Chapter Text
Tyrion I
There were times — not often — when Tyrion would forget that he was a dwarf.
The stares and whispers surrounding him, or the fact that things seemed far taller than they ought to be, were always a fresh reminder. But there would be small blessed moments that cut through all of it and made him feel like himself — not Tyrion the Imp, but just Tyrion. He felt like that the most at night. When he was young, Tyrion would receive rare chances to sneak out of his room at Casterly Rock in the quiet hours after bedtime and simply watch the sky as the stars glowed above him. And he’d forget everything: his father, his sister, the hushed japes and laughs of people he’d pass by. The stars didn’t care how tall he was; they shone for him all the same.
There in the peace of a cold night, perched on the stone railing outside of Winterfell’s great hall, Tyrion felt like himself. The roar of laughter behind wasn’t far, though, and it reminded him of why he’d left.
The banquet had simply been too loud.
Sitting at the high table, the sounds of laughing, yelling, and raucous cheering almost drowned out the attempts of music from the single singer at the end of the hall. The unknown minstrel made a valiant effort, but he was a light breeze competing with a storm. Perhaps a more professional bard could have captured the crowd’s attention, but Tyrion had correctly figured him an amateur — one content to just sing his songs in his own little corner of the world. To some extent, Tyrion admired that about the man.
Of course, the competing noise wasn’t half as deafening as the men who had sat beside Tyrion. At the high table sat the king and queen of Westeros, Robert Baratheon and Tyrion’s sister, Cersei. Her tiara had been adorned with shining emeralds that matched her cat-like eyes, which never missed a slight, both real and imaginary. Meanwhile, Lord and Lady Stark had attempted civil conversation, and Tyrion wished them all the luck in the world with that task.
It is said that a king’s health is reflected in the king’s lands, which must have been why the fourth hour of the great feast had descended from low murmur into such thunderous frivolity. Then again, Tyrion mused that it wasn’t entirely Robert’s fault this time. That dubious honor could only be given to the enabling lord sitting beside him, egging him on in a drinking contest.
“You’re lagging behind, Wayn!” our noble King bellowed, followed by a hearty laugh.
“I’m just warmin’ up, your grace,” Bruce slurred back. “I’m goin’ ta be the man that drinks the king under the table if I hafta die doin’ it!”
The King locked eyes with the lord and drank his entire goblet without breaking his stare. He slammed his cup down and wiped his mouth with the back of his fat hand. “Then prepare to die!”
From Tyrion’s seat, he could see the grimace that contorted Lady Stark’s face. Tyrion dared say that Wayn’s antics had caused a few new wrinkles to form. Of course, her looks paled in comparison to his sister’s, whose barely hidden contempt for the lord was so acrid it could curdle milk.
Tyrion was pleased. However, even the novelty of watching his sister stew in her impotent rage had its limits.
It was very unusual for such a minor lord to be seated beside the king of the Five Realms, but Lord Wayn proved himself a very charming fellow. He had arrived at Winterfell just as the King and Queen had, and with all the subtlety of a peacock, his own wheelhouse decked out with such pageantry that it almost rivaled that of Cersei’s. Lord Wayn’d had quickly made himself the center of attention after that. Tyrion could scarcely recall what exactly he’d said, but it was enough to make King Robert laugh harder than he usually did at the court jesters of King’s Landing.
From what Tyrion knew, the Wayns were a minor house in the Riverlands that specialized in constructing wagons and carriages and breeding horses. They were so proud of this tradition that they blazoned their arms with four wheels. With their close relationship with the Tullys, they did rather well for themselves and managed contracts for custom carriages for lords across the realm.
That was until, years ago, before Robert’s Rebellion, tragedy befell the house when a bandit killed young Bruce’s parents. Rumors say it was even the Smiling Knight who had done the deed, leaving the poor boy an orphan, save for his uncle, who lived in Riverrun. After that, the young lord had been left in the care of his house maester until he came of age, when he had simply disappeared into Essos for many years. For a time, many believed he had died in the streets as a beggar, or on some foreign battlefield as a sellsword. He proved them all wrong a few moons back when he finally returned, with very funny ideas and a rather obnoxious lust for life.
