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Chapter Text

Howland was surprised to see Maester Luwin sitting on the rock next to the heart-tree looking up at the face carved into the bark when he walked into the Godswood just before dawn the morning after the maester’s arrival. Even as he approached he thought he heard the man speaking to the heart-tree, almost the way he himself did and as he was trying to encourage the Starks to do even before his Father arrived. Which would, unfortunately, not be for a few days yet.

He waited until the man seemed to be finished, then came closer, scuffing his feet through the dead leaves so he would not startle him.

“Oh. My lord of Reed. Well met,” Luwin greeted him as he turned to see what the noise was.

“Are you a follower of the Old Gods, Maester?”

“Aye. A poor one, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen a proper Godswood in many a long year. Although I will admit the garden at Riverrun is very pretty, it is not what I would call a proper godswood since they put their Sept at the other end from the Heart-tree. I think the last one I was in that I thought of as ‘proper’ was Harrenhal on my way to Old Town: I did not dare hazard a trip to the Isle: the mists were thick that day and I felt, well, not quite ‘unwelcomed’, but…”

“Not your time to visit.”

Maester Luwin nodded. “Even so.”

Howland felt himself relaxing slightly. “What made you decide to go to The Citadel?”

“Love of books. Love of learning. And our Maester said I had a ‘healing hand’. He also told me to keep my head down, my nose clean, and not try to change minds because it would not work out the way I hoped. I found, sadly, that he was speaking the truth.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“I had never seen so many books in one place before,” Luwin said. “Truthfully, it was time well spent.”

“And yet they sent you here?”

Luwin shrugged. “Nobody else wanted to go. They almost sent me to The Wall to support old Maester Aemon: he’s blind now, I’ve heard. But when word of Walys’ death reached them, they decided if I was willing to do that, I could come here, to Winterfell, and they would find someone else who has a link of ‘Higher Mysteries’ to send to the Night’s Watch, in time.”

“Will you swear that you are here to help and not to harm?”

Luwin stood, blinking in clear surprise. “Do you distrust me so much?”

“I distrust The Citadel. Your predecessor destroyed books.”

Luwin looked clearly distressed at that, then after a long moment asked: “I have you to thank for the cleanliness and the catalog then?”

“I, and Benjen Stark and Lya… Lyanna Stark. Will you swear?”

“Aye, as I see I must.” He took a small knife out of one of his sleeves and poked his thumb with it, wiping his hand hard down the bark of the tree next to the face then leaving his hand flat on the bark. “I Luwin, a Maester of the Citadel, do swear before Howland Reed of House Reed, and the Old Gods that I will faithfully serve Winterfell and those who dwell within her walls to the best of my ability, always. And that I shall labor to increase knowledge here, not restrict it from this day to the end of my days.”

A warm breeze seemed to surround them both for a moment and it left Luwin clearly shocked.

“So witnessed, Luwin theodwitr. I think we can agree that the Gods approve.”

Luwin flushed at that.

“If you have survived The Citadel and come away with your beliefs and your mind intact then you are both wise and prudent. Perhaps I should call you gleawlik?”

“Oh I don’t know as I would go that far… But come. Unless you seek communion with The Gods?”

“It can wait a bit, I think.”

“Then please join me for a cup of tea, my lord of Reed. Uncertain what I would find here, I brought quite a lot of dried mint and nettles with me….”

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6th Day of the 2nd Month of 284
Winterfell

Benjen was crossing from the keep to the great hall when he noticed Howland walking with Maester Luwin, both of them clearly deep in a discussion. *Now that is interesting,* he thought to himself, but he had no time or inclination to interrupt them: he had to eat before he was to take a four hour shift ‘in command’ of both the men-at-arms on watch and the house guards patrols, although he did not fool himself into thinking he was more than just a trainee as far as the men-at-arms were concerned. He chose to take his watches in the bell tower as that could see right over the walls and into Winter town when he was not walking the outer walls making sure people were not simply daydreaming on watch. *And whether I am sleepy or not after that I have to train under Ser Rodrik’s gaze until dinner. Gods help me.*

When he came down the stairs into the hall he was surprised to see his brother, Lord Karstark, and Lord Umber sitting at one of the trestle tables with Ser Rodrik and some of the senior men-at-arms.

“Aye, here he is,” Ned said, teasingly. “I told you, Ser Rodrik, we would not have to send a patrol out to find him.”

“Where did you think I’d be?”

“Some were suggesting you may’ve slipped into Wintertown last night after the feast.”

“Me? No. I have an early guard shift.”

“You’d best be eating then,” Ned said, gesturing toward an open space on the bench. “I’ll want to speak with you after dinner: I am sure I will have some questions...”

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Chapter Text

As he stood at the rail of the sterncastle of the Lady Joanna looking back at the city, listening to the rhythmic ‘thump-thump’ that kept the oarsmen two decks below in time, Tywin Lannister idly wondered how long it would take to get the stink of the place out of his nose this time. Last time, after he had resigned as Hand and ‘retired’ back to Casterly Rock, it had taken nearly the entire trip before he stopped fancying he smelt sewage from time to time.

