A Proper Lady Wolf

(Sansa Stark)

'Cause I, want, it, thaaaaaaaat waaaay~

I clapped my hands in joy as the three women finished their song. The other ladies in the sewing room likewise applauded and made noises of admiration. Naturally, my sister just grunted, not even looking up from her work.

Leave it to Arya to be sour in the face of anything nice.

So annoying.

Surprisingly, one of the singers appeared to share my sister's mind, directing a glare at her companion.

"Must you?" Alysanne asked crossly.

"No one forced you to sing along, Your Grace," the Lady of Songbird Hall replied, delicately shrugging a narrow shoulder. "Though it'd be quite tragic if you declined; we harmonize so well together."

"It's true," I added. "It was a wonderful performance, Your Grace, I'm honored have heard it."

It was such a beautiful song. Vague, perhaps, but very pretty. And I swear by the Seven, Arya, if the princess catches you making that face and you ruin everything, I am going to-

"You're too kind, Sansa, and please, feel free to call me by name. But I must admit I had no choice in the matter. This one," Alysanne scoffed, jerking her head at Lynesse. "Well knows that I'm helpless to resist whenever she pulls out that song. And somehow she's already gotten poor Ros trained as well. Where did you even find the time for that, Lyn?"

"Lynesse taught me several of her works while you were otherwise occupied on the journey north," explained the Frey maiden, before her brow furrowed in thought. "Though I did only hear that particular tune but once before. It just stuck to my mind just so easily. It would be hard not to recall it."

"You see!" Alysanne exclaimed, waving a hand at Lady Roslin. "That song is far too powerful. Resistance is futile, none can escape its siren call."

"It's just a song, Aly," Princess Myrcella spoke up from where Septa Mordane was instructing her and little Beth Cassel. "You can just not sing if you don't want to."

"Nope, I am completely and utterly incapable."

"I think we can all agree with you on that," Lady Songbird said with a pleasant smile as Alysanne's glare found her once more. "Far be it from any of us to contradict royalty, after all."

The princess's glare intensified.

The Songbird's smile did not falter.

Alysanne huffed and turned back to her stitching, muttering. Something about the back streets being a mistake? I couldn't make sense of it.

As the conversation lulled I shot a quelling look at Jeyne, whose lips twitched dangerously. "I don't care if everyone can hear Myrcella's muffled laughter, we are not going to make fun of my Joff's sister!" -is what I tried to say with my expression.

(A lady must be subtle.)

It would not do to have Alysanne telling tales to my future husband or worse, the Queen, that could paint me in a bad light. Thankfully, Arya was still too busy sulking to cause any trouble of her own. A few giggles wouldn't destroy all my precious hopes, true, but why needlessly antagonize one that was so close to my beloved?

Even if she did walk right into that one.

"Is that your the sigil of your House?" I asked Lady Roslin. I recognized the twin towers of House Frey that she was embroidering, of course, but asking the obvious was sometimes necessary to reinvigorate a fading conversation. As Mother was not here with us, it fell to me to draw attention away from Alysanne's grumbling, as a good host should.

(A lady must be diligent in her duties.)

"Ah, yes, it is," Roslin replied, her large brown eyes swiveling towards me. "I suppose the ornamentation will go to waste, but finishing the apron was quick work. It doesn't need it, but there's no harm in prettying it up either."

"Your work is very fine," I admired as she held up the garment. The nearly-finished blue towers were almost as neatly done as anything I could make. "An apron, you say? Is it a gift for one of your maids, perhaps?"

"I've no servants of my own," Roslin shook her head as she answered. "No, the apron is for myself; I was told to prepare one so that I could continue my lessons with Maester Qyburn."

"What lessons would those be?" I asked, frowning in curiosity. Surely her maester isn't going to give her lessons in the kitchens?

Roslin laughed lightly when I voiced that thought. "No no, of course not, that would be a misuse of his time. The good maester has been teaching me the skill of healing, how to care for the sick and to tend to injuries. Once I've finished with this, Maester Qyburn said that I may begin practical lessons."

I had no ready response to that; I'd small knowledge of the healing arts. A memory of Maester Luwin and a particularly foul tincture meant to remedy a cold came to mind. Not much to go on there, I'd not been as old as Bran at the time.

And what did she mean by "practical lessons"?

I struggled for a reply that wouldn't make me look stupid.

(A lady must not be stupid, Arya.)

"He's not a maester, you know."

Fortunately, Alysanne was there to take the attention from me.

The Frey tilted her head in question at the princess. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Qyburn is not a maester. He was, once, but he left the order some time ago to continue his studies in Essos."

"O-oh. Oh! But I thought, his chains, he-"

"A chain of actual metal is the mark of an official maester of the Citadel. Silver threads don't count," Alysanne explained. "It is, as I understand it, his way of thumbing his nose at Archmaester Ebrose, who wears the silver mask for expertise in healing, and was involved with his leaving his old collar behind. An archmaester's mask is worth seven links of the same kind on a maester's chain. Qyburn thinks that there's no good reason to stop at seven."