Why he chose to visit Winterfell was anyone’s guess, but being a dwarf allowed Tyrion some manner of anonymity, and he was as easily overlooked as he was to draw a stare. Using this, he had overheard a pair of servant girls chattering about Lord Wayn’s fortuitous timing of arriving during the King’s visit. Apparently, it was completely unexpected, and the raven announcing his arrival had come too late for Lord Stark to stop him.
Just thinking about it made Tyrion smile as he watched the wagon lord gulp another mouthful of wine. That was no accident, he thought.
Whatever game he was playing, though, had not been entertaining enough to hold Tyrion’s interest, so he filled his wineskin with the pleasant summer wine the King had been drowning himself with and politely excused himself from the table, wineskin in hand.
As he made his way towards the exit, Tyrion passed the children’s table, taking note of Joffrey’s lingering gaze on Sansa Stark. The little shit was staring at her with a greedy smirk on his face. That could be trouble, but he’d ponder that some other time.
The night air was cold, but far more refreshing than the smoke and stench of roasted meat in the banquet hall he’d just left.
He saw his breath billow from his mouth as the light from inside faded behind him. The stars were shining brightly tonight. The stars were always comforting to him. Standing at the entrance to the hall, Tyrion climbed onto the stone handrail for a more comfortable and private position. He made sure to hold onto his wineskin tightly. When he was steady, Tyrion took a sip and enjoyed the familiar tinges of melancholy that wrapped around his heart like an old blanket.
Until his solitude was interrupted by approaching footsteps. “Lord Tyrion,” the voice said, an infectious smile coloring his words. “How are you enjoying the banquet?”
“I’m outside,” Tyrion responded without looking at him. “What does that tell you?”
Undeterred, out of the corner of Tyrion’s eye, the aurochs of a man gave a slight chuckle and shook his head. “Well then, perhaps I could escort you to Winterfell’s library? I’m sure the house maester wouldn’t mind.”
Of all the knights in service to his family, Tyrion couldn’t say he disliked this one. As far as men with swords go, this one could at least be trusted with a blade, if only because he had the odd habit of holding them from the wrong end. Tall as a sentry tower and built like a fortress wall, he came far from humble origins on a farm in the Reach before becoming a knight. He had made a name for himself in tourneys with his unorthodox technique of gripping his blunted sword by the blade and striking opponents with the pommel and crossguard. Rather useful in melees, but he seemed to do it all the time. Gaining the infamy of “the knight who turned a sword into a hammer.”
This was such a novelty that it managed to impress the king himself, and Robert Baratheon, in his infinite wisdom, made the man a house knight as soon as he laid eyes on him. It wasn’t long before he became a sworn-shield to Robert’s eldest, along with the sworn-sword Clegane. That man Robert was so enamored with, Ser Clarke, who stood for all the world as like the King in his prime, and perhaps even stronger than that.
At first, Tyrion thought Clarke had been putting on airs for propriety’s sake, but after speaking to the man here and there, he’d come to a startling conclusion: Ser Clarke truly was every bit as innocent as he seemed. A rare breed of a man, and rarer still of knights. As such, he was one of the few people who dared treat Tyrion with more than an ounce of respect.
“I think I’ll simply remain on my perch a little while longer,” Tyrion said to Ser Clarke, finally wrenching his eyes away from the stars to look at the man. The knight’s dark-blue surcoat looked black in the night light, but his coat-of-arms — a red snake on a golden field — could still be seen in the lantern light. “I’ve often been called a gargoyle, so this should help in future comparisons.”
The knight dipped his head modestly. “If that pleases you, my lord.” Ser Clarke turned his gaze towards the sky and stared at the stars for a moment. “Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but I hope you wouldn’t mind some company.”
Tyrion shrugged. “If that pleases you, ser.”
Needing no further prompting, Clarke happily sat at the bottom of the stairs and silently joined Tyrion in his star-gazing. And there they both sat. Not needing to say anything as they contemplated the infinite above.
“I think I just saw a falling star,” Clarke said.
“Damn,” Tyrion said, taking another sip from his wineskin. “I missed it.”
“They say that falling stars grant wishes, my lord,” Clarke said. “What would you wish for?”
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Are you truly asking ‘The Imp’ what he’d wish for?”
Tyrion took great joy in watching how quickly Ser Clarke whipped his head around in embarrassment. “Oh, forgive me, my lord. I-I didn’t mean––”
Tyrion chuckled and took another sip of wine. “Calm yourself, ser. ’Tis merely a jest.”