He had made sure his ship would be the last to leave Blackwater Roads, but he knew that if he looked to his right he would see the carrack Warden, likely with Jaime standing at the railing looking back at the city just as he was.

When he did glance over at Warden, once they were well out of range of even the best mangonel or even trebuchet, he saw not just Jaime, but Jeyne standing at the aft rail. Even at this distance he could see his son had his arm around her and he permitted himself a small very pleased smile. *If nothing else Jaime is out of the Kingsguard and happily wed.* He mentally took those goals off his list.

*If only his sister were as dutiful,* he thought with a grimace. Cersei, unfortunately, had become quite the disappointment. *In a few months she will not be our problem any more. And I will wish His Grace luck with her.* The problem was that leaving Kevan behind to keep Cersei in check made him feel like he had lost his good right arm because Stafford never had any advice good or bad, and Girion was more likely to argue for the sake of arguing.

Although they had hidden everything below-decks while they were in port, all of the ships returning to Lannisport were heavily armed. Even now, with the city barely behind them, some of the sailors were bringing up and putting together the oversized crossbow catapults and setting their frames into the holes in the deck designed for them, while other sailors, and his own houseguards were bolting heavy crossbows to the railings, bolting down braziers that could be set alight at the first sign of hostile ships on the horizon and moving caches of bows and bundles of arrows into the cupboards designed for them from their storage in the holds.

*Because of course the fleet caught the attention of cutthroats and slavers on the way to King’s Landing so there is every expectation that there will be some waiting for us either in the Stepstones or just south of them.*

As the ships continued to slide toward the mouth of the bay that was still three days sail away, Tywin turned his attention toward the Westerlands once more, but there were no really pressing problems. At the moment, at least. *I will continue Jaime’s lessons in statecraft. He still needs to learn that ruling the fractious Westerlands is neither ‘easy’ nor ‘clean’. And I am committed to teaching battle tactics to Tyrion. Why I agreed to that is beyond me.*

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Stannis stood in the open observation room the top of the Tower of the Hand watching through a myrish eye as the remains of the Army of the Westerlands who had not been able to fit aboard the Westerlander ships that had been anchored in the harbor for many months departed for home, now that they had been paid all that they were owed save what was to be ‘excused’ by his marriage to Lord Lannister’s daughter. He knew if he was up on the battlements by the White Sword Tower he would still be able to see the Lannister fleet as it made its slow way down the bay toward the Narrow Sea. House Lannister itself would be home in about a moon’s turn unless they were very unlucky even if the rest of their army would take another moon after that to get home.

He made a mental note to send ravens to Riverrun and Winterfell telling them they now owed nothing to either Iron Bank or House Lannister and that the resumption of Crown taxes would be counted from the beginning of the year as they had both spent good coin during the war to put his brother on the throne. And to Lord Royce too: the Houses of The Vale had already met and had chosen House Royce to be their new Lord-Paramount since House Arryn was extinguished in the male line and the next heir-presumptive to House Arryn was still a babe in arms. He was not sure if anyone had found a Last Will of Lord Jon Arryn that did not still list Ser Denys Arryn ‘or heirs of his body’ as Jon Arryn’s heir, but legaly the remaining branch of House Arryn went through Jon Arryn’s sister’s daughter who had married into House Hardyng and had, within the last year, given birth to a son.

*I’ll confirm Lord Royce, I think: no one in their right mind wants to wait sixteen years for a babe to grow to maturity. If he survives childhood. And now that Robert had provided a precedent, perhaps the Wardenship should be decoupled from the Lord-paramountcy. Perhaps someone in the Riverlands should be the next Warden of the East?* He frowned because he could pull up the east coast in his mind’s eye and The Vale was central, especially if one did not include Dorne.

He shook his head slightly because he still had to appoint a Master of Ships too. *I most certainly do not wish to reward a Valaryon, but neither do I wish to punish them too much. No. Master of Ships will go to someone else. But who?*

He put that aside as he looked through the myrish lens again. Even with the far-eye he could not make out individual banners at this distance, never mind individual people. *Only Kevan Lannister and his wife, and a contingent of men-at-arms and household guards were to remain at the Lion’s Den to ‘supervise’ his betrothed Cersei Lannister who is to remain there until the wedding,* he reminded himself.

Each time he met with his betrothed, always with either a septa or her aunt in attendance, there had been an odd undercurrent to their conversation. He knew, because Lord Lannister had done him the courtesy of being honest; at least as honest as he might ever be expected to be, that the Lady in question had been given two choices: marry him or go to the silent sisters. *And he advised me to keep that threat over her head. Which tells me she does not want me any more than I truly want her. Neither of us have much choice in the matter: who otherwise would I marry? The daughters of Lords-paramount are not thick on the ground. Elia Martell is barren, even if I would consider her. And even if Lyanna Stark is alive and well and safely in the North, she has too wild a reputation for my tastes. To say nothing as to how she would fare here in King’s Landing.* He knew the courtiers would eat her alive and they would likely both be miserable. *And then there is her babe to consider. Even a bastard Targaryen might become a rallying cry here in this hellish city. Best leave them both in the North.*

“So they are gone, then?” Lord Estermont asked mildly as he arrived in the small room at the top of the stairs.

