Work Text:
The Queen of Pentacles
"A long time ago," began the septa. "In the riverlands away to the south – "
"Where Mother is from?" Sansa asked.
"Yes," said her mother from the corner, with the firelight flickering across the baby on her lap and her face in shadow. "My home."
"Is there a princess in this story?" Sansa asked. "Does she have pretty hair and lovely dresses? Is there a knight who loves her and fights duels for her honor?"
"Listen to the story," said her mother.
"If I may," said the septa. "A long time ago, in the riverlands away to the south…"
*****
There was once a princess, fine and fair, with long thick hair the color of rosewood and wide eyes the color of the Tumblestone on a summer's day. She spun and she sang, and she danced and did good deeds, and she was accounted the loveliest and most pious maiden for miles around and all the ladies admired her and all the lords wished to marry her.
It came to pass that a wise young prince from a neighboring land saw her portrait and wrote to her father begging for her hand. The princess had painted the portrait herself, and though she had been so modest that it did not reflect a tenth of her beauty the prince fell in love with it at first sight. His letter was humble and so full of love that her father consented, and so the plans for their wedding were laid.
In those days there were still seven kingdoms in the land, like the Seven who watch over us, and the princess had to travel far south to meet her prince. The people of his castle prepared for the celebration with joy, hanging banners in the colors of her father's house and sewing long garlands of white flowers to weave into the hair of the princess and her ladies. When she arrived trumpets blew and harps sang, and the people leaned from the balconies and tossed down petals and leaves, the emblems of their green and sunny land.
They couched the princess upon mattresses of down and silk, washed away the dust of her travels with milk and rosewater, and fed her sugared violets. The ladies of the castle looked in awe upon her beauty, touching her shining hair and admiring the white skin that needed no powder, and when she went down to the sept at Evensong to pray to the Maiden they whispered that surely she would be the kindest and most gracious queen their land had ever seen.
The princess dreamed of her prince that night, though they were not to meet until the moment of their marriage. She saw a handsome man, tall and straight, with dark curls and strong shoulders and steady green eyes. She watched him mount an enormous white charger, its mane and tail catching in the wind like fluttering flags, and his armor gleamed as he rode to face a challenger on the hard dirt of the proving ground.
The challenger wore black armor, burnt and sooty, and his horse was black like a shadow, with red eyes and flaming nostrils. Her prince lowered his helm and shouldered his lance bravely, but as he spurred his horse forward the challenger's mount gave out a terrible scream and leapt into the air, growing leathery wings and a long cruel tail. Her prince drew back the reins, his horse rearing and pawing at the air, but it was too late – the creature carried him off in its sharp-clawed talons like an eagle catching prey for its young.
The princess awoke to find the castle in an uproar, cries and shouts echoing down the corridors. She wrapped herself in a silken shawl and went to the solar to find one of her ladies weeping into a tear-stained handkerchief.
"What has happened?" the princess asked, although in her heart she already knew the answer.
"The prince is gone!" cried the lady. "Taken by a dragon-lord, never to return. Oh, what shall become of us?"
"The Father will tell us that," said the princess, and went to dress herself.
In the great hall she found only chaos, the knights preparing to ride to war and the servants scurrying about carrying armor and weapons and gear. Women wept into their porridge, and children played with the dogs all unknowing of the terrible fate which had befallen their land.
The princess went among the people, comforting them and bringing strength. None could tell her from whence came the dragon-lords, until she spoke with an old woman spinning alone in the corner.
"North and east," said the crone, biting a thread with her strong teeth. "You must follow the river to the sea."
And so the princess went to her room to gather such clothes as might be suited for traveling and to the kitchen to gather such provisions as she could carry, then to the stables to saddle her horse, the strong and patient mare that had carried her so many times before.
"You must serve me once more, old friend," said the princess, and they rode into the sunrise.
She was many days following the course of the Mander, sleeping upon the ground and bathing in cold springs. When her provisions were gone she traded gold rings for food from simple farmers. At every place she inquired the way to the home of the dragon-lords, and always they pointed up the river.
At last the river ended on the edge of a great dark forest, and no one could tell her how many leagues lay between it and the sea. Though she was frightened, the princess took her mare by the reins and walked deep into the woods until all the light was gone.
She wandered endless days amongst the trees, losing paths and finding them again. The leaves were too thick to show her the sun, and though she climbed above them she never could see any hint of the sea nor smell its salt air. Her saddlebags grew lighter, then empty, and there was no grass for the mare nor water for them to drink. The princess stumbled down the twisted forest paths, half-faint with hunger and thirst, until she heard the sound of a running stream.
She pushed through brambles and hedges and emerged at last, her dress torn and her bare feet bloodied, at the edge of a small spring which bubbled up from the earth into a stone basin. Primroses and crocuses encircled the spring, their leaves green and tender. The princess knelt before it, thanking the Crone for guidance, and reached down to bathe her face in the cool water.
"Who dares to drink from this stream?" asked a voice above her.
The princess looked up to see an old woman standing by the spring. Beside her was a gentle fawn, and a dove perched upon her shoulder.
"A maiden searching for her betrothed, who was taken by the dragon-lords," said the princess.
"Where do you seek him?"
"Beyond the sea," said the princess. "But I cannot find it."
"The trees hide things from those who seek them. But I can show you the way if you will perform one task for me."
"Anything," said the princess. "Anything which will not offend the Seven."
"This task will offend no one," said the old woman, and she held out a small box painted red. "Carry this to my sister who lives in the eastern woods and she will show you the way to the sea."
The princess took the box gratefully from the old woman, kissing her hand. "I will do as you say. May I first drink from your spring?"
"This spring is not meant for one such as you," said the old woman. "But you may ask to drink from my sister's spring."
The princess thanked the old woman once more and slipped the box into the folds of her dress. "May I ask, then, what it is the box hides?"
"That which begins all things," said the old woman. "Do not open the box, lest great misfortune befall you."
The princess took her horse by the reins again and followed the path which she had been shown. Her shoes had long since been torn away by the roots of the forest, and her thirst was still very great. The box she carried seemed to grow heavier with every step, and though she was a pious and obedient maiden, she longed to know what lay inside.
At last she saw a cottage ahead, newly thatched and its garden blooming and green. She pushed open the white wooden gate to see another old woman, the twin of her sister, sitting beside a spring surrounded by daisies and roses. A buck stood near her and a falcon perched upon her shoulder.
"Who dares to pass this way?" the old woman asked.
"A maiden who carries a gift from your sister," said the princess, withdrawing the red box.
"Bring it here," said the old woman.
The princess stood, gazing longingly at the spring, as the old woman opened the box. There was a golden light, and she just caught sight of a perfect, white egg before the box was shut again.
"What were you promised in exchange for this task?" the old woman asked.
"The path to the sea," said the princess.
"I can tell you that," said the old woman, holding out a small yellow box. "Bring this to my sister's house and she will show you the way."
The princess took the box from the old woman, kissing her hand. "I will do as you say. May I first drink from your spring?"
"This spring is not meant for one such as you," said the old woman. "But you may ask to drink from my sister's spring."
The princess slipped the box into the folds of her dress. "May I ask, then, what it is the box hides?"
"That which nourishes all things," said the old woman. "Do not open the box, lest great misfortune befall you."
The princess took her horse by the reins again and followed the path which she had been shown. Her bruised feet ached and her thirst was even greater than before. The yellow box weighed more than the red, and the path seemed longer still.
At last she saw a cottage ahead, its thatch in disarray and its garden overgrown. She pushed open the sagging wooden gate to see another old woman, the twin of her sisters, sitting beside a spring surrounded by chrysanthemums and goldenrod. Foxes played at her feet, and an owl perched upon her shoulder.
"Who dares to pass this way?" the old woman asked.
"A maiden who carries a gift from your sister," said the princess, withdrawing the yellow box.
"Bring it here," said the old woman.
The princess stood, gazing longingly at the spring, as the old woman opened the box. There was a golden light, and she just caught sight of a handful of wrinkled brown seeds before the box was shut again.
