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Chapter Text

Ramsay Snow was drawn to the Dreadfort’s courtyard by the sounds of horses neighing and men calling out to one another. When he got there, he was taken aback by just how many of their men were there—likely fifty in all and just as many horses—were preparing for a wagonless expedition of some sort. That's odd... Father didn't tell me he was sending men out... Wonder what's going on.

As if on cue, he heard his name from above. Looming overhead stood his lord father, Roose Bolton, who gave him a small, quick gesture to meet him up on the balcony. Warily, Ramsay followed instruction and was regarded coldly by pale, milk-white eyes not for the first of times.

The two men had little in common to mark them as relatives, let alone father-son. Whereas Ramsay was large and stocky like a bull, with all the brawn a bully could want, Roose was on the thinner side with no real tellings of strength and was a couple inches shorter. They both had long, straight dark hair, though Ramsay's had a bit of red to it and ended somewhere between his square jaw and his collar; Roose's was black as soot and well down to his elbows --as long as any girl's. Ramsay's skin was ruddy and fleshy, with great wormy lips and he overall looked much closer to thirty-five than his natural twenty-three. Roose, for his part, was pale, slightly grey with thin, purple lips and a plain, vaguely handsome face that could've been anywhere between twenty-five and fourty-six.

Both men had exactly one thing the same: they both had pale, milky white eyes that pierced through everything.

" 'Ello, Father," Ramsay greeted. "Going for a hunt this early?"

"Raelena Manderly has gone missing."

"Oh? What news is that to us?" Ramsay wasn't stupid --and knew fully well what was going on-- but there had been many times throughout his life where playing innocent had made his father give up questioning him, and that was exactly what he was going to do again.

"She was staying with her Aunt." Lord Bolton paused, as though waiting for a reply that Ramsay didn't give. "Lady Hornwood. Her husband is Lord of the Hornwood?" Ramsay, again, did not reply. "Their lands butt against ours?"

"Oh! That Hornwood? Why, I wonder where she could be? The woods are often so very dangerous for young girls."

"Indeed they are. Now, tell me about your recent... visitor."

"Visitor? I... I've had no visitors."

"The girl you've been keeping." Lord Bolton let out a soft, small sigh. "In the dungeon. Who was she?"

"Oh! Oh, yes, that girl... I have no idea her name," he answered flippantly.

"Ramsay, what did you do with her?"

"I've done nothing. She just... disappeared."

Roose Bolton was not a man for violence. The resounding crack of the back of his fist against Ramsay's face was unexpected. And painful.

"What the bloody hell was that for?"

"Ramsay, Lady Manderly was last seen riding the Hornwood near our border when suddenly her horse took a fright and bolted in our direction. She has not been seen since. You were out on a hunt in that area, and since then, you have been keeping a girl in our dungeons and abusing her --do not interrupt me-- and she has suddenly vanished. Where is she?"

"She ran off. I don't know where. She slipped the dogs and we haven't found her."

"You quit the search. Do you have any idea how reckless--how stupid--that was?"

"In her state, she wouldn't've lasted long. The little bint was practically dead on her feet already."

"And yet, her body has not been found," Roose said, crossing his arms.

Down below, one of the horse's neighed and reared. Some of the men shouted, rushing to bring it to heel.

"Likely swept away by the Weeping Water...?" Ramsay offered, not seeing the importance. 

"And if she wasn't? Or if she drifts ashore and is discovered on our land? Ramsay, are you stupid?"

"What? No!"

"I'm going to look for her. If the Hornwoods come calling, you will tell them that I am doing my best to discover her and that you are at their service--"

"But--" CRACK Lord Bolton struck his natural son again.

"--and you will do all that they ask of you, aside from telling the truth. I know you can be good at lying; be convincing. Do all this, or Lord Stark may descend upon you quicker than crows on a carcass."

"What will you do if she's alive?"

"What I have to." Lord Bolton studied his son for several long moments. "If we survive this, I'll have you leeched. I think it will do you some good."

Ramsay shuddered, but didn't dare object; there was only one thing that had ever managed to disturb Ramsay, and that was his father's leeches.

"Ramsay, you are my son. Act like it," Lord Bolton said, turning away, and for the first time, Ramsay saw Reek cowering just behind him.

Ramsay felt himself swelling in anger and the muscles in hands and arms began clenching up. He stared unblinkingly at the creature, trying to curb his rage until his father left. "Oh, Reek?" Ramsay called out, trying to sound sweet. Reek looked up at him, and flinched. The disheveled older man, while similar in height to Lord Bolton, always managed to seem several feet shorter and deceptively frail. "Come along now, and let's bid my Lord Father luck on his little hunt."

Cautiously, Reek stepped closer to the larger man, fearing rebuke. Once he was within reach, Ramsay lashed out and grappled him close, crushing him against his side and twisting his arm. "After he leaves, you are going to tell me exactly what you told him..." Ramsay growled as he dragged Reek down the stairs.

Chapter Text

When the great stone walls and towers of Winterfell loomed over head, sprawling about the hilltops like a wild and lazy multi-headed beast, the Princess Delmara dropped back from where she rode with her father, at the head of the column, to where her uncles were, not far behind. 

"Judging by that ridiculous look on your face," said Uncle Jaime, a knight of the Kingsguard, "you actually like that rural pile of rubble."

"That, Jaime, or she's thinking about a nice and soft bed," her uncle Tyrion replied. The sound of a wineskin cap being popped hit the air.

She let out a chuckle. "I am sorry to say this," she said looking back at Tyrion, "but Uncle Jaime does have the right of it. I do like the look of it, very much indeed. It's exactly as I had imagined and yet... it's so much more." Jaime and Tyrion snickered at her. She ignored the pair of jesters and considered the castle again. "You know, I reckon you could likely fit two Red Keeps there within those walls."

"You'd be lucky if you could fit roughly a fourth of the people, though," Jaime derided.

"Yes," she admitted, "but what's wrong with that? I could do with a little less cluster, I think." That was something that had been bothering her since she'd returned home from the Rock a year ago; there were just so many people. Everywhere. And all the noise... it was... ridiculous.

"A little less eyes, you mean," Tyrion said.

That too, I suppose... She knew her mother's eyes and ears were everywhere, watching her every move. There was little wonder as to why Delmara usually kept to her chambers when within the Keep's confines.

As she rolled her eyes at him, a sudden thought crossed her, and she remembered how she was seated. "Oh! Uncle Jaime, could you help me?" she asked, pulling a foot from the stirrup and reaching out to him.

"What? Oh!" He rushed to hold her steady, and helped push her leg over to the other side; switching from riding in a man's fashion to the much more 'ladylike' sidesaddle was a troublesome thing only capable still astride due to the procession's slow speed.

Once she got settled, the trio fell into a comfortable silence that wasn't broken until they got close enough to see an outcropping of buildings outside the castle gates, pressed tightly against Winterfell's great grey walls. Wanting to know more about the little wooden and cobblestoned buildings, Delmara cut across the column to the nearest Stark honor guard.

"Excuse me, Ser," she said, waiting for his attention before continuing, "What's the name of that town?"

"That town has no name, Your Grace, but we call it —and those like it— a 'winter town'. And, Your Grace, I don't mean to correct you but... I am no knight."

"Do you follow the Old Faith?"

"I do."

"And what is your name?"

"Dirron, Your Grace, Dirron Hende."

"I don't mean to pry —and you don't need to answer— but are you landed?"

"I am, Your Grace. My Lord Stark gifted me a modest parcel some moons ago."

"And... did your family have a name before you?" she asked despite already knowing the answer —it was given away in how he'd said his name prior.

"No, Your Grace," he said, voice hardening somewhat.

"So —at risk of sounding pretentious— I simply must say: A landed soldier sworn to a lord of the North who is privileged to have a family name and honors the Old Gods is 'knight' enough for me. Honestly, I find it so absolutely absurd that the only reason an honest Northman can't become a knight is because they follow another faith; it's all just so... arbitrary."

"You seem to strong opinions on the matter..." he noted, casting her a suspicious glance out the corner of his eye... despite the faint blush across his upper cheek.

"I do... on that and so much more," she admitted with a sigh. "You... you, ah, said something about 'towns like it'...? What did you mean by that, Ser?" she asked, steering the conversation away from herself.

"Yes, Your Grace," he said, losing a bit of his suspicious tone, "practically every castle or fort gets one when the snows fall. They come and go with the weather, waxing and waning like the moon. Sometimes, families will build permanent structures if they feel that's better for them and their own."

"Who runs the town?"

"That one?, no one; it is small enough still to be little trouble to Lord Stark. For the others, it all really depends. Sometimes the people elect a mayor with their lord's blessing, others still only want someone who will speak with to their lord for them. The winter town at White Harbour is large enough to need it's own council."

"So... the people here take their plights directly to Lord Stark?"

"Ay. Or his Lady or castellan if he is unavailable himself. For the most part, our winter town takes care of itself. Do you Southrons not have winter towns of your own, Your Grace?"

"No, Ser," she said with a shake of her head, "we do not."

"More's the shame, I reckon." He looked over at her with a small grin, saying "I understand your interest now," in a cocky, self-assured way. Both the blush and suspicion were gone, leaving kind, dark eyes that twinkled faintly from the reflections off the snows around them.

Like others who had come before, he thought he had her figured out; she was young, harmless, impressionable, and innately curious. Oh, if only I could be so simple, she thought to herself with a touch of sorrow. How much easier things would be... They weren't far from the town now, and the gates were only a few short blocks beyond, and she didn't have time to dwell on the past.

"Excuse me, Ser," she said, stealing his attention one last time, "I must return to my uncles now. Thank you, Ser, for your time."

"Of course, Your Grace. It was a pleasure." Lacking the ability to bow whilst riding, he dipped his head in regard.

She rejoined her family with enough time to catch Uncle Tyrion slide over to the outside of the column before peeling off completely. It looked like his destination might've been an inn of some sort. She rolled her eyes and stared ahead as they finished their journey.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

The royal host —except for the Queen's wheelhouse, of course— spilled through the gates of Winterfell and into the bailey, King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, spearing the lead. The King and his company were greeted by the whole of Winterfell, it seemed, and King Robert wasted no time in approaching Lord Stark and his family.

The two men, once brothers long ago, considered each other for the longest of times. After dismounting, Delmara noticed Lady Stark growing more anxious with each passing breath, her eyes flicking between the two men, her hands fidgeting in her skirts.

Eventually, His Majesty broke the poor lady's tension in one of the worst ways possible. "You've got fat," he criticized, and it looked like Lady Stark had more than a few things to say about it that were barely being held back. And Delmara was with her on it; it took all her effort to not react. Lord Stark handled the matter with all the grace of a mirror: he looked pointedly at the King's own great belly —which was even more voluptuous by nearly five times— before locking dark, challenging eyes on His Majesty's own.

After a couple seconds, King Robert burst into laughter, dragging Lord Stark into it and a bone-popping hug. "It's bloody good to see you, Ned. It's been too damn long."

"Yes, yes it has," Lord Stark said, pulling back. He hadn't been able to fully disengage himself when His Majesty crushed him close again.

"You have not changed at all," King Robert said. "Nine years. It's been nine fuckin' years, Ned. Why haven't I seen you? Where the seven hells have you been?"

Lord Stark's reply was swift and again had the grace her Lord father seemed to forget. "Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."

