.

Lord Harrison Karstark had finally arrived.

(Alysanne's personal coat of arms, Willas with the builders, Alysanne's "Night's Watch" clothes, Alysanne with her Lords)

Chapter Text

Chapter 26 – Catelyn III

End of 299 AC

The red thread slipped cleanly through the grey wool, each stitch precise, deliberate.

Catelyn worked in silence, the embroidery hoop balanced in her lap, the needle gliding with practiced grace. The thread was a deep crimson, rich as garnet, and it stood out sharply against the pale grey of the gown she mended. Stark grey. She had not worn it since the North cast her out, but still she kept the dress, and now she saw fit to restore it. She took the morning light and her lack of duties to work the trim at the hem so that once she wore it again, no one would think it an old dress.

It was a beautiful trim. At first, she had intended to embroider little silver wolves and trout. But in the end, the border became a soft curling vine, dotted with delicate silver birds. No meaning. No banners. She told herself it was prettier that way. She had even made a matching collar, and had been quietly pleased with her own skill.

Outside her narrow window, the Vale was covered in white.

She sat alone in the solar they had given her. A room too grand for a fallen woman, Lysa had said the first time she’d visited, voice proud and haughty. That was before the fighting and Lysa’s mad screams started.

Before the servants began to look at Catelyn as their would the lady of the keep, instead with contempt and caution.

That shift had been Petyr’s doing. Slowly, quietly, he had begun to whisper truths into the ears of the Eyrie’s nobles and servants. They no longer saw Catelyn as a traitor who had warred against her own children, but as a grieving mother wronged by that bastard.

They called her the Wolfwitch in whispers. Petyr hadn’t spoken the word first—he never did. He only asked the right questions. He’d leaned back at supper one night, folding his napkin with idle elegance, and mused aloud to a passing knight, “Isn’t it odd, how death always seems to follow in her wake? Men vanish when she rides. They say her eyes glow in firelight.”

To the people of the castle, Alysanne Snow as bastard-born, raised among wolves, who prayed to trees and darker things. A girl who spoke to beasts and used the dark arts to bend them to her command.

Even her husband, poor Lord Willas Tyrell, stayed away. The heir of Highgarden remained in the Reach, surrounded by flowers and the proper faith, far from his cold bride and her barbaric claws.

“The Reach will never warm to the North, not while a bastard rules it,” Petyr had said, soft and reasonable. “Willas has good sense, as does Queen Margaery. They smile for the sake of appearances—but they know.”

And he had been right. Margaery had sent her two letters—carefully worded, gently sympathetic. Courteous. Cold.

The last stitch caught, so she pulled the thread again. Too tight.

It snapped.

Catelyn looked outside. It was getting close to midday.

She had found a certain peace in the white walls of the Eyrie. But peace should not have come after so much loss. And yet, in the stillness of the high halls, in the hush of snowfall and stone, there was a quiet that dulled the edges of grief. Not healing—never that—but a kind of forgetting.

Her thoughts returned, unbidden, to the Fingers.

It had been snowing when they fled the North. The storm had broken just as they boarded. “A smaller ship, my own merchant cog,” Petyr had whispered as he gallantly draped his dark cloak over her shoulders, shielding her from the cold wind.

Those days blurred together now—firelight and bitter wine, her voice raw and cracking as she spilled everything before her old friend. Her shame. Her fury. Her grief.

She had spoken of Ned as if he were in the room. Perhaps he was. Watching. Judging. Or perhaps mourning too. She had said, through clenched teeth and tears, that she had always been right about the bastard. About her. Alysanne. She had spoken of Robb, her golden son, the one who would never have allowed this farce of a regency, who would have sent her away into some dark corner of the world and would show upmost respect to Catelyn. She had cried for Bran, Arya and Rickon. Her children twisted away from her by the that bastard’s lies.

Petyr had listened. Better than anyone had in years.

They had sat one evening by the hearth, the last before their journey to the Vale. Catelyn remembered the sting in her throat, her hands tight in her lap, nails biting into fabric. Petyr had offered no platitudes. Only silence, and his eyes—soft with sadness. And then his own confession, his own shame: the realization he shouldn’t have marry Lysa.

“She always loved you, you know,” she had said at last, her voice hoarse.

Petyr’s mouth had tightened into something between regret and pity. “I never meant to mislead her.”

“She told me once,” Catelyn had murmured, “that you and she were like a song. The clever Petyr and his pretty Lysa. Meant to be.”

He had smiled then—tired, wry. “I married her because she asked it of me. For Robin. For safety. For gratitude, too. Your father and Lord Arryn gave me everything. I owed them that to protect Lysa and her son. I told her it would be a marriage of friendship, not love. She said she understood.”

“And now?”

“She dreams still,” he’d said quietly. “Dreams I cannot share. I think… I think she loves me, Cat. And I feel like the lowest creature for it. Feeding a madness I cannot mend. She’s not well. She hasn’t been since Lord Jon died. And Robin... suffers for it.”

Catelyn remembered reaching for his hand without thought. The gesture came naturally, as it had when they were children. “You are not a low man, Petyr,” she had whispered. “Far from it.”

And in the flicker of firelight, he had looked at her as if he wanted to believe it.

A soft knock pulled her from the memory.

The door creaked open, and there he was.

Petyr Baelish. Lord of Harrenhal now—at least in name, for his marriage to Lysa kept him far from the castle where Catelyn’s mother had been born. Lord Protector of the Vale as well, by royal decree. It was astonishing, truly, how far he had risen from the stony shores of the Fingers. And yet here he stood, more weary than triumphant.

His doublet of slashed velvet—cream and silver, finely cut—caught the firelight, but it was his eyes that held her. Keen, clever… and tired.

“Lysa?” she asked, setting the embroidery aside.

“She’s locked herself in the solar,” Petyr said, brushing snow from his shoulders. “Accused the maester of poisoning Robin’s broth. The poor boy’s sobbing again, and now neither of them will help prepare for the tourney at the Gates of the Moon.”

Catelyn exhaled—a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Petyr moved to the hearth, stretching out his hands toward the flames. “This castle,” he said lightly, “is too high. Too cold. I fear it only makes Lysa’s condition worse.”

“Isolation breeds madness,” Catelyn murmured, more to herself than to him. “The tourney might do Lysa good. She always adored them as a girl. But she imagines I mean to steal some gallant knight’s crown for myself. Her jealousy…” She shook her head. “It has no end.”

Petyr glanced back at her, as if measuring how much further she might bend. “You are not to blame for Lysa, Cat.”

“Neither are you,” she replied with a soft smile. Poor Petyr—without her steady hand smoothing Lysa’s chaos, he would be drowning in the Eyrie’s endless tasks. It was her experience, her sense, that kept the keep running.

“I fear,” he said, her voice lowering, “that if this continues, Robin will never grow into a man capable of rule. And how can we let the Eyrie fall into ruin because of it?”

“Has the king said anything?” she asked, already suspecting the answer. Robert had not been known for patience in such matters. According to Petyr, he had spoken plainly: if Lord Arryn did not prove himself, others would be named in his stead.

“Nothing yet,” Petyr replied. “We have some time. But Lysa is not helping her son’s case. And Harry the Heir has confirmed he’ll be attending the tourney.”