"What were you promised in exchange for this task?" the old woman asked.
"The path to the sea," said the princess.
"I can tell you that," said the old woman, holding out a small blue box. "Bring this to my sister's house and she will show you the way."
The princess took the box from the old woman, kissing her hand. "I will do as you say. May I first drink from your spring?"
"This spring is not meant for one such as you," said the old woman. "But you may ask to drink from my sister's spring."
The princess slipped the box into the folds of her dress. "May I ask, then, what it is the box hides?"
"That which ends all things," said the old woman. "Do not open the box, lest great misfortune befall you."
The princess took her horse by the reins again and followed the path which she had been shown. She was scarcely able to walk on her tender feet, and she had nearly forgotten the taste of water. The blue box was a sore weight, and this path was the longest of all.
At last she saw a cottage ahead, its thatch fallen in and its garden grey and dead. She pushed open the rotted wooden gate to see another old woman, the twin of her sisters, sitting beside a spring surrounded by bittersweet and blood-red roses. A wolf stood by her, and a rook perched upon her shoulder.
"Who dares to pass this way?" the old woman asked.
"A maiden who carries a gift from your sister," said the princess, withdrawing the blue box.
"Bring it here," said the old woman.
The princess stood, gazing longingly at the spring, as the old woman opened the box. There was a golden light, and she just caught sight of a dancing flame before the box was shut again.
"What were you promised in exchange for this task?" the old woman asked.
"The path to the sea," said the princess.
"I can tell you that," said the old woman, holding out a small black box. "Bring this to the shore. You will know when to open it."
The princess took the box from the old woman, kissing her hand. "I will do as you say. May I first drink from your spring?"
"This spring is not meant for one such as you," said the old woman. "But you may drink from the springs at the water's edge."
The princess slipped the box into the folds of her dress. "May I ask, then, what it is the box hides?"
"You will see," said the old woman.
The princess took her horse by the reins again and followed the path which she had been shown. She limped along as the light faded from the sky and her horse, unshod now, walked a weary step behind. She listened always, always for the sound of water lapping at the shore.
And then, at last, the roar of the waves reached her ears. The earth beneath her sore feet became sand, and stars shone out from beneath the disappearing trees. The princess loosed her horse when she came to the top of a rise, and all the blue-green sea was spread out below her beneath a bright crescent moon.
The princess had never seen such wide waters, such endless skies, but all that was lost as she slipped down the dunes until she reached the sea-strand, where the sand was cool and wet. Beyond she found a small spring, and berries that were good to eat, and she slept by the waves.
The princess and her horse made their way north to where a great city stood at the mouth of a bay, and there she found the ships which sailed east to the island of the dragon-lords. She wandered long amongst the docks, enduring the crude jests of rough sailors, and at last she found a small ship with a captain who seemed more gallant than most.
"Will you take me over the sea to the island of dragons?" the princess asked.
"If you can pay for your passage," said the captain.
"I have no more gold rings," said the princess.
"You have a horse," said the captain.
The princess looked at her mare, standing patiently upon the docks. "I seek my betrothed," she said. "He is a captive upon that isle."
"You have a horse," said the captain.
"My feet are sore, and I have eaten naught but roots and berries for many days," said the princess. "I have slept upon the ground and drunk from springs and followed the river since the morning of my wedding that should have been, long months ago."
"You have a horse," said the captain.
The princess looked once more at her mare and tightened her hand upon the reins. "Then I will find some other way," she said. "The Mother will guide me."
And then the captain truly looked at the princess. Her fine hair was tangled and her white skin was marred by scratches, but she had a regal bearing and he knew that she must be a true and gentle lady.
"You and the horse shall both sail across the sea with me," said the captain. "Though what will happen to you on the dragon-isle I cannot say."
The crossing was rough and stormy, but the princess was glad to rest on a mattress made of rough wool and cornhusks, bathing in rainwater and eating sailor's bread. The men shod her mare and gave her cotton shoes and more bread for her saddlebags. When they drew up to the docks at the dragon-isle, the captain put his hand upon her arm.
"Your betrothed may already be dead," he said. "There are many tales of the cruelty of the dragon-lords."
"I would know if he were," said the princess, and she rode down to the dragon city.
She did not dismount in the city, nor did she dismount at the gates of the citadel. The guards looked upon her with her red hair catching in the wind like a fluttering flag and her beautiful blue eyes fixed on the horizon, and they opened the gates before her.
The mare's hoofs clattered in the stone courtyard of the castle's keep. People leaned over the balconies above, dressed in strange clothing and speaking a strange language, and they laughed at the princess's tattered clothing and tired horse. A servant boy emptied a pail of bones and peelings over the ledge so that the gravy splattered her dress, but still she rode on.
Only when she reached the doors of the great hall did she dismount, touching the mare's ears and soft nose. "Thank you, old friend," she said.
These doors, too, were opened before her, and the princess walked in her sailor's shoes and her ragged shift towards the black throne, and she looked nobler than any of the fine ladies assembled in the hall. The dragon-lord did not rise as she approached but inclined his head, silver hair falling across his face to hide his violet eyes.
"What do you seek, maid?" he asked in a voice like etched glass.
"My betrothed, whom you have stolen," said the princess.
"I do not know this man," said the dragon-lord.
"His eyes are like stars which light my way home," said the princess. "His voice is the sound I cannot live without. His arms are the embrace in which I hope to end my days. He is the reason for my life, and I say I will die if you do not give him back to me."
The mighty dragon-lord folded his arms. "You have traveled far, maid."
"The Mother found me food and comfort in the wilderness," said the princess. "The Warrior gave me the strength to cross rivers and climb hills. The Maiden stayed the hands of villains. The Crone guided me to those who offered help and kindness. The Smith gave me a faithful horse to carry me hither. And the Father watches over me now, here in the hall of my enemies."
"I do not know these gods," said the dragon-lord. "But they must be powerful indeed. What proof can you give me that they are still with you?"
"The Stranger is here too," said the princess, and she opened the black box.
A deep, howling darkness flowed forth, and the people of the dragon cowered before its tearing hands and gnawing mouths. The lord sprang from his throne and ran shrieking from the room, pursued by fanged demons of smoke. Her prince, who had been chained behind the dais, rose to his feet and threw off his bonds, emboldened by the princess's words, and rushed to embrace her. She fell faint in his arms and dropped the box onto the flagstones below as the prince carried her to where her horse waited outside.
The prince had many friends in the city across the water and they were soon conveyed back to his home, where at last they were married with great joy under the eyes of the Father and the Mother. They gave thanks every day to the Seven for the miracle which had saved them, and sent their eldest daughter to the motherhouse of their land, where she grew pious and wise like her mother before her.
And that is how the Faith was brought to the dragon-lords.
*****
Sansa raised her head from where she had rested it on the septa's knee. "What gods did the dragon-lords believe in before that?"
"Wicked ones," said the septa.
"And what happened to the Stranger's box?" Sansa asked.
The septa shifted in her seat. "No one knows. That isn't the point of the story."
"Who were the old women in the woods? Were they the Crone in disguise? Or were they wildlings, like we have here in the north?"
"Too many questions," the septa said, rising from her seat. "It's time and past for bed."
"Mother," Sansa appealed to the corner. Her mother shook her head, rocking Sansa's little brother to sleep.
"Up," said the septa, pulling Sansa to her feet.
"Was the prince everything the princess had dreamed?" Sansa hedged, digging in her feet. "Was he handsome and bold in the jousts and gallant and kind to her? Did he give her pink roses and sweets and pretty ribbons for her hair?"
"All that and more," the septa said with a smile. "She was a very good and pious lady."
"That's what I'll be," Sansa said, following the septa down the hallway.
Her mother remained, rocking the baby, looking into the pictures that the firelight made.
The High Priestess
"A long time ago," began her father. "When the children of the forest were still our friends…"
"I thought the First Men cut their weirwoods down and the Children made war on us," Lyanna said.