Clarke had the decency to laugh. “Oh, I see. Well, what would you wish for, my lord?”
“I’d wish for more wishes, obviously,” Tyrion said.
“I’m not sure that’s allowed,” Ser Clarke said sardonically.
“You never know.” Tyrion shrugged. “Besides, I don’t believe in wishes anyway.”
“No?” Clarke questioned.
“No,” Tyrion said. “Falling stars are made of rocks, not wishes.”
“How do you know?” the knight asked.
Tyrion could have answered honestly. He could have told the knight of the thousand wishes he’d made in the silence of cold, lonely nights that never came true. Instead, he decided to be more diplomatic. “The sword of House Dayne was forged out of metal taken from a falling star.”
“Yes, I heard about that,” Clarke said. “Dawn. A fine blade.” The knight fell silent for a moment. “I wonder where the metal came from.”
“Perhaps it came from the moon,” Tyrion said before taking another sip of wine. “A maester hypothesized long ago that ‘falling stars’ are rocks that have shaken loose from the moon, and they fall on us from above.”
This time, Ser Clarke did not respond. The silence stretched on, and Tyrion noticed that the knight’s body became a bit stiffer as he stared on at the sky, almost solemnly. With nothing left to say, the two returned to their silent contemplation.
Suddenly, Tyrion’s companion tilted his head slightly, reminding him of a dog becoming aware of the silent pitter-patter of an errant rabbit. Before he could ask the knight what vexed him, the doors to the hall burst open, and the head of black locks belonging to Eddard Stark’s bastard passed by. He was crying. Trailing behind him was the recognizable snow-white coat of his little wolf pet the Stark children all seemed to have.
Ser Clarke stood up at the sight of the boy. “Are you alright, young man?” the knight asked.
“I’m fine,” the boy said tersely, wiping tears away from his eyes with his sleeve.
Clarke flinched slightly at the boy’s sharp response, but he didn’t waver. “It’s rather noisy in there, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the bastard said.
“I don’t think your wolf much appreciated it,” Clarke said with a look at the beast.
“Ghost isn’t scared,” the boy told him.
“I didn’t say he was,” Clarke replied.
“Might we have a look?” Tyrion called out from his perch.
The boy turned suddenly, shocked at the origins of Tyrion’s voice. As the boy turned, Tyrion’s mismatched eyes finally got a good look at him. He had the Stark look — his hair was straight and black, his skin pale, almost like snow, and his eyes were grey like ice. Though now they were red and full of angry tears that he was trying to wipe away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“Thank you,” Tyrion said. “I was hoping not to be noticed.”
“Do you need some help down?” The bastard asked.
“Oh, bleed that,” the little man said as he slid down the stone railing and lightly dropped to the ground. Ghost backed away from him, uncertainly. Tyrion must not have landed properly as he felt the sharp sting of a cramp in his left leg, but he refused to acknowledge it. He dusted himself off and laughed. “A shy wolf, isn’t he?”
“Come on, Ghost. Come on,” the boy said, motioning to his wolf as the silent beast cautiously marched forward. Come to a stop by its master, the direwolf sat, its red eyes staring at Tyrion dangerously.
Tyrion, resisting the tightness along his neck and back, stepped forward and reached out his hand. The wolf backed away, baring its fangs. “Ghost, sit,” the bastard boy said firmly.
“I don’t think your wolf likes me,” Tyrion said, ignoring his urge to step back. For the briefest of seconds, the dwarf’s mismatched eyes looked to Ser Clarke. The knight was standing with his arms crossed, an encouraging smile on his lips. A strong sense of resolve soon replaced his anxiety — Tyrion would be damned before he showed this oaf fear.
Again, Tyrion reached out his hand and ruffled the fur along the wolf’s ear. The beast’s eyes were like menacing rubies glittering with focus and grim intent. “Nice wolf,” Tyrion said, feeling not unlike a rabbit before a hungry predator.
“If I weren’t here, he’d rip your throat out,” the boy said with a smug tone in his voice.
“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you’re here,” Tyrion said, an old familiar guard wrapping itself around him.
“Might I have a look?” Ser Clarke asked, bending his knee as the wolf’s head turned to him.