“They are going,” Stannis replied. “But House Lannister will be back soon enough.” He handed over the long tube. “And by the time they do return for the wedding we must have everything here in hand. Every position, great and small, filled with our own people. I need you to find good strong-minded women to attend upon Cersei Lannister. Ones loyal to us and unlikely to be swayed. No one from the Westerlands. Our own Stormlanders in the main, with perhaps a few from the Riverlands and The Vale: those whose Houses we wish to reward.”

His grandfather gave a slight nod to show he was listening.

“I want the Gold Cloaks gone through: root out the thoroughly corrupt and give the rest reason to behave.”

“They have not had a pay rise in years,” the Lord Hand said mildly.

“Yes. Yes. Work out a pay rise and bonuses as well as punishments. I’ll leave that to you, Grandsire.”

Lord Estermont turned his head to regard him, placing the lens under one arm. “If Lord Arryn was still alive I would suggest him as my deputy.”

“He would never have accepted. He and I did not see eye to eye on anything, I think.”

“We could have used his experience: what happened at Riverrun…”

“Was a tragedy. Nothing more.”

“Will you make Ser Bryndan Tully Lord Paramount?”

“I should. But there is the boy to consider. He is nine and a short guardianship of seven years, especially if Ser Bryndan is diligent in his tutilage, will give him time to grow into his role.”

“Rumor has it Ser Bryndan will never marry.”

“That too is something to consider. Approving Ser Bryndan as guardian of the boy and Lord-Paramount during the boy’s minority would mean we could insist Edmure Tully marry our choice of brides. Something else to do once they are both here for the wedding, I suppose.”

“As you say.”

“Still you need an assistant.”

“Do not suggest your Onion Knight, lad. I know he is solid and his advice, what I have heard of it, is well grounded and practical, but you can hear Fleabottom in his voice and no one here will take him seriously. Give him that holding you promised and let he and his wife raise strong boys to serve in your fleet. Use him as your sounding board, if you must, but do not give him any official place in Court or Council.”

Stannis ground his teeth together in frustration.

“I wish you would stop doing that,” his grandfather chided him. “And belike Grand Maester Bernard would take you to task too, if he heard it.” He paused and turned to face him fully. “Perhaps a Penrose? Or one of the Crownland Houses that came early to swear fealty?”

“As you will, Grandsire. Choose who you will to be your assistant.” He looked out over the city. “Who shall we choose as Master of Ships then?” he asked because he had considered the newly elevated Davos Seaworth for the role, but his grandfather was right: no one would listen to him in court.

“Tarth?”

“Tarth.” He turned that over in his head a few times. “Will The Evenstar leave his beloved island?”

“They have a good harbor there and he can be Master of Ships there as well as he could be here. Perhaps better: needs must he will travel to oversee the building of new ships and setting out from his isle means not tacking his way out of Blackwater Bay for three days before he can go anywhere.”

“I will consider it. We certainly will need to appoint someone soon.”

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Chapter Text

Prince Oberyn Nymeros-Martell had been in Essos for the last few years as his brother’s ‘emissary’. Officially. Unofficially he was there to keep him out of the reach of Mad Aerys. After what King Scab had done to the Starks, and what he had said about Elia and her children, Prince Doran had sent Oberyn away and sent his wife Mellario and their two children to Myr, ‘temporarily’, which had then stretched to more than two years. Oberyn felt he had spent his time in Essos profitably, but now he was glad to be home once again.

He found Doran in his usual spot: a balcony overlooking the water gardens with excellent lines of sight and only their most trusted nearby. A servant was manning the fan overhead keeping away any insects from the low table near at hand holding fruit, both pickled and salted olives, cheeses, flatbread, and a small glass decanter of pale green olive oil. A sideboard held gold and glass goblets and a large matching pitcher of Dornish Sour.

He nodded to Aero Hotah who stood like an impassive shadow nearby as he approached.

“Brother,” he greeted him when Doran looked up.

“How was Essos?” Doran asked, gesturing him to sit on a nearby bench as one of the attendants brought Oberyn a goblet of the wine once he had sat down opposite his brother.

“It was fine,” Oberyn said once the attendant had retreated. “I heard something curious coming up from the port,” he continued, unwilling to engage in their usual verbal fencing. “Elia…?”

Doran nodded slightly. “They are safe. She is here, and her children also. And the new king, Stannis, is not demanding their heads.”

Oberyn took a moment to select one of the pitted olives, pop it in his mouth, chew and swallow as he turned that information over in his mind.“ And Elia, she is well then?”

Doran sighed. “She is ‘alive’. But she is not well. The births were very hard on her, Oberyn.” He leaned forward and spoke somewhat more quietly. “She told me that everything Rhaegar did, he did with her agreement. And with the other girl’s too.”

Oberyn blinked, all thoughts of food or even the wine in the goblet he was holding fled as he turned that over in his mind. “He… He did not ‘kidnap’ the Stark girl then?”

“No. When he returned to King’s Landing before going to the Trident he left copies of papers with Elia: the High Septon granted Rhaegar an ‘exception’ so he did not need to set our sister aside in order to marry again. She said it was so she and the children would be safe. At least as safe as she could be, considering who her good-father was. She had known the broad strokes of his plans since Harrenhal.”