"They did, featherhead," said Benjen. "But then we became allies."
"Why?" Lyanna asked. "I'd fight anyone who cut my weirwoods down."
"In the history books it is written that – " Ned said.
"Don't let him start, he'll go on for hours," Brandon broke in, pushing his brother down the settle with an elbow to his side. "Just let Father tell the story."
"I still want to know about the weirwoods," Lyanna said, snuggling up closer to her father. He looked down on her with a softness in his stern features which the boys rarely saw.
"If I may," said her father. "A long time ago, when the children of the forest were still our friends…"
*****
There was once a girl of the north who was promised to a boy from over the Wall. You may think that this was a strange marriage, but our people were closer in those days, and they had often played together at market days and council gatherings. He was a small, slight lad, but she was not very large herself, and in their loving friendship the two peoples saw a way to unite themselves against the tall strangers from the south who were moving ever closer, day by day.
The girl's mother wept a little as she dressed her daughter on the wedding-day, for the girl was going to live with her husband's family beyond the Wall. She was not afraid, as she was a brave and clever northern girl, but she was terribly curious about the dark woods she had never seen. The stories said that the trees were full of ghosts, but she was not the sort of girl who believed in stories, for she often interrupted them with questions.
When she was dressed in her wedding finery the girl mounted behind her father –
"What, couldn't she ride herself?" Lyanna asked. "I've always ridden my own pony."
When she was dressed in her wedding finery the girl mounted her pony, which she was often naughty about brushing down after a hard ride, and rode with her family from their camp to the place where they could cross the Wall. They were many days from home now, and as a chill wind swept through the trees she could not help but look back at the land she was leaving, perhaps forever.
The Wall was a great black smudge on the horizon, growing larger as they approached. There were black flags fluttering, and men dressed in black, and when they came up quite close to the stones the girl could feel the cold rising from them, like the breath of the frost giants she had heard lived in these woods. For the first time she felt the fingers of fear upon her neck, though she told herself that all was well.
In fact all was not well, for a band of Children soon came to greet them with somber faces and sad eyes.
"He has been taken," said one of them, though it was difficult to tell which. Their faces seemed to change as you looked at them, like sunlight on leaves, and their voices were like soft sounds or bells that you might hear only in your own head.
The girl's father spoke with the Children and they learned that southerners had come in the night to burn the groves, taking the boy away on one of their great thundering horses. She listened and felt the tears start in her eyes as she imagined her friend standing bravely before a great heart tree, protecting the forest of his people. He was very small, she thought.
At last her father said, "There is no more to be done," and their party rode back to the place where they had camped the night before. It was late in the day when they arrived, but she heard him tell the steward to prepare for the return home on the morrow.
The girl was sore when she dismounted from her pony, yet she went to her father and curtsied –
"Curtsied?" Lyanna said with disgust. "Why on earth would she do that?"
"Why, indeed," said her father.
Yet she went to her father and approached him with the very, very great respect he deserved, and said to him, "Surely we go to find my bridegroom?"
Her father, who was hard-minded but not unloving, knelt down. "He is gone, little dove," he said. "The southerners have taken him to the stronghold which they have been building in secret, and I am afraid he will be a stableboy for the rest of his days."
"Cannot we rescue him?" the girl asked. "We have many strong men and swords."
"Now is not the time to anger the southerners," said her father, turning away. "We will find you another bridegroom."
The girl did not want another bridegroom, but she refrained from shouting and stomping her feet because she knew that young ladies should speak quietly and reasonably if they want people to listen to them. Instead she went to her pallet in the pavilion and slept, even though her lady mother tempted her with possets and sweets.
When she woke, the moon was high in the sky and all the household slumbered around her. The girl rose quietly and gathered things in a satchel; rough clothing for riding, and the dry bread the servants carried for long travels. She saddled her pony in silence, and waited for the sentries to move away before she rode into the darkness.
Now, many of us would have been lost in those woods, which scarcely grew light even at midday and were full of strange creatures. But in those times, when our peoples were closer, the girl had learned much of woodcraft from her friend during those happy hours when they played beneath the trees that spread their leaves above the clouds.
"How could the trees be above the clouds?" Lyanna asked. "The maester says even birds can't fly so high."
"It's poetry," said Brandon. "Just be quiet and listen."
Even being so wise in the ways of the forest, the girl still rode many days in search of the place which her father had told her about. Her provisions dwindled, and she began to fear that she would never find her way out again except as a shade, still looking for her lost bridegroom.
One day the girl was resting in a clearing, drinking from a small spring, when a bird alighted on the pommel of her horse's saddle. It was small and red, crested and bright-eyed, and it tipped its head and hopped, chirping loudly. After a moment it fluttered aloft and landed upon a branch, still calling to her.
In those days animals were not so shy of people, and those with the greenspeech could converse with them. The girl did not know that language, but she had heard tales of birds guiding those who were lost in the woods, and so she mounted her horse again and followed the little red bird through the trees.
After some time they were joined by a yellow bird, larger than the first, and she followed this one too. When the yellow bird grew tired a blue one appeared, its cry harsh upon her ears. It was nearly dark in the woods when a rook flew towards her in the gloom. It sat upon a low branch and croaked as it preened itself, and the girl almost despaired of its ever flying onwards before it finally took wing.
At last they reached the edge of the forest, where a light gleamed on the horizon. It was not just the stars and the crescent moon, she soon discovered, but the light of torches and watch fires all around a great stone keep, rising in the night like mighty tree itself. Men moved in the flickering light, carrying swords and spears, and beyond she saw archers poised behind the crenellations of the tower, lit by more fires.
When she looked round again the rook had returned to the forest and she retreated a little too, sleeping amongst the roots of a great oak tree.
In the morning she watched and she waited. The way to the castle was long, and all along the road more men were working, felling trees and forging swords. At last she knew that she would never cross that plain in secret, and that there was only one thing to do.
"Attack them with her sword?" Lyanna asked.
"She didn't have a sword, dummy," Benjen said.
"Then what was she going to fight them with?"
"Just listen," said Brandon, reaching out to tug at his sister's long braid. "Father will tell you."
The girl had no sword, but she had the bravery and pride of her people, and when she rode her pony across the fields the working men spared hardly a glance for her, sitting so proud and tall in her saddle. When she reached the gates of the castle, the guards asked her what her business was.
"My own," said the girl, and the doors were opened before her.
She left her horse tied in the stable-yard, looking everywhere for her bridegroom. There was no sign of his tousled hair and green eyes, and at last she mounted the stair to the great hall.
There were few ladies in this place, only charwomen and serving maids and camp followers –
Ned looked at his father.
– only serving maids and a few officers' wives who had dared to follow their husband this far north. They looked at the girl in her clothing of rough wool and traveling leathers, and thought of her as only another one of the barbarians being driven deep into the woods which seemed to them only meant for lumber and fires.
The lord of this place was not seated on a throne in a great hall as she had expected, and she found him cloistered in a small room with his advisors. They pored over the plans they had laid for cutting the trees and building villages, farms, and fields for grazing sheep and cattle, for they did not yet know about our northern winters. The lord was tall and fair, and he wore a hauberk of mail and carried a sword even within his own castle keep.
"Lord of the Andals," the girl said. "I have come for what is mine."
"Eh?" said the soldier-lord, raising his head. She saw a map of her own land spread beneath him, with pins and wooden pieces marking the places they meant to conquer.
"My bridegroom, stolen on the eve of our wedding," she said. "He was the protector of the woods, and you carried him off like an errant calf across your saddle."
The soldier-lord frowned. "The forest boy? The new cup-bearer?"
"He would seem a boy to you," said the girl. "But he is a man among his people. I mean to parley with you for his release."
The soldier-lord stared at her outright. "Enough foolishness," he said. "I cannot be bothered with the fate of one peasant boy. The rest of his people will follow him into servitude soon enough."
"My own people would greet you as guests," said the girl. "They would share bread and salt with you as is our custom, but instead you have greeted them with fire and the sword."