For a time, that is how they were — the knight and the beast staring at each other, neither making the first move. Finally, the knight raised his right hand and removed his gauntlet. Delicately, Ser Clarke guided his bare hand along the wolf’s body. The animal remained still as his master commanded, but subtle muscle twinges showed Tyrion it was preparing for something. The knight’s fingers probed the wolf’s fur experimentally. Almost as if he’d been looking for something.
The wolf’s patience appeared to be running out, and the bastard looked about ready to step in before something unexpected happened: the knight’s hand found a spot along the wolf’s neck. All tension in its body melted away as its eyes became unfocused and it began licking its nose. The Stark bastard looked astonished, and Tyrion could almost see the wolf’s tail twitch like a dog’s.
“Good boy,” the knight said.
“I’ve never seen him do that before,” the boy said. “How did you do that?”
The knight patted the wolf’s head and rose with a smile. “You learn a few things living on a farm, lad.”
The wolf, now more relaxed, began licking his master’s face. The boy looked up at the knight with a new set of eyes, having forgotten whatever had previously upset him.
“A fine wolf. Very disciplined,” Ser Clarke said. “The wild is still in his heart, but he has a good master. Fitting for your house of the direwolf.”
All the joy in the bastard’s voice melted like snow in the summer sun. “It’s not my house.” The wolf padded over to the boy’s hand and gently nipped his fingers.
Ser Clarke sighed as he realized he’d chosen the wrong words. Tyrion felt the urge to step in before the knight spoke again. “I don’t believe we’ve properly met. My name is Clarke, I am a—”
“The sworn-shield of House Baratheon. I know.” The boy interrupted. “I’m Jon, i-it’s an honor to meet a knight of House Baratheon.” He finished, giving an awkward bow. “Shouldn’t you be inside with your charge?”
The knight hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not much for revelry like that; I much prefer training with my sword in case the need arises to help someone. Don’t you agree?” The boy nodded silently. For a moment, the boy and the knight stood there, neither speaking, before the latter pulled out his sword. “Would you like to spar with me, lad?”
Jon hesitated for a moment. “I— can’t ser, I’m… too drunk, ser.”
The knight was not deterred. “What better way to work the stuff out of your blood?”
“I’m sorry, ser,” Jon said again. “I’m just not able t–”
In one swift motion, the crossguard of Clarke’s sword was placed behind the boy’s leg, sweeping the limb out from under him. “How about now?”
The direwolf barred its teeth, ready to defend its master as Jon ungainly scrambled to his feet. But no sooner did he find his balance than the knight stole it, knocking him to the ground again.
“Stop it!” the boy yelled, flinching at Clarke raising his hand for another.
“Are you angry?” Clarke asked.
“Yes!” Jon screamed.
“Good,” Clarke yelled. “Let’s fight!”
The knight found a sword for the bastard, and they prepared to spar, and Tyrion couldn’t help but snicker to himself.
What proceeded could not have been described as sparring — the boy proved to be a remarkable talent with a blade, but Clarke was something more. There was almost a poetry to it. Every feint, every thrust, every counter practically sang. Never giving too much or too little. Oh, there were moments when Jon would get the better of the knight and strike a blow, but it simply made Clarke smile all the more.
By the end, they were both panting, their hot breaths billowing in the cold air.
“You are formidable, lad,” Clarke said. “You’ll make your house proud.”
“I’m going to be a ranger of the Night’s Watch,” Jon replied.
“The Wall?” he said, questioningly. After a moment, he stood straighter, and he surprised the boy with what he said next. “A fine choice. Very meritocratic; anyone can rise high there. Not that different from the Kingsguard.”
“My uncle Benjen is a ranger in the Watch,” Jon said.
Clarke nodded. “And soon you will join him and do the Seven Kingdoms proud.”
The two fell into an awkward silence again, and Tyrion felt an impulse to say something, but the knight beat him to it. “Jon... They say that… illegitimate children grow faster than trueborns. They say that because life is so hard for them. I can already see you’re wise beyond your years. The Watch is not most people’s first choice, and it is a hard life, but always keep in mind, there’s always room for another good one. And I just want you to know,” the knight placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “I like you just the way you are. I hope you find what you’re looking for at the Wall.”
The knight finished with a smile as gentle as morning dew. A smile so genuine that the boy couldn’t help but return it.
Tyrion watched it, sipping his wine.