Silver threads...? Ah! She must mean the man that I saw speaking with Jeyne's father. He was a tall man with warm eyes and grey hair and looked to be of an age with Maester Luwin, but the most striking thing about him had been the dark velvet robes he'd worn. Looping across his clothes, over the shoulders and across the chest and down the sleeves, had been line after line of silver.

Like thin chains. How clever!

An odd expression had settled onto the princess's face as Roslin quietly considered her words.

"So...you've been spending time with Qyburn?" Alysanne offered, uncertain.

"Oh, yes! I've spoken with Mae-, er, Qyburn many times on our way to Winterfell," Roslin replied happily. "I can't believe he's not actually a maester; he's so very knowledgeable, more so than even old Maester Brenett back home, and he presents his lessons most skillfully, far better than any dusty tome."

"Yes, chain or no, none can deny his ability," Alysanne agreed. "I'd have not sought him out otherwise. Though I'm sorry to say I was unaware of your interest in healthcare."

"It is a recent interest," the girl admitted. "In truth, I'd given no thought to the subject before, but then Qyburn complimented me on my needlework, one thing led to another, and before I knew it, he was teaching me alongside his other acolytes."

What did needlework have to do with tending to the sick?

I'd no idea.

(A lady must not appear ignorant.)

Fortunately, neither did Jeyne, blurting out that very question herself, then flushing as everyone's attention swung towards her. Thank you for asking so that I did not have to, I thought with a kind smile. Your sacrifice shall be remembered, my friend.

Then Roslin explained how this Not-Maester Qyburn had taught her of how wounds may be mended and flesh may be sewn. I found it a struggle to keep a smile fixed to my face as she went on. It was why she needed the apron, you see. She would need something to keep her dress clean when Qyburn permitted her to start sewing injuries together with her own hands. My smile finally guttered and died as I pictured the little Frey maid taking a needle to people in the same way as she tended to the cloth in her hands.

Or perhaps it was due to the uncomfortable enthusiasm with which she spoke?

And of course Arya would finally find interest in such a horrible topic.

At least she was no longer moping.

"I see," Alysanne said faintly, the princess's eyebrows having rose nearly to her hairline by the end of Roslin's explanation. "Well, um, learning new things should always be encouraged. Nothing wrong with a noble lady, such as yourself, taking a strong interest in the healing arts."

I believe we'll have to agree to disagree, Your Grace.

"And given that interest, having such a masterful teacher available to you could be seen as serendipitous," she continued. "He is the best at what he does. Including needlework; he sewed all those tiny little links on his robes himself. You're also not the first highborn to learn from him, so you'll be in good company as you continue your studies with Qyburn."

Really? I hadn't heard about any other noble-

"Just never take any candy from him, alright?"

Wait, what?

"Seriously. Never."

As I silently worked through the implications of all I'd just heard, my sister decided to speak up.

"You ought to take lessons with Qyburn too, Sansa," Arya suggested with delight, then turned to Roslin. "She's so very good with needles and threads, you know. Everyone says so. It'd be awful for her to waste her talent on just dresses."

I almost gaped at my sister's deviousness. On the one hand, I was pleased by the compliment because yes, I was very good with needles and threads. On the other hand, this is the first time she's ever said anything nice to me about it, and she uses it to trap me!

How am I to answer that, Arya?! I scream in my head. I want no part of Roslin's ghoulish studies!

(A lady must have appropriate interests!)

And Roslin had seemed so nice! The very picture of a perfect southern lady. Irrationally, I wondered if all southerners were like that, a pleasant face and fine dress masking some abnormal hobby.

No, that's foolish, Mother would have warned me were that true.

...though she has spoken unkindly of the Freys of the Crossing before. In fact, I could not recall her ever saying anything nice about that House. Perhaps the unpleasantness was confined to the Twins? That would explain things. The rest of the southerners appeared normal enough. Like Joffrey.

"That's really not a bad idea," Alysanne commented, to my despair. I will remember this treachery, Arya! "The more people in the Kingdoms capable of tending the injured, the better, I'd say."

"There would be less injuries to go around if some people would stop playing in the mud so often," Lynesse said sweetly, to no one in particular, saving me from replying.

"And there will be more injuries to go around if some people don't stop slinging mud so often," Alysanne replied, her voice dripping with sugar, then dismissing the Songbird. "But seriously, Sansa, if you've the slightest interest at all, I'd encourage you to look into it. The realm is at peace now, but that doesn't mean it always will be. Our fathers did fight two wars in the last fifteen years.

"Even learning basic knowledge could save a life, someday" the princess continued. Then a mischievous grin stretched across her face. "Perhaps someday a wounded knight may awaken to see you tending him, rather than a chained grey beard, and the sight alone would give him the will to live."

I chuckled along with the others even as my face flushed. It was a fine thought; a gallant knight is returned to his castle after felling his foes, armor rent with wounds sustained in defense of the weak. I would tend to him then, cleansing his face with a wet cloth, brushing aside golden locks. He would awaken, the first and only thing his emerald eyes would see upon opening would be me...

Yes, that's a very fine thought.

It could not be too hard to learn just the basics, could it? So long as there's not too much blood involved.