“He is eight-and-ten. Some seasoned knight will best him. Surely.”

“I hope you are right,” Petyr said, moving to sit beside her. He leaned close enough for her to smell the clean leather and snow still clinging to his clothes. “The last thing we need is for Harry Hardying to win. It would feed Lysa’s paranoia.”

“And make Robin all the more fragile.” Her words fell soft between them, heavy with implication.

The fire crackled. Snow tapped lightly against the windowpanes. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Petyr reached into his cloak and pulled out a scroll, tied with ribbon.

“I didn’t come to burden you with all my troubles,” he said, a trace of warmth returning to his voice. “You’ve already done so much—for me, for the Vale. But I come bearing better news.”

Catelyn looked up sharply.

“From the capital,” he added. “Sansa writes.”

He held the scroll out to her.

Catelyn took it gently, the soft blue ribbon slipping through her fingers. A small smile touched her lips before she could stop it. Sweet  Sansa—her daughter in truth and nature. She could count on Sansa to be loyal. To be good daughter.

The only one who still was.

.

.

The solar stank of sweetwine and closed windows.

Catelyn entered without knocking, snow melting from the hem of her blue gown. She had just come from the buttery, soothing a squabble between kitchen girls and Nestor Royce’s steward. Another matter Lysa had ignored, and Catelyn had to take care of.

The solar door groaned shut behind her.

Lysa was pacing in circles like a caged bird gone mad. Her rose-pink gown clung to her body, damp in places with spilled wine. It was a girl’s gown—tight at the arms, the seams pulled at the bust—and on Lysa’s thickened figure it sat grotesquely. A smear of red streaked down her sleeve where she had wiped her mouth. A decade ago, it was flatting on Lysa, now it exposed her desperation.

“You sent Lady Kayla,” Catelyn said, brushing off her gloves. “The poor girl could barely speak.”

Lysa whirled. Her face was flushed, her eyes wild.

“I had to!” she snapped. “You were downstairs playing chatelaine, smiling at Royce’s steward like you were lady of this castle!”

“Someone must tend the day’s business,” Catelyn said evenly, unwinding the veil from her hair. “And it is not you.”

Lysa’s breath caught. She began pacing again, bare feet padding over the rugs. “Yohn Royce swears the cold will murder us all if we linger here! We wants us to move and to sent men. We wants those filthy savages to attack us on the road and kill us. He is scheming with that Waynwood bitch to replace my good boy!”

She hurled a goblet. It struck the hearthstone, shattering at Catelyn’s feet. Wine splashed across the hem of her skirt like blood.

Catelyn didn’t move but pressed her lips together, thinking what the people would say when they saw the dress. “The clans have attacked many good people, sister. Lord Royce seeks to protect your son’s people. We must sent men to-”

“WE?” Lysa screamed. “You have no son anymore, traitor! Your sons curse your name! You are failed woman!”

She crossed the room in two strides and seized Catelyn’s wrist. Her nails dug deep, drawing thin lines of blood. Catelyn inhaled sharply but did not cry out.

“You think I don’t see you?” Lysa hissed. “Plotting with Petyr. Whispering in corridors. You’ll spread your legs for him like you did for Brandon Stark, for Mallister, for—”

Catelyn slapped her hand away with a sharp crack of flesh.

“Enough,” she said coldly. “Your madness blinds you. The Vale will not endure a regent who lets her people starve and freeze for pride.”

Lysa staggered back, panting, then lunged again.

She struck Catelyn like a wildcat, shoving her backward. Catelyn toppled over the chair behind her and hit the floor with a hard thud.

Lysa loomed over her, weeping now, her arms flailing. “You stole him! You always steal what’s mine! First Father’s love, then Petyr’s heart—”

“You never had his heart,” Catelyn whispered, a bit dazed. “You only clung to the memory of a boy who kissed you once and regretted it forever.”

Lysa slapped her. Not hard, but wild, panicked. Then she collapsed onto her knees beside her sister.

“Traitos!” she muttered over and over again. “You are all traitors!” Lysa’s voice broke again, hoarse and pleading. “Anya Waynwood that dried-up bitch,” she spat, voice trembling, “licking Harry’s boots like he’s already Lord of the Vale. She wants him wed to one of her horse-faced granddaughter, or to Yohn’s fat daughter. They all want to take him from me!”

Catelyn slowly pushed herself upright. Her head throbbed. Her vision cleared.

“The only traitor here,” she said icily, “is the mother who lets her son shiver in a frozen castle while her kingdom watches in concern.”

Lysa clutched Catelyn’s shoulders now, sobbing harder. “You think you’re still the great Lady Stark? You’re nothing. A beggar in my halls. But Petyr… he sees you. He always sees you…”

She collapsed into sobs.

Catelyn held still. Let her clutch and cry. Let her see the void she’d become.

She is beyond reason. A rabid beast. The Lords of the Vale would thank her for sending Lysa to a septry. As Sweetrobin’s aunt, Catelyn could be named his guardian. Robert would sign the writ—especially if she wed again. And if she explained to Queen Margaery. She could count on her goodwill. Perhaps a marriage between Sweetrobin and one of her cousins would help out.

Marriage.

She thought of Ryswell. That quarrelsome, faithless beast who could never be Ned. Their marriage had lasted barely two moons, and she had not wept over. This time she would choose better. A man who saw her strength but did not fear it. Who knew how to rule through words, not swords. A man who would support her as she tried to make Lysa’s son into some proper lord.

Like Robb would have been.

.

.

A fire crackled in the hearth, chasing off the chill. Outside, the snow whispered against the windows, thin and endless.

Catelyn sat with her sleeve rolled up, holding a linen cloth to her wrist where Lysa’s nails had torn skin. Blood had dried there in thin red crescents. Her head ached where it had struck stone.

Across from her, Maester Colemon moved with slow precision, grinding herbs with a pestle. The poor man’s hands shook, whether from cold or fear, she could not say.

“She refused the milk of the poppy again,” he said finally, not looking at her. “Claims it’s poisoned. I tried to assure her, but she… accused me of killing Lord Jon.”

Catelyn exhaled, “She has gone truly mad. Cersei killed Jon Arryn. And you were at the Eyrie the entire time.”

“Gods be good, Lady Lysa can get better.”

“Can she?” Catelyn ask with a straight tone.

“I did everything I could. For her and Lord Robin. I”

“Her mind is rotted through.” Catelyn pressed the cloth harder. “How long before she harms everyone around her? Can we dose her?”

“I have tried, my lady,” he admitted. “She only drinks wine now. Too much of it. She sleeps poorly, speaks to herself in the corridors. Sometimes I find her in Jon’s old bedchamber. Or the rookery.” His voice faltered. “Once… I found her whispering to the moon door.”

That pulled a sharp glance from Catelyn. “And you said nothing?”

“I said much. She heard none of it. But many around us already whisper of her behavior.”

There was silence, broken only by the fire’s gentle pop and hiss.

Colemon looked up. “The snow deepens daily. If we do not descend to the Gates of the Moon before the pass is buried, the Eyrie will be cut off until spring.”

“She won’t leave,” Catelyn said frustrated. Lysa was so mad she didn’t see she would starve or die of cold in the Eyrie.