The soldier-lord's eyes were narrow now, full of anger and suspicion. "Do you come for your bridegroom, or do you come to make war?"
"I come for my love," said the girl. "His eyes are like stars which light my way home. His voice is the sound I cannot live without. His arms are the embrace in which I hope to end my days. He is the reason for my life, and I say I will die if you do not give him back to me."
The soldier-lord reached to touch his sword before he spoke again. "I have listened long enough, maid. Leave this place now, and know that only your bravery keeps you from joining your love in the kitchens below."
The girl looked at him for a long cold moment, then left the room to find her pony pawing and impatient in the yard below, and returned the shelter of the trees.
"She didn't really go, did she?" Lyanna asked anxiously. "Father, she was brave! She couldn't have left him behind, could she?"
"Listen," said her father.
You may think that such a retreat was cowardly, but in those days people understood the power of the forest. The girl sat beneath the leaves of the great oak tree for hours, until the world was dark, and in the depths of her heart she called upon the living things of the woods, the creatures and birds and flowers and trees, all those things that the boy loved and knew. She had never spoken the greenspeech before but now she felt it everywhere in her, from the soles of her feet to the ends of her hair, and as the moon rose the forest-song rose in her too.
And then she stood, and walked across the plain to find her love.
And everywhere she stepped flowers grew and vines curled, and brambles sprouted and trees grew tall and strong. Fawns and young rabbits played beneath the new-grown forest, hidden by the broad, spreading leaves. Wolves and bears were there too, part of the dance of life, and crawling snakes and spinning spiders. The land became as it once had been, reviving the barren soil.
And men slept beneath those trees, falling beside their axes and forges and plows. A great wind blew through the castle, so that the servants and soldiers and ladies slept too, drooping over cook-pots, battle-plans and silken embroidery. The girl went through the castle gate, bringing birds and creepers with her. The stones sprouted moss, and the stable-yard became a carpet of thick green grass.
There were many twisting stairs for her to walk down until she reached the very lowest kitchen, where scullery maids dreamt by the ashes of a dwindling fire. She could scarcely see anything in the smoky gloom, but at last she found her bridegroom in the farthest corner, his green eyes shining through the darkness.
They left that place together, the castle forested and slumbering. Some say it sleeps still, though the southerners won in the end, marrying our people until there was no difference between, but taken in their turn by the dragon-lords. Some say it will sleep on for a thousand winters, until the end of the world.
There was a pause. "What happened next?" Lyanna breathed at last.
The girl returned to her family, and she was married to her bridegroom beneath a bower of wildflowers, and she went across the Wall to live in the forest with the people who had become her own. And the story ends there.
*****
There was another pause. "That's it?" Lyanna asked in a louder voice. "No one knows what happened?"
"That's how the best stories work," said Brandon. "They keep going on in your mind."
"That's stupid," Lyanna said. "I want to know if she had more adventures and fought the frost giants and learned more greenspeech."
"She might have, if you imagine it," said her father.
"Then I'm going to," she said. "I'll write out all the rest of her story like it should have happened. Only – " She stopped. "Only I can't write so very well yet."
"Come to my room tomorrow," Ned said quietly. "I'll help."
Lyanna beamed at him. "And take me riding after?"
Benjen laughed. "It's always something more with you, isn't it?"
"Always," Lyanna said seriously.
"But for now, bed," said her father.
"I'm not tired!" she protested. "I'm never tired."
Brandon smiled, and took her firmly by the hand. "Then lie awake in your bed and dream more stories."
"I will," she said, sliding off her father's lap. "I always always will."
The Five of Wands
"A long time ago," began her uncle. "When we still held our lands to the east – "
"Is this another story that's just lists of names?" Asha asked. "I don't like those. I want to hear about ships and battles."
Her uncle frowned at her, drawing his shaggy eyebrows together beneath his tangled, seaweed-woven hair. "It is important to know the names of our ancestors, child. The Drowned Gods keep their spirits, and we must honor them."
"They're just boring," she said. "I want to know about the reaving. So does Theon. Don't you, Theon?"
The boy opened his eyes drowsily, barely lifting his head from the floor where he lay before the fire. "Let him tell the story, Asha. I don’t mind what it is."
Asha glared at her brother. "You don't care. You just want something to fall asleep to."
"Child," said her uncle, his deep voice rumbling in his chest, which meant she'd best listen, or else. "This story concerns a rock-wife who went to battle."
Asha's eyes grew wide. "Truly? I didn't think you knew any of those stories."
"I thought it would please you," her uncle said stiffly, looking wary.
"Oh," said Asha. "Then I'd like to hear it." She straightened up in her chair and threw her hair back, trying to look like the sort of girl who would fight like a man.
"If I may," said her uncle. "A long time ago, when we still held our lands to the east…"
*****
Listen! There was once a rock-wife who was strong and loyal
like the faithful dog that obeys its master.
She served her husband, weaving him wool to wear on the winter water,
and served above all the Drowned God, He that protects
men at sea and women at the hearth.
Her husband was a man to be admired, having done
many deeds worth the admiring. He had cloven men
through helm and hauberk with his mighty axe.
He had grappled with a sea-beast for three days and nights,
until at last he slew it through its great staring eye.
He had split salt-rocks without sword,
bested many challengers at the finger dance,
and left his seed with a score of wenches on land and at sea,
siring strong sons who grew to follow their fearsome father
into whatever battle he commanded.
But he had gotten no son on his rock-wife, and as her fertile years
began to turn sour like the soil of Pyke,
he thought to put her aside and take a wife who would bear him
the heir worthy of captaining his great long-ship,
stained red with the blood of his foes.
It came to pass that the men of one island turned against their iron-brothers,
offending the sight of the God. They reaved
by darkness like the traitorous cowards they were,
and laid fire and waste to the homes
of good and honorable men.
Yet there was still honor among the iron-men,
and this son of heroes was a father to his people.
He gathered his oars-men together, and said
"Hark! We go to make war upon men who are not men,
but the lowest worm, who fears the sacred sea-waters
that the God has blessed us with.
We go in the name of our wives and our heirs,
and all the proud glory of our fathers."
And the men harkened to him,
for he had given them salt wives and gold rings,
and sailed away upon his longship all unknowing to their doom.
The rock wife remained at her hearth, tending to the house
and keeping her husband's weapons sharp
for the day when he should return home victorious. But one day
a messenger came, and as she met him at the threshold
she knew in her heart what manner of message he carried.
Long hours she wept over the severed hand of her captive husband,
and beat her breast and swore revenge.
She had come as a freðwebbe-bride,
binding the peace between her father and her good-father,
but now her husband's blood was as her own and the heat
of the forge built within her. She took such things as she needed,
and went to the harbor below.
There she learned of the shores upon which the traitors reaved,
and traded the jewelry for which her husband had paid the iron price
to one who would carry her thence. And when she reached
that pitiful land, deserted by the God and scorched
to the sea strand, she rent her clothes and stained her cheeks
and made herself in all ways appear to be a wench
of low standing, to be used only in the bed and in the drinking hall.
The ship of cowards found her there, a lonely wench
and bound her with hempen ropes, and danced upon the deck,
delighting in her dark hair, her fine eyes.
"We have found such a salt-wife as will gladden our nights,
bearing the horn and bearing our seed,
singing songs of the sea and bringing fire to our blood.
Rejoice that we have found a pearl amongst stones."
The rock-wife wept true tears to hear their words, knowing
that her honor must be forfeit to save the life
of her worthy husband. But for a woman to spend her honor
in this way is to make her a jewel amongst wives.
They dressed her in such finery as they had stolen
from the ravaged wives of their iron fellows. She bore the horns
which they had stolen from proud halls,
and played upon a harp that no such rough hand as hers
had ever touched. But her honor shone through even on the nights
when her captors used her as the lowest iron-man
would be ashamed to treat a salt-wife,
and wept in secret and searched for the son of heroes
below-decks and above.
