Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Well, here we are.” Brenn Fossoway’s voice was disgustingly cheerful as the old compact ground to a halt in the empty parking lot. “Home sweet home!”

“Maybe it’s your sweet home,” she said as she gazed up at the science building, looming above her in the purpling dusk. “But it’s not mine.”

“The North has a way of growing on you.”

“Like athlete’s foot,” Liana Pyke replied, as she yanked open the car door and stumbled out, stretching and yawning. The road trip from Oldtown to Winterton had taken the best part of a week. The traffic at the bridge of the Twins, where the border between North and South Westria lay, had been gridlock, even though the yawning border guard had asked them if they’d only brought any fruits or vegetables. Liana, who had been driving, smiled and said no, even though a bag of oranges was sitting in the trunk.

Breakin’ the law, breakin’ the law, Brenn sang as they drove through the Neck, until Liana wanted to pull the car over and toss him into the nearest marsh. She really didn’t mind her uncle’s assistant most of the time—and sometimes she thought he was kind of cute, in his long, coltish, geeky sort of way—but he had a way of running a joke into the ground.

Her yawning and stretching immediately turned into shivering, though, and she dived back into the overheated car to grab her hooded sweatshirt. University of Oldtown, it read. She still couldn’t understand why her uncle, a respected physicist who grew up in Qarth, for God’s sake-- would accept a position at the University of Winterton, in the windswept, godforsaken plains of North Westria. Her tits were about to freeze off. She should have brought her down jacket, but she’d thought, silly her, that as it was spring, she might not have to dress like an arctic explorer.

“Yeah,” said Brenn with an apologetic air. He emerged from the car as well, his long legs unfolding. He must have been ridiculously uncomfortable in the tiny car for the six days they’d been travelling, but he hadn’t bitched once. She felt a little guilty, but then reminded herself she was doing him a favor by helping him drive back north and splitting the food and hotel bills. Of course, they’d had separate beds, but it had been awkward as fuck, even though she was used to traveling with guys.

“It’s been nice lately,” he continued, “but soon as the sun goes down, it’s crazy cold.”

Liana stamped her feet and rubbed her hands. She shot Brenn a lopsided smile.

“On the bright side, at least it’s not the way it used to be during the Ice Age, when winters lasted for years.”

“If that was the case, you’d still be back in Qarth, huh?”

“You bet your ass I would!”

As Brenn blushed a little, she rolled her eyes. She was hardly as obscene as her father (who, as an ex-pat construction worker from the Iron Islands, could weave a tapestry of obscenities as colorful as a Qartheen carpet). She couldn’t understand why a grad student these days would be so prissy, but maybe that was northern culture for you. But Liana, to her chagrin, still didn’t know much about North Westria, apart from her studies of the old Northern province in her literature classes and the out-size role it had played in the so-called “Cataclysm,” almost a thousand years before.

Of course, that and a dollar would get her a cup of coffine. She knew that Dad thought she was like Mom and much too infatuated with the rarefied environs of academe—and maybe she was. She always had this fantasy of lecturing dewy-eyed students about the Age of Sagas, quoting the timeless poetry of Archmaester Tarly in the ancient Westrian dialect.

Legends of bygone times reveal wonders and prodigies/ Of heroes worthy endless fame, of matchless braveries/ Of jubilees and festal sports, of tears and sorrows great/ And knights who daring combats fought— the like I now relate.

Of course, despite all the chivalry and knightly ideals, it all ended in a bloodbath, with betrayal, rape, torture, incest, cannibalism and mass slaughter as the most frequent leitmotifs of the Song of the Starks, or The Saga of Ice and Flame as it was sometimes called.

The very thought twisted her lips in mirth. It reminded her of the old joke: the aristocrats!