Queen Cersei reached them just then, and as King Robert picked up the frail-looking Lady Stark —exclaiming "Cat!" cheerily and twirling her as he did— Lord Stark knelt in the snow and touched his lips to the Lannister signet ring on Her Majesty's hand and gave a solemn "My Queen" in both respect and greeting.

Once each greeting was done, the royal couple traded Starks —King Robert pulling Ned into another, quicker hug— and Lady Stark offered Queen Cersei Winterfell's services. Queen Cersei was about halfway through accepting the offer when she caught Robert's demand to be led to the crypts.

Delmara saw a flicker of elation cross Lord Stark's face before he glanced nervously at her mother.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," Queen Cersei said. "Surely the dead can wait?"

Delmara saw her father's momentary hesitation, and she too tried to appeal to him.  "At least until the end of the introductions, Father?"

King Robert glanced at her and started to soften —but then he caught a glimpse of Cersei and his resolve hardened. "Ned," he barked, turning and walking towards the crypts.

A lantern was summoned and, when it looked like Queen Cersei might protest more, Ser Jaime swooped in and took her by the arm, rescuing her from herself.

The whole of Winterfell watched as the two men —and the dim light of the lantern— where swallowed by the cold, black corridor.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

After a few moments, Queen Cersei recovered and turned to Lady Stark. "Lady Stark, I thank you for your hospitality. I'm sure I will come to enjoy my stay," she offered with a sad, forced smile.

Lady Stark dipped into a low curtsey. "I hope that you do, My Queen."

Queen Cersei gestured a hand out towards Delmara. "This is my eldest, Princess Delmara."

Delmara took a step forward and curtseyed. "My Lady."

"My son, Prince Joffery," Queen Cersei said as a tall, thin blond boy with a mass of curls strode up to them.

He took Lady Catelyn's hand, gave it a quick kiss, and offered a smarmy "My Lady." As he did so, Delmara caught the elder Stark daughter blush and duck her head down to hide it. Delmara had a bad feeling about that.

After Joffery stepped back, Queen Cersei beckoned Tommen and Myrcella forward. "And these, Lady Stark," she said, "are my two youngest, Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen."

Myrcella gave a clumsy, half curtsey —she could only curtsey halfway, to be fair, with poor, round Tommen clinging to her arm— and greeted, "Good day, My Lady," with a bright and cheery grin. "I hope our families will become quite close," she recited, voice barely wavering. The line was something that she and Delmara had work-shopped when the little princess had wanted "something noble, something graceful, something... like what the princesses in the songs would say."

Delmara smiled, please with her execution, and watched as Lady Stark have a genuinely fond look upon the youngest royals.

"It is good to have you and your family with us," Lady Stark replied. "I hope many great friendships will come from this visit."

They don't suspect, Delmara realized, fighting to keep her shock from showing. Very quickly, her revelation turned, giving rise to a stone in her belly; the Starks might yet be too naïve and trusting for the Southron politik...

Delmara didn't have time to think on the possible repercussions of the Starks coming to King's Landing any further as Lady Stark began to introduce her children.

Robb was tall —not as tall as Joffrey, despite being Delmara's elder— and had a mess of wild, copper curls crowning his head. Even from this distance, Delmara could tell his eyes were a piercing, brilliant blue. He was of a decently strong build —neither too thick nor too thin— and with his stately bow, she knew he could get be a decent husband. She did notice the lack of a sword by his side, however, and wondered why.

Lady Sansa's hair was a waterfall of gentle, graceful waves that fell down the length of her back. She gave an elegant curtsey and offered her welcome to the royal party. Delmara noticed that, once again, the girl blushed when, after her curtsey, she glanced over at Joffrey.

The youngest Stark lady, Arya, was the very opposite of her sister —from her posture to her traditional Stark looks. After Lady Stark introduced her and she didn't follow through —even failing to notice the piercing look being sent her way— Sansa had had to nudge her to respond. She gave a quick, furtive and awkward bow, and did not speak.

At the end of the line stood another red-headed Stark; a little boy named Bran. He gave an over-the-top bow, and a nervous grin. "Your Graces," he chirped.

The last little Stark, Rickon, was clinging to his mother's leg, refusing to let go, staring at the royal party with a scrunched up, troubled face. Delmara gave him a gentle smile and a small wave. He buried his head into his mother's skirts and made a cute, angry little noise at her.

"Well," said Lady Stark, "you've all been on the road for a long while, and I'm sure you're ready to get out of the snow and freshen up?"

Queen Cersei gave a good-humoured chuckle. "You see right through us, Lady Stark."

"It's a journey I remember myself, sorely, Your Grace," Lady Stark said with a bitter, knowing grin. She shook the memories away and clapped her hands lightly. "Well now, if you'll follow me, I'll show you to your rooms."

"We'd be much obliged, My Lady," Queen Cersei said before hesitating a moment. Then, she asked quietly, "I don't mean to cause trouble for your arraignments, Lady Stark, but... are the rooms of my brothers close to me? I like to keep my family near."

Lady Stark gave a patient, kind smile and said, "Of course, Your Grace. When you lord husband, King Robert, wrote to us of this visit, he had made mention of it."

"Oh? I had no idea... He didn't tell me," Queen Cersei murmured, her poise faltering slightly.

"Your brothers," Lady Stark continued gracefully, "are roomed down the hall from you, just past your children, if that is alright?"

"Yes," Queen Cersei agreed, giving a genuinely happy grin, lighting up the whole of her face, and an inaudible giggle.

As the two ladies linked arms, Delmara dropped back in line with her Uncle Jaime. She was quietly pleased when Joffrey took Lady Sansa's arm without prompting and that Lord Robb took Myrcella's after quickly catching that she was taken.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

The Starks guided the Royal Family into Winterfell's Great Hall —which was a mess of people and things moving about with a  cacophony of noise— and then through a great set of double doors into the guest wing. Unlike every other castle Delmara had been in, the stone walls were rough and natural —unpolished— and the guest wing itself was partially sunken into the earth.

As they walked the long corridor, Delmara caught Last Stark saying something about "liberty" and "bath"... and hoped that meant what she thought it did.... She bit back the grin that fought its way forward, and crossed fingers that it would still be warm.

They rounded a corner and this new corridor was a lot wider than that last one —easily wide enough to support the hustle and bustle of a large group coming or going— and plenty of dark brown doors with little silver plaques mounted on them at roughly eye-level. A part of her wondered what they had done for her Uncle Tyrion.

All the way down, at the end of the hall, stood a grand set of double doors. Lady Stark produced a key, unlocked them, and then handed the key to Queen Cersei. "Your chambers, My Queen," she said. "I hope you find them to your liking."

Queen Cersei stepped into the room and took a cursory glance around. "Yes, My Lady, these will do quite nicely." She gave a polite, rehearsed smile, and thanked her.

"The room here," Lady Stark said, gesturing to the door to the King's right, "has been prepared for His Majesty, Prince Joffrey. And this one here," she said, waving a hand towards the door opposite, "has been set aside for His Grace, Prince Tommen."

Joffery turned to Lady Sansa, gave her hand a quick kiss and —the shit— ducked into the room and called out, "It will do, My Lady," and shut the door, no doubt already stripping for the bath. When the servants came in to deliver his things later, they were sure to find his clothing leaving a trail straight to it.

Tommen meanwhile —the poor dear— continued to cling to Myrcella. No one, it seemed, had the heart to push him to observe protocol.

Lady Stark then gracefully passed through party of the crowd and singled out the room next to Joffrey's. Here, we have a room for Her Grace, Princess Delmara, and across the hall, here, is Her Grace, Princess Myrcella's chambers.

Myrcella whispered to Tommen, "Look!, We're going to be right next to each other," as she towed him into her room.

The two princesses quickly approved their rooms before rejoining the others in the hall.

"And next," Lady Stark continued, "we have Ser Jaime Lannister, and opposite, Lord Tyrion Lannister."

As Uncle Jaime passed through his room, Delmara looked to the door next to Myrcella's... and had to bite back a laugh. There were two plaques on his door —one at a standard person's eye-level, and the second at approximately Uncle Tyrion's. It was a nice gesture from the Starks, to be sure, even if it was an inch or two too high.

"Thank you, My Lady," Uncle Jaime said as he excited the room, shutting the door behind himself.

Queen Cersei, who had only just noticed who was missing, met Jaime at the door and asked hushedly, "Where is the little beastling?"

"I'll go find him," he whispered back.

As he started walking away, Delmara called him back. She whispered, "I think I saw a brothel on our way in."

He huffed and rolled his eyes, muttering, "Typical," then dashed off.

"Well then," Lady Stark said, bringing the attention back to her with a light clap, "I'm sure you're all eager to rinse the road off and have a moment to yourselves⸮ I'll leave you too it. Your possessions should be along shortly, as well as the rest of your people. If you need anything or have any questions, do not hesitate to ask sometime. Our home is open to you, as are it's people."

"Thank you, Lady Stark," Queen Cersei said.

"Your Excellencies," Lady Stark said with a slight curtsey, then walked away.

Lady Sansa was quick to follow after curtseying to the Queen and offering a sweet "Your Grace."

Lord Robb was a little less quick; for a very small moment, he hung around in the hall awkwardly before bringing Myrcella's small hands to his mouth. "My Lady," he said with a bow.

Then, he surprised Delmara by turning to her. He made strong eye-contact that she returned with a subtle, false demure. From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother's narrow on him.

"Your Grace," he said with a slow, deep bow.

"My Lord," she returned with a small dip of her head and a slight bend of the knees.

Then, he too, was gone.

With the Starks gone, Cersei called out to her two youngest. "Tommen, Myrcella, come along my lovelies. We'll wait together until your Septa comes in."

"Yes, Mother," Myrcella chirped, towing Tommen into the borrowed room.

As the younger two passed through, Cersei turned to Delmara. "You're welcome to wait with us, if you like..."

Delmara smiled and turned down the invitation, despite the pangs in her chest. "No thank you, Mother. I'm eager for a bath and will simply die if I wait another moment. Thank you though, really."

"As you wish," Cersei said, feigning levity even as the shadow of grief crossed her face. "Come see me before the feast, will you? I'd like to fix your hair."

Delmara's smile brightened. "Of course," she agreed quickly, feeling slightly giddy despite the aching.

Her mother and her used to be so much closer, she recalled forlornly, opening her door. Her time at Casterly Rock had changed Delmara a lot, she knew, despite how short a time she'd been there.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

Once in her temporary room, she barred the door —wishing to remain undisturbed for a while— and leant back against it as her thoughts ran about four a time.

Things were so much easier when I was younger, she thought, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and wiping at her face.

Delmara being sent away was another of the things that her mother could never forgive her father for. Sometimes, she wished she could sit her down and talk to her about it. Sometimes, she wished to throttle the woman where she stood.

Being away for those years was something that she wasn't sure her relationship with her mother could be fixed. Sometimes she wasn't sure she even wanted it to be. But, oh, how it aches...

Finally alone for the first time in literally months, she let out one of the longest, deepest breaths of her life and felt all the weight —all the social pressure— of her station slide off of her shoulders, leaving the princess tired and slumped against the solid wood door, feeling so much older than she knew she had any right to.

Once, her grandfather Lord Tywin had described her as "ten and four and turning forty." Right now, she felt twice that.