Clarke didn’t care who you happened to be; he smiled for everyone, and he meant it each time.
Yes, Tyrion decided he did like Ser Clarke after all.
Catelyn I
The courtyard sang with the sound of swords and wind.
Catelyn watched as the Stark flags flapped in the breeze atop the Bridge between the armory and the Great Keep, their points now rippling towards the east. The winds were changing, and for Catelyn they brought with them no shortage of anxieties, but she knew there was no point in dwelling on them — she, Ned, and Luwin had made the best arrangements possible.
Ned would accept the Handship, and he, their daughters, and Bran would go to King’s Landing. Robb and Rickon would remain with her. And Jon would go to the Wall. She breathed in through her nose, hoping the cool air would quell the heat roiling in her chest. Her mind drifted to an image of a direwolf impaled on a stag, but she quickly pushed it away. It will work, she reminded herself –– forced it into her mind. Her plan would work. Her family and its future had been secured.
And yet, a part of her wished things could stay as they had always been. Life had been simple not too long ago, only to turn against her all at once.
Catelyn thought all of this as she made her way down the steps toward the courtyard, a piece of folded paper in hand, and she stared at the face of a familiar stranger.
It had been many years since they’d entertained visitors at Winterfell, least of all ones such as their present company. Making preparations for the royal family of the Seven Kingdoms was a taxing labor unto itself, but as far as Cat knew, the Baratheons had kept complaints, if any, to themselves. Robert was happy as long as he was fed well and he was allowed time to hunt; Queen Cersei mainly remained in the royal wheelhouse, rather than their Guest House, accompanied by her brother and the few handmaidens she’d brought along (her ladies-in-waiting had not come north with her, which Cat found odd but did not question); the royal heirs found ways to entertain themselves with Cat’s own children.
Their final guest was another issue entirely. Crossing the courtyard to the training area where a large fence was sectioned off for sparring practice, she came to a stop a few paces away, and she watched a man she did and did not recognize.
Memories flooded up in her mind’s eye: her girlhood days at Riverrun with her sister Lysa, and the two boys who’d shared those days with them. The clever and mischievous Petyr from the Fingers, and the sullen yet sweet Bruce from the Riverlands. She could still see his face: plump cheeks framed by shaggy dark brown hair, and icy blue eyes that spoke of a deep sadness. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it was full and bright, yet rich with melancholy. As if he were always crying on the inside.
She remembered that boy and his smile as she observed the man before her, his face full of cruel mirth and mockery as sparring swords clashed together. Bruce shuffled in the mud of the training yard, fending off the half-hearted strikes of his opponent under the gaze of Ser Rodrick Cassel. The Stark swordsman had clearly lost his enthusiasm to fight, but Bruce was insistent. Lord Wayn strutted around the young swordsman with an overconfidence and bravado none of the men found endearing; his actions spoke of a man who incorrectly thought very highly of his skills. Bruce made a few experimental swipes at his opponent, which were easily blocked until Bruce became impatient and swung for a ‘killing’ blow. The young man took advantage of the opening and struck Bruce in the ribs. The padded armor was evidently not thick enough, as Wayn backed away and began to rapidly breathe in and out from the pain, his breath hissing through gritted teeth.
Reaching the limits of his patience, Ser Rodrick ended the farce and recalled his man. As the swordsman turned, Bruce quickly reached forward with his blade and smacked the man on the backside. It earned him a scowl from his opponent and Ser Rodrick, but Bruce was unbothered and simply said with a smile, “Watch yourself.”
Catelyn hesitantly walked over to him as he set down his blunted sword and began unfastening his pads. His eyes were the only relics of the soft boy he’d been, as the man before her was tall and handsome, his plumpness had given way to a man's frame, and his hair darkened to nearly black. The sadness in his eyes had been replaced by the alertness of a hawk, always looking for a weakness. Bruce’s wardship at Riverrun had happened so quickly after his terrible loss of his parents, but it was where the last of his family lived, with his uncle Utherydes serving as the house steward.
Cat had last seen him not long after Littlefinger was sent away; Bruce had spoken to his uncle to have his wardship ended so that he might return to Wayn Manor. It had been improper, but he and Catelyn hugged in their goodbyes, and if Cat remembered correctly, Bruce had thanked her for being his friend. It had been a bittersweet parting. On her wedding day, she’d received neither letter nor flowers from him, and the last she’d heard of him was that he had left his house in the care of his maester before vanishing into Essos. After that, Cat scarcely thought of him again. When she’d received the raven announcing his surprise visit to Winterfell, it was almost as if her friend had come back from the dead.
