Chapter Text
Sounds of spilling ale and merry talk filled Winterfell's great hall, causing Barbrey to tsk every once in a while. Her feet still tingled from the long hours she spent organizing the reception, and yet the plain food and lowered banners failed to remind the attending lords of the grief that loomed over her home.
A part of her couldn't blame them; her own goodbrothers looked pleasant enough. As if Lord Rickard's last rites were not less than a moonturn ago. They had all looked stiff and frigid then, even the children, who looked slightly shaken after Old Rickard kept calling little Arya by her late aunt's name.
Her husband, Lord Brandon, was the only one who held himself aloof, standing tall as each lord knelt to swear fealty. Both Barbrey and their son stood behind him on the first step of the dais, dressed in white rabbit furs adorned with silver wolf heads.
She insisted on stitching bands of red and orange around the edges of her sleeves, the colors of House Ryswell. Her father and her brother noticed, hiding smiles as they swore their pious loyalty.
The next one to make the vow was Lord Stane. The Lord of Driftwood Hall lowered himself to one knee, placing his right hand over his heart. His heir was more hesitant, mostly because of Brandon's obvious sour mood.
"I, Lord Charlin of house Stane, do swear by the gods of the forest my and mine's loyalty to the Starks of Winterfell. Our spears and pikes we give to your name, and your justice we accept." The Lord boomed, remnants of rough clicking sounds from the Old Tongue colouring the oath with a thick accent. It was nearly the same oath as that of Lord Crowl, and Barbrey could see her firstborn smirking a little.
Brandon leaned forward and placed his hands on Lord Charlin's shoulders, accepting the oath and pulling the Lord up to his feet. The Lord's timid heir straightened too quickly, and they both bowed again before walking back to their table.
"Learn a damn thing instead of chuckling, else you want to embarrass yourself like that poor sod," Brandon murmured, his rebuke aimed at Cregan.
"It was nearly the same words. I'm surprised he didn't mess up his own name!"
"And how original would your oath be to the king? At least he did not stutter like you did when you asked the Manderly girl for a dance." Brandon retorted, turning his head just barely with a smirk.
Barbrey tsked again, glaring at her son to close his gaping mouth. Her leather gloves creaked as she clenched a threatening fist beside her skirt.
"This is almost over. Be done with this first then mess around later!" She hissed at them both, then quickly smiled again as another Lord came forth, kneeled, vowed, and returned to his table.
By then she kept moving her weight from one leg to the other; the pain in her feet burning up to her lower back.
It was a tiring affair, over an hour long already. To Barbrey's annoyance, no one seemed as tired as her.
Mercifully, Lord Howland Reed was the last. He stepped forward with both his children behind him, dragging his limp leg across the white floor.
Barbrey considered making an exception for the man and let him vow standing, but his daughter quickly helped him kneel without putting much pressure on his injured knee. Barbrey bit her lips then, and ignored the spasms of pain contorting his face.
The warden of the Neck placed his trident -which he used as a cane- before Brandon's feet, then cleared his throat to keep his voice from cracking.
"Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you." They all said in perfect harmony.
It was the final oath they would hear that night, and it made Barbrey sigh in relief.
Brandon had the decency to let the younger Reeds be the ones to help their father up. They both raised him to his feet quickly, then Lord Howland clasped his arm with Brandon.
After another nod to the attending Lords, the Lord, Lady, and heir of Winterfell returned to their high table. Barbrey slumped immediately on her chair, the relief numbing her to whatever toast Brandon gave. She only saw the lords raising their cups, and she downed hers in one gulp.
The reign of Brandon Stark would finally start; it was less impressive than what she imagined.
She once thought her life would be more glorious; her children's names written in history and her legacy full of legends.
Once, she used to think that, when she was only ten and five, racing through her homeland with a grown lordling chasing behind.
Now she knew better. She knew the tiresome duties of being just another Lady of Winterfell, a mother of four, and a wife to a man who thought only halfway.
What was worth the wait was putting an end to the days of mourning. She smiled tentatively as the maids stepped forward with plates of roasted meats and steaming stews. Other servants started raising the Direwolf banners once again across the walls.
Her goodbrothers relaxed once all the banners were up. They were seated beside their wives at the high table, an exception due to them being the sons of Lord Rickard.
It however came at the expense of the rest of her own children seated at the nearest lower bench, which was far enough from her reach. She could only hope her tsks would keep them from flinging spoons at their cousins.
Thankfully, It seemed it would be a while before they resorted to that, as they seemed more inclined to gobbling their mushroom soup and gossiping quietly. Only Cregan, who sat on the other side of Brandon, seemed lost in thought. Barbrey remembered the look of confusion on his face when he saw the two Reed children kneeling.
Brandon leaned towards him a little. "Lord Reed has been asking for his firstborn, Meera, to be named heir for a year now. Don't really know why, his son seems a healthy lad," he said, as if he knew exactly the question troubling his son. "I would have allowed it by now, but this deal with inheritance papers isn't easy to sign. With your grandfather sick I would have had to inform the king."
"What's wrong with informing the king?"
"Not a damn thing, but Lord Reed dislikes the south in general. After some honourless squires bullied him until his leg broke in that tourney of Harrenhal."