“Whoever told Aerys of the planned meeting at Harrenhal did all of Westeros a disservice,” Oberyn grumbled, running one hand through his hair. “Gods. If things had been different…”

“Rhaegar might not have remained on the throne, brother. By all accounts Robert Baratheon was not one to accept such a ‘slight’. I think even if there had been a bloodless coup he would have challenged Rhaegar over her.”

“And the fool would have met him in the ring instead of having him thrown in a cell until his temper cooled.” Even as he said that, he knew he would have done the same: fought Robert Baratheon, to the death, if necessary, considering how the man disrespected his supposed betrothed at Harrenhal.

“And then? Who would a Great Council choose? Aegon, a babe? Or Viserys who is still but a child. And who would we have had then for regent? Tywin Lannister? Because you know no one outside of Dorne will accept either Rhaella or Elia as regent. And they would not be happy with either you or I.”

Oberyn grimaced at that, tore off and ate some flatbread, barely appreciating the spices and herbs in and on it and sipped his wine because he knew Doran was right. *And Tywin… He may have been a good Hand to Aerys, once, but then consider what he did to the Reynes and Tarbecks… And his ambitions. It would have been a disaster.*

“Word has come from Ser Arthur Dayne that Lyanna Stark was delivered of a baby boy some five or so moons back and that they took ship from Starfall to White Harbor.”

“The Northerners will protect her and her son. Their survival is not our problem,” Oberyn said dismissively.

“I am glad we see eye to eye on this.”

Oberyn turned and smiled seeing Elia approaching out of the corner of his eye. “Sister,” he said before he took in her wan smile and sallow skin. And then he rose and kissed her cheek and ushered her into the chair he had been occupying because he knew it was comfortable and would be out of any sun for some time.

“I am glad you are back, Oberyn,” she said as he took another seat. Then continued before he could ask after her health: “We are all together again, at long last.” She glanced toward the water gardens below. “My children are happy,” she said, just as an enormous black cat jumped into Oberyn’s lap. “Bellarion, you bad kitty,” she scolded, but, except for a wince as the cat’s claws dug into his thigh, Oberyn really did not mind.

“He is named for the black dread?” he asked, as he started petting the monstrosity who quickly settled and began to purr.

“Rhaenys named him,” Doran said with a wry smile. “And he lives up to the name, if you are a rodent.”

“Honestly, I do not know what Rhaegar was thinking, but, to be fair, when he gave the cat to our daughter it was just a little thing I could hold in one hand.”

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“Father?”

He turned to see Obara coming into the suite clearly fresh from playing in the water gardens.

“Papa!” Nymeria and Tyene chorused as they raced past their older sister to practically knock him off his feet.

“My darlings…” he said, leaning down to kiss ten nameday old Nymeria’s cheek before picking up Tyene, who was all of seven namedays old now, to kiss her cheek too. As he set her down on her own feet Obara’s clothing and hair registered. “Obara, were you ill?” he asked his daughter who was all of two and ten because her hair was now shorter than his own.

Nymeria snorted a laugh. “She got sick of it always in her eyes, Papa.”

“I cut my hair because it was always coming undone in the middle of training,” Obara said defensively. “And a long tunic is practical, is it not?” She turned as if showing off the most expensive, elegant gown of diaphanous sand silk instead of a relatively plain linen tunic of pale yellow over a gathered neck shirt or shift that was closed at the wrists with simple ribbons.

“And how is your training going, daughter?”

“It goes well. I am working my way through boys a year or two my elder in my spars and Omer is, I think, pleased with my progress.”

“But who knows since he never praises anyone?” he half japed because Omer had been the arms-master for House Martell since he himself was a boy.

“He is not yelling at me so often,” she replied with a shrug.

He opened his arms then and she let him wrap her in them and kiss the top of her head before she stepped back.

“And your other lessons? Are they going as well?” he asked, realizing he had a lot of catching up to do, and a lot to do to make up for his absence.

And then he sat and let them tell him everything he missed.

Tomorrow, he decided, could take care of itself, for once.

Chapter Text

After a few days settling in, Catelyn thought she had a grasp of how things worked here at Winterfell. She had met with a number of the senior servants: Vayon Poole and Codlin the Cook were Gods-sent as far as she was concerned, and Ser Rodrik, although she had only met with him very briefly to confirm the men under him had everything needful was a calm and solid presence. She had been very careful to phrase things she asked about as ‘for my own knowledge’ rather than making it sound like her good-brother and good-sister were perhaps not up to her standards which she certainly did not intend to suggest. She was sure she had stepped on a few toes, for all that she had tried not to as she poked her nose into things here and there, but that could not be helped, she decided.

With her napping twins being watched over in the corner of the Hall not too long after dinner was over she sat down at a nearby table with one of the tall narrow windows over her shoulder for light with some paper, ink pot, quills, and a sander within reach and started to compose a letter home.