She gave herself a moment of stillness —right there against that door, the timber bar pressing into her back just below the shoulder blades— before pulling herself together enough to head into the en suite water closet before she fell asleep where she stood.

To her pleasure, the bath water was still rather warm —nearly hot, in fact.

As she stripped out of her traveling clothes —a multi-part ensemble consisting of a burgundy overcoat of brocade with wide cuffs and black, ruffled lace trim over a matching red corset styled after a man's waistcoat and a full-circle black skirt fastened over a white chemise— she decided that, if she had the time before the feast, she would be putting them back on, digging out her stationary box, and going for a short ride.

Sinking into the heated water, she let out a deep, appreciative groan. Gods... this feels so nice... she thought to herself and settled in, the warmth seeping into her bones.

Chapter Text

The sun had set before Delmara had noticed it. With a start, she gathered her things all together —book, blanket, journal, her charcoal set, and her falcon, Belmont— and hastened back to Winterfell's walls.

Waiting at the gates and bouncing on the balls of her feet, was Jalynn Rye, her handmaiden. Lady Jalynn was just a slip of a girl, aged thirteen the same as I'd been when and frail bodied, with light brown hair and nearly-grey tan eyes. She had come with her from the Westerlands —from Casterly Rock and her grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister.

The Rye house was a small, young one, recently uplifted during King Robert's Rebellion, and they had a lot to owe House Lannister yet... though they'd been eagerly paying the bill since.

No sooner had Delmara reached the gate, Jalynn had seized her arm and attempted to drag her off, her mouth running a mile a minute. "I thought you weren't gonna make it! Everybody's looking for you! Your mother's been shouting, your father started drinking every since he came back from the crypts... and Joffrey's been bullying Tommen again. Oh! Bella Anne keeps undoing her braids and I am this close to pinching her ear."

"Thank you, Jalynn," Delmara stressed, trying to cut the girl off.

"Oh! And you'll never guess how handsome Robb Stark is in his dress leathers..." she simpered and Delmara rolled her eyes in exasperation.

They were halfway to the borrowed room now and the yard was full of people going about last moment preparations. The two darted through gaps in the crowd —Jalynn still blathering on all the while— and were ever nearly taken out by a pit-roasted hog at one point.

Jalynn dragged her through a servants' door and they rushed through a few hallways, the heels of their boots clamouring as they struck stone.

Eventually they passed through an unassuming door and appeared in the guest-wing. And then Delmara could hear her mother's voice ringing out, echoing all around.

"What do you mean you can't find her!? She's a fucking princess! You should know where she is at all times! You absolute–"

"Mother!" Delmara shouted as she turned the corner, attempting to cut the woman off.

Cersei spun around to face her, a look of relief beginning to overtake her —before she was very quickly overcome with her frustrations. "Where have you been?" she admonished, her voice hard and abrasive. "You had all of us in a worry —what do you have to say for yourself? Where were you?"

"I was outside, by the Hunter's Gate," Delmara said, only slightly smearing the truth. "I'm sorry I'm late —really. I-I was writing to Uncle Kevan and I lost track of time. I'm so sorry."

"You're a mess..." Cersei said softly, taking in her daughter's appearance. All that running she did had brought about an unattractive, red flush and her hair —once done up in a travel-safe arrangement— had half-fallen out of it's confines and several fly-away curls were... well, flying away, and there was charcoal smudged on her hands and one side of her face. "You're a disaster! We don't have time to fix this..."

"D-don't worry about it  —I'll clean my face real —the dress was already aired out —Bella Anne can brush my hair while Jalynn laces me up —we'll be quick, I promise," she rushedly assured, then hesitated. "Do... do you still want to do my hair...?" she asked, fidgeting and wringing one of her fingers.

"I'm going to have to," her mother snapped, "or it'll be just horrendous..." Cersei gave a great sigh before saying in the tiredest of voices, "Go, go on and get ready. And hurry."

"Yes, Mother," Delmara said, quickly pulling Jalynn into the room before her mother's mood changed again.

Chapter Text

Delmara sat in bed, stitching by candlelight, when she heard a timid knock at her door. She pulled the duvet up to her breasts as Jalynn donned a robe and went to answer it.

"Hello?" the Rye girl said into the darkness.

Something tugged her robe and she jumped, nearly dropping her tiny candle. To her surprise, young Tommen was at the door, wide-eyed and clutching a stuffed animal.

"Is Mara awake?" he whispered, voice croaking.

"My Lady, it's Tommen."

"Let him in," she said, putting away her embroidery.

Little Tommen waddled into the room, silken pajamas clinging to him lightly with sweat. She pushed back her blanket in invitation and he ran to her, diving into her arms. She cradled him, resting his pale head in the dip of her shoulder.

"Tell me, little one, what did you dream about?" she whispered, helping to tuck the blankets around him and his velvet lion.

Across the way, Jalynn sat on her cot and resumed brushing her honey-brown hair.

"Uncle Jaime was fighting The Mountain. Uncle Jaime lost. He didn't get up."

Delmara's jaw locked momentarily. She had nothing but contempt for that brute. "Uncle Jaime won't ever fight him. Grandfather would never let The Mountain harm him." She lightly petted his white hair, and could feel him slowly sink into her touch.

"Why is he so big?"

"Because he ate too much food growing up."

"Like father?"

She smiled. "Kind of."

"Why does he always kill? I don't like watching him..."

"He doesn't always. He does often because he's so big and strong. All the better to protect us." To be honest, The Mountain had never brought her comfort, only terror, but she'd be damned if poor Tommen knew. Thankfully, she was certain of Clegane's loyalty to their grandfather.

"Why would people hurt us?"

"Because Father is the King. Some people don't like that. Because of who our Grandfather is. He's very powerful and there are many who would like to weaken him."

"Why?"

"When you're building something, you start at the bottom and build all the way up, up, up, right?" He nodded. "When you get to the top, that's where you put the roof. Grandfather is the roof of a very nice house with lots of rooms and windows and toys. A lot of people want the house, but we're there. The best way to get us out, is to bring down the roof."

It was a mangled metaphor --she lacked her grandfather's skill with words-- but she hoped it made some sense.

Jalynn gave her a brief, supportive smile. Words could not describe the relief that came from the simple gesture.

"Why don't they build their own house?" Tommen asked, rubbing a velvet paw.

"Building houses is... hard.
"First, you need to pick where you're going to put it. Then you plan the walls and floors. Where do the doors go? The windows? Do you need a stable? What about a well? There's so many questions that need answering.
"And then you need to actually build it!
"Are you using bricks? Stones? Wood? Where are these materials coming from? How are you getting them to the place you picked? Who is doing the work? Are you hiring people to help? Are you doing it on your own? Do you have friends or family that are helping? Do you have enough money for everything?
"If it was easy to do what Grandfather has done, more people would be like Grandfather."

"What if we help them?"

"Not everyone who wants to be like Grandfather wants to work for it. And not everyone who wants to work for it wants help. Sometimes, building the house means you're taking away resources from someone else."

"Why can't they buy more?"

"Maybe they don't have enough money? Maybe they don't know where to get the things."

"Why don't they get more gold?"

"Making gold isn't easy. Gold grows in the ground and need to be dug out."

"Like a potato?"

"Sort of. Usually in the mountains somewhere, but most mountains don't have gold. Only special ones do. That's where you build your mines. Grandfather has a lot of mines, and a lot of people don't. In order to get gold from Grandfather, people have to trade things or sell things, or do all sorts of work."

"Why doesn't he just give everyone gold?"

Delmara didn't have a good answer for that one. She was quiet for a long time, but she told him the truth. "I don't know," she said softly. "That's just not how things work."

"What happens if someone breaks our house?"

"Grandfather will rebuild it."

"What if... What if he's dead?"

A chill fell over her at the thought. Of being weak and destitute. Of having no structure or safety. Of losing everything that came with the Lannister bloodline. Of being back to where she was before her time at the Rock... vulnerable and open to influence.

She took a steadying breath, and then said, "Then we do what we must to rebuild it ourselves. Together."

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

Tommen had just about finished nodding off when a series of furtive knocks hit her door again.

Jalynn rolled her eyes as she climbed out of bed. "What?" she hissed, pulling the door open. "Oh! My apologies, my lady," she said quickly. "Come on in."

In entered Myrcella, in her nightgown and dressing robe. Like Tommen, her feet were bare. "Oh, good!" she said softly. "I couldn't sleep so I went to check on Tommen... he wasn't in bed."

"I have him here," Delmara said, gesturing for her sister to approach. "He had a bad dream."

"Poor thing," Myrcella said, taking a seat on the bed and stroking his long hair.

"What's keeping you awake?" Delmara asked.

"The room is too hot, the bed is too soft. Nothing feels right," she said dismissively.

Delmara arched a brow at her.

"What? I'm not lying!" Myrcella stared at her elder sister before giving in. "Okay! Okay, fine. I also think this place is a bit scary. The walls are too big and it's too quiet. There's no noise."

She remembered that from Casterly Rock. Lannisport had been louder than King's Landing. The Rock had been quieter than the Keep. She gently shifted Tommen over, providing Myrcella room on that side of the bed. "Come lay down," she said gently.

Myrcella's eyes lit up and she quickly climbed under the covers. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Of course, little love. I remember when I first went to Casterly Rock. It was quiet there, too. And the air was thinner. You could hear more birds early in the morning, though... and that was nice. It took getting used to for sure. The first few weeks I slept horribly."

"Really?" Myrcella snuggled closer, nuzzling Tommen's hair. "Your letters made you sound happy."

"I... I was, and I wasn't. It was very different from King's Landing, and that took time. At first it was all so exciting. And then it was too much."

"Why didn't you come back sooner?"

"I... I couldn't," she said, shifting her arm slightly to keep it from falling asleep. "I needed the time there."

"How long will we be here? Joffrey says a week, but I've heard rumor that Father wants to stay for months..."

Delmara laughed lightly. "No doubt he wants to. Mother won't allow that to happen. And neither will Lady Stark. I suspect a month, or nearly so. Too much longer than that, and we'd be rude. Much shorter than that, and Father will be displeased."

"Is a month long enough to fall in love?"

Delmara considered carefully for a while, and Myrcella waited patiently for her answer.

"I don't know. Love is... like planting a garden. It's starts small --just a couple of seeds-- and over time it grows. Sometimes the vine grows too quick and withers. Sometimes the plant starts growing, but then turns. Sometimes it thrives, growing quicker and wilder than you can imagine. All of these plants, are love. But some of them don't make it." She thought back to her previous... 'dalliances'. "Sometimes, you think you're growing a beautiful tomato vine, but then it turns out to be watermelon. The love you have, or had, doesn't grow as you think it should."

"I think Sansa Stark is in love with Joffrey."

"What do you think of Joffrey?"

"I don't know... he's always... difficult."
Her face took on a ponderous expression, and Delmara gave her space to think. Eventually, in a very sleepy voice, she said, "I think Joffrey likes the attention."

"I think he does, too."

"I hope he falls in love with her."

"Oh? How come?"

"It'll be nice to have more sisters... We could have real tea parties and do each other's hair."

"I suppose the month we're here could be quite like that. Maybe we can arrange something?"

"I'd like that..." She yawned, the sound high pitched. "Maybe, in a few days, we can all go on a picnic?"

