Chapter Text
“My lady Maeve is not interested in the prince our cousin, Mother.”
Vaella pondered at her daughter, the current Rose of Highgarden, and wondered what magic the Stark princess had wrought to get her dutiful daughter to relax her mien. Galatea was beautiful – well-turned out, of Gardener and Hightower and Targaryen and Velaryon blood, her father one of the richest lords of the realm, born of royal stock.
“She is your cousin, but she is also a princess,” Vaella huffed. “Mind how you speak of her, my child.”
“She was the one who asked me to address her as such – the royal scions of the Winterlands are usually styled as ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady’ like their lordly cousins,” Galatea made a face at the thought. “Save for the ruling princes of the Atheling houses, so the princess Maeve said.”
Vaella made a hum, even as her eyes did not depart where straw dummies were being hacked to pieces. “Mayhaps, a revision of the Winterlands would help,” she murmured. “Daughter mine.”
Sunlight fell on Galatea’s hair and lit up streaks of gold-beaten highlights within her hair, even as her brow furrowed. No doubt she was confused, but she obeyed:
“The great- I mean, the royal house of Winter is, of course, House Stark of Winterfell. Winter is Coming – are the words that even His Grace would take heed. Since the Long Night they have built up the Winterlands. The heir to the throne would be styled as the Prince and Great Steward of Winterfell – for the nonce it would be our young cousin Prince Aelfraed, still left north of the Neck.”
Vaella made a noise of approval.
“By the custom of House Law as founded by King Harlon Stark, First of his Name – apart from the heir, the children of cadets should be downgraded a rank with each generation departed from the Winter Throne, and after five generations to no longer be regarded as of royal blood, though the nobility of their line is noted,” Galatea reflected. “The exception are distinguished cadets who are assented to establish branch houses as part of the Atheling – ‘those of kingly material’, whom in absence of the Stark main line may provide a successor to the Throne, with the proximity of succession ranging from time of house founding.”
She hesitated then. “I… had heard afore from Septon Barth, when he was still serving in Highgarden, that the specific wording would place the Prince of the Moat first amongst the Athelings… Father had confirmed it too. Though…”
Vaella understood her confusion: the fact that the Prince of the Moat had never actually produced an heir of his body or that said heir was oft married back into the Stark main line was its own mystery. If the Moat was an appanage for Stark cadets, the criteria for assuming the title was its own arcane mystery; if it were simply a princely title to manage the Lord Commander, then the title should have been merged into the Winter Throne, since the King of Winter should manage such a strong vassal.
“Your lord father learnt at the White Wolf’s knee for a year and a day, and my lord Garth said that it benefited him all his life,” Vaella mused aloud. “Mayhaps the best interpretation for the Prince of the Moat would be a life tenure. Leave the mystery that is the Moat, daughter mine – it does not bear thinking on, else the good neighbours would note us, as my lord Garth would say.”
Galatea blanched when she glanced down from the tower of Harrenhal, and saw her silver-haired cousin gesture and blow a great plume of flame that swallowed the straw and wood to catch alight. “Gods above!”
Despite sharing the sentiment, Vaella found her background causing her to reproach: “Galatea.”
“Y- Yes, Mother,” her daughter tried to recover her poise.
“All is well… your cousin… merely has extraordinary gifts. Now… right after the royal Starks of Winterfell and the Stark of the Moat?” Vaella questioned.
“House Karstark, the first and longest continuing cadet house of the Atheling if the Moat is discounted,” Galatea recited, tearing her eyes off from the distraction of Maeve Stark. “Founded by the Einheri Prince Karlon Stark, known as the Wolf-Star, of the line of Queen Beira Stark, the First of Her Name. They guard the north-eastern coast by the Shivering Sea – the Sun of Winter, so Prince Karlon swore his line would be – the Karstark words and name were determined then.”
And of the blood of the Army-Breaker, Vaella forbore to mention. A man born of the Moat with ability stepping into divinity, if she dared to compare her Targaryen blood. The latest scion of such blood had just demonstrated her gift, after all.