But, having joined the royal entourage somewhere on the Kingsroad, Bruce Wayn rode in on a carriage with almost equal pageantry, pulled by two strong, pure-bred horses black as coal. He’d sported a dangerous smirk and lustful eyes, and shared crude and vulgar japes with Robert that could have made a Dornishman blush.
“Northerners,” Bruce said then with a nod to Ser Rodrick as he unfastened his armor, “no sense of humor. I do what I can for them, but I am just one man.”
“They say that the cold in the North freezes the laughter in a man’s throat,” Catelyn said charitably.
Bruce nodded. “Well, I’ll be sure to keep my fires fed and my wineskins full. My sense of humor is half my charm, isn’t that right men?” Bruce called out to Ser Rodrick and his men on the other side of the training yard. They pretended not to hear him. Bruce remained unbothered and turned back to Cat with a grin. “Now then, to what do I owe this honor, Lady Stark?”
Catelyn bristled at the address. Since he had set foot in Winterfell, Bruce had dropped any pretense of etiquette and begun calling people by names of his choosing, such as ‘Neddy’ for her husband. King Robert was amused by the man’s audacity, which Bruce took as tacit encouragement. Catelyn was, as far as she knew, the only person whom he referred to by her honorific, and she did not find this selective deference endearing — if he was capable of doing it for her, it followed he should be capable of doing it for anyone. Not least of all, her husband.
Without responding, Catelyn simply handed him the rolled-up paper she’d brought with her.
“What’s this?” Bruce asked as he unrolled the paper. “A marriage proposal, perhaps? I get those often, you know.”
“Your business with the Forresters has been approved by House Stark,” Catelyn said, recalling the talk he’d had with Ned and Robert the second day of his visit. Greensick from drinking with Robert the night before, Bruce had laid out the issue he was facing for them. “And,” Catelyn added, “King Robert has already sent a raven to the Greyjoys, granting the ships royal protection through their waters.” Robert had spat out the Greyjoy name like a rotten tooth, not wishing to deal with the ‘damnable squids,’ but Bruce needed his ships’ safe passage if the Forrester ironwood were to arrive in the Riverlands unmolested and in a timely manner. Robert had been uninterested in the proceedings but had promised to see the matter through, as had Ned and Cat.
Interestingly, Cat did not get the reaction she expected from Bruce: in contrast to the obnoxious attitude he’d forced everyone to put up with, all witticisms were lost. Cat watched the mask fall away, and, for the briefest of moments, she saw someone else; his smugness melted, and his eyes narrowed, taking on a look of focus. Focus and control. His mind was deep in contemplation that spoke of something … within. As if pieces of a larger plan of his own had fallen into place. But no sooner did she see it than it, too, disappeared, and the cutting smile of a rake returned.
“Outstanding,” he said, rolling the paper back up. “I was overdue for some good news. May I use your rookery? I’ll need to inform my maester to make sure the wood can be picked up.”
“Well, yes, but—“ Catelyn struggled to find the words she wished to say. She did not know the exact figures, but Cat knew that his transaction with the Forresters was a significant investment of capital. Bruce did not seem at all bothered. She always knew the Wayn family holdings were substantial, and the retainers Bruce had left in charge while he was gone had watched over them nicely. From what she was told, Bruce had started a new initiative, gathering contracts across the realms for wagons, carriages, and horse breeds. Still, the expenses of the ironwood would give any other lord pause, not to mention the cost of shipping it. Catelyn herself was not well-versed in the craft of wagon or carriage building, but she knew that ironwood would not be suitable for the task — it was much too dense and heavy. The material was used for shields, fortifications, or bridges. And its very dark coloring made it a challenge to paint over.
“Bruce,” Cat began, “I’m afraid I must ask — what is all this wood for?”
Her friend became unexpectedly quiet, reticent. Then his lips thinned as they stretched into a half-hearted smile, accentuating the knife-like aspects of his cheekbones and nose. “A carriage,” he finally said without elaboration.
Well, Catelyn thought, whoever this carriage is for, I hope they liked it in black.