She almost wrote ‘Dearest Father’ and had to stop and put the quill back on the blotting sheet she had laid out as she closed her eyes and wanted to weep anew, and might have if she was in a more private space. *Even after well nigh two moon-turns it still pains my heart. I cannot believe he and Lysa are dead.* She frowned at that. *Lysa who was clearly acting with Petyr, more fool she.*

After a few minutes she picked up the quill and cleaned it of the drying ink and dipped it back into the ink pot.

‘Dearest Uncle Bryndan and Edmure,’ she began.

‘We arrived in Winterfell a few days ago and it is not nearly as ‘barbaric’ as I had been led to expect. The castle itself is built upon hot springs which they have diverted through pipes in the walls and some of the floors to warm them, and therefore there is hot water available on every floor of the keep and, I’m told, in the guest house also. In addition, there are three bath houses inside the castle. Smaller ones in both the keep and the guest house and a larger one down by the laundry which is divided into two halves for the use of the servants, men-at-arms and guards. The bath house under the keep is comprised of a changing area, a large vaulted space with three pools: one hot, one body temperature and one ice cold, and a room on the side that they call a stove-room. It is by far the warmest place in the castle besides the kitchens.’

She re-read what she had written and decided she needed to clarify as it would be of some interest to her Uncle, if not to Edmure.

‘I write ‘men-at-arms and guards’ because here they are differentiated: men-at-arms are professional warriors who in the Riverlands would be household knights but here are not, and the guards, or house guards, are mainly levies from the surrounding villages who guard the castle and Wintertown one moon out of every twelve as part of their village’s tithe to their liege-lord before going home again, although the house guard sergeants, of which there are six and their captains, of which there are two, live either here in the castle or down in Wintertown. There are also twenty-four of what Ser Rodrik called ‘chosen men’ who serve here permanently and form the backbone of the house guards. Each of them leading and training a unit of ten levied guards even as members of that unit swap in and out. It sounds very confusing but it works or they would not be doing it. The house guards do not just patrol the walls of the castle but also the wall around Wintertown, while the men-at-arms stand watch only inside the castle.

They are all well provisioned and housed, I am told: I have not yet gotten into the details yet, although I have been shown the books kept by our steward Vayon Poole which pulls together the accounts from all over the castle. We are trying to find at least an hour each day where he can go over them with me but he is much in demand as he has no assistant himself. I hope that in time we can share the book-work, but right now I am trying to get to know the people here, especially the senior servants.’

She thought that over and decided to write of people as she met them rather than trying to work out who was the most senior below Steward Poole who was himself a petty-lord with a holdfast somewhere nearby.

‘One of the first servants I met here is called ‘Old Nan’. And she is quite old. And rather curious. She seems to spend most of her days either helping watch the babies or knitting by one of the fires. I am told she is a great storyteller with a wealth of stories about the old days. She has already knit rather nice and warm coifs for both Sansa and Robb with strings to tie under their chins, without which I am afraid Robb would have pulled his off and chewed it up as he is getting his first tooth. Apparently she does this for every baby in the castle, and she is making sleeveless wool over tunics for them also to add to their wardrobe. I might object, but I have seen her other work and it is finely made and very warm. She and Willow are teaching Gila to knit and also to weave band-trim.’

That of course brought up Old Nan’s grandson, so she decided to write about him next.

‘Old Nan’s great-grandson is called Hodor because he had a fit when he was young, I am told, and now all he ever says is ‘Hodor’, so that became his name. He is far larger than anyone I have seen besides Ser Gregor Clegane, having to duck to enter some rooms. Thankfully he is not cut from the same cloth as that late, unlamented knight. I was a little afraid in the beginning that Hodor would hurt the children on accident, but he is very gentle and careful. He tends the family’s horses and fetches and carries whatever is needed. He seems to blush a little bit when he is thanked and I think he understands far more than one would think he does based on what he can say.’

Which led her to the people who everyone relied upon every day.

‘Then there is Codlin the Cook and her son Gage the under-cook. They are in charge of a kitchen employing two dozen, if not more. I think that number is not including the ones employed in the scullery. Between them they manage the food stores, pickling, salting, and drying whatever cannot be eaten right away, and manage to feed everyone who lives in the castle at least twice a day, even the house guards who I understand generally eat in barracks. I have seen great pies and buckets of what must have been soup or pottage being carried down to the lower part of the castle more than once since my arrival and I am fairly sure it was not meant as charity for the poor of Wintertown.’

She thought about her visit yesterday evening down into the kitchens and, knowing that it was different from the one at Riverrun, she decided to include a description.

‘As for the kitchens themselves: they are under the Great Hall and consist of a main kitchen which is enormous and a secondary kitchen where they bake bread and otherwise use the space as a place to sit and have a quick bite or have a chat while they are shelling beans or peas or some other mindless task. There is a still room off the secondary kitchen that quite excited Maester Luwin and I imagine he will make use of it for tinctures and ointments. There is a large buttery full of casks of not just wine but ale and mead also, also a cold larder similar but larger than the one at Riverrun that employs large blocks of ice to keep things cool instead of air off the river. There is also a large well aired storeroom full of crocks and barrels full of preserved things, flour, whole grains and dried beans with smoked and dried meats hanging from the ceiling as well as ropes of onions and a locked spice cabinet which Codlin presented me a key to, to add to the ring of keys turned over to me by Steward Poole. There are also overflow store and preparation rooms that are used during the harvest festivals when the kitchens are even busier. There is probably more that I did not see because the kitchens are a true warren, but I think you can now imagine how large they are and how important the cooks are here.