Or stitching, my mind shivered.

"Then, were you also instructed by Qyburn, Alysanne?" Roslin asked. "Since you've never attended any of the lessons, I had thought...?"

"We've discussed theory and such, but my interest leans more towards sanitation than surgery. Though I am familiar with first aid, yes," Alysanne confirmed. "As it is, even if I shared your passion, Ros, I'd not go far. I'm all thumbs at needlecraft."

"Oh, but your dress is so lovely, Alysanne!" I jumped into the conversation, back on familiar ground. "You are being modest, surely; that embroidery could not be crafted without a skilled hand."

Not that I'm implying you should go about sticking needles into anyone like the Frey obviously wants to.

But it really was a nice dress.

(A lady must be sincere.)

"I appreciate the sentiment, but it would be disingenuous for me to accept, Sansa. Though I will pass along the appreciation to the Dyer's Guild. Here, take a look."

I peered closely at the sleeved arm held up for my inspection. Blue and white flowers peppered the garment, all connected by golden stems that looped around her silk-clad forearm. It was exquisitely detailed; it would take a single person untold hours to create such embellishments. However...

"There are no stitches," I noted with wonder. "How in the world was this made?"

"It was printed," Alysanne answered, enjoying my fascination. "Well, stamped, I believe that's the correct term. A block of wood is carved into the desired design, dipped into colored ink, then pressed into a piece of fabric, just like a big stamp. If more than one color is called for, it just takes more stamps."

"Wish I had a stamp," Arya murmured, eyeing the unfortunate looking winter roses on her embroidery hoop.

I kept my lips from twisting at the envy I felt, even as my mind turned over how I might acquire a stamped dress of my own.

Though the thought of Arya outstripping my talents with an armful of colored blocks did prick at my pride fiercely.

(A lady must never cheat, Arya!)

"I'd prefer to simply be rich enough to just buy it all outright, but I can emphasize, Arya," my sister jerked at having been overheard. "As you can see, I'm pretty bad at this myself."

The princess held up what she'd been working on as we'd chatted with one another; lengths of red and yellow ribbons were crudely joined together with ugly knots and even uglier stitches of thick black thread.

Oh dear, she is really bad at this, I thought, embarrassed for her. What had she even been trying to make? I'd seen turkeys sewn up more prettily than that. Even Arya can do better than that.

My sister made a choked noise, likely realizing the same thing.

"Yeah, I know it's sh-" Alysanne paused, eyes snapping to Myrcella, the younger princess having looked up from her own work with an expectant expression. "-abby. It's actually kind of remarkable given all the hours of practice I've put in. Really, give me a quill or brush and I'm just dandy, but the sewing room is my Ashford."

"It's alright Aly, you're good at lots of other things!" consoled Myrcella, to the giggles of little Beth.

Septa Mordane's expression said that it was most certainly not alright to be that poor with needle, but she held her tongue nonetheless.

"That I am, 'Cella. And for the things I'm not good at, there are others that can cover my deficiencies. I'm blessed to be surrounded by such talented friends."

It's good to be recognized for one's abilities, I thought as my chest swelled with pride at Alysanne's praise. And my beloved's sister even named me friend!

"That said, I think I've made enough of these. I grow weary of needles, or at least at being outdone by all of you for the day. Would any of you care to join me for a change of scenery?"

"Done!" Arya announced immediately, dropping her hoop. Septa Mordane tried to protest, but the princesses were both already packing up their sewing baskets. At Jeyne's questioning look, I smiled in anticipation and moved to put away my things. We'd normally have another hour or more before the Mordane would release us, but...

(A lady must not reject a royal invitation!)

(I don't know what this is, but I don't think a lady should be doing it.)

"One more time. Watch closely and do as I do."

She turned away from us and stepped up to the line drawn in the snow.

"Relax your body and stand up straight."

She held up a knife.

"Hold the blade in your strong hand, pinched between your thumb and forefinger. If it is too heavy, add your middle and even your ring finger to hold it securely."

She stretched her arm forward.

"Extend your arm towards the target, like so."

She drew her arm up to the side of her head.

"Bending at your wrist and elbow, bring the blade back and up to your ear. Then, as hard as you can, extend your arm back towards the target and..."

Her arm whipped forward, the blade flying forward as she let it slip from her fingers.

"Release!"

The knife spun end over end through the air, red and yellow tassels trailing after as it raced towards it's destination-

thud.

-where it bounced off the side of the archery target, then fell and landed on the ground with a sad little noise.

Just like the last three.

"I thought you said you were good at this," Lynesse said bluntly.

"Noooo, I said that I knew how to do this," Alysanne corrected. "I merely implied that I was good at this. Now come on, you all give it a try."

"Could we...not?" Jeyne asked weakly. "I don't think I'd be any good at this anyways. And Septa Mordane-"

"Isn't going to mind you participating in an idle amusement for an afternoon," Alysanne reassured, gesturing at the pinch-faced septa with yet another knife, but not actually turning to look at her. "And it's no matter to me whether you're good or not. I mean, just look at my sister."

