A/N:This story has been spinning in my head for over a year and is self-indulgent. Let me know your thoughts/feelings with a review! Also, I will create a Dramatis Personae for this fic, but give me until the holidays to get it done, when I have more time. As a note, this arc will take us to the end of 289 AC.

Lyarra

The Beastling Arc

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Days turned into months, which turned into over a year. All the while the rich greens of summer changed to vibrant oranges and golds of autumn, with clear blue skies and sharp air, and only a few snows.

With it came siblings: four months after announcing her pregnancy, Catelyn had birthed twins, a boy, and a girl. Or as Serena said to Arya, Ned's relief, and Catelyn's joy. But they were not the last: in only half a year, Catelyn had announced another pregnancy and had only five weeks ago birthed another son. This time, Catelyn had named her child and thought to give the traditional name of Brandon, to appease the northerners.

"I am more surprised by Catelyn. She is a meek woman, but not stupid. She has woven a close relationship with Ned. Stronger than what they expected."

Though the honor of naming her children went to the two dowagers, who named them Rickon, for her grandfather, and Sansa, for a past Stark woman, it was Catelyn who finally asserted herself by appointing all twenty-four of the staff for her three newest children. There was no input from the she-wolves, all the men and women from her dowered lands. Serena thought them all too haughty.

"It is as if they forget that in three years they will be given pensions and forgotten," Serena's voice complained.

When they were finally introduced to court, she sat to her father's left with Arya and Benjen to his right, as Marna and Melantha proudly displayed the children. They were dressed and swaddled in beautiful intricate silverwork and wrapped in fur-lined velvets of Stark grey. They were the most beautiful little pink-skinned rats she had ever seen. With her father's permission, Camille gave them their beaded bracelets for safety, health, and strength. She adored them, and as their tuffs of red hair came in, she adored to sing to them, and give them their toys.

"The only ones to be content are Sansa's women. They'll stay with her forever, should they be smart." Serena did not think Arya's faith in Catelyn's appointments impressive.

Despite their banter, the entire winter palace was in an uproar. Their gossiping kept Camille in the know on the frantic mess that was to be a month-long, near ruining experience for Winterfell. First, there was Catelyn's Rising, when she officially came from her chamber after birthing, then the arrival of the king, and then the harvest festival.

It made Camille grateful she was still a child, and a bastard at that left alone with Jon under the care of Mother Arya and Mother Serena. Her life remained the same: up for morning prayer to the seven in her closet with Septa Zaida; breaking her fast, then lessons with the master for her numbers and letters, and to her kindred, to the still room for herbs and animals, history, and heraldry until she was to go to the great hall for dinner. After that, it was lessons with her ladies at the needle, singing, and dancing, or outside to ride her pony, play with children's bows, and to the Mews to see her father's hawks with a large rotation of instruments. It was a settled schedule, and they never allowed Camille to deviate.

In the withdrawing chamber off of a room of drying herbs, Arya turned her attention to her clothes for the royal arrival.

"You're four now Lyarra," she stated, "Which color would you like to wear my little one?" Three dolls were presented fully dressed, all approved of by Arya no doubt: A tawny-colored ensemble, another in blue, and the last in green.

"Which would my lord father like best?" She questioned. Blue, of course, was his favorite color.

Camille saw the Mothers glance at each other, along with her and Jon's ladies do the same. She had learned quickly what the game was: it all centered on her father, and what he liked and preferred, and how much leeway he would give. His courtiers played it, and his family, outside of uncle Benjen. And since Camille was powerless, she would have to play along to. Until she was old enough to do what she pleased, at least.

The Mothers had decided on the blue, while Camille went back to playing with her cousins. As I expected. With the entrance of a harried usher, Arya gave a huff. Blue and Ras took her attention a bit more in their frolics.

"What news now?"

Lords great and small had poured into Winterfell and Wintertown: the titled lords all had rooms in the palace, lords in the city, while the gentry unable to find rooms made a sea of tents along the short road to Winterfell. It was an intense rainbow of color, gossip, and feasting near every day. Every time one of the Great Lords and their family came, they were greeted in order: Father, Catelyn, uncle Benjen, then Melantha, then Marna, then Arya, and then finally, herself, all the others too little or valuable to do any greeting. One by one they had come: Umber, Hornwood, Bolton, Lockes of Old Castle, the Flints of Widow's Peak, the Flints of the Flint's peak; Cerwyn; the Reeds; the Ryswells, the Dustins. It was tiring, showing up and curtseying.

Even Lady Jocelyn, Melantha's daughter, had arrived with her children, and grandchildren: a Lady Waynwood, a Lady Corbray, and a Lady Templeton; each with their husbands, and each with their children, from a little older than her, to infants. That was a teary reunion indeed.

"My lady, there is worry from Melantha about the seating for the Harvest Feast. She disagrees that the clans should all sit so dispersed—"

One by one they all ate bread and salt and were shown to their rooms. Arya helped with arranging the living conditions in Winterton and the tents; they almost had blocked the road in their eagerness to be by other higher ranking lords. It had been complaint and dispute day after day, especially as they were forced to move to prepare for the royal visitors.