I have yet to make it down to the laundry, but all the dirty clothing from the trip here was sent down and what has been brought back up is perfectly clean and in excellent condition, even the few worn spots were well mended so I think the overseer of the laundry has things well in hand.

When Ned said I would not need to bring any attendants from Riverrun except as a comfort he was not wrong. There are several female servants who have been very helpful: they clean the bedchamber, look after my and my lord-husband’s clothing and help me when I need assistance, which, as you know, was not terribly often even when I was living at home and wearing clothing that was less utilitarian and wore more elaborate hairstyles. I do sometimes miss the lightweight things I put aside for you to pass on once we had left, but Eddard, if anything, downplayed how cold it is even now in the height of a summer year. I shudder to think what a winter will be like.

The one thing that I truly am missing here is a Sept. The nearest one is, I am told, in White Harbor and I am, I think, the only worshipper of the Seven in Winterfell. Even Ser Rodrik, although he was knighted during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, follows the Old Gods. And it turns out that Maester Luwin is, I think, from a cadet branch of House Blackwood, unless he is from one of the First Men houses that survived in The Vale as I have seen him go into the Godswood at least once since we arrived.’

That made her pause and almost strike that from the letter because she had only looked into the Godswood from the entrance just once and it was nothing whatever like the one at Riverrun. More wild. More ‘unkempt’. And something about it: something uncanny in the Godswood here made her uneasy enough that she went back to the Lady’s solar in the keep, opened up the travelling case that held the small paintings of the Seven that she had had commissioned years ago when she was betrothed to Brandon, and spent several hours praying and reading The Seven Pointed Star. It had been well over a day since then and she had yet to decide it was just her imagination run wild.

*And every night since we arrived Ned will take Robb off somewhere for several hours. I had thought he had taken him down to the baths, but now I think I was wrong about that. Still, I would never have expected him to want to deal with a squalling infant, but he does. Even before we left Riverrun he spent time with both our children. And when Robb was crying every evening without fail his father would pick him up and dance him around the room or even walk the battlements with him if he was especially stinky. For hours. Until Robb had calmed enough to fall asleep.*

She shook her head slightly, re-read what she had written and decided that she should end the letter there, with some assurances that she and the children were well and happy. The two Tully guards who had come with them all the way from Riverrun would be leaving in the morning to return home by way of a fast river-runner to White Harbor and from there by ship to Saltpans. It would likely still take almost a moon’s turn for her letter to reach her uncle and brother, but it would be at least half again as long if they went South by way of the Kingsroad. And less safe.

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She had placed the letter in a leather wallet which she had sewn shut with threads in the Tully colors in a pattern that would tell her uncle if it had been opened enroute or not. She had hopes that such measures were unnecessary: the paranoia of an old warrior who had seen too much in his life, but she did so anyway.

When she handed it to him in the courtyard just after breakfast, Wat did not even blink, simply bowed, then shoved it inside his gambeson and patted where it lay after redoing the clasps. “I shall make sure it arrives unmolested, m’lady,” the older man promised. And then when she stepped back, he nodded to her, gestured for Lucan to mount up and the two of them and Jory Cassel who would escort them to the dock on the White Knife where the riverrunner was likely already waiting, trotted out the inner gate toward the town below.

“Quite a weighty letter, love,” Ned commented as he joined her, but his tone was teasing. “Aye. I would have sent a tome too, and did, back to my family when someone was coming this way and I was fostered in The Vale.”

She turned to face him and was reminded that while for last few days her husband had dressed for comfort: plain fulled wool doublets that only differed from a common cotte because they had standing collars and laced up the front, and thick woolen hose stuffed into knee-boots, today he was not.

Today he had gone down early to bathe and wash his hair and when he returned he chose his clothing with care. Now, over his white shirt and braes, and joined black hose tucked into black short boots. He wore a short waisted black wool doublet with inset long sleeves, and then a grey broken-twill woven saye cloth robe with slightly belled half-sleeves that reached to mid-calf which was embroidered around the raised neck and sleeve ends and hem with running grey direwolves on a white background and was closed with hidden hooks and eyes from the base of the collar to his waist was full enough from waist to hem for ease of movement. After carefully braiding his hair back from the temples and tying the two thin braids in a complicated knot to hold the rest out of his face, he had then put on an ermine lined and edged sleeveless overrobe that was embroidered in a repeating pattern of Stark direwolves on a white ground, each surrounded by woven vines with hand-like green leaves edged in bronze and studded with a salmon colored berry. When she had complimented him on such a fine piece of clothing he had admitted it had been his father’s and was what all Stark lords wore when holding court.