Princess Myrcella, armed with a tiny blade, had her face screwed up in concentration as she carefully attempted to copy her elder sibling's movements. Her arm shot forward, and the tasseled knife-

pfft.

-sailed straight into the snow less than a pace from her, setting off a round of light chuckles that young girl joined in herself.

"You see? She's as skilled at this as I am at cross-stitch, and she's enjoying herself," Alysanne continued, turning back to Jeyne. "If it helps, just think of it as a big, unwieldy needle. Who knows? You might even have a hidden talent at this game."

With no dignified exit available to her, Jeyne swallowed and stepped up to the line next to Myrcella. Abruptly, her arm went up then back down, the kitchen knife she'd been holding flying up, up, into the air-

snkt.

-then landing a scant inch ahead of Myrcella's own blade. Jeyne reddened at the ensuing giggles, but graciously accepted Myrcella's compliments on surpassing her own efforts, while Lynesse companionably patted her on the back.

"Then again, not everyone can be a prodigy," Alysanne conceded, aiming a rueful smile at me.

"Yeah, Sansa! Not everyone can be me!" Arya chirped, practically skipping past us to pluck another knife from Ser Guyard's hand. That blade soon joined the small forest of steel protruding from her target, each closer to the center mark than the last.

"Look at that girl go," Alysanne said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Are you've sure she's never done this before?"

I don't keep track of everything the little hellion gets up to! I wanted to snap. I certainly hadn't heard any complaints of a rash of knifes getting stuck all over the place, or whatever other nonsense that'd come from Arya taking up a new hobby.

"Why are we doing this?" I asked instead, trusting in courtesy. Then my eyes widened as I realized that still sounded rude. "Forgive me, Your Gr-, *ahem*, I mean to say, Alysanne, is this a common amusement in the south?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, I suppose it's not. Though I've heard it's a popular way for encamped soldiers to pass time. No, a while ago I got the idea that a throwing weapon might be a good fit for me,-" What? "-but I thought that I should start small. I gathered up a collection of knives, made up some brightly colored tassels so they'd be easier for Guyard to retrieve-

"For Olyvar to retrieve."

"-for Guyard to retrieve," Alysanne repeated, unabashed. "Then I would practice, and as my skill grew, I would move up in size. I only just got done sewing up the ribbons, and I thought it would be a good excuse to get out of the sewing room. Thank you for allowing us this diversion, Septa."

"Your Grace, I-" Mordane began, only to be interrupted by a shout of glee from Arya.

"I did it! I hit the center!"

"Well done, Arya! High five?"

"A what?"

"High five. When you achieve some triumph, you raise your open palm up, like so, then slap it against the palm of your friends. People do it all the time in the Summer Isles to express approval and praise."

Accepting the explanation, Arya excitedly slapped her hand against the princess's before grabbing up another blade and headed back down the throwing line.

"She keeps that up and I'll hire her as a ringer. Next time Tyrion drags out the dart board, I'll be swimming in cash. Arya's going to destroy Jasper."

"I'd be more worried about Jenny," warned Lynesse.

"I'm always worried about Jenny," Alysanne returned with a frown. "That lady's not right."

Who's Jenny?

"She's just quiet, is all," Roslin defended, carefully making a selection from the blades fanned out in her brother's hands.

"Please tell me you're not hanging out with Jenny too," Alysanne spoke quickly, looking alarmed.

"Oh, but she's been so helpful with my anatomy lessons!"

Never mind, I no longer wish to know.

"Perhaps there is something else you would like to do, Alysanne?" I spoke up, doing my best to sound like Mother and attempt to reign in this madness. "You said you'd grown weary, didn't you? We could retire to our rooms to for a time; Arya and I could show you the keep. Then, we might join you in a more suitable activity?"

Alysanne pursed her lips in response. Inside, I winced at the sight. Arya wouldn't be convinced by such cajoling, and she was only nine. Were it Myrcella acting this way, I'd have better chances, but the elder princess just looks annoyed.

"I find 'suitable' usually boils down to sewing, singing, dancing and gossiping, or some variation thereon. Joffrey's the dancer of the family-" Interesting. "-and we've done a fair amount of the others already today. This," Alysanne gestured broadly with the blade pinched between her fingers, "is something different. I know it's outside of your comfort zone, Sansa, but it'll be memorable for the novelty value alone. There's no harm in trying something new every now and then."

Then her blade fell to the ground as she fumbled it.

"Shit."

"Alysanne!" I found myself snapping in time with Septa Mordane, Jeyne, and Myrcella, though rather than be horrified by her language, the littler princess was excitedly pointing at the bigger with her own blade.

And I would swear that Ser Guyard made a wordless noise of amused satisfaction at his lady's curse, but his face was impassive when I turned to glance at him. Or, as impassive as it could be with just a single eyebrow. What an odd fashion.

"Yes, yes, I'll put a stag in the jar," Alysanne muttered around the bleeding thumb held to her lips. "Form a line if you're all going to jump down my throat about it."

"When the jar is filled, she has to buy me a pony," Myrcella explained unhelpfully, if brightly. "It's nearly full!"

"That's kind of her," Lynesse said pleasantly, clearly inured to the antics of the princesses.