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

It was well into the night, and so the candles had gone out some time ago, when Delmara felt the side of her bed dip, stirring her from sleep. She could barely make out the silhouette of someone tall and lanky.

The person stretched out next to her and looped an arm around her waist.

A weight pressed gently against her shoulder.

She tried speaking, but no sound came out.

As the darkness and quiet symphony of soft breaths resounded, her eyes pulled shut, and she knew no more.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

When she woke, the room was empty, and her bed was a disheveled mess. Bella Anne and Jalynn were both gone, their dressing robes discarded on the floor or bed, respectively. Her sheets smelled of sleep-sweat and lavender. And she smiled, recalling the two youngers sleeping in her arm. It reminded her of when she'd come back from the Rock; all the little cubs --even Joffrey-- shared her bed for a week straight.

She looked around at the hearth, and saw that it was cold. Sunlight filtered gently through linen drapes. It was probably mid-morning, but no one had come for her.

She sat up and pulled out her embroidery again, and went back to shaping an orange tulip.

About a hundred stitches later, most of the flowers in her little meadow scene were filled out, and someone opened the door slowly.

"Your Grace?" Jalynn called out, peering around the door. She saw Delmara sitting up in the bed and exhaled a sigh of relief. She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. "I've brought fruit and milk, you're grace."

"Thank you, Jalynn," Delmara said, setting aside her embroidery once more.

"How'd you sleep?"

"I slept quite fine," she lied. "What about you and Bella Anne?"

Jalynn snorted, handing her the fruit platter. "She slept perfect."

"And you?"

"I... slept."

"It's not like you to be up so early..."

"It's not like you to sleep in..."

"Did you let someone else in the room last night?"

One of Jalynn's brows arched. "No... I thought you did?"

"Who was it? If you know."

"I kept waking up. A couple of times, I saw Joffrey in your bed. I promise I barred the door after Myrcella."

"I believe you," Delmara said, trying to breathe past the lump in her throat. It wasn't like Jalynn to be forgetful of the big things. But how did he get in? "When you woke, was he still here?"

"The last time? No."

"Was the bar locked then?"

"I... uh. I didn't check..."

Delmara frowned slightly. "Pity. Oh well, I wonder how he worked his magic?" she asked, trying to make light of the situation.

On one hand, Joffrey had come to her, like the others, probably seeking comfort in a strange place. On the other, Joffrey violating her space didn't usually turn out well.

She ate her fruit in relative peace as Jalynn went about rebuilding the fire. All the while she ate, Delmara's eyes roved the room, cataloguing everything.

She couldn't tell, yet, if something was missing.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

All day, she couldn't get the question out of her head.

Eating lunch with her family. What did he take?

Writing letters at the desk. What did he take?

Exploring the extensive library at Winterfell. What did he take?

Having supper and making merriment with Robb Stark and Sansa Stark. What did he take?

The question circled her head like seagulls on the breeze.

Chapter Text

The next day, Delmara paid particular attention to her clothing.

She wore a simple white linen dress and pinned gold lace around the arms and cuff. Over that, Bella Anne and Jalynn fastened a blue floral overdress of powder-blue brocade. A fine collection of woven gold flowers climbed the fabric. A thick gold border framed each of the four panels.

She threaded and pinned a silver filigree brooch of aquamarine onto a pale blue velvet ribbon, and Jalynn tied it carefully around her neck. Two delicate chain arcs and a teardrop stone dangled against her collarbone. She also wore a pair of gold and pearl earrings.

It was understated for court life, but likely extravagant --in a hopefully quaint way-- for the North.

Armoured in her finery, she headed to breakfast, Jalynn and Bella Anne following behind. They were the last, aside from Uncle Tyrion, to arrive.

Most of the Starks had already finished eating, it seemed, but Lady Stark sat next to the Queen, doing her best to make conversation, while her youngest sat on her lap, toying with both food and her laces. Bran Stark was whispering conspiratorially with Myrcella, and it seemed like though neither mother trusted these whispers, neither would intervene. Tommen was eating slowly and holding his stuffed lion, leaving Delmara surprised their mother had allowed him to bring it out of his room. Joffrey was... idly stirring his morning tea and nibbling on toasted bread.

Bella Anne rushed to squeeze herself in between Tommen and Myrcella, and she quickly joined in on the whispering. Jalynn and Delmara, meanwhile, took seats across from each other.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Lady Stark said as they took their seats. "Please, help yourselves." She gestured invitingly at the food.

Much of it had been picked over, but there was still a bit of variety. There was a bowl of scrambled eggs, gone cold. Sausages and a single strip of bacon. Wild rice with raisins. Biscuit rolls. Sliced fruits.

"Thank you, My Lady," Delmara said with a respectful dip of her head.

"We were sorry to have missed you at breakfast yesterday."

"Apologies, My Lady. I was up late the previous night."

"Trouble sleeping, Your Grace?"

"Just restless, I believe," Delmara said, covering her younger siblings from their mother.

"I found the bed to be quite nice after the long road," Joffrey muttered.

She tried not to send him a questioning gaze. She tried and tried... and nearly did before Lady Stark spoke again.

"I hope you are finding your room to your liking, Your Grace?"

"Yes, My Lady. My room is quite nice. More spacious than I had initially assumed."

"I assume you and your ladies have enough room, then?"

"Yes, My Lady. We are finding the room to be quite comfortable. Isn't that right, Jalynn?"

Jalynn set her spoonful of rice down onto her plate. "Yes, Your Grace, My Lady. I'm honestly surprised there's still space after our cots were set up. The room is quite nice and cozy. Thank you, Lady Stark."

"You're quite welcome, Lady... Rye? Was it?"

"Yes, My Lady. Jalynn Rye."

"Forgive me... but I've not yet heard of your house. Where are you from?" Lady Stark inquired gently.

"I... My house is quite young," she replied awkwardly. "We are from the Westerlands, My Lady."

"And how did you come into royal service? If you don't mind my asking?"

"I was recommended to the Princess Delmara by her grandfather, Lord Paramount Tywin Lannister."

"An auspicious recommendation. I'm sure your family was honored?"

"Yes, My Lady. We are a dutiful house."

"Is there any point to this line of questioning?" Queen Cersei asked, rubbing at an eye with a slender finger.

"My apologies, Your Grace," Lady Stark said. "I was merely curious."

"Well, you know what they say about curiosity and cats?"

"I've always found curiosity to be a sign of willingness to learn," Delmara said, taking a bite out of a section of an orange. "Grandfather once said that 'inquisitiveness makes the man'. Well... in this case, woman."

"Father also says that the gods mock him," Cersei replied dryly, but Delmara had caught the twinkle of favor in Lady Stark's eye.

"Have you any plans for today, Mother?" Delmara asked lightly, taking a bite of sausage.

'Drinking' would have been Cersei's response were they alone; "Tending to your siblings" is what she said.

Delmara privately gloated to herself, her pear tasting like victory, as her mother's answer was dry and performative; one of the very things that Lord Tywin claims to be a joke from unkind gods.

The doors opened at the end of the hall, admitting Uncle Tyrion, his shirt half untucked and his hair a wild mess with bits of straw in it. "Glad to see I kept nobody waiting," he quipped. "Good morning, Lady Stark. Morning, sweet sister."

He took a seat next to Jalynn and took the last slice of bacon. "Pass me the wine, will you, Delmara?"

She took the wine carafe from her mother and passed it down.

The rest of breakfast was spent making polite conversation between Uncle Tyrion, Jalynn, and Lady Stark. Cersei would occasionally cut in but otherwise sipped at her wine dispassionately.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

The greater bailey was aflock with dogs and horses at exercise. Two young children, girls, were tucked into a corner, playing a hand game. Delmara crept closer to them, straining to hear their song.

"--ent upstairs to kiss a good fella.
She made a mistake, she kissed a snake!
How many maesters did it take?"

She knew this one: Mistress Ella dressed in yella. Delmara smiled to herself as the girls started counting, wondering how high they'd get. Personally, she was bad at these games, but Jalynn still talked her into playing every now and then.

The girls made it all the way to 92, which impressed Delmara greatly. But then, they started a new rhyme --one she did not know.

"Lilah, Lilah, dressed in black,
Weeping down the river's back.
Held her love and cried so long,
Turned to stone 'fore mornin' song.

Minstrels, minstrels, hide your tune--
She walks the banks beneath the moon.
Sing too sweet, and you may find,
Lilah's arms not far behind."

Delmara couldn't keep her head from tilting to the side. Lilah in black? Where have I heard that? Something nagged at her, but she couldn't place it.

Stumped, she checked on her horse and then returned to the library.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

The library at Winterfell was larger than she'd expected, though quite modest compared to the one in the Red Keep. But what amazed her was how tightly everything was packed in.

There were probably double --or even triple-- the amount of books and scrolls. So many, in fact, that the tables were all piled high in disorganized stacks. The bookcases themselves were crammed full, books stacked horizontally over vertical rows, the shelves bowing under the immense weight. Scrolls poked out from every nook and cranny-- not a single gap had been wasted.

Though the library was overall quite clean, she could smell the dust from the doorway.

She eased herself into the room, reading covers of books and trailing fingers across rough wood.

They say the North remembers, she mused, with libraries like these, how could it not?

The History of the Kings of Winter by Maester Harmune

Wyrds and Whispers: Tales from the Wolfswood

Herbs of the Northern Hills

The Last Greenseers: Accounts of the Children's Sight

The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the North

The Ballads of the Barrowlands

Winter's Crown: The Rule of the Stark Dynasty

Wolves and Wargs: A Guide to Beasts of the North

The Fall of House Bolton

The Silent Sisters and Other Hauntings

On the Succession of the Wardens of the North

Tending Hearth and Hall: A Lady's Guide

Dreams Beyond the Wall by Maester Orlemund

Shadowed Snow: Forgotten Spirits of the Weirwoods

A Compendium of Old Laws and Northern Customs

The Moon Maiden and the Wolf King by Lady Lylara Stark

Of Ice and Blood: Conflicts Between Stark and Bolton

A Stitch in Snow: Quilting Patterns of Winterfell

Old Tongue, Old Tales: Legends Before the Andals

Charms and Wards of the North

Salt-Cured and Smoked: A Cook's Notes for Winter

Hundreds upon hundreds of titles glazed across her mind, until one finally caught her attention.

Tribes and Kingdoms of the First Men by Maester Olivant picked at her curiosity. She knew of the First Men, of course; they'd arrived thousands of years before the Andals. But the thought of them having tribes...? Now that did interest her.

She delicately eased the book out of its home, and took it to one of the cluttered tables. She sat in a chair and gently opened the protesting cover.

"Many an age ago," she read, "lived the First Men. Proud, hardy men with a barbaric edge. They halted the coming of the Andals at Moat Cailin, an ancient fortress of theirs surrounded by swamps and disease.

"But who were these people when left to themselves? This tome is a chronicle of historic legends, myths, and half-truths that have decayed with age.

"I write this as more of an insight into the First Men than as actual fact."

"Found a book of poems, have you?" someone called out, startling Delmara. It was Winterfell's elderly maester.

"N-no, sir. I found a book of histories," she said, showing him the cover.

"Ah. Maester Olivant was quite curious about the First Men. Though unsure of his own researches. It's mostly speculative, that book. We have plenty of other tomes if you're looking for truth and boredom."