“She think we mean to kill her and her son,” the Maester said, then looked at Catelyn with a frank look. “I fear what is to come. Robin is too frail, I fear what winter could do to his health. And if the worse happens, Lady Lysa would probably try and kill us all.”

Catelyn turned her wrist over. The scratches were beginning to purple.

“Then we make her ill,” she said.

Colemon blinked. “My lady?”

“Sick enough to keep her abed. Sweetsleep. Just a whisper of it. Her limbs will be too heavy to protest. And when she wakes, she’ll think it the snow fever, or her nerves. But we will have Sweetrobin in the Gates and most of the Vale lords there too.”

The maester’s hand hovered above the mortar. “Sweetsleep…” he said faintly. “Mixed with wine, can cause not just tiredness but vomiting. But once she is well again-”

Her sister would never be well again. She met his eyes. “You served him loyally. Serve his son now. I meant to speak to the Lords of the Vale, hopefully they will agree it is better for everyone to make some changes.”

Colemon swallowed. “I would never harm the boy—”

“Nor will I,” Catelyn said, rising to her feet. “But if we let Lysa’s madness rule a week longer, it may be too late. Would you have her whispering to the moon door with Robin in her arms?”

He flinched. “I will… prepare the draught.”

Catelyn nodded. “Good. I will speak to Lord Baelish about the possibility of sending Lysa to a septry.”

Colemon hesitated, then bowed and left.

When the door closed behind him, Catelyn looked down at the dried blood on her wrist. The fire hissed behind her.

.

.

Moon 1, Day 7, 300 AC

Catelyn sat high on the dais that was prepare for the tourney, clad in a gown of blue and red. A white silk veil framed her face, more for the bite of the cold than for modesty. Sweetrobin squirmed in her lap like a restless kitten, one sticky hand reaching toward her bodice. Again.

“I want milk!” he shrieked. “Stupid tourney! I hate it!”

She gripped his wrist, hard. Her nails left pale crescents in the soft skin. “Be still, Robert. Your lords are watching.”

The boy mewled, but stilled—momentarily. Catelyn could feel the eyes on her: Yohn Royce in his weathered steel, dour Benedar Belmore, thin-lipped Ser Lyn Corbray, even Andrew Tollett and the little men of Pebble. All watching. All judging.

Let them, she thought coldly. Let them see what we endure.

She watched the competition with detachment.

Sixty-four knights had come to tilt for honor—and for the chance to remain. Eight victors would stay at Lord Robert’s side, to “strengthen him,” Petyr had said. Catelyn had nodded. It was a clever plan, and she did not mind letting him take credit. Let them teach the boy to swing a sword instead of scream.

Petyr had not spared coin. Every mother, sister, or lady-fair received bolts of Myrish lace and dyed silks at the feast. The brothers and fathers got fine steel daggers etched with falcons. Even some Reachmen had sent gifts. The Tyrells, Catelyn noted with a flicker of amusement, had offered to cover a quarter of the costs. “A show of support,” Petyr had said.

She watched the snow on the distant mountains and thought of the last five days. Lysa’s absent was commented and many asked courtly about her but they also easily accepted her careful phrases.

“She’s ill,” she had told them. “Yes, fever… and other things.” No need for louder words. The hums of agreement were enough. Yohn Royce had muttered something about how his own mother had turned strange near the end. Lady Anya had said nothing at all—just folded her hands and stared.

They all despised Lysa, Catelyn mused. And some were uncomfortable with Catelyn’s presence too. But most seemed to pity her. I won’t break, I am stronger than most women.

Lord Nestor Royce leaned close, his voice a rough rumble. “A fine spectacle, my lady. Though I’d sooner see steel swung at mountain clans. And many wish for some glory before the winter arrives.”

“Patience, Lord Nestor,” Catelyn replied, her tone smooth as polished ice. “My sister’s… frailty has delayed justice, not denied it.”

The man snorted and turned back to the field just as Harry Hardyng unseated his son with a flourish struck. The knight tumbled, and Harry raised his splintered lance high, ribbons fluttering. The crowd roared. Ladies clapped gloved hands, and even crusty old lords nodded.

Then Sweetrobin shrieked.

“KILL HIM! HE’S A TRAITOR!”

Spittle flecked Catelyn’s gown. He writhed in her arms, face purple with rage. “They want him to be me! I hate him! I hate all of them! KILL THEM!”

She rose at once. No words. Just motion—silent, controlled, final. She clutched the boy against her hip and descended the dais. Lords and ladies drew aside, whispering.

Behind her, the cheering rose again as Harry saluted the stands with a gallant tilt of the head. The victor. The Heir. The boy the Vale wanted.

Let them see, Catelyn thought. Let them realize something must be done.

.

.

Moon 1, Day 9, 300 AC

The fire snapped, casting flickers across the carved stone walls. Catelyn Stark sat upright between Lord Petyr Baelish and the hearth, flanked by the Lords of the Vale, who had gathered at last as the celebrations came to an end.

Lord Yohn Royce’s voice cracked like a hammer on stone. “Lysa fed the boy poison—against his kin, against the Vale. She’s unfit. She must be removed.”

“Agreed,” said Lady Anya Waynwood, ever composed. “The tantrum... the screaming. All saw it. The child needs guidance. And his mother at a distance.”

Lord Gilwood Hunter leaned forward, young and sharp with ambition. “And whose plan was that farce of a tourney? That madness on the dais? You parade that boy like a jester, and now you want him handed back with a bow? This woman—” he pointed squarely at Catelyn “—was named traitor in her own land. She waged war against her son.”

Lord Horton Redfort folded his hands, gaze cool. “Her name brings disaster. Even after near two decades in the North, she failed to keep the peace. She forced her ways upon it—and lost everything. And now she hides behind a men like Baelish?”

Petyr tsked gently. “Sers, I ask only to serve as His Grace has tasked me. But if my presence offends, I can very well return to my post at King’s Landing.” He smiled as if such a retreat would not be a victory.

Bronze Yohn slammed a fist down. “Enough! Lysa Tully was never of the Vale. She coddled the boy into weakness. He comes to Runestone. I’ll make him a man.”

“And what of her?” Lord Gilwood gestured at Catelyn. “The North calls her folly traitor. Why should we trust a woman who warred with her own blood? Who does the Mother shamefully?”

Catelyn voice cut clean through the rising squall. “I have done all but what the Mother would desire.” Her hands were clasped, white-knuckled. “I have buried a husband, buried a son, and watched my remaining sons be seduced by a upstart bastard who slept her way into her position!”

She let the words hang, then narrowed her eyes. “I have lost my sons to silken lies dressed as virtue. I would not see my own nephew fall prey to the same. I would not see the Vale become infested by bastards and debauchery that shames the Gods!”

Lord Benedar Belmore spoke up at last, slow and wary. “Lady Lysa cannot remain. The septry... or confinement. But the regency—”

“—is ours to decide,” Lord Redfort snapped, “not a disgraced Tully and a coin-counting climber.”