"This will be my third pony," Myrcella elaborated. "Father says that counts as a herd!"

Then her blade fell to the ground as she fumbled it.

"Shit."

"Myrcella!" Alysanne shouted, appalled.

"You can keep the stag if you don't tell Mother," Myrcella offered, sucking on her own nicked thumb.

"Darn right I'm keeping the stag," Alysanne huffed. "And whether Mother hears about this depends on how deep that is. Roslin, if you could...?"

"Of course."

"YES!" Arya's sudden shout drew all our eyes to her. "Center again! Look, it's sticking right out of the first one!"

"Unbelievable," Alysanne said, narrowing her eyes at the unlikely and admittedly impressive sight of a second blade sticking out of the handle of the first. The princess frowned down at the blade she's fumbled earlier, while Arya grabbed Lynesse's arm and slapped her hand against hers. "Right then, forget this. Ros?"

"Less than a pinprick, it's already stopped bleeding."

"Good. I'll be back in a bit, just need to go fetch something. Lyn, make sure no one puts their eye out. Ros, you're in charge if they do. Sansa, try to have some fun. Guyard, you and Olyvar keep standing there, you're both doing great."

"You should not go without-" began the knight.

"Thank you Guyard!" Alysanne called over her shoulder, already walking away.

The Morrigen knight inhaled deeply and made to shout before visibly stopping himself. Instead, he turned his head from his departing charge and exhaled noisily through his nose, looking down to the collection of blades held in his gauntlets.

"It's always going to be like this, isn't it?" The similarly burdened Frey squire asked his master, as if coming to some profound realization.

The knight gave his squire a thin smile in response, but said nothing.

Try to have some fun, she says, I thought as my face heated. But I was having fun! This is not how things are supposed to go. Why must she be so willful? A lady, a princess even more so, is supposed to be delicate and gentle and not...not that!

But there had been rumors about the King's eldest daughter. Most of them I'd heard from Theon's mouth. Naturally, Theon was interested in any kind of story that involved girls. I shuddered at some of the things I'd heard him tell Robb before.

He said that he'd heard that the daughter of Robert Baratheon was taller than the Greatjon and wider than Lord Manderly. Or that she'd been struck in the head, loosing all her teeth and unable to speak naught but nonsense. Or that she had a face like Mikken's anvil. Sometimes it was all those things, or she was a bear in a dress, or actually a bearded boy that wore a wig, or that she was just so ugly that no one knew she was a girl until her chest started to grow. 'Robert-With-Teats', it was even said.

I'd given such rumors little thought beyond a horrified chuckle, as they did come from Theon, and so were suspect.

Yet near all the stories agreed that the girl was mannish in appearance, which meant there may have been some truth to them. So I was pleased to see that the princess looked normal enough when the King's party arrived. Alysanne's look favored the King like Arya's favored Father, though she was fortunate to have inherited a long frame rather than a long face. The princess was not the radiant beauty the Queen was, but then Cersei Lannister was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. It wouldn't be fair to compare anyone to her.

Still, Alysanne had been well matched with Robb at the welcoming feast, him in his best grey wool and she in her sapphires and dark silks (another stamped dress I think, I have to ask Father for one of my own), both trimmed in white. Not as well as myself and Joffrey, of course, with his red velvet and golden accents and my best blue dress and expertly styled hair. But they'd made a regal enough pair, though the difference in height was unfortunate.

Today had been the first that I'd spoken at any length with the princess, as my Prince had commanded near all of my attention at the feast. Her demeanor was pleasant, as was that of her ladies, and it was a treat to hear their southern songs. I'd not cared much for the princess's sense of humor, however; Alysanne enjoyed acting the fool far too much. To her credit, she did take to being teased with aplomb. Her own japes in return were gentle enough, spreading her attentions so that no one was humiliated.

But this...I grimaced down at the blade held gingerly in my hand. When the princess had led us outside, I thought she'd want to do something decent, perhaps invite us to sit with the Queen, or ask to learn the songs of the North. At the very least I'd thought we'd go watch Joffrey practice swords with Robb and Theon. Not toss around a pile of knives like a pack of wildlings!

Then she just dismissed my protests! Had dismissed everyone's, in fact. The regard the older girl gave Septa Mordane was little enough to make Arya look respectful. Even her own sworn shield was subject to the same treatment, to my bafflement. The girl was not without kindness, but she was all too quick to discard courtesy and just walk all over whoever she pleased, seemingly whenever she deemed it convenient!

"Don't be too upset with Aly, Lady Sansa," Lady Songbird said gently, pulling me from my brooding thoughts. "She means well, but is too used to bossing people around. Her Grace sometimes forgets how act with people who are not also her subordinates, so she can come off as forceful and clumsy."

"So, it's unintentional, then?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Lynesse answered with a faint grin. "She's not malicious, at the least. My lady appears to like you well enough. She'll most like try to find some way to compensate you later for your discomfort over all of this."