"Not that the king would care anyways, these matters are settled without much thought in the small council chambers." Ashara chipped in, her silver bracelets jiggling as she cut up a small piece of glazed lamb for her youngest. Little Rickon squirmed even more in his mother's lap when she tried to feed it to him.
"But why does the king need to be informed?" Cregan asked again. Barbrey thought his interest in laws was welcome.
"Because there already is an heir to Greywater Watch. A sane, male, trueborn, mainline, little Reed called Jojen. Changing that without much reason would seem off. And we all heard of the dance of the dragons." Barbrey replied in a light voice. "Your aunt is correct, though. The king doesn't care for these matters, nor would Lord Reed mind writing to the crown, in fact. Yet patience never harmed a soul."
It was true. No one knew more of patience than Barbrey Ryswell Stark. Her very marriage was an example, tested many times by the policies of her goodfather.
She slowly breathed in, remembering that he passed away. She would no longer argue with him over the plans he set for her children.
Even Benjen seemed happier now that his father is gone, she thought darkly.
The two had given grief to the other most of their lives; Benjen's insistence over joining the night's watch would end with screaming matches that startled her at night. A sudden, rather forced, wedding to Dacey Mormont ended it for all.
It saddened Barbrey to see the she-bear eating silently at the end of the table. She knew, of course, that there were no cruelty or hatred in their marriage; just blandness and courtesy. Such matters were hardly kept secret with them living in the same castle.
Still, Barbrey couldn't bring herself to fault Lord Rickard for that one. She was annoyed that he roped Dacey into a loveless marriage, sure, but she would do the same thing for her son.
None of her children would join the night's watch, she knew. It had given her grief when her second born Willam started his ridiculous phase of thinking glory was in slaying snarks and standing against the harsh winds on the wall. She would have none of that. Even her third son, Torrhen, would remain in Winterfell until he was old and grey.
It was her daughter whom she would hate to let go. Her sweet Ida, with dark brown hair and light grey eyes, the same rare shade that belonged to the Late Lady Lyanna. Thinking about the story of her goodsister always managed to make both Benjen's and Rickard's actions more justified.
A loud yell from the now-drunk attendees distracted Barbrey from her thoughts. She sighed and pushed her plate away.
Her nephew, Domeric Dustin, managed to slither away from the rest of his companions and into the table her children sat around. He, Willam, and Torrhen started a flicking war with Robb, Arthur, and Benjen's little Rodrik.
The thrown food clung to the girls' hair, and before anyone knew it, the wailing and kicking began.
Barbrey could not stand it. She could hear a constant buzzing in her ears, and the pain in her legs somehow returned.
Ida was the only one ignorant to what was happening. Barbrey saw her daughter rubbing her sleepy eyes; her chubby head almost smacking with her empty plate twice. It looked the perfect way to put an end to the children's squabbling. She hissed at Willam so he would take his little sister to bed. Sansa stood to take Rickon and Rodrik to their own beds soon after.
Brandon grumbled at the loss of his entertainment, but Barbrey would have none of it. It was enough that he failed to keep the rest of the Lords quiet.
Willam had only pulled Ida to her feet when the faint creaking of the old timber doors distracted Barbrey from her two children. The howling of their direwolves outside increased for a minute.
Ser Martyn entered with a grimace on his face; three men clad in black stood behind him. The one in the front was the only one Barbrey could identify. He was last in Winterfell a few months before Old Rickard had taken to his sick bed. The other two's faces were pale and sweaty from riding hard, making them look way older.
They stepped in, dripping snowflakes on the cleansed floor. The door closed behind them with a louder crack, causing many heads to turn at the intruders.
It didn't take long for all the noise in the hall to die down. Barbrey could see Brandon gripping his cup until he nearly shattered it. She had to dig her nails into his knee to calm him down. Dacey had a matching scowl, mayhaps thinking about her uncle. Cregan, Eddard, Benjen and Ashara looked on with some discomfort.
The three men walked towards them as if they were walking to the block.
Barbrey thought they might as well be.
Yoren, the wandering crow, bowed to Brandon first. "Good evening, Lord Stark. I was sent here by Lord commander Mormont to offer our sympathies for the loss of Lord Rickard, and our congratulations for your coming reign as Lord of Winterfell," he said in a voice lighter than she remembered.
The words sounded awfully rehearsed. She knew they were hiding a disaster; Yoren was too careless and rude for such greetings.
Benjen and Dacey leaned closer with an interest. Around them, the noises slowly returned, with muffled gossip and whispers this time.
"You've said them both, now would that be all? Or does the night's watch need more funding?" Brandon bit out, his eyes narrowing even more than hers.
"N-no, my lord. I mean of course, it would do well to consider the relations between the Night's watch and House Sark, but that is not what Lord Mormont sent us here to do,"
Barbrey did not like the sound of his stuttering one bit. She glanced at her children's table and was satisfied to see the younger ones had left. It would do them no good to see their father murder a guest on his first day as Lord of Winterfell.
"Well, what did he send you to truly do?" Ned asked, the quiet wolf speaking for the first time that night.
"It's about Mance Rayder, my lord. The deserter who's been speaking with some village elders beyond the wall."
"What of him?"
Yoren hesitated again, his hands fidgeting with the holes in his cloak. The other ranger, whose face returned to its normal flushed colouring, spoke instead.
"They claim him as the king beyond the wall now, my Lord."
Little wonders, how good nights are easily ruined.