“Peace,” Lady Anya sighed, her voice weary but firm. “Lady Catelyn speaks harshly, but she is not wrong. The boy needs a woman’s guidance. Perhaps my daughter could serve. And since the crown supports Lord Petyr’s governance, let him remain... in part. But as for the Warden of the East, that honor should go to her husband, Andar Royce. He is younger but tested in battle, and since both are younger, perhaps will gain Lord Arryn’s trust more easily.”

Yohn Royce leaned forward. “Andar can foster him at Runestone and Hardying too. That way he can be raised as Harrold Hardyng’s brother, not his rival.”

“He and Harry should be fast friends, I agree. Robin needs young men and boys around him, so he can thrive,” Petyr offered.

“They shall,” said Yohn, “at Runestone. As my ward. As my squire.”

Ser Symond Templeton stirred at last. “The child’s in danger. Lysa’s madness proves it. Whatever her reputation, Lady Catelyn acted when others did not. And she is the boy’s kin. And she sees capable to calm him down. What if taking the boy away will make him worse?”

But then, from the shadows, Ser Lyn Corbray stirred.

“All this talk makes me ill.” He rose, dragging smoke-grey steel from its sheath. “Littlefinger will talk you out of your smallclothes if you listen long enough. The only way to settle his sort is with steel.”

Petyr spread his hands in mock innocence. “I wear no sword, ser.”

“Easily remedied.” Corbray’s blade gleamed. “Your apple-eater holds one. Draw it.”

Lothor Brune stepped forward—

“Put up your steel, ser!” Yohn Royce rose, wrathful. “Or I’ll have your tongue and your sword both!”

Corbray sheathed the blade, sulking.

Catelyn let out a quiet breath, then spoke into the taut silence.

“Is this what the Vale has become? Boys with blades and fathers playing games? Perhaps it is time I wrote to King’s Landing.”

All eyes turned to her.

“If Lord Robert’s guardians cannot agree, the King will. Perhaps Lord Stannis would take the boy. He has no sons. Or the King himself. Her Grace has cousins in need of husbands. A match might be made.”

The shock was instant. And very real.

Yohn Royce scowled. Anya Waynwood blinked. Even Redfort shifted.

Catelyn bowed her head slightly. “Or perhaps... we agree. That Lysa Tully must be removed. That the boy must be safe. That peace must return.”

She looked to each of them. “The Vale saw its future these past days. Screaming. Sick. Alone. Let us not waste what that truth revealed.”

No one spoke.

But Petyr leaned back, smiling faintly.

They had won.

.

.

                Moon 2, Day 18, 300 AC

Dawn has barely broken, but the Eyrie is already echoing with shouts.

Catelyn Stark moved through the pale blue corridors of the Eyrie with slow, measured steps, her breath visible in the thin mountain air. A folded letter from Lord Yohn Royce rested in her hand, its words still warm in her mind: “For your favor in the matter of Robar’s white cloak, I thank you. My son will not forget.”

Another sat beside it, untouched in her chambers—Lady Anya’s careful handwriting expressing gratitude that her granddaughter, the younger Anya, now served in Queen Margaery’s household.

Between Petyr’s gold and her connection to Queen Margaery, the Vale was beginning to bend.

She knew that at the end of the year, they Vale would see Catelyn as their graceful and diligent lady. By year's end, she and Petyr would have proven themselves a thousand times over.

A shout tore the air.

Then a crash.

Catelyn turned at once.

From the curving stair of the Moon Tower came the thunder of footsteps—and then screams. A silver hairbrush clanged across the stones, spinning wild. A maid stumbled back, almost toppling over the railing.

Lysa Arryn came stumbling from her chambers, barefoot, in a nightgown stained with wine and madness. Her hair was a storm of knots, and her eyes were glass—shattered and catching the light.

“You won’t take him!” she shrieked. “Catelyn! YOU BITCH—YOU POISONOUS SISTER—YOU STOLE HIM FROM ME!”

Gasps rippled through the corridor. The Vale’s young pages and warded maidens, roused from sleep, gathered like a flock of nervous birds. Their round eyes darted from Lysa to Catelyn.

“Whore! Poisoner! You want him dead like Jon! You want to feed him to Harry, that bastard boy!”

Lysa hurled herself forward. A maid tried to hold her back—was shoved down, nearly falling over the steps. Another backed away in terror.

Catelyn stepped forward. Slowly. Calmly. Her voice was low and smooth, like wind through pine.

“Sister. Come now. Let’s sit. I’ll bring milk and honey. You’re cold.”

She raised a hand—palm open. As if taming a child.

But before she could take a step closer, a strong hand wrapped gently around her arm.

Wallace Waynwood’s voice was low. Respectful. “No, my lady. Let us do this. You should not be harmed.”

Behind him, Andar Royce was already moving, broad and silent as stone. He seized Lysa by the arms even as she shrieked and clawed at his face. Wallace helped, the two men wrapping her in a heavy cloak.

“THEY’LL KILL HIM, CAT!” Lysa howled. “THEY’LL KILL MY SWEETROBIN LIKE THEY KILLED—”

The rest was lost to sobs and muffled cloth as she was dragged away, kicking, teeth bared like a feral animal.

The corridors were silent again, save for the ragged echo of her cries disappearing into the tower.

Catelyn stood still.

Then a voice—young, calm, but carrying the weight of quiet understanding.

Mya Stone, watching from a doorway, met Catelyn’s gaze. “She’s been saying things. About you. About Lord Baelish.”

Catelyn didn’t flinch. “Let her speak,” she said simply. “Truth stands taller than echoes.”

One of the Templeton girls murmured from behind, voice hushed. “Mad as a moon-shadow.”

Catelyn turned to them all, her eyes cool.

“She is my sister. And now she will be kept safe. My the Mother and the Crone guide her.”

She left the corridor in silence.

.

.

Moon 4, Day 9, 300 AC

The fire was low. Wind whispered against the shutters. Catelyn sat by the window with her robe drawn tight, her eyes fixed on the darkness outside.

The door creaked open to her surprise. Petyr stepped inside without a word, cloaked in furs. He held a letter in his hand, sealed in black wax.

“I did not summon you,” Catelyn said quietly.

He moved to the table and placed the letter down. His voice was soft. “The Silent Sisters write. Lysa threw herself from a septry window… after slashing a novice’s throat. They say she screamed your name as she fell.”

Catelyn didn’t move.

Her hands curled into fists.

“She tried to escape thrice,” he continued. “They had put her in confinement after she said she would kill you. More than once.”

“I believe it.”

Catelyn rose slowly, crossing to the hearth. Her voice was colder than stone. “They forced her into that septry. But it had to be done. Her madness… it would have destroyed him. And us.”

“She chose her fall.”

“No.” Catelyn shook her head, her mouth bitter. “We all pushed her. I just don’t feel guilty. She is my sister, Petyr. And I felt nothing as they shove her out of her own castle.”

She looked to the fire, letting the words come slowly.

“I’ve spent nights praying for guilt. For some scrap of it. But all I feel is—relief.” Her voice cracked. “Gods forgive me, I needed her gone from my life.”

Petyr stepped closer. “And now she is.”

Not like this. She wanted Lysa to go gently and to get her salvation through prayer. Were all the members of her family in this world to make her life hell?

She turned to him, suddenly fierce. “My own son writes me. Once. To say I should stop writing. That Alysanne is beloved. That I’m a bad mother.” Her voice broke. “A bad mother. After all I’ve done for them.”