She did call me her friend, I recalled. And I do want Joffrey's family to like me. If she feels poorly for upsetting me, I could ask her to-

"With that said, you should give that a try," the Songbird continued, pointing to the knife in my hand. "While she doesn't care for how skilled you are, Aly has strong opinions about trying. She may be put out if you don't attempt even a single throw."

Glumly, I looked over to Arya, who was busily trying to land a third blade on the center of her target. I felt, incredibly, a twinge of jealousy at the sight. I swiftly tamped it down. Why should I care that Arya makes it look effortless? I don't even want to do this.

"Just one little toss," Lynesse wheedled. "Then you can truly say you've competed in invitation-only, royal invitation at that, contest of steel and skill against your peers. The future tales you could spin of this day would alone be worth the effort, wouldn't you say?"

At her prodding, I finally stepped up to the line. I gazed at my target for a long moment, then stretched my arm out. Then I very, very carefully drew it back level with my ear, steel held tightly in a clammy grip.

Then I squeezed my eyes shut and threw it as hard as I could.

...

I waited a moment in silence before I cracked open an eyelid.

My target remained unmarred.

I glanced down.

The knife sat on the ground a short distance from me, its crude tassel lying limply behind it, looking as though it had been dropped there by a passerby.

Well, that's embarrassing, I thought morosely, eyes roving over all the other blades littering the ground. At least I got further than Jeyne.

"Good effort, Sansa!" I jolted at the shout. "But it looks like Arya's going to carry the day, here. A fair division of skills, I think, your needles to her knives."

Alysanne had returned, a grin on her face as she tromped over, one hand gripping her skirts and the other a hammer. It was a stout thing, made of dark iron with leather wrappings around a short handle, topped by a rounded head opposite a wicked spike. It looked heavy.

That's not the King's hammer, is it? I thought at the sight. She's not planning on throwing that, is she?

Evidently so, as the girl planted her boots on the line, facing her target. Holding up the ugly thing with a single hand, she looked at the target and the hammer, back and forth, then adjusted her grip so that the spike faced forward. The princess glanced behind herself for a moment, then took a step forward and swung the hammer down.

As it passed by her leg, her arm blurred and the hammer swung up and over her head, then she let it loose. It spun end over end through the air, racing towards its destination, and-

WH-CRACK.

-the spike sank into the packed straw mat, two finger-widths below the center. The wooden frame holding up the target lifted back from the force of the blow and creaked in distress. The hammer hung there for a moment, the round hammerhead proudly displaying a simple smiling face, done in scuffed, black and yellow paint, then the target fell backwards in a heap.

"That's what I get for overthinking things!" Alysanne crowed. "Could have skipped mangling all that ribbon!"

Theon had gotten it mixed up, I thought as the boisterous princess clapped me on the shoulder. It's not her looks that are mannish, it's how she acts! For Seven's sakes, she acts more like my sister than a-

...

Oh Gods.

She's not 'Robert-With-Teats', I thought with profound annoyance as Alysanne slapped her hand against my sister's proffered palm. She's 'Arya-On-Stilts'!

The Den Mother

(Catelyn Stark)

Were the sept not empty, I would not have been able to hear the whispers. As it was, I could not pick out the words, but the cadence and her location suggested one of the Maiden's hymns. I waited for the girl to finish her prayers before clearing my throat. Turning at the noise, her dark brows rose as she caught sight of me.

"Lady Stark," the princess greeted, standing quickly and dipping into a curtsy. "You surprised me."

"One need only bow before the gods in their house, child. Please, sit," I returned, gesturing to the bench she had vacated. "I was also surprised, few in the King's party have deigned to visit our sept. I fear it may be too humble a place for those accustomed to Baelor's splendor."

"Perhaps they've grown used to saying their prayers to the open air? We've encountered few septs this side of the Neck," Alysanne suggested, reclaiming her seat. "And most here do not frequent the Great Sept, so far as I know. The Red Keep'a sept is admittedly impressive, however. Not to say this place is without charm; this is the first sept I've seen with actual seats."

"The floor can grow quite cold, I've found," I wryly replied, sitting myself beside the princess. "I've faith that the Seven will forgive me this small comfort."

I'd intended to speak with her mother, I debated. Though I could chance talking to the girl directly. We are alone here, with only the girl's green knight at watch outside the doors. No one likes to be corrected, but anyone would prefer a private word to including their own mother in their embarrassment. Yes, I shall speak plainly and quickly, then the matter will be left behind us.

"I would speak with you of how you conduct yourself with my children."

"Uh," the girl replied dumbly.

"As a guest under our roof, there are certain rights I must afford you under all the laws of gods and men."

"I, ah-"

"You are also a child of our King, and so are granted greater leeway than those of lower birth would enjoy."

"I don't-"

"In turn, you must show your hosts due respect, and what you've been doing is-"

"W-we were only talking, I swear!" Alysanne interrupted, reeling back and waving her hands in protest. "I, um, he wanted to show me the godswood, is all!"

"The godswo-?" I halted, confused by her words and her coloring face. "What are you talking about?"

She stilled, then asked cautiously, "...what are you talking about?"

"I am speaking of the excursion to the archery range you took the other day," I replied carefully, raising a brow in silent question. "An irate septa filled my ear with how her sewing lesson became a throwing lesson."