"There are thousands of hedge knights to come from the south, and men of the mountain can quickly control them. Ask my dear sister if she remembers the last king's visit, and how that young Condon girl spent her days after."

The King was to bring a court of one thousand, and the queen, and the queen mother both five hundred each, not counting their guards and the hanger-ons. Melantha had a conniption at the announcement.

With a five-month journey for the king, the Harvest Feast must be perfect and also accommodate his presence in every ceremony. Between this and the Rising, every other conversation was small.

It was a solemn affair, despite it being a celebration. Camille had been dressed in Stark grey with no wolves, but a weirwood tree upon her sleeves, and given a place in the procession like all others. When Catelyn rose, she was bathed and allowed a small private ceremony with her Septon and septa, the Mothers in attendance and two northwomen who follow the seven. It was then she was dressed in her robes, heavy and rich, thick snow-white linens, an undergown of white on white brocade, and a cloth of silver overgown, and the wide, moonlike headpiece that formed a halo around her head, embroidered with silver and covered in white gems. On her path to the godswood, women of Stark blood to the commons joined her on the walk to pray, and gave hope, and blessings to Catelyn, while begging for the generosity of her life in theirs. That was the loudest in that part of the praying, between the commons and the 81 Kindred in attendance with the women, and Arya did not hear her silence in it.

The glow of it only lasted until the next morning when a royal herald and a few other men and guards arrived on lathered horses to deliver the news of the king arriving in two days, as planned.

The King's arrival was gaudy and loud. After the introductions, she had been kept either in her bed-chamber or the still house for the majority of the visit. The separation from the royal court would have stung if the Mothers and her aunts hadn't hated it so much. They could only hold back their talk of the haughty golden queen but were more muted with the Queen mother Rhaelle, who was a woman of short height, with black and silver hair and violet eyes. The best for Arya was her great Aunt Branda, and her children, who were all in royal pins and silks and carried many gifts. It was the first time she had seen her cry. Her aunts and cousins had merely given her curious looks in greeting and found other things to do.

It was now, in the alcove with her Kindred did she listen to the history of the north since the arrival of Aegon I. She sat instead watching the ravens fly to and from the tower; with all the guests there were a great deal more birds and many letters. She had great sympathy for the clerks. Even more, it reminded her of the three-eyed raven, who visited her near every night in her dreams: sometimes to only know of her day; others, to show her what could be done with her gifts. It was a terrifying and helpless matter, and Camille instead turned her mind to something more in her grasp. Aunt Serena and Mother Arya were away with Aunt Branda to learn the gossip and had left just one of her granddaughters, a shy, stuttering girl of three, to be with her.

Ceridwyn, coming to relieve the embroidering Ernatta, thanked her kindred and ordered her to leave. Finally. Camille was ready to do something else.

"Shall I ride today, Lady Ceri?"

She had given a smile. "There shall be no time on horse nor pony. You will sleep and dress for dinner, and then we shall sit and do our needlework in the women's solar."

"The queen and the queen mother are there," She looked her aunt over quizzically; she seemed quite happy, an opposite emotion of what she should feel. Camille did not want to be humiliated in front of all of those women from the south. She liked the still house and her chamber while they were here.

"I would rather go to the hot springs instead."

At the hot springs for the women, In Arya's private space, Yadira would teach her more about water magic, relieved from her duties by Jon's second gentlewoman, Camille could pull it up now herself, and make steady ripples without touching the water. Ceridwyn herself would scrub her, and teach her of plants: how to grow them, heal them, and make them wild. It took a week before all the vines she grew were finally picked off and the wood replaced.

Ernatta had come then with cloaks in her arms and a laugh. "Arra, we have been invited by the queen mother herself. We cannot deny her."

Invited by the Queen Mother? Camille had been too busy with her lessons and too occupied by the raven at night to slip and see; she did not know the woman's personality to know if the invitation was good or bad.

"Then I am ill," she stated. Camille had seen this work before, with Catelyn, or one of the she-wolves, when they wished to be absent. Ceridwyn and Ernatta both laughed at the remark.

"You will lose precious time on your ponies and horse in days to come if you are ill. Do you wish to stay only in your bed chamber?" She fought the urge to groan. Camille did not want to be imprisoned, no.

Her midday nap and dinner seemed passed in a blink. Between Arya and Aunt Serena, Camille could only pick at her food, the thought of being around the women in that solar more frightening than her fire magic.

"Ceridwyn mentioned you said you are ill," Serena commented. "Should we put you to your bed? Do you need broth?" Camille responded by taking a bite of duck, and a sip of orange juice. Mother Arya looked only out the corner of her eye with a slight smile. When it was time to depart for the women's solar, she offered her hand, and she gladly took it. She felt as if she would vomit.