“I know.”

“I gave them Winterfell. I gave them everything.” Her hands trembled. “And they gave me condemnation. They chose a bastard who turned my boy against me.”

“This is betrayal,” Petyr whispered, brushing her cheek. “This is survival.”

Catelyn looked at him then. Really looked.

“I don’t know that I would do without you, Petyr,” she confessed softly. “I don’t know how to show you my gratitude. Nothing I can give would be enough.”

“You think I want gratitude?” Petyr murmured. “I want you. As you are: a queen without a crown.”

She didn’t speak.

Instead, Catelyn undid her robe. Let it fall.

Then, slowly, stripped her sleeping gown, and stood before him—naked, raw, trembling with more than cold. Petyr’s breath hitched. His gaze was hunger and worship in equal parts. Not even Ned had looked at her like that. Like she was the end of a war long fought.

He reached for her.

She let him.

He backed her toward the bed, and she welcomed the fall.

My children might hate me, she thought as she clawed at the laces of his tunic. But Petyr will love me forever.

And that, in the end, would be enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter 27 – Margaery III

300 AC, Moon 9, Day 24

Margaery hoped the clash had shaken the chamber. Plates shattered. Gold-trimmed goblets rolled across the stone. Pomegranate seeds and blood-orange slices lay strewn like gore across a battlefield. The roast swan landed with a dull thud, its skin glistening with honey glaze that now stained the rugs underfoot.

Margaery barely noticed.

She was supposed to be celebrating. Renly’s queen remained radiant, beautiful, and utterly enchanting in her dark blue and gold gown, wearing the sapphire tiara Renly had given her. Queen Margaery Tyrell, after all, had kept the court lively at Bitterbridge while Renly marched with the cavalry to Storm’s End.

“We’ll be coming soon, Marge. With Stannis' corpse for all to see,” Loras had promised her.

She stormed through the arched door, past the guards who dared not meet her gaze, into the bedchamber they had given her. A chamber meant for royalty. For her: The Queen.

She threw herself onto the bed, fists clenching the silk sheets, and screamed. Not once. Again. And again.

"Margaery," came Elinor’s voice, soft and trembling.

Then Megga's hand was on her shoulder. “Please—”

“Get out!” she howled, twisting away from their touch. Her voice cracked sharply. “Both of you, out!”

They fled without another word, and she buried her face into the pillows again and sobbed like a child.

It made no sense. It couldn’t make sense.

Renly had been beautiful. Charming. Gallant. The people adored him. She had adored him. He wasn’t the brute her first husband had been. He respected her. With Renly, she was The Queen, not a mere queen.

And Loras… oh gods, Loras.

Her valiant brother had charged at the vanguard like some knight out of a song, everyone agreed. They said he had cut down a dozen men before the arrows struck him. That he hadn’t screamed. That he still killed a dozen more even after he was hit.

She had screamed enough for both of them.

Margaery sat up slowly, knuckles white as she gripped the bedpost. The chamber swam with shadows, but her vision had sharpened. Her chest heaved. The tears had dried.

Her fury had not.

She had no Loras now. No brother who understood her.

Nor a husband.

Again.

Renly was going to be such a great king, and Margaery would have made the Good Queen herself pale in comparison.

Why were the gods punishing her? She was gentle, pious and charitable. She had accepted a brute of a husband with a smile. She had been a good queen.

Poor King’s Landing. The people would weep in despair when they saw that ugly Selyse Baratheon and her scar-faced daughter. A princess who is ugly and scared is no princess at all.

Margaery would have given the Baratheon line beautiful children, clever and cheerful heirs.

But someone had taken that from her.

They thought she would shrink now. Disappear back to Highgarden. Maybe join a motherhouse. Marry some lesser lord. Let them think it. Let them whisper about the twice-widowed rose.

Let Stannis sit on his throne, claiming justice. Margaery was not done.

Not yet.

She would show them.

The game had changed. But she was still playing.

She stood, smoothed her skirts, and turned to the mirror. Her face was blotched, her eyes red, but her chin lifted. Her beauty was not just her weapon. It was her mask. Her armor.

“I am the queen,” she whispered to the reflection.

She just didn’t know how to make it true.

.

.

300 AC, Moon 9, Day 25

The knock was soft—a gentle tap tap. Not the firm, over-familiar raps of Elinor, nor the hesitant scratching Megga had adopted. Margaery did not answer, but the door creaked open anyway, and in stepped Sansa Stark, draped in greys and blacks. Her auburn hair was neatly braided like Margaery’s, her face as pale as fresh cream.

“Queen Margaery?” Sansa said, her voice small, respectful. “I—may I come in?”

The bedchamber still bore the wreckage of Margaery’s fury. Broken dishes lay heaped in a corner. The air smelled faintly of wine. The bedcovers were twisted into a chaotic tangle, the fire burned low, and Margaery sat beside the hearth—her posture straight, her eyes shadowed. She had stayed up all night, tossing and turning, unsure of what to do to keep her crown.

“Yes,” Margaery said softly, and her own voice surprised her. It was raw, hollow.

Sansa crossed the chamber with graceful unease. Her hands were folded in front of her, her head slightly bowed in what could have been mourning or mere obedience. Margaery wasn’t sure which she preferred.

“You’re properly mourning,” Margaery said, taking in the deep tones of her recently dyed dress. “That’s good.”

Sansa blinked. “Of course. Ser Loras… he was a hero. He was very kind to me. And King Renly will be missed for generations.”

Margaery studied the girl’s face. It was a lovely face, all bright blue eyes and a rosebud mouth, always so ready with courtesy, so unlike those long-faced Northerners. Dutiful. Sweet. Easy to guide.

Without standing, Margaery reached out and took Sansa’s hands in hers. Cold fingers met warm.

“You,” Margaery said, voice trembling with something deeper than grief, “you are a true friend, Sansa. A true and gentle friend.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, blinking. “I… I’m honored, Your Grace—”

“I am Queen,” Margaery let out a slow breath, then laughed bitterly. “You see how far I’ve fallen. Even I forgot. Elinor had the audacity to call me lady this morning. Lady. As if I were some daughter of a hedge knight. As if my crown meant nothing.”

Sansa frowned, mouth tightening in quiet confusion, but she didn’t contradict her. Of course she wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said instead, offering a small, sad smile. “You should still be queen. You deserved to be. I always… I always dreamt of having a sister like you. Beautiful and gentle, with all the world’s graces at her command. Arya is entirely unsatisfactory as sisters go. She hates dancing and embroidery and lacks any grace. She once threw a sausage at a septa.”

A startled laugh escaped Margaery’s throat, short and brittle. “Is that so?”

Sansa’s smile held, but only just. “You must be strong now. You still have your house. You have power. And… you have people who believe in you.”

Margaery’s fingers curled around Sansa’s hands. “Lord Tarly. Did he return with the retreting men?”

“I saw his banners,” Sansa said. “They pass through the gates near dawn.”

Margaery sat straighter. “Did he speak with anyone?”

“I—I don’t know,” Sansa said apologetically. “Only that he came back. He looked grim. Tired.”