"Ah. Yes. That. Well," Alysanne cleared her throat and relaxed some, pointedly not clarifying what she'd thought I'd referred to. "I didn't think she'd be so put out as to bother you about it."

"I also heard a fair amount from Sansa."

"Oh. I know Sansa didn't care for the game, but I thought she'd calmed down by the end," the girl lips twitched downward as she looked away. "Is she still so upset?"

"No, but I must ask that you not take either of my girls away from their lessons again," I said firmly. In truth, Sansa seemed more upset with Arya for a reason she could not find words for. Speaking of: "Nor shall you make them any more gifts."

"I wouldn't really call it a gift," the princess hedged. "Arya's performance deserved an award."

Then she started, her braid swinging as she turned to me. "Wait, how did...?"

"My daughter's excitement briefly overwhelmed her good sense," I dryly answered. "She was very proud to show off her new blade."

Had she known about the little knife, Mordane would have been even more shrill in her report, I thought ruefully as the princess winced. Sometimes the septa would get herself so worked up it felt like I was the one being scolded. Fortunately for all, the gift was given discreetly enough.

"So long as she keeps it hidden in her boot, I will ignore it's existence," I continued. Arya had traded a kiss on the cheek and a solemn oath to cease sneaking away from her lessons for that concession. It won't be a promise kept a week, I expect, but the peace will be nice however long it lasts. "But kindly restrain your generosity."

"I understand, my lady," Alysanne inclined her head, chastened. "I apologize for overstepping."

"Thank you," I said, quickly accepting the apology. I felt wary and discomforted at reprimanding a child not my own, even if her size made it easy to pretend her a woman grown. Doing so let me avoid navigating the Queen's cool haughtiness, if nothing else. That route would surely have had its own pitfalls. I was relieved that the girl accepted correction so amiably.

"And thank you for your efforts with Bran," I offered gently. Admonishment given, I did not want to risk any more bad feeling growing from this meeting. "Sadly, the thought of sawing off his own arm dissuades him just as little as any other gruesome tale he's been told."

"Did he ask you about trading his hand for a pick, too?" Alysanne barked an incredulous laugh. "He was far more comfortable with the idea than I expected. Knew I should have picked a different story; I'll have to think up something more graphic, next time."

Why so ready to offer another story? I suddenly wondered. Her missteps aside, the friendship of a member of the royal family would be a boon for any of my children. It's only been a few days, and already she's shown a keen interest in so many of my children. Not unwelcome, but it is unusual.

Then, after I'd asked where she'd seen Bran climbing and the girl explaining that she hadn't, that instead Robb had told her about my little boy's habits, the mystery greatly lessened in my mind.

No need to ask who'd shown her the godswood then, I mused, thoughtful. They had disappeared from the welcoming feast, but that was to see the wolf pups, Robb had said. Innocuous enough, but that I had not heard of further meetings until now was...well, there are some things that a boy doesn't wish to tell his mother. Either way, there would be no harm in speaking with the girl further.

"I'm terrified that one day Bran will slip and fall, but neither plea nor punishment will keep his feet on the ground. Too often, I find all I can do is pray for the Mother's protection, to ask that he be kept safe," I gestured to the carved, smiling face hanging to the Father's right, then nodded at the mask hung before us. "I likewise ask the Maiden to see to my daughters. When I was a girl myself, my prayers would most often be to her. Though I was a woman grown before I'd ever knelt before all of the Seven's faces."

I'd a fair guess at what the girl asked of the Maiden. But under each mask was lit a candle, dripping down onto the carved, rounded blocks that served as alters. I'd noted the oddity when I'd entered the sept. At this hour, Septon Chayle would be haunting his library, leaving any flames to burn out, so the princess must have lit them.

It had not been until the Rebellion, when I'd been wedded and bedded, with a child growing in me and a new husband fighting a war I could not know he would return from, that I'd prayed in earnest to each aspect. When better to beseech the entirety of the Seven Who Are One, than in those uncertain times? So I was curious as to why the girl did the same now.

Alysanne shrugged at the implied question. "Outside of the usual observances, I've no special need for most of the Seven. But when I make time for the gods, I pay my respects to each, all the same. Should I make my prayers to the Maiden and the Warrior, there's no reason not to also ask for justice and wisdom, that the broken be mended and my family be safeguarded. It's little enough to offer the rest a few more candles, some rote words and whispered songs from the Star."

"You've songs for the Stranger?" I questioned, astonished.

"No," answered the girl shortly, glancing at the mask that hung to her right, the only face for which not a single song was written in the pages of the Seven Pointed Star. "That one gets only a candle from me. Perhaps the light will be enough to keep it at bay; no sense invoking it without cause."

"Sensible," I approved. "Few keep the Stranger in their normal prayers for good reason. Though I cannot help but wonder at a princess of the realm seeking out the blessings of the Warrior."

"No need to seek out what one already has," the girl preened as she laced her fingers together and stretched out her arms above her head. "Though it never hurts to give thanks."