“And then after the Karstarks, would be House Seaward of Sea Dragon Point – my lady cousin mentioned that her cousin Lady Alarra was trothed to Prince Harald Seaward,” Galatea mused.
“Very true,” Vaella confirmed. “Though I had always thought that, for a house descended of the wolf’s blood the sigil is… rather odd. Red waves and three plovers counter-charged on white.”
“The Records of Wintertide states that its founder, Prince Wulfstan Stark the Seawolf, was fighting a heavily outnumbered naval battle against Ironborn reavers by the Stony Shore, when a flock of three plovers crested a coming wave, the sight of which he took as a sign of overcoming adversity in harmony,” Galatea provided. “After he won the resulting Battle of the Stony Shore with his Einherjar father and brother, he took the birds as his sigil in remembrance – By Sea or Land, Prince Wulfstan swore to ward the western seas; hence, the Seaward name and sigil was made.”
Vaella hummed, turning to lean slightly against the railings of the balcony as she awaited her daughter to continue.
“But those are the Atheling houses of the Winterlands proper,” Galatea’s words swiftly changed tack then. “The remaining two houses stand beyond the Wall – House Wihtburg of Hardhome controls their coast of the Shivering Sea, and the House of the Fist is postulated as another lifetime tenure since the title of its head, the Fist of Winter, was left defunct upon the death of its last holder Prince Wulfric. My lady cousin states that both houses are even more reclusive than most of the highborn north of the Neck.”
“Since they are beyond the Wall, the rule of Winterfell and the Night’s Watch is a bit looser amongst the Free Folk, so Hardhome’s Prince is its warden and the Fist of Winter is the foremost Einheri of the generation,” the voice echoed behind Vaella.
Vaella felt her slipper slip from one foot, with how her soles had burst into cold sweat and she turned.
Her Einheri niece crouched upon the railing of the balcony, her haunches resting on her heels perched atop the railing. The elbows of her arms balanced on her knees, in a gesture that was… both unladylike, and all the more impressive.
Vaella leant over. “M- Maeve. Princess, I thought you were at the yard!”
Three floors down.
“Oh, aye I was, Aunt Vaella.” Bright eyes twinkled. “The master-of-arms decreed that he was going to run out of sword dummies soon, hence I requested his assistance to set up the archery butts. Or mayhaps my lady cousin would not mind fishing? Our great-aunt Princess Alys did mention that the Gods’ Eye is pleasant for boating, though the Isle of Faces had drowned many a riverlord that tried to get close. ‘Tis the season for eel, and we did bring the sauces down south with us, for preparing eel in the style of the Moat.”
“That is… a lovely offer, cousin,” Galatea managed to squeeze out – Vaella was simply too overwhelmed to figure out how the Stark princess had cleared three stories of the tower without anyone’s notice. “Erm, mayhaps our Targaryen cousins would like to join? The wake and vigils are…”
“Aye, our uncle and mothers are preoccupied with the vigil and wake, the least we could do is manage the young ones,” Maeve contemplated, and then answered with a smile like the sun. “My lady cousin, I am unfortunately not acquainted with the Southron bounty, mayhaps you would ask the cook to prepare some dishes whilst I ask our Targaryen cousins?”
“C- Certainly.”
Vaella could not help the gasp as Maeve then fell backwards off the railing. Galatea was already racing forward, but the impossible girl had somehow twisted mid-air, landing on her feet with the surety of a cat, as though she had only done a springing step rather than make a near-impossible jump. In the distance, Vaella could see the retinue around the princes – the older ones, including Prince Aegon – stiffen and regard the Einheri approaching them, spread out as though to rally some charge in a grand melee against the witch, the goddess.
“Mother,” Galatea murmured, “My lady cousin truly has a pleasant temper, if she would still entertain vying for Prince Aegon’s hand.”
Despite herself, Vaella could not help the sudden snort of laughter.