Of course, she didn’t know. Margaery’s smile didn’t falter, but inwardly, she sighed. Poor little dove. Far too stupid for politics. All songs and sighs and pretty dresses. No ear for the game.

Still, she could be useful.

Rowan and Hightower had proven themselves cowards—traitors, she’d say when the time was right. They had vanished when her father called the banners. But Tarly… Tarly was iron. Stern, brutal, reliable. He would not break easily.

And he had a son, didn’t he? Dickon. A few years younger than Sansa. Perhaps a match could be made. Or if not Sansa, then Alla. Megga, even. But Randyll Tarly wouldn’t want a minor rose. He would want prestige. Guarantees.

We’ll give him whatever he wants, Margaery thought, if he gives us what we need.

Sansa shifted slightly.

 “Your grandmother and Lord Mace, they said they wished to speak with you, but they understood you were grieving. They said they would wait until you called for them.”

Margaery let her gaze drift toward the hearth, where the fire crackled low and red. They must have want to talk of politics.

“Would you help me get presentable?”

“Of course,” Sansa said with a smile. For all her dullness, she had a quiet courtesy, trained to obey.

Margaery couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be so utterly without ambition. Was it easier? Sansa could probably be happy married to an old lord with no designs, one of those northern barbarians without culture or refinement.

Margaery would die before marrying a man without power.

“Thank you for coming,” Margaery said, her voice smoother now, steel slowly sliding back beneath her tone. She pressed Sansa’s hands gently, then let go. “You remind me that the world has not entirely turned its back.”

Sansa lowered her eyes. “You are not alone, my queen.”

Margaery smiled.

“No,” she said, rising at last and smoothing her skirts. “No, I am not.”

.

.

Margaery had made sure the drawing room was perfectly arranged and had the servants prepare a fine meal. But once they were all seated, she barely touched her food. Her father had not asked for wine, nor had he attempted a smile. That alone was telling. Mace Tyrell was not a subtle man, but he was rarely sullen. When he arrived, Margaery had hugged him tightly, and he had held her just as tightly in return.

Olenna Tyrell sat in her carved oaken chair like an idol of war, draped in black, hands folded atop the knob of her cane. There was no sadness in her eyes. No softness.

“You look less of a wreck than you did this morning,” her grandmother broke the silence. “That’s something.”

“I’ve had time to think,” Margaery said, wondering which traitorous lady in her retinue had run off to tell Lady Olenna.

“And time,” Olenna replied, “is what we are rapidly running out of.”

“Mother—” her father began, as if to object, but a single glance from Olenna silenced him. He lowered his head. Margaery had never seen him simply give up like that.

Loras was his favorite son. He must be suffering more than any of them.

“Lord Tarly has returned,” Olenna said. “With a vengeance.”

Margaery’s head turned. “Vengeance?”

“He hanged nearly three dozen Florent men-at-arms,” Olenna said, lips pursed. “They tried to run off and bend the knee to Stannis. But Tarly’s sword sang for them. We’ve also sent men south to seize Brightwater Keep. We’ll take the castle, and Alekyne Florent too.”

“Alekyne bent the knee to Stannis?” Margaery blinked.

“If he did, it was by letter,” Mace muttered. “But he was never the strongest of men. But his father led the men who turned to Stannis.”

“And men often change their minds when their only son is in custody.”

Mace looked down at his ringed fingers, saying nothing.

Margaery looked between them, then finally voiced what she hadn’t dared before. “What are we fighting for now? Renly was our last hope.”

“Pfft,” Olenna snapped. “Last? Hardly. Stannis is gnawing bones in the Stormlands, and he’s already chewed through King’s Landing. The lords are beginning to mutter against him. He’s unloved. Grim. Did you know he had Ser Robar Royce executed? After the man asked to take the black?”

Margaery sat back, stunned. “Robar?” She hadn’t thought… Robar too. He had been so strong. So brave.

“Indeed,” Olenna said. “Petyr Baelish still rules the Vale, despite Stannis decreeing him to be sent for execution. Do you know how well that was received? Not even the Eyrie listens to him.”

Margaery’s mind lingered on Robar and the Rainbow Guard. Her voice dropped. “What of Lord Bryce Caron? Ser Guyard Morrigen? Ser Emmon Cuy?”

Olenna’s expression darkened. “Caron died in battle. The others were executed.”

“We’ve already sent envoys to Colin Caron, Bryce’s uncle,” Mace added. “He rules Nightsong now.”

Margaery narrowed her eyes. “Will he turn against Stannis?”

“He barely escaped the battlefield,” Olenna said. “But the bastard of Nightsong rode with Stannis which Stannis made sure to point out.”

Margaery’s lips parted in disbelief. “Stannis wouldn’t dare legitimize that boy.”

“Oh, he would,” Olenna said, eyes flashing. “If only to spite us, and to gather more banners. He’s already relying on the biggest bastard in Westeros to keep his crown.”

Mace groaned. “Do we write to Willas?”

“No,” Olenna snapped. “Willas is a lost cause. Garlan is our sword, and our future. He knows what must be done.”

“He’s not happy,” Mace muttered.

“Where is he?” Margaery asked.

“We sent him to the Florent lands,” Olenna said with a sniff. “He rides with men loyal to us. I’ve kept his wife here at Bitterbridge. He will behave.”

Margaery bit the inside of her cheek. Garlan hadn’t spoken his discontent, but she’d seen it in his silences. In the way he looked at Renly’s gold banners with pressed lips. Still, he was her brother. And now, he might as well be her only one.

“Brienne,” she said aloud. “What of that ugly girl?”

Olenna’s mouth twisted. “No one’s said she was executed.”

“She likely bent the knee,” Mace added. “They wouldn’t execute a young woman.”

Her grandmother scoffed.

“No,” Margaery said softly, almost to herself. “She loved Renly.”

“She did,” Mace agreed. “But Renly didn’t let her fight. It wasn’t proper,” he added, Marggaery nodded, having expected as much. She had been furious when Brienne defeated Loras, mocking their pageantry. And Loras did too. He would make sure that the girl knew her place. “Neither did Tarly. She may have escaped. Perhaps she’s in the Kingswood now, howling at the trees.”

A moment passed in silence.

Then Margaery raised her chin. “What of the rest of the Stormlands?”

Her father straightened. “Red Ronnet is ours. We promised him a proper lordship. Lord Dondarrion is dead—he was never with us to begin with. Swann stays neutral. But we have Penrose.”

 “Penrose? How?”

Olenna smiled like a cat. “Stannis executed Ser Cortnay. But some of his men didn’t take kindly to it. They brought us a gift.”

“What gift?”

Her grandmother’s eyes glittered. “Edric Storm.”

Margaery blinked. “Robert’s bastard? Why would that be a gift?”

Her father shifted uncomfortably. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. Her grandmother, however, watched her like a hawk.

“You cannot mean to crown him!” Margaery shouted. A bastard King! It was unthinkable.

“He might not be a trueborn Baratheon,” Olenna said. “But he looks like one. Black hair. Blue eyes. He is Robert’s son, through and through.”

“You cannot mean to crown him.”

“No,” her grandmother conceded. “Tarly wouldn’t stand for a bastard. But…”

Margaery stared, something cold unfurling in her chest. Her father still wouldn’t look at her.