"It does not," I agreed, allowing her sidestep. "You do well to keep to the gods so diligently. Piety is a fine trait to possess, especially in the young."

"Piety comes easy if you can actually see the gods' favor at work," Alysanne said with strange smile. "In my uncle's sword arm, in my mother's beauty, there are even wispy remnants in my father's eyes; I see something more than merely mortal in those things. And if one can see such evidence of the gods, then it's only prudent to be respectful of them, I think."

"An interesting perspective," I respond neutrally. Cheeky. Yet her words suggest a respect rooted in fear. A grandchild of Tywin Lannister would not be unfamiliar with such feelings. Her attitude could be either bravery or bravado, I know not which. "Is that what you sought in the godswood then? Proof of my husband's gods at work?"

"I certainly found something," Alysanne answered. I'd sought to tease out some thought on my son with my questions, but instead of coloring cheeks, the girl's face set into a frown as her arms crossed. "Not that I doubted there was some power in the old gods' weirwoods. I just would've of liked to have seen a better sign."

"What did you see," I asked sharply. Too sharply, but that dreadful omen lurked in my thoughts, the she-wolf, dead with the broken antler lodged in her throat. Coldness coiled in my belly while my eyes played over the Baratheon stag emblazoned on Alysanne's coat. I forced calm that I did not feel into my words. "Signs from the gods should not be ignored, old or new.

"Just a crow," the girl replied with a touch of shock, eyes wide. "I threw a stick at it."

"Ah," was all I offered. A lesser person would not have restrained their temper, but I could not afford to snap at the princess over such foolishness. I looked away to compose myself.

The girl is not at fault for her words, I chastised myself. She would not know that her words of gods and signs would prod on my lingering unease. Nor that's Ned's obstinance had only deepened it. My anxiety has grown so much that even a slight reminder robbed me of courtesy. Badly at that. It was plain to see in how the girl had recoiled.

"It was the direwolf, wasn't it?" I turned back at Alysanne's voice, my skin prickling. "Robb told me how he found the pups."

I did not trust myself to speak then, merely forcing polite interest on my face. I became still, stopping myself from shuddering as she struck at the heart of my fear, quieting that part of me that wanted nothing more than to shriek at the pity in the girl's eyes.

"No one can know what it meant, not exactly," the princess said softly, slowly. "But don't forget, the stag died as well."

"That it did," I conceded, my voice coming clearly despite my turmoil. "It is a poor future the gods warn us of."

It was empathy then, not pity that she looks at me with, I thought rapidly. Of course she would fear for her family. The stag's entrails were spilled by the direwolf just as surely as it impaled the wolf. A mirror to my own dread. Worse perhaps, she lacks even the comfort of the pups' survival. Could she be an ally then? Help me prevent the doom that would befall our Houses both if wolf and stag come to odds?

"I agree," Alysanne nodded seriously. "Wolves don't do well in the south, true, though Lord Stark has proven the exception to the rule time and again. My Father needs him to be prove his exception once more. King's Landing will be dangerous, yes, but the Hand of the King has great power. He could reenact the Hour of the Wolf, if he willed it. So long as Lord Stark remembers to use that power, the future we fear will not be written in stone.

"Father loves your husband like a brother," she continued her assurances. "More than his actual brothers, to be honest. So much so that I would call him Uncle Eddard, as I called Lord Arryn grandfather. I'd not hesitate to give any aid I could to ensure his health and success.

"Family is the most important thing, after all. Wouldn't you agree," her lips curled upwards into a grin. "Auntie Catelyn?"

"I will gladly thank you for your aid, so long as you do not call me that again," I forced a light laugh and released a shudder. It was no surprise Alysanne knew of the King's intent, for all that none spoke it aloud. Anyone that thought to ask why Robert Baratheon would ride for Winterfell would be wise enough to divine the answer themselves. Of course she assumes that Ned will be going south!

'I will refuse him,' my Ned had told me. I'd argued with him half the night, had tried to make him see, yet still he would throw Robert's honors back in his face. The princess thought that I feared grief would be found in the capital, but the girl never considered that Ned might not leave Winterfell. What surer way to set our Houses against one another than for my lordly husband to reject his King and dearest friend?

No, Ned must accept, no matter how large a burden he sees the honor. But how to convince him? I pondered. Looking over the girl, I recalled the offer that Ned had spoken of. Height aside, Alysanne was yet a child. Her offer of aid is worth little, goodly intended as it was. Still, aid could take many forms. Perhaps if I framed it to Ned as a debt? Service in repayment for an offer accepted?

She was comely enough, with eyes a shade brighter than my own Tully blue. The strong features of the King, tempered by the Queen's softer contributions, filled her face. Thick dark hair was bundled in a single braid reaching halfway down her back. There was strength in her frame, more than my in own, certainly, which would grow further still, young as she was. The girl would have strong children in turn, and they would be plentiful.

It could work. Or, there were Sansa's dreams and pleas to consider. One or the other, and Ned would become Hand. There was no other way forward. I must make him see. One of my children's voices with my own will be enough to sway him. I know my daughter's mind, but not my son's, not for certain. I must speak with Robb.

Next Time: Pack Dynamics