No doubt Alysanne was even more unnerved by their niece – as Queen she would be the highest-ranked woman in any retinue, and yet there she was, watching as Maeve with a wooden comb was styling a cheerful Daella’s hair with flowers effected from twists of silk ribbon, all the while Alyssa took unusual focus and Maegelle infrequent chagrin and Vaegon unfamiliar attention:
“Afore this journey south we visited the House of Extensive Things – the Watch had very kindly lent an exhibit of artefacts, Weapons of the Ages and all. All hands were required – weaving the cords, repairing the scabbards, rewrapping the fittings, polishing and sharpening the blades all.” Her eyes sparkled as she added, “Commander Flint let me polish Dark Sister, the lost Valyrian blade of Visenya Targaryen that was taken into the Watch possession.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Alyssa’s umbrage stood at contrast with the awe in her mismatched eyes. “That our House should lose a sword. Especially a Valyrian steel sword.”
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law – and the Conqueror never asked for it back,” Maeve chuckled, even as she set down one lock of Daella’s hair and then a nice bit of red and white silk was bent and twisted and plaited before a lovely pimpernel of silk was conjured to Daella’s delight. “The way Tobi puts it, there are lots of silly boys who come north to take on some adventurism and conquest and what-not and end up leaving bits of them all over the place – Valyrian blades, armour, the Boltons left their bones, that one Argos Sevenstar left behind the whole prow of the ship – oh, and our antecedent Visenya, she left her blade and her dragon. The bones were cast and copies made, the skeleton takes up a whole new wing planned to exhibit Valyria.”
Even Alysanne had abandoned the pretense of reading to listen, her blue eyes flickering with each artefact listed – the Argos Sevenstar one drew no reaction, though the Valyrian blade and the dragon did.
Maeve frowned here as she fiddled with Daella’s hair, before finally tightening the knot. “There you are, young Daella, flowers in your hair and not a bee in sight. Oh, mayhaps Her Grace Aunt Alysanne could teach how to make a pomander, the smell of cloves and mint would repel insects – or Maegelle, yes? We could visit the stillroom, Harrenhal’s maester could assist if not our aunts or companions. Cousin Letty?”
Laetitia jumped at being addressed from her place by the hamper – Laetitia was a Valyrian beauty, of course, but before Maeve’s vivacious presence she faded like the moon afore the sun. “Ah- yes- a stillroom? I… doubt that Harrenhal has that.”
“Oh, well then,” Maeve’s smile turned radiant, “Certainly the masons could help with assembling the crockery needed to improvise the alembic, Mara has the alchemic knowledge and I did learn some bits and pieces of joinery. We Starks are blood of the Builder – not that our fellow cousins lack skills of their own. Vaegon, surely… No, scents are not your thing, but I think you could carve a bookplate and have it infused with scent – and ink! I think bookbinding would do nicely, and your lady cousins surely knows to help with the binding. Her Grace has a girdle book – no doubt you could make one. Well, Her Grace is a pious woman to carry the Seven-Pointed Star, but mayhaps you could make a commonplace book? A journal, yes. Lady Maisie does very nice sketches – and cartography, her map of Bear Island and the Westwatch-by-the-Bridge is now the definitive map. No, Maisie, be proud of yourself, that Farman woman wanted you for the North-West Passage expedition… mayhaps one day we could welcome you to the House of Extensive Things and you could meet Vhagar, young cousin Vaegon.”
“That sounds lovely to see,” Vaegon spoke, even as his brows tightened. “Though the House of Extensive Things does not sound like it has a library.”
“You look at the wrong place, cousin dear – the House of Runes is the foremost library at the Kingsway, but the Permafrost Library at Hoarfrost Hill by the Wall is the oldest continued library,” Maeve spoke with relish even as she wiped her hands on a small handkerchief. “Aye, I’ve seen them, those acolytes and maesters who come draped in the dark wool of a needed educational departure, and who end up throwing their chains aside to take the hat as Scholars of the Lyceum or taking the black simply for a chance at the Library…”