"I have never heard of the First Men having tribes before. To be honest, it struck me quite curious. They're always spoken as something of a monolith... to imagine them as having tribes would be... well, groundbreaking."

He smiled at her. "Many times we take the past for granted. It is, of course, hard to know what's real without having been there. Let me know if you have any questions, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Maester...?"

"Maester Luwin, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Maester Luwin. I shall come to you if I have questions."

"I hope you enjoy the library, Your Grace."

"I think I shall," she replied, turning back to the book.

***

The Confederation of the First Men, if such a thing did formally exist, stretched from the Neck to the Wall and from the Shivering Sea to Blazewater Bay. This great land was carved into by five tribes. The names we have for them come from the Andals, their original names lost to time.

East of the White Knife and south Sweetwater River spanned Umbria, the land of river keepers.

East of the North Road and North of Sweetwater River lies Northumbria, the land of the elk lords.

West of the Northern Road and the Wolfswood, stretches the tribe of Northrend, the frost-bound.

South and west of the Wolfswood, until the Barrowlands, dwells Wessex, the hearthbound.

Everywhere else is Essex, the land of the stoneborn.

***

She was in the middle of reading about how Umbria was known for its woven crafts --the passage even included diagrams for basket-weaving-- and shepherding when Bella Anne came to find her.

"Excuse me, Your Grace," she said with a curtesy.

"Yes?"

"Your presence is kindly requested in the training yard." After a couple moments' hesitation, she added, "I can lead you there, if you like?"

"Thank you, Bella Anne. I would be most pleased with an escort." She looked around for Maester Luwin, but didn't find him. She debated putting the book back where she'd found it. But... after a few moments, the nagging itch to keep reading tugged at her, and she tucked it carefully into her arms.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

They could hear the training yard before they could see it. The crashing of steel on steel rang out, reaching them from quite a distance.

Bella Anne led the way across the upper walkways of Winterfell, and Delmara felt dizzy trying to keep track of which buildings were which and what was done where.

The buildings, for lack of a better term, lacked structure. You could walk into the first floor of one building, walk out the second floor of the next, and then into the fourth floor of another --all without climbing a single set of stairs. The entire grounds were a maze of hills and doorways and rough stone walls. She could swear some windows led to rooms with no doors...

With a sigh, they turned the corner and the swordplay rang out clearer now. Down below the walkway, Robb Stark and Jon Snow were sparring. Joffrey stood nearby, bored, and dressed ready to try his own hand against one of them.

Robb and Jon were closely matched, though she noticed Robb's sword beginning to droop just slightly sooner, his blocks coming up later and later. Eventually, Jon struck true with the tourney blade, stabbing Robb Stark with enough force to bruise even under the gambeson.

She gave a polite round of applause --Bella Anne quickly following suit-- and Jon went stiff. He awkwardly shook hands with Robb and turned away, shoulders tense.

Robb gripped his sword and beckoned at Joffrey. Joffrey said something and Jon froze, his sword half back on the rack.

Delmara closed her eyes for a second and quickly prayed that Joffrey wouldn't start anything.

She opened her eyes and saw Robb trying to negotiate with Joffrey in earnest.

Jon Snow quickly started unwrapping his hand, but then Joffrey unmistakably called him a bastard. Jon Snow froze where he stood and Robb Stark's face went almost as red as his hair.

Slowly, Snow started rewrapping his hands, shoulders shaking with fury.

Delmara wanted nothing more than to jump from the balcony and squash Joffrey like a bug.

She watched, stone-faced, as Joffrey swaggered to the center of the square. Jon met him, face strained, dark curls shadowing his eyes.

Snow went to shake hands, but Joffrey spit at him.

Delmara's jaw clenched, and she was embarrassed to be related to him, let alone his sister. Her hand tightened on the rail.

Snow brought his sword in front of him, in the fool's guard (a low, open stance that invited overconfidence), and she watched as Joffrey swung wide; waist-height.

Jon's wrist barely moved to connect the blades. His dark eyes never moved from Joffrey's.

Robb Stark stood next to Tommen --Tommen! The poor, fat little boy was wearing leathers too big for him!-- and looked anxious, eyes flicking between the two of them and her on the balcony. Tommen, meanwhile, looked small and stressed.

Snow lowered his sword again. She watched as he silently goaded Joffrey.

Joffrey held his sword in vom tag, and thrusted. Jon brought his sword up and they binded. Joffrey pulled back and swung again. Snow almost lazily knocked the blow aside.

Delmara watched as they traded more binds and almost-blows. But she noticed something: Jon Snow was only responding to Joffrey's attacks, never leading. He also had a tendency to aim for the sword instead of Joffrey like he was supposed to.

She almost smiled at his meticulous maneuvering.

By fighting Joffrey, he was steeling his honor against the bastard claim. By refusing to give Joffrey a true fight, he was showing defiance. By aiming for the sword, he was ensuring that he wouldn't hit Joffrey --something that could easily be seen as an insult upon the crown.

He had read the room with a mason's precision and had adjusted himself accordingly.

She felt... proud of him. In a strange sort of way.

She internally recoiled from that feeling, knowing where exactly that road led. 

A late night conversation came to mind. 

"Is a month long enough to fall in love?"

"--like planting a garden--"

"--just a couple of seeds--"

And here was one right now.

She imagined holding that little seed in the palm of her hand. Then she crushed it.

Eventually, Joffrey got tired of Jon Snow's not-fighting fight and threw down his sword. "You're a coward! Bastard! Fight me!"

"I won't fight an unarmed opponent," Snow said, lowering his sword.

"He was fighting you," Robb Stark said, voice hard with challenge.

"You think I'm stupid?" Joffrey asked. "Give me a real fight, bastard. Come on then," he said, putting up his fists.  "Man to man."

"I won't fight you," Jon Snow said, turning away. He was halfway back to the sword rack when Joffrey called him "bastard" again.

Jon Snow turned around, looking tired. "And you're a prick," he said. He kept walking, and Delmara bit back her smile. Robb Stark moved to join Snow at the rack.

"You're both fucking cowards!" Joffrey snarled. "Dog!" he shouted over his shoulder. She could hear the shifting of armour under her feet, and had a sinking feeling.

"Ser Clegane," she called out. "Might you escort me back to my chambers? I'm afraid I'm quite lost."

For a couple moments, no one moved. She thought Tommen might've been crying.

"Dog!" Joffrey barked again.

A few seconds later, there were heavy footsteps on the stairs. Joffrey's jaw dropped, and the brothers quickly left the scene.

Ser Clegane, still wearing his helm, offered her his arm. She took it graciously and allowed him to lead her away, Bella Anne following quickly behind.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

At her bedroom door, she thanked Clegane and bid him farewell. She almost immediately sent Bella Anne to fetch Tommen.

It took her awhile, but she brought back a crying Tommen, no longer in sparring leathers.

She held him, running her hands through his hair soothingly.

Eventually, he settled against her breast and started playing with his fingers.

She gently asked, "Did he hurt you?"

He shook his head no.

"Did he yell at you?"

Again, no.

"Good," she whispered, kissing the top of his head. "Now then, I was thinking that we might make some toys for the Stark children... What do you think?"

"I like toys," he said softly.

"I do too. But there's so many I'm having a hard time choosing. What should we make?"

"We could make dolls? Made to look like them?"

"I'd have to find a porcelain or glass worker... I don't know if Winterfell has any, but we can ask?"

He scrunched up his nose. "That would ruin the surprise."

She smiled, pleased that he was taking interest. "So, what can we make secretly...?"

"We could make thimbles for the girls? Wood horses for the boys?"

"Hmm... Arya doesn't like embroidery, so I don't think she'd get much use out of hers."

"We could make marbles?"

"Those are glass."

"We could make tops?"

"We could. Do you make them out of metal? Or wood?"

"Metal," he said quickly. "The metal ones spin better."

"Should we ask Myrcella for advice on the decorations?"

"No," he said quickly, forcefully. "I wanna make one for her too."

"Do we make one for Jon Snow?" she asked, honestly curious of his stance on the bastard. He'd never been around one before.

"Well, he's a Stark too, right?"

"Sort of. He has a different mother."

"But Lord Stark is his father," he said, eyebrows pulling together. "So he's a Stark."

"His parents weren't married."

"I don't care."

Her heart swelled with pride.

"Besides, he's nice to me."

Poor, blessed Tommen, she thought, hugging him tightly. She prayed he never lost his innocence and love.

"Then we make him one?"

"Yeah. He should get one too."

If the whole of the world was ruled by boys like Tommen, there would never be war, and no one would ever want for nothing. But she had to crack his happiness slightly, though it felt cruel to do. "What about Joffrey?" she whispered.

He shrank slightly in her arms. He was quiet for a long time. Eventually, he said, "It wouldn't be fair if he didn't...?"

"If that's how you feel?"

He nodded, but didn't speak.

Tommen is too damn good for this family, she thought, eyes growing misty.

"Are you ready to draw some tops with me?" She asked with a false cheer, trying to perk him up.

He smiled, green eyes twinkling, and nodded little happy, small bobs.

"Bella Anne? Can you fetch me my stationary?" she asked, sliding Tommen off her dress and onto the bed. He flopped down on his stomach, kicking his feet in the air. She ruffled his hair as she stretched out on the bed.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

A collection of drawings later, Myrcella came to get Tommen for dinner.

As Tommen and Bella Anne put away and organized the quills and inks and parchment, Myrcella pulled Delmara aside.

"I heard what happened earlier from Joffrey. I thought I would get the straight of it from you..."

Delmara linked their arms and led her into pacing the room. She lowered her voice so that Tommen wouldn't overhear. "Joffrey tried to use the Hound against Jon Snow."

"The bastard? Why? He's so... quiet."

"Snow wouldn't give Joffrey an honest fight, see, he was toying with him. Joffrey then demanded a melee, but Snow declined."

"I imagine Joffrey wasn't very happy?"

"No. No, indeed."

"Did Snow and Robb Stark get out okay?"

"To my knowledge."

"Did he hurt Tommen?"

"Tommen said he didn't."

A look of relief crossed Myrcella's face. "I think... if it's alright with you, of course, that we'd like to sleep in here tonight?"

"That would be perfectly acceptable." She forced down a sigh of relief. "I think we should make a night of it... let Tommen have some fun."

Myrcella smiled. "I'm sure he'd like that."

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

With dinner came another performance. The Baratheon-Lannister children were (mostly) model guests and gracious conversators.

But Delmara had things moving outside of the adults' eyes.

Before taking her seat at the table, Delmara took both Jalynn and Bella Anne aside, and told them of her plan.  During dinner, the two girls sneakily pocketed different sweets and treats. If anyone noticed, no one said a word.

Joffrey spent dinner rearranging his food and glaring daggers at Delmara, who plainly pretended not to notice him in the slightest. Sansa, as a result, was sullen at the lack of his attention.

Robb Stark was absent from the table this evening, though later Delmara saw him sitting and laughing with Jon. She hoped the joke was at Joffrey's expense.

On her way out of the hall, Robb Stark thanked her for her applause. She knew what he wasn't saying.