“I shall have to have a new one made that is more to my measure in time,” he had said. “But it is what the people expect to see. The leaves are not weirwood leaves, but a verin berry, which are only found here in The North.” He had grinned slightly, adding: “They, like Starks, do not do well in The South.” And then he had fitted a collar of state over the robe: bronze backed enamelled losenge-plaques, each representing the sigil of one of the Houses of the North each separated from each by two links, and depending from the middle front was a larger plaque depicting the sigil of House Stark, the enamelled dark grey running direwolf thinly limned in black, it’s long red tongue all the more prominent against the white background. She had helped him pin it in place at the middle back and along the shoulder seams so it would drape properly. He wore no other ornament or jewellery and seemed rather ill at ease wearing even the chain.

And because he had taken such care with his dress, she too had considered what to wear, falling back on the outfit she had arrived in, just with fewer petticoats and a few more jewels, including a plaque belt that had originally alternated Tully colors in an abstract design but that she had long ago had grey and white plaques added to it so now it alternated Tully and Stark colors, and as she put it on she had made a mental note to have a woven belt made using the Stark colors with a clasp buckle similar to the one she had seen Lyanna wearing.

*** *** ***

When they went inside, the hall had been transformed. The table that usually sat at the front of the dais with chairs and benches behind it was now moved to the left side wall by the door to the storage area with three chairs placed before it and three others placed nearby. And now the large stone chair that had sat in the rightside back corner of the dais had been moved to the center front, although just by looking at the massive thing with its arms supported by snarling direwolves, she could only imagine how heavy it was.

Ned leaned over. “It is not one solid piece: it is hollow in the middle,” he murmured. “But aye. Six strong men, including Hodor, are needed to move it into place. Brandon and I tried to move it once and came close to causing ourselves permanent injury, but it was our father’s laughter that hurt the most.”

Below the dais were now many rows of benches on either side of the center aisle and Vayon Poole was setting up a small table by the door with paper and ink and sander.

“Aye, Vayon, it’s that time again,” Ned said.

“Aye, my lord. My lady. I will send down to the front gate to let the petitioners through. I suspect that there will be many more who just come to watch you.”

Benjen and Lyanna came down the stairs then, both dressed rather more nicely than they had for several days now.

Ned had kissed her then: just a light touch of his lips on hers, but then he was away: taking the small pillow that Benjen handed him with a smirk and settling into the chair with the pillow under him. A seat which even he needed a low footstool to sit on comfortably.

“The problem is,” Lyanna said when she joined them, “is that once we are here we are here for the next few hours. And if the actual petitioners are not gotten through then Dinner will be moved back until they are. Usually on Court days Codlin makes thick stews and frumenty because they can be kept warm.”

“I have kept up with the petitions,” Benjen said. “But there will be those who waited for Ned to return, I am sure. And there will be the petty-lords who owe directly to Winterfell who may want to offer their homage now instead of waiting for the next Harvest Festival. And a few who have inherited who must come and do homage.”

“And all of that takes time,” Catelyn finished for him.

“And all of that takes time,” he agreed.

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Chapter Text

Jaime was woken by a beam of sunlight coming through the windows of the best cabin aboard Warden and for a long moment, after throwing a hand up to block the light, he just glared as if the sunbeam was there to deliberately annoy him. But then he realized they must have made it out of Blackwater Bay for any morning light to make it into the cabin, and that made him sit up. Sitting up so precipitously set the bed to rocking and that woke Jeyne.

“What? What is it?” she asked as she sat up and squinted, just as he had, at the bright light coming through the small windows.

“We’ve turned South toward Tarth,” he said before he realized she was turning a bit green. He quickly but carefully got off the bed, steadying it with one hand while he groped beneath it for the pot, handing it over to her just in time for her to throw up into it.

That made him frown because she had not been seasick before this and had not said she had been ill during the voyage to King’s Landing even as he poured her some water from the pitcher and then wet the cloth that had been covering it.

“Worrying too much,” she said as she accepted the cloth and let him take the pot from her and put the lid on.

He was planning to carry it out to the gallery himself if he had to just to get rid of it as soon as possible.

“I have missed my moonsblood twice so far,” Jeyne continued after wiping her face with the cloth.

That made him turn fast enough that the water in the goblet he was about to hand to her sloshed over the side. “You haven’t,” he repeated dully. “What does that even have….* “You’re pregnant?!”

She winced. “Not so loud, love.”

“You’re pregnant?” he almost whispered, locking his knees so he would not fall to the floor. “Are you…”

“Sure? Fairly. I think. Mother made sure I knew what to look for. All right? I will be. I just have to get through the next moon or so.” She gestured without looking at the pot. “Go get rid of that. And see if, well, I don’t know what I can stomach right now. Well watered wine soaked maslin biscuit first. Then we’ll see. My mother ate boiled chicken and plain rye bread the entire time she was carrying my sister. Could not stand even the smell of roast meats. Of course she also drank cooled boiled water with lemons too.” She made a shoing gesture. “Go. And send in Adara and Hazel: they can help me dress.”

He stepped out into what was usually the captain’s solar but had been turned over as accommodations for the rest of their household, which had grown by two since not long after his marriage to Jeyne when the Allgood house guards that Adara and Hazel liked had married them and had agreed to become part of his household. Alyn and Rafe had integrated so well by this point that Jaime almost forgot they had not always been there.

Wyot immediately stepped up. “I’ll take that for you, ser,” he said, and Jaime let him, but then nodded to Rafe who followed Wyot out the door leading onto the stern gallery to make sure he did not fall overboard because of an unexpected wave.