And one eve she discovered a secret room, airless and damp,
and caged within was that same hero. Long had he sat,
naked, unarmed, crouched in darkness,
and yet still he was the finest captain of those seas.
"Husband!" she cried, and wailed, and prostrated herself,
as she had longed to do these many weeks, and he told her
not to fear. "Only let me die in the waters the God
intended for me, when first I was drowned and returned
to life by His hand."
"Where is your greatsword?" she asked, "that which has slain
a thousand men and more, and bears the honor of your high house?"
"Gone," said he, "cast aside by cowards who could not bear
its glory. Kept with low axes and crude knives."
And she said, "I will find this thing."
And she laid her plans, and searched once more
that ship of traitors, shedders of iron-blood, until she found
the greatsword that was the glory of a proud lineage.
And she hid this worthy weapon beneath her kirtle,
and returned to her place in the drinking hall, bearing now
the herbs with which she had armed herself. Women's weapons
have little power, but may be matched to those
of mighty men, and in this way a woman may prove
that sons are not her only gift.
On the first night, she sang a song of passion to those crawling worms
who thought to touch the flesh of a hero's rock-wife.
And she bore them a horn of red, the ale within spiced
so that their blood grew hot, and she endured
their corrupted cowardly caresses once more.
On the second night, she sang a song of chests of golden coins,
firelight that shows miners where to find precious ore,
sunlight that makes crops to grow, so that we may reave them
from those who live always on shore.
And she bore them a horn of gold, and they counted
their treasures that night, stolen from worthy men,
and tainted it with their grasping hands.
On the third night, she sang a song of stormy sea-water,
that which makes men iron, that which carries them
to the halls of the God, whence their glories are never forgotten.
And she bore them a horn of blue, and they reaved
the ships of their brothers.
On the fourth night, she sang a song of death,
that which ends all life upon shore,
all reaving, all battle, all cares,
all ties to wives and hearth,
only leaving sons and tales of mighty deeds.
And she bore them a horn of ebony, and they drank from it,
and all the foul herbs they had drunk turned their blood sluggish,
so that their tongues grew black and protruding, like the hanged man,
and their eyes started from their heads, and their male parts
shriveled as fish upon a shore, and some leapt, crazed, into
the salt waters below, where the God dealt them such punishment
as their outrages did merit.
Only one remained, a captain of great cunning, and he seized the rock-wife
by the hair, her great beauty, and cut it off
with a wicked sharp blade. He held it then to her pale throat,
that had sung a thousand songs,
and would have made her red blood drip from her body like
to a slaughtered calf except that the mighty hero of her heart
sprang forth from where he had hid himself by the hearth.
And he took the blade from his rock-wife, concealed still
next to her faithful breast, and he did battle with that traitor.
Long they fought upon the deck beneath the moon,
which looked down to bear witness upon this fight of legends.
And the traitor pressed the hero hard, until he neared
a coil of rope he could not see, and this traitor pushed him,
like an untutored youth without honor, and gloated over his advantage.
"Only one shall plunge to the God's halls today," said he.
"And it shall not be the one who holds a knife to your heart."
And the rock-wife fell to her knees, and wept.
"Spare my love," said she. "His eyes are like stars
which light my way home. His voice is the sound
I cannot live without. His arms are the embrace
in which I hope to end my days. He is the reason for my life,
and I say I will die if you do not give him back to me."
The traitor turned 'mazed at her plea, for he had never heard
such words from a woman's tongue.
They fell upon the sea itself, for at that moment there was a great roiling,
a great wave, a great rushing sound,
and from the depths the Drowned God sent a great Kraken.
Its beak was sharper than the sharpest steel, and its strong arms
tore the traitor's ship to splinters, like a child who tires of a toy,
and drew the traitor into its gaping maw,
like a greedy babe with its meat,
and he perished in its belly without honor, without ever seeing
those halls the God keeps for heroes.
And the Kraken bore the hero and his wife to his own halls,
where men rejoiced and feasted for long days,
and sang this tale of their deeds which passed into legend.
And the rock-wife bore, at last, sons to remember these deeds,
and she was accounted an honorable woman once more.
*****
Asha was silent. "That's it? That's the story of the rock-wife who went to battle?"
"Does it not please you?" asked her uncle. "She was a woman among women."
"I thought she was a woman among men," Asha said. "But she didn't even carry a sword."
"And how should she have?" he said. "Her husband carried the greatsword which defeated the traitors."
"It didn't defeat them," she said. "It was her poison that defeated them. And the Kraken."
"Stop, Asha," Theon said, sitting up and stretching. "At least it was a story about a woman. I thought that's what you wanted."
"I wanted a good one," she said. "Not something stupid about her heroic husband."
Her uncle stood up, scraping his chair back roughly. "I shall speak to your father about this, child. No doubt the sword practice he allows has altered your female mind into something it should not be."
Asha shrugged. "Father doesn't care. He thinks I should be a shield-maiden like my ancestors. Don't you know any stories about shield-maidens?"
"I'm afraid the time for tale-telling is past," said her uncle, reaching for his cloak. "And I still intend to speak with your father."
"It won't make any difference," said Theon, lying back down.
Asha just folded her arms.
The Queen of Cups
"A long time ago," said his sister. "When animals spoke – "
"Is this another story with a lesson?" Oberyn asked, stretching out and then curling up around the little fire. Above him the creamy lemon-tree blossoms lifted in the warm breeze, carrying their rich scent through the gardens.
"Good stories have lessons," his sister said. "You'll like this one."
"I'd rather toast more pheasant and have a swim," he said. "Wouldn't you?"
"I've had enough pheasant for the day," said his sister, sitting tall above her crossed legs in the storytelling pose. "Will you please just listen? Lady Dayne is having a contest for tale-tellers next month and I'd like to practice."
Oberyn looked at her sideways through narrowed eyes. "Is there anyone at Starfall you'd particularly like to impress?"
His sister blushed. "Of course not."
"Of course not," Oberyn mimicked, and settled down further into the sand.
She gave him a long look and cleared her throat. "If I may," she said. "A long time ago, when animals spoke…"
*****
There was once a rabbit who lived in the sands beneath the Red Mountains. She was a wise and clever rabbit, the mother of many coneys and digger of many burrows, and well-respected by her people. All the animals from leagues around came to her for advice, and she had averted many a war between the snakes and the lizards or amongst the eagle families with her sound counsel.
One day a pride of lions passed through the land and, hungry, captured many rabbits of the desert. Among them was her mate, and as the lions had taken far too many rabbits to eat in one meal they carried him and others back to the den they'd made in the rocky hills.
The other rabbits gnashed their teeth in sorrow and thumped their feet, but she only sat still on her haunches, her great brown eyes staring into the shimmering distance. At last she twitched her nose and stood tall on her hind legs.
"Rabbits of the red desert," she said. "I will free our people."
"How?" they cried. "The lions have fearsome sharp teeth and cruel claws, and they can surely outrun any rabbit on their long legs. You will find yourself in the belly of a lion, the same as our mates and children."
"A lion may outrun me," she said. "But no lion has ever outsmarted a rabbit."
With that, she loped northwards to the lion's den, her wide feet spinning out great waves of sand. The journey cost her several days, and when she lay down to sleep beneath the shelter of thorn hedges and stones she worried that the lions would have outrun her after all. But she was a patient rabbit, and knew that no good could come of such fears.
At last she saw the shapes of boulders and hills before her, a sight she had never seen. Short tufted grass grew beneath the sands, and a trickle of water came down the dusty rocks. The rabbit had never drunk any water but the blue-green waters of oases, covered with slimy algae and many-legged skaters, and the clear mountain water on her dry tongue was a miracle to her. She knew she must find the lion's den before more time passed, though, so after a nibble and another drink she ventured deeper into the stones.
The den was not difficult to find. She heard the terrible roars echoing through the hills long before she scented their thick golden fur. When she knew they were right above her she crept quietly around the nearest boulder and dared one glance.