Chapter Text

┌───────═━┈┈┈━═───────┐

The spiral stones  --called   "Koru"--  no longer exist south of the Wall, having been destroyed over time, some by weather. These stones were once akin to sacred shrines, similar to the revered standing of the Weirwood heart trees.
However, unlike the heart trees  --which  are for everyone who follows the Old  Gods--  the Koru seem to have only been associated with so-called Greenseers and the fabled Children of the Forest. I hypothesize that the lack of Greenseers makes a direct cause for the lack of care and nurture of these once numerous stones.

Intrigued, Delmara kept reading.

The Koru are thought to have existed over intersections of traveling spiritual energy, like the junctions of roads or webs. This network of spirituality is alleged to have spanned the whole of Terros. While no proof of this concept exists outside of these lands, it is interesting to find that many Dothraki baskets are sewn with a Koru-like pattern, starting at the center of the spiral.

South of the Wall, these stones were most numerous in Essex and Wessex, where they topped hills and some burrowmounds. They were often in quiet, isolated areas. Small footpaths were usually the only marker that you were headed to one.

These sites seem to have been used as meditation points and places to "return to nature." Legend had it that the Children of the Forest would commune with these sacred stones and were able to communicate across vast distances.

Whatever they may have been originally meant for, each of the five tribes of the North kept their own rituals and purposes.

In Umbria, many of these Koru were located near rivers, lakes, streams, islands, and the ocean itself. Legend has it that if one poured water over a stone, it would grant you Sight over the storm, a valuable tool to protect the herds.

In Northumbria, the more nomadic tribe would carve the Koru symbol into antlers and bone, carrying them as talismans whilst they traveled. Some Koru stones dwelt in deep, untouched portions of the forests. It was believed that  by spilling  blood on one, it would guide you to the next hunt.

In Northrend, these Koru dot hilltops, mountain peaks, and are carved into cliffsides, punctuating existence. According to legend, Greenseers would burn bowls of spice beneath these stones to awaken spirits.

In Wessex, small spirals were often carved into the base of the hearth; thought to bring luck and the dead home. It is believed that burning a sacrifice atop one of these Koru would enable one to commune with the dead.

In Essex, these stones were often used as centerpieces for elaborate tunnel systems or sprawling settlements, i.e., Winterfell. It was thought that the Koru possessed ancient memories and were places where oral histories were passed down.

Something that I would like to know is if the First Men believed it possible to cross rituals from one tribe with the stone of another? A curious proposition, in my opinion. As these tribes have warred with one another over the centuries, such a question to me only seems reasonable.

When asked, my Whitehill hosts merely laughed at the notion. It would seem as though they do not believe in each other's magic. In a week's time, I shall ask Lord Glover. If I remember.

I digress. Forgive me.

These Koru were once a significant manifestation of belief in the Old Gods and the Old Ways. How, then, have they come to ruin?

As I expressed earlier, I have concluded that the disappearance of Greenseers to be the cause of their decline. These stones were once the domain of the Greenseer and the folk-witch alike. As remnants of magic have waned, so too, have these practices and  need  of these practices. Essex no longer builds over spiraling crypts. Northumbria has traded tents for houses.

It would seem that the world simply has no further use of the Koru stones.

Delmara closed the book on Olivant's musings and set the fragile book aside, trading it for the parchments of modernity. The notion was not lost on her, though she hoped to find the hidden truths harboured in the past.

She had letters, and of letters, she had many. Most of which would need responses.

The first letter she opened was from Ser Kevan Lannister, likely writing to her in his brother's stead.

Dearest Niece,

I hope this raven finds you well. Your Aunt and I are in good health, and we wish the same upon you and your family. I hope the travel has been pleasant? I pray the Starks are attentive to your mother's needs.

Respectfully, Ser Kevan of Lannister

She pulled out a strip of parchment and jotted down a reply.

Sincerest Uncle,

We have made the journey quite well, though tiredly. We are all in good  health, and  are delighted to hear of yours. So  far the  Starks have been gracious and generous hosts. As to my mother's needs, I  cannot  say --such is her way.

Joffrey has been engaged to the Lady Sansa of House Stark.

Delmara Baratheon

She sealed the letter with a dollop of tacky wax, then tossed it aside.

The next letter was from Aunt Genna. She smiled, coyly wondering about the parchment's weight.

Sweet child, she wrote,

How are  you my  dear? I hope the road has not been too long, nor left you too weary.

Here is a sweet for your siblings. Don't tell your mother.

All my love and well-wishes,
Lady Genna of House Lannister

Enclosed were two butterscotch hard candies wrapped in wax-paper that she'd smuggle to Tommen and Myrcella later. For now, Delmara slipped them into the bottom of her stationery box.

Dear Favorite Aunt,

We have arrived at Winterfell and are being well cared for. I hope you are in good health.

All my love,
Delmara Baratheon

Dear Cousin,

Hi. Father tells me it should be safe to write to you now. How are you? What's Winterfell like? Is it true that the King wants to marry Joffrey to Sansa Stark? Why not you to Robb Stark? You're both the older pair. That makes more sense to me. I hope you like Winterfell.

Love,
Shireen Baratheon

Dearest Shiri,

It is safe to write to me now; we have arrived at Winterfell. I like it! It's so much bigger than the Red Keep! And you can feel how old it is! 

The news is not yet announced, so don't tell your mother, but Joffrey and Sansa are now engaged. I don't know why my father prefers to wed them. I do see what you  mean though , and Lord Robb Stark is a kind, gentle man. I wouldn't be sad to marry him.

Love,
Princess Delmara Baratheon

Your Grace,

Thank you for reaching out to us. While we would like to assist you in your efforts, I am afraid we have no spare copies of books. Each book in our collection is unique.

Respectfully,
Septa Dorna Marryn
Albany Sept

Septa Dorna Marryn of Albany,

I understand. Thank you for your Time and Consideration,

The Princess Delmara of House Baratheon

Your Grace,

Thank you for reaching out to us. We have reviewed our collection and have found many such books in our care. We are willing to send them to you. However, we would like a further proof-of-concept before doing so.

Respectfully,
Septa Penelope Mosser
Rosby Sept

Delmara would have to reply back in King's Landing for this one. She carefully set it aside into its own pile.

Princess Delmara of Baratheon-Lannister,

I am Ser Baric Flowers, late of the Dornish Marches, currently in the North and seeking honorable service. I was at the Trident under your father's banner. My sword is yours should you have need of it — or desire tales from the old wars to pass your nights.

I ask little  --a  bed, a meal, and the right to wear your favor.

Yours in steel,
Ser Baric Flowers

Kindly Ser,

I appreciate your letter. I hope my reply finds you in goodwill. I am, at present, away at Winterfell, and should be some months away from King's Landing. I can promise little, merely an interview, should you come, but there shall be food and wine for an honorable knight.

Show this letter to the Hunter's Gate, and you shall be admitted until my return.

Most cordially,
The Princess Delmara of House Baratheon

Deer PrinceSs DelMara,
Are you a real  princeSs?  Do you have  golden  ShoeS? My Ma  Says  you live in a caStle and drink wine. I am  Seven and  I caught a frog with three  legS.  Do they have frogS in the South?
Please write back.

Hally of Flint Hollow (my Ma helped me write thiS)

This one brought a smile to Delmara's face, and she joyfully wrote a reply.

Dearest Hally,

Yes, little love, I am a real princess. My father is a real king. I do live in a castle and drink wine. However, I only do on special occasions. No, I don't have gold shoes, but I do have a gold tiara?

You must be quick to catch a frog! A fantastic feat! Yes, we have frogs here in the south, but they're a lot smaller. My mother won't let me pick one up, so I'm glad that your mother does.

Kindest regards,
The Princess Delmara of House Baratheon

Your Grace,
House Redwood sends its greetings. As the realm stirs with talk of marriages and alliances, I wonder if you might put a word in for my niece, a fine girl of fifteen and quick with both harp and hawk. House Redwood would be honored by southern regard, and our lands are well-positioned for tribute and supply.

If it please you, we would host you  gladly, or  send our girl to court for your inspection.

Lady Osha Redwood

My Lady Redwood,

I would be delighted to receive your niece at Court, however, I am currently staying as a guest to Lord Eddard Stark. If you could part with your niece, I would be proud to accept her into my care here --and possibly at King's Landing.

House Redwood has always been an astute friend and dutiful ally. I thank you for writing to me.

Sincerely,
The Princess Delmara of House Baratheon

The next letter was a long, formal one.

To Her Grace, the Princess Delmara of House Baratheon,
Trueborn Daughter of Storm's End and the Red Keep,

May this letter find you in peace and purpose beneath Northern skies.

Word travels swiftly through the Crownlands — of your keen mind, your learned pursuits, and the grace with which you carry the legacies of two great houses. I pray you will forgive a lesser house for the boldness of this appeal.

A fortnight past, a lightning-storm set flame to our grain stores. The granary is lost, the yield with it. Though our people labor tirelessly, the harvest alone  cannot  sustain the coming season. We seek only the means to rebuild — stone, timber, and the favor of those who might listen.

If you would speak a word in our name to His Grace's Master of Coin, we believe funds could be spared — a kindness remembered for generations.

Ever your loyal servant,
Lord Danton Farring

Gracious Lord Danton Farring,

Your letter has found me well, rest assured.

I am sorry for your trouble with the Master of Coin. I regret that I can promise no results, but I shall speak with my father on your behalf. I hope his kindness shall bear fruit.

In Service,
The Princess Delmara of House Baratheon

Your Grace,

The lilies have bloomed early this year in Rin House — strange, how some things flourish before their season. It brought to mind how swiftly the world turns: young knights made before their beards have fully grown, and ladies before their embroidery  is  half-finished.

My brother Ser Talwyn was knighted last month by Lord Caron's hand. He has proven brave, dutiful, and rather hopeless in all things poetic — which is why I write on his behalf, without his knowing.

Should any circles of court, North or South, contain ladies of grace and sense who might favor a modest but true-hearted knight, I would be most grateful if you would keep my brother in your thoughts. Even a small word from Your Grace can cast a long shadow.

With fond Stormlander loyalty,
Lady Ryessa Penrose

Lady Ryessa Penrose,

I  should  like to keep your brother close in mind, yet we have not met. I suspect there to be a tourney coming to King's Landing soon. Have your brother enter the lists.

I shall meet him then and keep him closely in thought.

The Princess Delmara of House Baratheon

Your Grace,

We pray this letter finds you in fine health and good purpose beneath Northern skies.

Enclosed is a copy of the Mertyns family genealogy, newly re-scribed by our septon and richly annotated. My lady mother recalls with warmth your noble father's time in the Stormlands, and the oaths once spoken between our bloodlines in the shadow of Durran's halls.

Should it please His Grace, we ask only that it be shown to the King  --not  out of vanity, but remembrance. Stormlanders ought not be forgotten, even in towers of ice and marble.

In honor and humility,
Ser Harland Mertyns

She knew what it was really: a veiled proposal. By calling upon her father's nostalgia, heritage, and cultural fervor, Ser Mertyns meant to succor favor and a close match. Her cheek twitched as she set the letter aside, not ready to reply just yet.

Your Grace,

The girls of Castle Carchen have spoken of you in glowing terms, and I dare say your name has outshone even the sun in their stories. It is with this boldness that I write — on behalf of my daughter, Marisse.

She is thirteen, clever with tongue and thread alike, and dreams of dancing in the Queen's summer retinue. If such a pageant or household selection is forthcoming, I would ask that her name be placed among your considerations.