 “What do you want me to do?”

“To remain at Bitterbridge,” her grandmother replied. “Rest. Grieve. For forty days. Or more. No one will ask questions.”

Margaery felt as though she’d been plunged into cold water. She knew what those forty days meant. “But Renly… never… we never—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Olenna snapped. “What matters is that in forty days, you are carrying a Baratheon child. A boy, a girl, it makes no difference. You’ll be dowager queen. Regent. Or your father will. We’ll offer Tarly the post of Protector of the Realm if we must.”

Margaery’s hands clenched in her lap. Her dreams returned, visions she’d had as Robert’s wife. She had hated the man, prayed for his death, and for a son—her son—to rule. A brave boy, kind and fair, with the golden rose and crowned stag on his breast. Her son who would be a knight-king, with Margaery at his side. Regent, mother, ruler.

“Nothing a Baratheon-looking man can’t change,” her grandmother said coolly.

Margaery felt the cold settle in her bones. She looked at her father, who looked everywhere but at her.

Slowly, she said, “That is why he is a gift.”

“You’ll get a child out of him. Then we approach the Vale,” her grandmother went on. “Now that Catelyn Stark has full control with Baelish, they will side with us.”

“She didn’t before,” Margaery muttered.

“She already has men at the Gates. If Renly hadn’t gone to the Stormlands, they might have joined us. She wrote you a letter, didn’t she?”

Margaery nodded. She had a letter from Lady Catelyn confirming her support.

“The Fossoways turned for Stannis,” her father added. “And Leonette’s been married to Garlan for three years, and still no children.”

“Perhaps the girl is barren,” Olenna said. “But Sansa Stark is not.”

Margaery leaned back in her chair. “You wish to have Sansa wed Garlan?”

“Catelyn Stark will want a great match for her daughter. And with Robin Arryn still baffling the world by breathing, she’ll prefer Highgarden to the Eyrie. She’ll marry her other daughter to the boy. We’ll approach Royce, Belmore, and Waynwood for more matches. Tarly has daughters who would suit the Vale.”

Margaery nodded. “Lady Catelyn could use her Riverlands ties too."

“Exactly,” Olenna agreed. “We’ll bring in Stevron Frey’s granddaughters to your household. They’re young, but their mothers are a Hunter of the Vale and Colin Caron’s sister. Anya Waynwood’s daughter married a Frey, too. We’ll offer her a place and her children too.”

“All your cousins will marry Riverlords or Valemen,” Mace added.

Margaery nodded. That would please them.

“What about the West?” Margaery asked.

Once again, her father and grandmother exchanged a look.

“We offer Tywin something he wants,” Mace said. “A wife who can give him heirs. A future for the Rock. Not a foolish nephew.”

“Who?”

Her grandmother glared at her. “The Queen Regent.”

.

.

300 AC, Moon 12, Day 21

The heavy doors of the hall creaked open, and the low murmur of the gathered lords faltered into silence.

Margaery entered with measured grace, her every step deliberate. Her gown bloomed with gold roses over black silk. The split skirts, tailored to reveal the dark folds beneath and the swell of her belly, sent a message more potent than any speech: life marched with House Tyrell and it bore the Baratheon name.

And Margaery had never been more radiant. Everyone said so.

The chamber was a wide stone circle, dominated by a long table cluttered with maps, goblets of wine, and scraps of raven parchment. The most faithful of the Reach lords stood as she entered.

“Please, my lords, be seated,” she said, her voice smooth and practiced.

She eased into her high-backed chair, folding her hands over her belly. She had not felt much movement from the babe, but her belly had grown large enough to suggest she was further along than she was. A gods’ gift, she thought.

War councils were often tedious, but Margaery had learned when to listen, when to nod, and when to defer—almost always to Lord Tarly or her father. But her father would not be at this one.

He had taken badly the letter from Garlan, revealing he had never joined the men at Brightwater Keep. Instead, he had fled to Oldtown with their mother. Alerie Hightower had sent Margaery a long letter, one Margaery burned after reading the line: "You must stop this folly."

“My queen,” said Lord Leo Ashford, bowing his head. He was thin, brown-eyed, with a clever mouth behind a modest mustache more grey than brown. “We have word from the Crownlands. Lord Stannis has sent riders and ravens across the realm, demanding all lords come to King’s Landing and bend the knee. He threatens the Vale directly—declares that if they do not disarm and hand over Lord Baelish, they will be considered in open rebellion.”

The room stiffened.

Margaery kept her expression serene, though a pulse beat steadily at her temple.

“Madness,” Lord Tarly muttered, low and grim. “The man grows madder by the day.”

“I hear it’s that red witch,” grumbled Lord Titus Peake. He was old and prickly, but he was veteran of both the Ninepenny Kings and Robert’s Rebellion. His wife, Lady Margot, was all he was not—young, charming, and unmistakably Lannister blonde.

“She’s boiled his brains like an egg in summer,” someone muttered.

“Whatever causes it,” Tarly cut in, stern enough to silence the murmurs, “it plays into our hands. The Faith despises him. The city whispers. Half of King’s Landing would slit his throat for the mockery he’s made of the true gods. Once we secure Blackbridge, the road to the capital lies open.”

“And the siege?” asked Lord Colin Caron, jaw tight. He had returned from said siege only two days earlier. “Blackbridge holds longer than we expected. They are well-supplied. Beron Rogers won’t yield.”

“Stannis refuses to aid them,” said Lord Leygood with a sneer. “He stripped Rogers of the governorship. I imagine Rogers will change his tune once that scroll reaches him.”

A low chuckle rumbled from Peake. “And yet the town flies its own banner.”

Tarly’s gaze remained cold and unwavering. “They will fall. Whether it takes two more weeks or a full moon’s turn, matters little. They will fall. And when they do, we march on King’s Landing with twice the fury.”

Margaery let the silence settle before speaking.

“Rogers may call himself governor,” she said softly, “but if he resists both Stannis and us, he is no governor. He is a mere outlaw.”

Tarly inclined his head. “And outlaws do not last. He will break.”

“Better than burn,” Peake added.

Margaery smiled, but only faintly. Her back ached. She shifted slightly, resting a hand upon her belly. The child kicked, as if testing its cage. Or to show he had the makings of a general.

“And the city?” she asked. “What of the capital?”

Tarly gestured to the map.

“As I said, divided. The Faith keeps knights behind the Sept for the first time since Maegor. The gold cloaks are in disarray. We’ll have no shortage of allies within the walls.”

“The people may starve soon,” said Lord Caron. “Rosby has closed its gates. And the Stokeworth men are restless since Lady Falyse was executed—for calling Stannis a usurper and a godless man.”

“Unrest can be dangerous,” Margaery said.

Tarly’s expression didn’t change. “They will soon be brought to justice.”

“No one in the realm deserves the title of Protector more than you, my lord,” Margaery said with a composed smile.

“Once Blackbridge is ours,” Tarly replied, “we take King’s Landing. And we’ll do it well before the rightful king is even born.”

Margaery smiled at that.

.

.