Four lionesses were sprawled upon the warm stones, eyes heavy with sleep and bellies gorged on the flesh and blood of her people. Cubs played with half-clean bones, and the poor rabbit shuddered to think of whose bones those might be. She felt a rage building in her chest, a sensation foreign to a carefree rabbit, and knew she must rescue the others or die in the attempt. With a deep breath she raised her ears, twitched her whiskers, and hopped out from behind the rock.
"Lions!" she called. "What wonderful lions you must be! I see you have taken nearly all the rabbits of the desert for your feast."
One lioness raised herself on a strong shoulder. "Yes, and we shall add to our larder soon, foolish little one. Why have you come here?"
"Why, to admire you," the rabbit said, hoping that they could not hear the tremor in her voice. "And to bring peace offerings from the rabbitkind. You see, the rest of us would prefer not to be eaten."
"Prefer, eh?" asked the lioness. "We have never before taken into account the preferences of our meals. Why should we now?"
"Because we do not intend to keep you hungry, oh mighty ones," said the rabbit. "In exchange for our lives, we vow to help you find more and better prey for your suppers."
"Other rabbits?" asked the lioness.
"Other creatures of the desert," said the rabbit. "There are many grudges between our peoples."
The lioness sat up fully and began to lick one mighty paw. The rabbit shrank back a little from the sight of those half-sheathed claws, but held her ground.
"I believe that I like such treachery," said the lioness. "It's unexpected from one whose head is stuffed with cotton."
The rabbit bowed low. "I am honored," she said.
"How do you propose to get us our meals?" asked another lioness, lolling in the shade. "I can't imagine they'll walk willingly into our den."
"Perhaps not," said the rabbit. "But the water here is cool, and most have never tasted the clean melted snow. I shall take them to a ravine to drink and then you may have your feast."
The first lioness continued to lick her paw. "How will we conceal ourselves?" she asked. "These bare rocks cannot hide many of us."
"They will hide only one," said the rabbit. "But I will show you the way each day, and each shall eat to her heart's content."
"That seems wise," said the second lioness.
"Again, I am honored," said the rabbit. "I will take the first of you tomorrow."
"Oh, tomorrow we shall not be hungry," said the first lioness. "We still have many captives to eat."
"Those skinny things?" scoffed the rabbit. "You caught only the slowest and weakest of my people. Leave them to fatten up and come eat more juicy food on the morrow."
"We haven't thought of doing such a thing before," said a third lioness. "What if they escape?"
"No rabbit will turn down a meal of fresh greens," said the rabbit. "Take them some of this soft grass and they will remain docile."
The first lioness finished with her paw and lay down again, rolling onto her back to scratch it against the rocks. Still upside-down, she fixed her eyes upon the rabbit.
"You are clever," she said. "If all creatures were as clever as you, we should never get a meal. But I warn you that if you prove too clever, you will pay for it."
The rabbit bowed once more. "I live to serve," she said. "I will see you tomorrow at sunrise."
When she woke the next day, there was a great fear in her heart lest she fail her people and find herself eaten as well. But she knew her plan was a good one, and there was little choice unless she wished to return home a failure. She burrowed deep into the sand until her fur was red from ears to tail, and returned to the den of the lions.
"Good morning, lions!" she called out. "Follow me to breakfast!"
The lionesses awoke slowly. "So you did return," said the one she'd spoken to the day before. "You are very foolish or very clever."
"Perhaps both," said the rabbit. "But I mean to be generous as well. Come, choose one of you to taste the delicious foxes I have found for you."
The lioness nodded at another. "You have a taste for fox meat," she said. "Go and enjoy yourself."
"I promise you shall," said the rabbit.
"But first," the leader of the lionesses said. "Tell me why you are covered in red sand."
"So that you can see me, of course," said the rabbit. "It can be dark in these hills, and you'll have to follow me closely. My eyes are sharper in the dark."
"That is true," said the lioness who loved fox meat. She licked her lips.
"Go, then," said the first lioness, and the rabbit loped off into the hills.
It was indeed dark and shadowy, and she led the hungry lioness a merry chase through the rocky paths, high above the sands, to a place she had discovered the night before. It was so dark even she could scarcely see, and the lioness struggled as she came up behind.
"Is this it?" she asked. "Is this the ravine?"
"Indeed," said the rabbit.
"But I cannot see into it," said the lioness.
"That is why I chose it," said the rabbit. "The foxes are lost, and with your wonderful nose I am sure you shall find them easily."
"Can I climb down the rocks?" the lioness asked nervously.
"You must jump," said the rabbit. "But I am sure with your strong legs that you will land well."
"And they won't hear me coming?" the lioness asked.
"Foxes are dull creatures," said the rabbit. "If you captured my people, you will certainly catch many of those silly foxes."
"All right," said the lioness, and leapt into the ravine. Of course she could not see in the darkness that it was not a ravine but a stone well, with smooth walls that had no purchase for claws and no other way out.
The rabbit smiled to herself, and returned to the burrow she'd made. In the morning she ran through a field of desert flowers, and when she was all covered in their yellow pollen she went again to the den.
"Where is our sister?" asked the leader of the lionesses.
"What did she not yet return?" asked the rabbit, casually scratching her ear with a hind leg. "Perhaps she is still feasting on foxes."
"Perhaps," said the lioness warily.
"Or perhaps she has finished with the foxes and gone on to eat the wild pigs who are there now," said the rabbit.
"Wild pigs?" said another lioness, raising up on her forelegs. "She knows I like wild pigs best."
"Then you should go eat them," said the leader of the lionesses. "And bring her back when you've finished. Her cubs are all out of sorts today."
The second lioness got up and followed the rabbit into the hills. Again they traveled through shadowy passes until they were above the stone well.
"The pigs are below," said the rabbit. "Can you hear them squealing?"
"I think I can," said the lioness. A thin ribbon of saliva dribbled from her mouth. "Can I really just jump down and find them?" she asked.
"Yes," said the rabbit, "and you'd best do it soon. Your sister was very hungry yesterday."
The lioness sprang into the stone well and the rabbit hopped off again, her whiskers twitching in satisfaction.
The next morning the rabbit rose and went to a place where blue stones had fallen from the mountain and shattered into powder below. She rolled in their dust, and returned to the lion's den once more.
This time the leader of the lionesses seemed more wary. "Two sisters have not returned," she said. "This seems strange to me."
The rabbit yawned and stretched. "There are beds of soft grass in the ravine," she said. "And cool water, as I have told you. And besides, perhaps they are enjoying the sheep I herded in there this morning."
"Sheep?" said the other lioness. "Sister, we have not eaten sheep in a long while. I thought there were none in these mountains."
"They are crafty sheep," said the rabbit. "It was very difficult to convince them to follow me. You had better hurry before they scent the trap."
The lioness jumped to her feet and followed the rabbit without even a word for her sister. The rabbit hopped along quickly too, hoping the leader of the lionesses would not come after them.
This lioness seemed hungrier than her sisters, for she scarcely even paused at the edge of the well. "They know I love sheep," she whined. "They are so greedy, to start without me."
"They are," said the rabbit. "I heard them talking about it yesterday. 'Don't let's tell our sister about the sheep,' they said. 'Let's keep them all for ourselves.'"
"I will have something to say about that," growled the lioness, and jumped into the darkness.
The rabbit hurried back, less pleased with herself today, for she knew that tomorrow she would have the hardest task of all.
When the sun rose she went to a place where a forest fire had once raged, and rolled around in the ashes until she was covered in black soot. The leader of the lionesses was waiting for her when she reached the den.
"Good morning, lady," said the rabbit, crouching into a bow. "I see your greedy sisters have not returned from their feast."
"Greedy indeed," said the lioness. "For they know I cannot leave the cubs alone and join them."
"Ah," said the rabbit. "Then they must be enjoying the wildebeests all by themselves."
The lioness yawned. "Wildebeests are all kick and bite," she said. "They are welcome to the wildebeests."
"I'm sorry, I misspoke," said the rabbit. "I meant gazelles. These are fat and slow, for you are the only lions in the desert who could have frightened them enough into running."