We know our  House  is small and far, but acorns grow strong in quiet forests — and loyalty, once planted, runs deep.

In sincere hope,
Lady Marla Smallwood

Lady Marla Smallwood,

I know currently of no coming pageants and festivities , however I'm  sure my Lady Mother would be delighted to host your Marisse. She is often fond of child exhibitions.

Allow us time to return to King's Landing from the deep  North, and  to get settled. I shall convene with my mother to see if her schedule provides ample time for your daughter  --and  her friends.

The Princess Delmara of House Baratheon

Dear Princess Delmara,

Hello. My name is Cait Waters. I don't think you've heard of me, but I was just told that we are sisters, by our royal father, King Robert! My mother is a Dyer from Corn Row. I hope that we can meet! I don't ask for anything but your time and goodwill.

Affectionately,
Cait Waters

Delmara reread the letter countless times, her blood running colder and colder until she could practically feel little chips of ice within.

I should burn this, she thought numbly, eyes straying towards the hearth.

She couldn't move from the vanity seat.

Her hands started shaking.

This has to be a joke... She knew her father had slept with other women. She was no fool. He was statistically likely to have bastards in every region he'd visited...

She read the letter again. It didn't sound like a joke.

She swallowed hard. She set the letter down on the vanity top.

Cait Waters... Cait Waters...

She took a deep breath, then carefully folded the letter and slipped it into her stays, against her breast.

A secret like this should stay close, she thought. I'll have to ask the Spider about this...

She was reflexively reaching for another letter --anything to distract herself-- when someone knocked at the door.

"Come in," she said, trying to keep her voice level.

Jalynn opened the door. "Your Grace, your horse is ready."

"Thank you, Jalynn. Please, see my correspondence is sent off, would you?"

She stood, the room swaying slightly, then headed out the door.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

Delmara slipped from her escort, riding hard and fast over the grassy hills, away from Winterfell. Her lungs struggled against her corset and her eyes watered --though she blamed the wind for that.

 She could hear the Lannister and Stark soldiers not far behind her.

She pressed the horse faster.

To her left, she could see the shadowlike line of trees in the distance. She steered her horse towards it, careful to not jerk the reins.

The pounding of hooves and the rush of wind was all that she could hear. The bump and jolt of the saddle was the only thing she could feel.

She stooped in the stirrups and leaned forward. The jolting stopped rattling her teeth, but she could feel each hoof-fall more sharply in her spine.

She could feel the parchment against her skin.

She wasn't running from it. The possibilities. The probable truth.

She was running from her fury. From her mother's shadow.

Part of her wanted to find the child and strike her for intruding on her life.

Part of her wanted to find the child and welcome her into her fold. Jalynn, Bella Anne, Myrcella, Tommen... They would all be pleased with the new addition. Myrcella's always wanted another sister...

She wrenched herself away from those thoughts and ducked under a low-hanging tree branch.

Now is not the time... Now is not the time to lose your poise, she scolded herself.

Her hand itched to smack something. She clenched it tightly --safely-- around the reins.

She pictured a little girl with black or brown hair. Wild curls. Would she have his eyes?

Did it matter?

From the sound of the letter, she was either around 12 or very intelligent for someone younger. Too close in age to Myrcella. Joffrey would be furious.

She could picture two girls holding hands and sharing tea. One blonde with green eyes. One dark with blue.

She shoved the image aside and clenched her teeth. 

The trees slowly grew closer together and she steadied the horse into a trot.

She could hear her escort pressing closer. Horse hooves and shouting.

She pictured bringing the girl --Cait Waters-- to the Red Keep. The queen would claw her face off. Have her banished to a black cell.

Joffrey would want her dead where she stood.

Father... father...

She shook her head, unable to picture how he'd react; it seemed like the only child he had taken any time with had been her... But even that had ended.

Just like my youth.

She bit her tongue lightly to keep from heading down that line of thought.

Cait... Cait Waters... She was safe. She'd never had to worry about instructors or secretaries or Rosby...

Something darker than anger stirred within her chest. Something coiled within her like smoke, dark green and festering.

She almost wanted to expose the child before the whole of Court; to have her innocence stricken from her and ripped to sheds before her own eyes.

She wouldn't. She wasn't Cersei. She was determined to not be her mother.

But, oh, how it gnawed at her intestines.

She slowed the horse to a standstill. In the overgrown silence of the woods, she took a deep breath and steeled her heart.

└────────═━┈┈━═────────┘

Chapter Text

┌───────═━┈┈┈━═───────┐

Cait almost wished she hadn't written that letter.

Not knowing how the princess --her sister!-- would respond was agonizing.

She knew it took letters their time to travel, and with her in the North as the rumors were, some time it would be. But, oh, the silence and the waiting...

"Dārilaros," her mother said, calling her to the table to break their fast. The sky was still purple, and they were due for a long day ahead of them.

Her mother had scolded her fiercely for writing the letter. "Do you think she'd care? If your father cared, you'd be there now. That man has no life for you. Only with me, Dārilaros."

But it had been a few days, and though her mother's lips still pursed when she looked at her, there was peace between them.

Barley bread, slices of cheese, and two bowls of brown porridge. A little jar of honey.

Cait helped her mother set the table, and then they both prayed to the Seven. Quietly, Cait added her own prayer to the Stranger that Delmara would write back.

She knew she wouldn't be welcomed into the castle or anything like that. And that's not what she wanted.

She just wanted someone to talk to. That's what sisters do, right? They talk about life. They tell each other secrets.

She looked at her mother and tried to recall the last time her aunt had come to visit. It had been probably a few years ago... Two? Three? It couldn't be five. But it had been long enough that Cait could scarcely remember her laugh.

Even if Delmara never wanted to meet her, she hoped at least that she'd be willing to keep a correspondence.

Her mother added some honey to her bread and then passed the little jar to Cait. She drizzled some over her porridge, then licked the remnants from her blue-stained fingers.

She didn't think it was too much to ask for... A few letters, here and there? Delmara was always writing letters, they said.

They, being everyone in King's Landing. Since she'd come back from Casterly Rock, she'd been writing to all sorts of people --even the small folk.

Cait had even heard about her campaign to refurbish the bathhouses. And her charity concerts!

Surely, surely, the princess would answer her sister, right?

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

Delmara sat by her father's side, listening carefully as he went over excited plans and daydreams with Lord Stark.

They would tour the Crownlands and then the Stormlands. They would host tourneys and festivals. Introduce Ned to Jon Arryn's secretary, Willem Boding, who kept an apartment within King's Landing.

They were currently discussing again how Lady Lysa Arryn, Ned's good sister by marriage and Jon Arryn's wife, had quickly fled the capital after her husband's death. Disappearing with her was their frail son, Robin.

Ned meant to foster the child, while Robert was surprisingly adamant that the boy should be sent to Casterly Rock.

Delmara sat there, sipping tea and pretending to be stupid. Present and beautiful, her mother said. Never let them see you think, her grandfather instructed.

She resisted the urge to shift in her seat.

If Lysa Arryn had half a mind, she'd send the boy to someone, rather than keep him alone in the Eyrie. But Delmara held her tongue. She doubted the woman would give up her son easily.

Lady Arryn's sharp eyes had always been on her whenever she tried speaking with the boy. That woman held no love or trust for any of them --and even less for the capital itself, she assumed.

Lady Lysa had fled the city so quickly after her husband's death... Delmara couldn't help but wonder if she'd known he was going to die or if she was scared of something. Someone.

Delmara's mind flicked quickly over to Lord Baelish's tight little smirks. That man always seemed to have something going on. Like he knew where the bodies lay. Because he'd put them there.

She sipped her tea and added a little extra honey.

Her critique of Baelish felt shallow, and she knew why. As a man who was originally of small consequence and little inheritance, it was amazing how far he'd risen on his own. Figures who fly high often cast dark shadows beneath them.

How many men had he left wanting? How many women had he ruined?

He seemed to be a man built on promises. On lies.

But from what Jalynn said, he seemed to have gotten along fairly well with the severe Lady Lysa Arryn.

She supposed the two of them might've kept some fondness over the years since his days at Riverrun, under Lord Tully's care.

She idly wondered that maybe Theon Greyjoy and Sansa Stark might share a same regard one day...?

Much as she hoped Bella Anne and Tommen would share. Not brotherly, not romantically, but certainly more than friends.

It was obvious that Greyjoy's connection to Robb Stark had done well. But to the others? She couldn't quite tell; they were a hard bunch to read. Very different from the chirping faces and glitzy gifts of the South. No empty compliments or perfumed tokens.

The rustle of parchment against her breast caught her as she breathed just slightly too deeply.

Cait Waters... This world has no place for you. It would be unkind to reply, she thought, sipping her tea and then setting it delicately on its saucer. She folded her hands in her lap and pretended to find amusement out the bright, high window, and continued to listen to the men talk.

"Robert, I don't give a damn about Lannister merits or honors. You know me better than that.

"Ned, you can only say that because you aren't sleeping with one," Robert said, laughing with his belly. "The Lannister name is the only thing keeping me on the throne. The boy must be warded by Tywin Fucking Lannister."

"I only seek my nephew's good being."

"And you shall have it! But the boy must go to Tywin."

"I will not have my nephew sent into a pit of vipers."

"Look! Look at Delmara!"

She turned to face him inquisitively.

"She was a child," Robert continued, "and Tywin made her into a lady. He'll take that boy and turn him into a man. Child! Mara! Tell Ned here about how you were fostered under Tywin."

"I..." she started, then quickly took a sip of tea. "Lord Stark, I was sent to Casterly Rock by my father a few short years ago. I went there, a young girl with ribbons and bows in her hair and came back a woman solidly made. I spent much of my time by my grandfather's side, learning governance and management with a hands-on approach. It was not easy, and he was not always kind, but he was never cruel and prepared me for many a dark truth. I owe my grandfather much for who I have become."

She sipped at her tea again, hoping she'd toed the line between the two men. In truth, she felt as though young Robin Arryn should be fostered by her grandfather when he was a few years older, as she had been, since there were no children his age and he seemed quite young at heart. But she was certain that the boy needed to be separated from Lady Lysa's skirts as soon as possible.

Ned Stark studied her with his sharp grey eyes. She refused to fidget.

"The boy should stay with family," he eventually said, quietly pivoting the conversation. Whatever he'd found in her had encouraged him.

She hid her smile behind her teacup. They do say that the North persists...

She thought back to the book she'd borrowed from Winterfell's library. Essex... The stone born... Great and hardy men. She found the description apt towards Lord Stark.

The two men argued back and forth, and eventually the subject simmered out and slipped away with a letter from King's Landing --a basic summary of  the court's progression.

It hadn't.

Delmara took that as an opportunity to bring up Lord Farring's letter.

"Father, she said, aren't the Farring lands sworn directly to the crown?"

"I... I think so?" He looked to Ned to check. Ned gave him a subtle nod. "Yes. Why?"

"Father, I've heard that there was a storm some weeks ago, and that their granary met with flame... Is it our duty to help them?"

"Only if they ask," he said gruffly.

"I've been keeping a correspondence with Lord Farring, as you know, and he says that he's appealed to the crown for aid."

"Oh. Well, then. Good."

"He's received no assistance."

His kingly brow furrowed. "That's bullshit. If he needs help, he gets it."

"His appeal has been denied."

"What? What does he want?"