Smirking, Adara and Hazel brushed past him and Jaime realized he was only wearing a shirt that barely fell to mid-thigh and nothing else. Before he could do more than just turn and look at the door he had come through with some consternation, much to Sandor and Tyrion’s badly hidden amusement, the door opened again and Hazel offered him a pile of clothing.

“There’s hot water, brother,” Tyrion said cheerfully as he pulled on his doublet and started fastening the front. “Freshly brought in, thanks to Alyn and Wyot.”

A small pillow whipped across the room and hit Tyrion in the back of his head, making Jaime laugh because, as it had quickly become apparent months ago, Willas Tyrell was not a morning person.

Of course this got Blossom’s attention and the dog leaped off the pallet where she had been laying next to her master and retrieved the pillow, tail up, looking so pleased with herself as she trotted back to drop the pillow on Willas’ head. When he grumbled and burrowed deeper into his blankets she cocked her head to one side, regarded him for a long moment, then, tail quivering in apparent glee, leaned in and barked loudly, then bounced away as Willas grumbled and turned over and, finally, sat up.

“Morning,” Jaime greeted him cheerfully on his way behind the screen in the corner to wash and change. He had time to think while he got ready for the day and he realized that he had smelled a change in her scent weeks ago and had thought nothing of it, which just made him shake his head.

By the time he emerged fully dressed, the room had been picked up and was a solar once more, with the large table in the center of the room suspended on ropes from the ceiling and the several chests moved into position for seating.

“So, brother?” Tyrion asked as Wyot and Rafe came in with breakfast. “Jeyne…?”

“May be with child. I’ll await confirmation from a maester to be sure,” he said.

“Congratulations, brother!” Tyrion accepted the half-pint of small ale that Sandor had just poured him and lifted it in a toast. “To my good-sister, Lady Jeyne,” he said, pitching his voice so Jeyne could hear him in the next cabin. “May the Gods grant her, and the babe she carries, all health and happiness.”

“Here! Here!”

Jaime smiled at his ‘lads’. Even after so few months they were already coming together as a group. He turned to Wyot who was placing the last bowl on the table. “My lady-wife suggested she might only be able to tolerate a sea biscuit soaked in well watered wine this morning. Make sure from now on the water brought into the cabin, even if it is mixed with wine, is boiled then cooled first.”

Wyot nodded and hurried off and then Jaime sat down with his squire and pages to have breakfast. While he was sure that aboard the Lady Joanna his father, Uncle Girion and Uncle Stafford were likely having boiled ham, eggs, manchet loaves, sweet butter, cheese, and wine, Jaime had made sure the Warden was well provisioned with corn of all types: cracked wheat and wheat flour, cut oats and oat flour, rye flour and hulled barley in addition to the other stores because he would have his porridge every morning if at all possible.

He had made certain the barrels of dried and salted fish being loaded aboard had been sourced from somewhere other than the Blackwater, going so far as to reject several barrels that had not smelled right to him. He had done the same to some of the water casks, which the captain had objected to until Jaime had used an axe, stove in the top of one of the suspect barrels, then poured it out before putting a torch inside the barrel to show the green algae already growing on the inside: someone had clearly not been cleaning out the barrels before refilling them. Checking with the other ships in their fleet showed that there were at least a few barrels in similar shape on each ship. After that they had found a cooper to make all new barrels and sent men up the Blackwater to one of the springs that fed into the river to fill them. Needless to say that the local who had supplied the original water barrels was long dead before their own, delayed, departure.

*A bowl of porridge, a jack of small ale, some bread and cheese… And Jeyne carrying my child.* The thought made him grin, and from the look Tyrion was giving him he looked rather lunatic. And he did not care.

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Chapter Text

Howland had just emerged from having breakfast in the hall when a large and handsome raven flew down and alighted on his shoulder and gave a low kwa-waaa in greeting. As he ran one finger down over the breast feathers, Howland reached into one of the pouches at his waist with the other hand and offered a few pine nuts which got an appreciative head bob before one was chosen.

“I take it Father will be here soon?” he asked, grinning as the bird nibbled his hair for a moment.

The reply was a pair of clicks and a burble. “Now,” the raven said very clearly after a slight pause.

Howland let it eat the rest of the pine nuts before offering his arm and when the bird climbed onto his forearm he said: “Best be off then. I’ll let Lord Stark know.”

“Stark!” the raven exclaimed loudly after bobbing its head, then launched itself off his arm, flying up and over the inner wall directly toward the main gate and Wintertown beyond.

“That wasn’t one of our ravens here, was it?” Eddard Stark asked as he came down the steps.

“No. One of ours. My Lord-father and his companions will be arriving ‘soon’. A candlemark. Perhaps two. Raven ‘time-sense’ is not quite accurate,” he explained.

“I didn’t know they could talk.”

Howland shrugged. “Some can. Most cannot, or perhaps they cannot be bothered. I heard not long before the banners were called that Jeor Mormont rescued a raven fledgling with a broken wing and when the wing healed wrong decided to keep it as a pet. I imagine it will learn to say something for its own amusement. And treats, of course.”

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