The lioness thought. "Fat and slow, eh?" she said. "I do enjoy a good gazelle."
"It was a large herd," said the rabbit. "If you go now, there will still be many left."
"But the cubs," said the lioness. "I cannot leave them."
"Listen," said the rabbit. "I will show you the way to the ravine, and then return to mind your cubs."
The lioness raised an eyebrow. "Trust you with my children and nieces and nephews?" she asked.
"What harm could I do them?" protested the rabbit. "They could eat me in two bites."
"True," said the lioness. "Well, show me this ravine. It's my turn for a hearty breakfast."
The rabbit set off into the hills, her heart thumping fast. If the lioness should guess the truth, she thought, she would indeed be a meal of two bites.
"I cannot see you," complained the lioness. "Slow down. Why are you painted black today?"
"The gazelle are suspicious," said the rabbit. "We must be careful and quiet. I'll hide by this rock and tell you when to jump, and you must spring fast like an eagle swooping for a lizard."
"Where have you gone?" asked the lioness when they reached the well.
"Here," said the rabbit. "Follow my voice."
The lioness edged closer. "I cannot see anything at all," she said.
"Then have faith," said the little rabbit. "Your sisters did."
"I am twice the lion they are," growled the lioness, and sprang into the pit.
The rabbit felt light-headed with joy as she skipped back to the den. The cubs had scattered by now, hunting mice in the tall grass, and the way into the cave was wide and open. Still, she was shy and cautious by nature, and she crept soundlessly into the den.
It was a good thing she did, for she saw at last the lion-king, blocking the path to the cave with his great body. The rabbit froze, as all her people did when confronted with danger, and the lion blinked slowly.
"What are you doing here?" he rumbled at her.
The rabbit took a deep breath for this last task. "The lionesses told me to set the rabbits free," she said. "They are bringing back more than enough gazelle-meat, and it will spoil if you don't eat it soon."
"They said no such thing," said the lion.
The rabbit swallowed. She saw his claws flexing before her.
"Lion," she said. "Proud and mighty lion. My mate and all my friends are in that cave behind you. They are scarcely a mouthful even for your cubs. Will you not let them go?"
The lion considered, still flexing his claws. "You come for your mate?" he asked finally.
"I come for my love," said the rabbit. "His eyes are like stars which light my way home. His voice is the sound I cannot live without. His arms are the embrace in which I hope to end my days. He is the reason for my life, and I say I will die if you do not give him back to me."
"Die, eh?" said the lion. "We couldn't have that."
The rabbit bowed, very low. "It is your decision, O Lion," she said.
"You speak well," the lion said. "And you have rid me of four troublesome and lazy lionesses who saved the best meat for themselves. I will grant you this thing."
"Thank you, king among beasts," said the rabbit. "Your kindness will not be forgotten."
And the lion stood, and the frightened rabbits behind leaped forward joyfully. The rabbit found her mate and touched her nose to his, and turned to follow her people into the desert.
She stopped at the threshold, however, and looked back at the lion. "What will you eat now?" she asked. "Since I have deprived you of breakfast?"
"My lionesses also gave me weak cubs," said the lion, and licked his lips.
The rabbits went home, where they were greeted joyfully by their friends and relatives, and the rabbit and her mate had many more coneys and dug many new burrows. But none of their children were as clever as their wise mother, who still gave sound counsel to the end of her days.
And the lesson is: Patience wins the day.
*****
"That's not a very good lesson," said Oberyn. "It doesn't really go with the story."
"I know," his sister admitted. "But I liked the story too much to make it suit a better moral."
"You made that story up?" Oberyn asked, surprised. "I thought it was an old one I hadn't heard yet."
"It was just something I was thinking about," said his sister. "Ever since cousin Ara got that silly pet rabbit. I thought a desert rabbit would be cleverer."
"I wouldn't expected that from you, sister," said Oberyn.
"What, I'm not clever?"
"You're not crafty."
"I could be, if I wanted," said his sister. "I know that's the Martell heritage. We are all so very clever."
"You wouldn’t be you if you were crafty," said Oberyn. "I like you just the way you are."
"Thank you," said his sister, ducking her head and blushing.
"And I can think of a few handsome young men who will feel the same way," said Oberyn, and his sister blushed harder.
The Ten of Pentacles (reversed)
"A long time ago," said his father. "When winter had just begun –"
"What's winter?" Bran asked.
"Cold," said his father. "Cold and darkness."
"Colder than this?" Bran asked, burrowing deeper into his furry blanket.
"Yes," said his father. "And it lasts for a long time."
"I don't ever want it to be winter," Bran said. "I like the sunshine."
His father gave him a long look. "If I may," he said. "A long time ago, when winter had just begun…"
*****
There was once a brother and a sister who loved each other very much. They spent their childhood hours spinning tales by the fire or playing together in the woods, and as they grew into youths their companionship did not fade. Sometimes she was hot-tempered and silly, and sometimes he was hard-headed and foolish, yet their quarrels never lasted long.
But their land was ruled by a cruel and thoughtless king who had no love for his subjects and often made war upon them. Out of fear the people were loyal to him, and bowed and scraped before him, so when he sent for the brother to join him at court his command could not be refused.
"Don't go!" begged the sister. "What will I do without you? I shall be so lonely and idle."
"Be glad you're staying behind," said the brother. "The king's court is an evil place, and you would not be safe there."
"What care I for safety?" she said. "Only take me with you."
"I care for yours," said the brother, and left to make the long hard ride south.
The sister was indeed lonely and idle, for she missed her playmate and confidante. She wrote him many letters, but none ever came in return until one bright, cold day when a black rook dropped out of the sky and landed upon the stones of the maester's tower. The sister reached for the letter, snatching it out of the old man's hand, and her father took it in turn from her.
"Your brother is a captive," he said, reading the message. "Meant to secure our loyalty to the throne. Well, the king has it now."
"What, at the loss of your son?" the sister asked. "Should not we make war upon the king instead, father? Then you will have both your son and your freedom."
"Child," said her father. "There is much you do not understand."
"And much I do not wish to understand," she said, and fled to her room below.
All that night she lay awake, staring at the shelves full of books which she had read to her brother, and the little wooden toys he had made for her, and the window they'd often shared while watching the men spar in the yard below. There was still a small practice sword lying half-hidden behind the curtain, left from the days before her mother made her turn to more lady-like pursuits, and it seemed sad to her, lost without its fellow.
By the time the moon set she had made her decision, and just before sunrise she slipped out of the castle, dressed in a hooded cloak and traveling apparel, and mounted her horse in the darkness.
The king's road is not an easy one to walk. The snow was falling thickly now, and sometimes there was no barn or peasant's hut in which to take shelter so she slept curled by the warm side of her faithful horse. She had only a few gold coins so she often worked for supper and a bed, singing the northern tales she'd learned as a girl. She had a lovely voice, low and clear, like nothing those rough tavern patrons had ever heard before, and though beds were few a place was always found for her.
When she had crossed the endless marshes and swamps the weather turned warmer, but the southern people seemed hard somehow. When she stopped to ask for a night's rest or to a few carrots for her stew, she often met suspicious eyes and mean mouths. They must have been hungry mouths, too, for the farms and fields looked bare and ravaged.
One morning she sat beneath a tree to eat her bread and wash her face in a small stream. After a time she heard the tinkle of bells, and a herd of bony cows wandered across the field to eat the dry grass. They were followed by a scrawny, muddy little boy who stopped when he saw her.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"A traveler," she said. "Tell me, why are your fields so barren and your barns so empty?"
The little boy shook his head. "Everything goes to feed the dragon," he said.
He looked so forlorn and hungry that she took pity upon him and, drawing an apple from her pack, offered it to the boy. "Here, share my breakfast," she said.
The next day she rode on past more empty fields until she came upon a long line of poor peasants, each more ragged than the last, carrying baskets of wool and leather upon their heads. She dismounted to walk behind them, pulling her horse close by her. A tired young woman with long, tangled hair turned to look at her in surprise.