"Some gold for supplies and a fresh harvest."

"We don't have a harvest."

"He wants the gold for one. So that he might purchase some for his people."

"Then he'll have it. I don't see the problem?"

"Shall I write to the Small Council?"

"No," he grumbled, reaching for a piece of parchment and a quill. "I can write my own damn letters..."

Cait's own parchment burned against her skin.

"I should leave the two of you to run the fucking kingdom," he muttered.

Ned Stark's grey eyes studied her once more. She returned to staring pleasantly at the window. Her tea sat cooling between her gloved hands.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

Delmara found Lady Stark overseeing the kitchen's preparations. The smell of stewed onions and broiled meats permeated the air. Lady Stark was sampling what looked like a brown gravy.

"Excuse me, My Lady," Delmara began. "Might I have a word with you?"

"In just a moment. I'll meet you in the hall," Lady Stark said dismissively.

Delmara returned to the hall and waited an agonizingly long time --probably only a few minutes, in reality-- until Lady Stark appeared.

"Yes, Your Grace? How may I assist you? Is there something amiss in your chambers?"

"No, My Lady. My chambers are impeccably well cared for. Rather... I have a bit of a favor to ask you, if that's okay? I would hate to intrude upon your hospitality. Especially when you already do so much."

Lady Stark's brow furrowed. "Oh? What could you need?"

"May we take a turn in the hothouse? I would prefer to keep active."

Lady Stark offered her arm dutifully, and the two went out.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

The Winterfell hothouses were, as according to their name, hot. They were also rather humid and overgrown with various shrubs and plants and trees. Glass panes fully encased the area, clouded over with condensation. A narrow, damp brick road lined the center like a spine.

"My Lady, I assume you are in acquaintance with the Redwoods of Beverly Fort? With Lady Osha Redwood in particular?"

"I would say that I am not well-acquainted with them, but that we have met. They are sworn to House Glover. I have heard that Lady Osha is a gracious host and has a talent for singing."

"And have you heard of her niece?"

"Jeyne Redwood, I believe. Lady Osha Redwood's husband's late brother's child, if I recall correctly. Fourteen and well-raised. We have not had the pleasure of meeting. Your Grace... does House Redwood concern you?"

"I've had a letter recently, My Lady." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Lady Redwood wishes for me to travel to Beverly Fort to review her niece for court. I think she means to have the girl gauged for marriage."

Lady Stark replied slowly, "I've heard Lady Redwood has been... unsuccessful in conceiving. It is my understanding that her niece is to be their heir." She took a deep breath. "Are you here on your mother's behalf?"

"No, My Lady. Lady Redwood wrote to me specifically, and I would rather my mother know nothing until I have come to a decision regarding the matter. It was... it was also mentioned that she would be willing to send her niece to me at King's Landing."

"That's quite a distance."

"Indeed it is. And I would feel awful to make a young girl cross the Seven Kingdoms just for an interview..."

"Why not have the girl come here? She'll be close to home and still under your eye."

"That's actually what I was hoping to ask you. I know that my family means to stay for a few more weeks, and that you are already going out of your way for us. I would hate to intrude upon you and yours."

"Your Grace, you are most kind to think of us. And I appreciate your asking. For as long as you are here, she will be welcome."

"Thank you, My Lady. I greatly appreciate you and your generosity."

"Don't thank me yet," she said with a small smile. "We still need to weather this visit."

"I hope my family hasn't been too much stress upon you?"

"On the contrary," Lady Stark said. Delmara had the sneaking suspicion that she wasn't being honest. "I simply... never expected Lord Tyrion to drink or read so much."

"He's going through your wine and candles, I see?"

"We still have plenty, don't fear. I just wasn't expecting a man of his..." she trailed off and Delmara knew she was trying to phrase his dwarfism delicately. "I never expected a man of his stature to go through more than the average man's share."

"He's a very learned individual, and he enjoys reading. He compares it to my uncle Jaime sharpening his blade. Each man must be prepared in their own way, you see."

"But the wine? Where does it go?" Lady Stark asked quietly.

Delmara gave her a polite grin. And then shrugged.

The two ladies walked in silence for a short time before Delmara asked, "My Lady, when Miss Redwood arrives, what should I look for in her?"

Lady Stark was quiet for a moment, lost in thought and memory. "I wasn't much older than her when I first went to court. She'll be young and eager to impress. Mostly, she'll be terrified.
"Let her show you what she was taught. Let her show you what Lady Redwood prepared her for. But look under that. Look at her when she thinks you aren't. Let her be herself. Either she'll charm you, or she won't. Either she's ready, or she's not."

"Thank you, Lady Stark. I've never reviewed anyone for court before. To tell the truth, I find myself quite nervous."

Lady Stark gave her a gentle squeeze. "It's a high honor and a great responsibility, to be sure. It's not really something that one can be trained in or prepared for. You learn as you go, getting by on a woman's intuition."

"And what if you don't have that?" Delmara asked dryly. "A woman's intuition..."

"Then... I suppose you'll make mistakes. You'll be laughed at for some of them, but in time you'll come to learn and one day you'll look back and laugh yourself."

"What if I let someone down?"

"Who could you possibly be letting down? Other than yourself?"

Delmara's grandfather's emerald eyes flashed in her mind like angry, glittering stones. Her stomach clenched.

"It's something nearly every noble woman goes through. We'll understand."

"What if it's not the women I'm concerned of?" She paused,  considering a low-hanging peach. "May I?"

"Of course, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."

Delmara plucked the peach gingerly and took a bite from it, appraising the sweet flesh. "What if I'm worried more about what the men will think? And of my mother?" she asked.

"Well..." Lady Stark began, linking their arms once more. Delmara could feel her deep breath rather than hear it. "Many a man will not understand women's issues, to put it frankly. They'll talk, and laugh, and judge. But they've never been there before, and probably never will. Men think it's easy to take a page or a squire and turn him into a man. Sometimes it is. But they learn. And the ones who do remember.
"Now... as for your mother... I don't know what to say. Surely she's sponsored her own fair share of girls?"

"No, My Lady. At least, I don't recall her ever doing so."

"Well. I expect she'll demand perfection. Most queens do. But as your mother, she should be understanding. She should probably be willing to speak with you behind closed doors, giving you advices and some such."

"What if... my mother is overly critical of our sex?"

"Well... I hope she likes disappointment. Females, like men, are messy creatures. Hard to predict and contain. We never really outgrow who we were as children, we just learn how to hide it."

There was another long pause, during which Delmara ate her peach, careful not to let the juices run.

"You're worried about your grandfather, aren't you?" Lady Stark eventually asked.

"I'm always worried about what he thinks. He's a great man." She lightly rolled a lost stone back into the garden with the toe of her velvet shoe. There you go; home. She smiled slightly.

"Many 'great men' can be too demanding. Especially of one so young. It's fruitless to say it, but don't let his expectations get to you. A tree can not grow to full strength when planted in shadow."

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

Tommen found Delmara returning from her walk with Lady Stark, the two women arm in arm. He pulled up short and gave a clumsy bow to Lady Stark, his hands still clutching at rolls of parchment. "Lady Stark! Hello!"

"Hello, Prince Tommen," she said graciously.

"Can I have my sister?" he asked, not meeting her eyes.

"Of course, Your Grace. Thank you, Princess Delmara, for our walk. I found it to be quite refreshing."

"I did as well, My Lady. Thank you for your time, words, and accompaniment."

Lady Stark returned to the kitchens and Delmara took one of Tommen's chubby hands.

"Are you all done? Are we ready to find the blacksmith?"

"Yes! I think I finally finished the designs! I'm giving Sansa roses --don't you think they'd be so pretty in her hair?-- and Jon a wolf like Ghost! I know they all have Wolves but I think Ghost likes Jon more than the others do --oh, but you didn't hear me say that!"

"Ghost does seem very attached to Jon Snow, doesn't he?" she asked gently. "What about Arya? And Bran?"

"For Arya, I was thinking ships, but I think I like horses for her. I'm giving the ships to Robb Stark. And for Bran? He makes me think of birds and bats when he's climbing."

"What about for little Rickon? What do we give to a child that small? We don't want him to eat it, do we?"

"You know the spinner I have from Aunt Genna?"

"The silver and red one with the gold plunger?"

"Yeah! I brought it! It's in the wheelhouse. I thought maybe if I gave it to him, then he wouldn't feel left out?"

"I think that's a very generous thought. I'm sure he'll love the bright colors."

With Uncle Jaime in the White Cloaks, Delmara figured Tommen was probably next in line for Casterly Rock; all the wealth and power that a child like him couldn't imagine. And here he was designing toys for others and giving a piece of himself away...

She thought back to stories of her great-grandfather. Of Tytos Lannister.  She resisted a shudder at the realization that Tommen could easily fall down that same road to ruin.

I won't let that happen, she vowed, accidentally clutching his hand a little tighter. He'll keep his kindness and his wits.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm just so proud of you," she said. "You're always so thoughtful and kind. One day, you'll change lives."

"I don't want to. I want to stay with you."

Her heart ached a little, and her vision grew slightly blurry. "You do understand that I'll have to get married, right? I'll have a husband. And children of my own. I'll have a castle to take care of."

"Then I'll get a castle next to you."

She smiled painfully. "Blessed child, it doesn't work like that."

"But I'm a prince. Mother said that we make things the way we want. And I want to stay with you."

"Don't you want your own wife? Your own children?"

"I'll have them. In a castle next to you."

He looked quite pleased with himself, and she found that she couldn't argue with him. She ruffled his hair and gave him a quick hug. Then she pulled him along to the blacksmiths.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

The forge was a small building made of rough grey stone and surrounded an outdoor working area. There were all the commonly expected amenities. Hammers and anvils. A furnace that had melted the early snow around it. Troughs of water and barrels of scrap metal. Tools hung from a wooden rack bolted to one side of the building. Tables covered in half-finished projects lined another wall.

At the center was a large, burly, grey-haired man who was hard at work on what looked like horseshoes. He was dressed in a sleeveless linen tunic and thick wool trousers. A brown apron with holes and smudges on it was loosely tied around his waist. There were singed marks scattered across his long grey beard.

If he saw them approach, he didn't respond. At first.

Delmara and Tommen waited patiently as the blacksmith worked at his craft and finished shaping another horseshoe. He tossed it into a pile of others that rested in the snow, then he heavily set his hammer down and wiped his hands on his apron.

"What kin I do ye fer?" he asked, voice rough and graveled.

Delmara spoke. "I hope you don't mind, but we've come to call upon your skill. Are you, perhaps, able to make tops? Little spinning tops?"

"The child's toy? Ye."

"And are you well at engraving?"

"I 'ave an even 'and."

"My brother and I were hoping to purchase some customs tops from you. Would you be willing to consult us with a quote?"

"How many am I makin'?"

"One for each of the Stark children --excepting the youngest-- as well as the two other royal youths?"

"So then, six?"

"Actually... we were hoping to give one to Jon Snow as well."

His eyes twinkled even as he raised a brow. "The bastard?"

"He is one of Lord Ned Stark's children."

"Aye."

"We shan't exclude him."

He smiled. "Good. Seven tops? Should take me a few days with my other orders to fill. What did ye 'ave in min' fer engravin'?"

Delmara smiled slightly and let Tommen take over; he rushed forwards and started showing off his plans for the toys.

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