300 AC, Moon 2, Day 12

The daybed was soft as a cloud, cushioned with pillows stitched with golden thread and velvet roses. Margaery Tyrell, Queen Dowager and mother-to-be of a King, lay on her side, one hand curled protectively over the gentle swell of her belly. The child shifted beneath her palm—a flutter, nothing more—and she closed her eyes, trying not to weep from exhaustion.

She was always tired now.

Her body had become its own kingdom—ever expanding, ungovernable, aching in places she’d never imagined. There were days she didn’t want to rise at all, didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to rule. So she had made the obvious decision:

Until her son was born, her lord father would serve as Regent, and Lord Tarly as Protector of the Realm.

They were men who worked well together. Let them pass papers and shout over maps. Let them glower and fume about the sieges, Oldtown, the uprisings. Margaery had done her part. Her crown was a womb now, and it was heavy.

And yet… there were still things she could not ignore.

The people had not cheered as she’d expected.

When she entered the city, her belly wrapped in black silk and the child’s father dead as dust, the common folk had watched in silence. Whispers curled like smoke in the streets. Even now, they still questioned.

Not Renly’s, they said in corners. A lie. A trick. Some even claimed it was Loras’s.

They forgot too easily that Stannis had burned to death to show his god was a lie. That his red witch had been forced into a walk of atonement, barefoot and naked, through the mud and stones of King’s Landing before she was hanged at the Gate of the Gods. High Septon Luceon Frey had been swift in delivering the verdict, and afterward praised Margaery’s unborn child as the realm’s salvation.

And still, the whispers lingered.

The city had fallen without a real fight. They soon found out why. The Florents, before their executions, confessed: Ser Davos Seaworth and a Velaryon bastard had stolen Stannis’s fleet. There had been arguments behind close doors about something. No doubt they’d sailed to Dragonstone to crown Shireen Baratheon.

Margaery’s uncle, Paxter, would take the island soon enough. Then they could truly celebrate.

But she had not left the Red Keep in weeks.

She hadn’t seen the city since the banners changed. Her grandmother had returned to the Reach, trying to uncover what had become of Garlan. The Hightowers would not bend the knee, and Garlan’s silence was more deafening than a thousand crows. Her own mother had stopped trying to make peace between the two houses after the Sack of Blackbridge. That woman was always to meek to understand war and ruling.

Margaery would not be like that.

But the men around her insisted Oldtown could not be taken.

Not quickly. Not cleanly.

Lord Tarly had taken a large part of their host north to Duskendale, hoping to draw Crownlander loyalty further. The plan had worked. Rosby and Stokeworth had yielded. Even Rykker. Lords who once held the Stormlands now wrote letters of loyalty. Some even sent forces. The realm was bending. Slowly. Surely.

But not Garlan. Not the Hightowers. And no word from Uncle Moryn, still Lord Commander of the City Watch in Oldtown.

The silence from her kin pressed on her chest like a stone. Elinor’s silence cut deeper.

Her cousin had changed since Bitterbridge. She was moody, quiet, but above all, sharp-tongued when they did speak. Margaery had begged her to behave, pleaded, even shouted, but nothing seemed to reach her anymore. They fought more often than not. Margaery had already resolved to marry her off as soon as decency allowed. Alyn Ambrose had fought bravely despite his uncle’s betrayal. He deserved a good wife. Obedient. Mild. Not Elinor.

But Elinor would be. Hopefully with a lordship torn from a traitor that would send her far from court.

A low trill of woodsharps music danced through the chamber. Margaery turned her head, watching Alla—darling, soft-spoken Alla—pluck each note carefully. Just four-and-ten, the girl already played better than most court musicians. She was minor Tyrell blood, but pure in her loyalty. Those were lacking this days.

By the tall window, Sansa sat beside her, voice clear as she read from a book of poetry. Her hair gleamed in the candlelight, red  like fire, and she looked more beautiful each day.

“Stop,” Margaery said softly.

Sansa looked up, blinking. “Your Grace?”

“You may stop reading.”

Sansa obeyed without question. That pleased Margaery. She is good at obeying.

“I didn’t mean to sound rude, dear Sansa,” Margaery continued, her voice low. “But I meant to ask, did you like the dress I had made for you?”

Sansa’s face lit up. “It is gorgeous, my queen. The embroidery, it looked like the snowflakes and roses linked together. I—I’ve never had anything so fine.”

“I’m glad.” Margaery smiled faintly. “You must be twice as pretty as usual. Since I cannot attend your lady mother's wedding.”

Catelyn Tully Stark would soon be Catelyn Tully Baelish, Lady of Harrenhal. The best title to give to Lord Baelish, all agreed. He assured them the wedding would take place at Harrenhal, with the Knights of the Vale beside him.

“You must miss her.”

Sansa’s smile dimmed slightly. “I’m eager to see her again. I’m only surprised she would marry again. She loved my father.”

“I understand her,” Margaery said. “I married for love with Renly. But you saw me with King Robert. Not all marriages are the same. And you will marry too, one day.”

Sansa’s expression turned thoughtful. “Will I?”

“Of course,” Margaery said. Her fingers brushed over her belly. “We all must play our part. And you are a grown woman now.”

Her mind drifted to the Lannisters. Fifteen thousand men at the Golden Tooth. A looming lion shadowing the Riverlands.

And the old lion himself.

“I must confess,” Margaery said carefully, “there have been… talks. Of me marrying Lord Lannister.”

Sansa’s gasp was sharp. “Lord Tywin? But he’s so old! And cruel.”

Margaery gave a tired smile. “Yes. But respected. Powerful. And we need his men.”

Her father had sent word about the men at the Golden Tooth and to Lord Tywon. Together with the positon of the Hand of the King was hints of a marriage to Margaery.

“Still,” Sansa murmured, “he’s…”

“Sometimes,” Margaery said, “we marry who we do not expect.”

Sansa bit her lip. “And Garlan?”

Margaery’s eyes lowered. “We have no word. Not from him. And his barren wife is not making easy.” The word tasted bitter in her mouth. “I still hope to call you my sister one day.”

Sansa reached out suddenly, surprising them both. Her hand curled gently around Margaery’s fingers, then moved to her belly. The child within stirred again, as if sensing the warmth.

“We shall always be, Your Grace,” Sansa whispered. “Even if not in blood.”

Margaery’s throat tightened. “You are kind, Sansa. Kinder than most.”

Sansa said nothing. Her eyes shimmered in the light.

Margaery inhaled deeply, closing her eyes again. “I fear my father may need to look for new heirs.”

Sansa frowned. “I heard whispers… but… your brothers—”

“My aunts have been talking to you,” Margaery murmured.

Sansa looked away. Guilt on her face.

“It’s all right,” Margaery said, voice soft as silk. “You are like family to us.” And they are putting the idea into your pretty empty head.

“My father is a jolly man. If the worst came to pass, I’d want him to marry someone I also love. Someone who’d give me new siblings to love.”

Her eyes turned to Sansa.

“You, for example.”

Sansa blinked. “Oh.”

The disappointment was immediate, unexpected, unguarded, and it showed, bright and sharp as a blade.

Margaery saw it and said nothing. Let the moment hang.

“We will pray for Garlan,” she said, drawing her fingers away gently.

Sansa nodded quickly, lips tight, eyes cast down.

And the child stirred again.