The women's solar was filled with women wearing heavy silks and furs, gold collars with gems, and sharp eyes. The Queen sat next to Lady Stark, in a great and high gold chair with cloth of gold cloth, the Baratheon emblem everywhere as a golden, gold queen. She dwarfed Catelyn's seat; to Cersei's left was the queen mother, whose seat was only slightly smaller, and had the Targaryen three head dragon with the Baratheon stag rampant. Upon both their brows were crowns: Cersei's of gold and rubies, Rhaelle's a delicate silver.

The left of the high platform was first Melantha, then Marna, then Arya, followed by Jocelyn and then Branda. She was squeezed in, hidden by skirts of her great-grandmothers. To the right of the queen mother, were three Baratheon and three Lannister women. Only the first woman gave her pause: she was tall, with gold suns abound on her outer gown, her skin olive, and hair black, and eyes of violet. Just like her mother. Just like her.

Camille could not help but peek over and observe her, catching her eye and a smile. She had gone back to her needle, a drawn design she sewed painfully slow.

"Your grace," a voice came, lovely and Dornish to her ears, "Mayhaps we have music as we complete our needlework? The bards of the north are famous."

The queen mother nodded but did not look up from her needle. "It is true. Aunt Melantha has long exhorted their talents."

"Because it is true, Rhaelle," Melantha's voice rang. Camille's head spun at the words. Rhaelle was Methantha's niece?

"Then I beg we let a young bard sing now," the woman continued. Camille looked down at her needle again. "The young Lady Lyarra?"

There was a pause. The woman continued. "She is much praised by the king, and Lord Stark."

"She is an infant," came the voice of Melantha.

"Yes, but not too young to sing. Her father listens to her every night before bed. Is it not true he calls her his nightingale?"

Only in jest. Lyarra winced: she did sing for Eddard, who wanted to know her process when she came to kiss him goodnight; that was common enough. She was his nightingale because it was so hard to sing on tune. The King's presence did not stop their ritual. She did not want to sing here, least of all in front of Catelyn.

"A nightingale sings only at night," came Cersei's voice. "It has no place here in the sun. Bring a bard of talent so I may hear these northern delights."

The matter seemed settled as ushers and maids seemed to fly from the room, and she retreated to the knees of her women behind her.

"As we wait for these bards, the girl will sing," Came the queen mother's voice. "I have heard from many of her little voice—even my ushers have mentioned it. Come forward Lyarra."

She looked only at Arya and all other eyes found her. She rose, slowly, and perfectly, and wished for Yadira's reassuring face; in the middle of the solar, she stood up with her sunflower yellow gowns, with light grey fur. She had been given gold gems as well, and matching ribbons in her curls. Curtseying and greeting, she received only a nod from the women, Catelyn white as death, the queen visibly irritated. Camille looked to Arya: she had no more of a voice than any other four-year-old. She only returned a look of encouragement.

"Please bring me water Ladron," she demanded. Her mouth was dry, and her mind blank.

"You are nervous young one?"

Camille would not admit so. "Yes, your grace. I do not know which song will please you most."

The women all tittered. "Such a well-spoken little bastard," one of them said. Rhaelle did not even glance their way.

"Sing a song you are most comfortable with," Rhaelle commanded, and she nodded in response, as Ladron, her blessed usher, appeared with her drink. It bought her only a moment.

So she sang one basic song, one of her first, and simple. The queen mother clapped for her anyway, and so did her ladies, and Arya and her women, and then all the rest did in polite agreement with the older women. Catelyn and Cersei sat black-faced.

"Such talent." Her kith stated. "You will have a voice to bring tears when you are older," she smiled and curtseyed in thanks.

"I can see why you are ever under your father's eyelids," Rhaelle's words were kind, a true smile on her face. "I am told by my grandson you play several instruments." She listed them off, the woman nodded.

"A good education then. Do you have one you prefer?" The harp, of course. It was the easiest to play, and you did not need to work hard to make a decent tune. When she said so, the queen-mother smiled more. "A difficult instrument to master all the same. Do you not prefer the lute?"

The lute required you to sing more; for many, playing the harp was a god enough talent without having to pluck the strings and sing at once. But she could not say that.

"The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet," she said.

A shocked look from Rhaelle. "Your education includes Eltotsira?" she said sharply in High Valyrian.

"Yes your grace," she murmured.

"Her lessons are advanced for an infant of four," she continued in High Valyrian. It was a tone of unease.

"A bright mind should not be dimmed," Arya said proclaimed. Camille did not look toward the she-wolves. The women of the court seemed politely confused.

Her kith leaned in. "I am told that my young cousin is quite advanced in her studies. Lord Stark means to give her to the Kindred of the North upon her womanhood." Her words were of High Valyrian as well, leaving most of the women to now observe their speech with whispers.

That sent her into a spiral. Be given to the kindred? She had no interest in staying in the north for all her life, and to become a bard was a 15-year endeavor any other position would leave her grey and wrinkled before she claimed the title.

"Of course," Rhaelle changed back to Common Tongue. "The bard has waited long enough. I have sated my curiosity."

In the safety of the Mother's skirts, Camille was given no more attention.