"Who are you?" the young woman asked.
"A traveler," said the sister. "Tell me, why are you barefoot and in rags when you carry wool and leather?"
The young woman shook her head. "Everything goes to clothe the dragon," she said.
Her eyes were so big in her thin face that the sister took pity upon her and, drawing a rind of cheese from her pack, offered it to the young woman. "Here, share my lunch," she said.
The next day she rode until afternoon, the weak but unaccustomed sun hot on her northern shoulders. She came at last to a small village where she rested herself on the common green while her horse drank from a trough. The houses of the place looked old, their beams sagging and their windows broken, and when she was refreshed she went to lean on the blacksmith's rail.
"Who are you?" he asked, pausing in his labor.
"A traveler," she said. "Tell me, why are your homes in such poor repair when there are carpenters and blacksmiths here?"
The blacksmith shook his head. "Everything goes to strengthen the dragon," he said.
His little son toddled out then, lifting his hands to her. They were empty, and she reached into her pouch for a few blueberries she'd gathered that day. "Here, share my dinner," she said.
She rode on for many days more and the land grew poorer before her eyes. In some places even her gold coins were not enough to earn her bread, and many doors were closed in her face. She slept shivering in hedgerows, for even here the nights were growing colder, and awoke stiff and hungry each morning.
One evening she rode long into darkness, hoping to make an end to her journey. She could already see the towers of the city in the distance, and her heart had begun to quicken with hope and fear. She was dreaming of her brother's face, his kind voice and gentle smile, when she rode into the black town.
The smell of ashes was everywhere, rising from the burnt hulls of the buildings and the bodies of animals. There were other bodies too, and her horse shied in terror, breaking pace and galloping forward. She calmed it at last by a fountain where she dismounted and soothed it, speaking soft words into its ears. She did not like this place any more than the horse did, and was startled when she heard a voice speak in the gloom.
"Who are you?" croaked the old woman who sat on the edge of the fountain, twirling a spindle between her knees.
"No one," said the sister. "Who are you?"
"No one," said the old woman.
"What happened to this place?" asked the sister.
The old woman just spun on, her blind eyes staring into the night.
The sister looked a while longer and then reached into her pack, slowly drawing out her last hunk of hard bread. She tore it into two halves and placed one on the fountain stones. The old woman spun on.
The sister rode the rest of that night, still haunted by that ruined village, and even when she came through the great market gate into the largest city in the land all she saw before her eyes was ashes dancing on the wind.
Her gold coins were taken here, though these merchants seemed wary and secretive too. She breakfasted on a single round orange which was a treasure, they told her, brought from across the Summer Sea. It was like nothing she had ever tasted, and its sweetness was still on her tongue, the bitter tartness beneath, when she rode at last to the red tower.
But they did not let her in.
"State your business," said the guard.
"My own," she said.
"All business is the king's," said the guard. "Off with you."
The sister, thwarted in her task, found a tavern that would take her last few coins and slept on a hard mattress which felt like silken pillows to her road-weary body. When she woke long hours later, the innkeeper stood over her.
"I'll need more coins for tonight, lass," he said. "There are many heads looking for a pillow such as this."
"I have no more coins," she said.
"Then you might offer something else," said the innkeeper.
"I can sing," she said.
The innkeeper laughed. "There are singers aplenty in this town," he said. "You'll find there's little call for your country ballads. Men like rougher songs than that."
"Let me sing for you," she said. "And then you may throw me into the streets if you choose."
The innkeeper laughed again, but followed her to the common room below. "If you can charm this crowd," he said. "I'll give you the finest bed in the place."
She went to the hearth and all eyes turned upon her, voices and laughter fading like a wave washing out to sea. She had a lovely face, though she did not seem to know it, and she felt very small as she stood there in the hushed room.
She sang a song about the forests of the north, the ever-reaching mountains, and the high-vaulted skies, and hearts lifted. She sang of battles and ships and journeys, and returning home once more, and hearts stirred. She sang of love lost and love gained, of secret knowledge and plain words, of suffering and joy, and hearts wept, burned, and sang with her in silence.
For a fortnight she sang in the tavern each evening, and the people of the city gathered to listen. They were a hard-pressed lot, drained by the king's taxes and demands, hungry and ill-clothed, and still they spent their coin on mugs of ale and bowls of stew so that they might listen to the singer of the north and be taken for even a moment away from their grim lives.
And in time the king sent for her.
The sister trembled as she entered that great red tower. The guards were stern and fearsome, and the iron gates closed behind her with such force that she felt the clang in her bones. The walk to the throne room seemed very long.
She knelt before the king, as she had been taught.
"Rise, maid," he said, and though she did not look upon his face, she heard the sneer in his voice. "Sing Us one of these ballads for which you have gained such renown in Our city."
Her mouth was dry as she rose to her feet, and for a moment she was certain no sound would come, but she fixed her eyes upon the shore and remembered the sunlight filtering through the pines as they ran, the cold nights spent before the fire playing at draughts, the picture books they read with their two heads resting close together, and sang a song for her brother.
When she had finished, she dared at last to look at the king. His long, pale, shrewd face seemed bewildered, as if she had dazed him with her music, and then his eyes went narrow.
"Such music should not be wasted on peasants," he said. "It is only fitting that you remain here at the court, so that all might hear the treasure We have discovered. We shall let it be known far and wide what glory is found in Our land."
The sister curtsied deeply, dropping her eyes again. "Truly, I am honored, sire," she said. "But I have not come for glory, nor to dishonor your halls with my humble presence."
"What have you come for, then?" asked the king, his voice sharpened once more.
"I come for my brother," she said, simply. "He is a boy of the north, and I say I will die if you do not give him back to me."
The king was silent for a long while. "A boy of the north?" he asked. "A peasant boy?"
"The name of his house is known to you," she said.
She heard the king lick his lips, making soft, wet sounds with his mouth like a baby as he thought. "We do remember this boy," he said. "We believe he was insolent."
"I am sure he meant no offense," said the girl.
"Perhaps not," said the king. "Still. We cannot tolerate insolence in Our subjects. We believe he is in one of Our dungeons. It is difficult to recall."
He beckoned forth one of his chamberlains, who whispered in his ear. The girl's heart beat so fast, as she struggled to keep herself in curtsey, that she could scarcely breathe through its pounding.
"Ah. He is not in a dungeon," said the king when the chamberlain had retired. "He was put to death. We suppose his crime must have been very great. It is difficult to recall. Yes, difficult to recall." He made more childish smacking sounds, and trailed off into mumbling.
The breath did leave her body at that moment, and stars danced before her eyes. The shock was so sudden she felt as if her hand had been cut away from her body, leaving only loss and the beginnings of pain. She forced herself once more to look at the king but he had wandered deeper into bewilderment, studying his be-ringed fingers.
"I thank you," she said. "For the honor of singing before you, and for giving me the truth. My father will rest easier for knowing it."
"You father?" asked the king, rousing himself. "Who is he? Perhaps he has been insolent too."
"No one," said the girl. "Like me. I think I had best leave your exalted presence now."
A guard stepped forward to take her arm, and in his eyes she saw pity. She left upon his arm without a backwards look.
Long she stood on the palace stairs and then found her way, somehow, through the warren of streets, their stones piled high with stinking garbage and choked with animals and shrilling women and brawling men. She went to the stables, where her horse had rested on soft hay and grown fat on fresh oats, and led it out of the city. She turned her back upon the walls, and upon the shining harbor and he barren fields, and faced the north.
Her father received a letter, but not a daughter. There were stories for years after of a wandering minstrel who broke hearts with her song and never stayed long in any place, but perhaps they were only tales.
*****
Bran was nearly asleep when his father finished, but he opened one drowsy eye and sat up a little. "That's a very sad story," he said.
"Yes," said his father, his gaze fixed upon the dancing flames of the fire.
"I'd rather have one about knights fighting dragons and wolves and winning gold and tourneys," Bran said. "I like happy endings."
"Not all tales have a happy ending," said his father.