Liana opened the trunk, fetching the oranges and some Summer Island bananas as well. Most of her friends were going to raves down in Dorne, or catching the waves down in Tall Trees Town, as any sane person would do during spring break. But—she was here, in Winterton, near the ancient Stark seat, Winterfell. (Or, as she liked to call it, jokingly, Winterhell.) Though it had been extensively rebuilt in the fourth century, and supposedly bore little resemblance to how it looked before the Cataclysm, she’d always wanted to come here. It was much smaller than it used to be, and it was a museum now, with supposed recreations of “Queen Sansa’s bedchamber” and “the crypts” and all that. Winterton was perfectly respectable as tourist destinations went, but to come up during Spring Break was nuts. It was still fucking cold.

So yeah. She must’ve been crazy to come here. But maybe she should blame the unholy combination of Ironish and Qartheen genetics. The idea of seeing the sights, hanging out with her uncle, and researching the Sagas at the university had its appeal.

Also, there was Brenn, but she shoved that thought aside.

“He’ll like the oranges.” A smile brightened up Brenn’s long, thin face, and his hazel eyes sparkled. Her roommate Lindey said he looked like a horse, with his outsize nose and big teeth, which wasn’t wrong, but there was something appealing about him. God, she was perverse. “The groceries up here have lousy produce.”

“Well, I smuggled it in, like the daring pirate I am,” said Liana. She squinted, affecting an exaggerated Iron Islander accent. “Arrr, matey! Avast ye landlubbers, for I bring fruit!”

“I knew it!” He laughed, but then affected a scowl. “But where did you get the fruit, you Ironborn scum? Which of my family’s orchards did you raid for such bounty?”

“Never you mind, greenlander. I paid the iron price for it—not the gold! So sink ye, you southron scoundrel, it’s mine. Mine!”  

“Damn you all to hell!” said Brenn, sinking against the car. “The honor of House Fossoway will never be restored—oh God! The humanity! The fruitanity!”

Liana giggled, leaning on the trunk next to him. Her mom had loved both operas and musicals and old costume dramas, with swashbuckling and romance and overblown soundtracks, and Liana had loved them too. They all the same type of stories. Young princes and princesses, torn apart by feuding families, filled with passionate yearning, and separated and tortured by various sadistic villains, until they were at last reunited (the operas usually featured them dying in each other’s arms, while the movies usually had them living happily ever after). There was the Qartheen story of Kaasro the Pureborn and Xira the shadowbinder’s daughter, or Prince Theon the Forsaken and Queen Sansa Gloriana, or Iselle, the last princess of South Westria, and her revolutionist lover, Alexis, at the end of the Age of Luminance…

Even though Liana knew it was nonsense, she didn’t care. Real life was grueling and dull. Cleaning sinks. Toilets. Paying down credit cards. Fixing cars. Long-distance arguments over alimony. Eviction. Cancer. Chemotherapy. Haggling with a mortician over bills.

So what if she wanted to think about something else? The past was a fascinating place. Nowadays, of course, the Iron Islands were just another dead end place that kids fled as soon as they could, and Qarth was a city in Essos mainly known for its museums and its pharmaceutical industry. Many of the forests in North Westria had been cut down, making room for ranches and farms. Direwolves, south of the ruins of the old wall, had been hunted to extinction.

It had been so different, back in the age of the Sagas. Part of her wanted to see what it was like—when pirate princes ruled the Sunset Sea, sinister warlocks ruled Qarth, and shape-shifting wolves stalked the forests of the North. That was before the sorcerous principle had left the world. In those days, the air was riddled with portent, prophecy and enchantment.

But when the Cataclysm had been averted, all of that went away. Now, eight hundred years later, the descendants of all those pirates, wizards and shape-shifting wolves were left with technology and science- and an increasingly hot and crowded planet.

Liana wrapped her arms around her. Well, the North was still cold as ever. Though no doubt the ancients would consider this balmy. They’d think she was soft.

She laughed at that. Perhaps she was.

“A penny for your thoughts,” said Brenn.

“Oh, I think my thoughts are worth more than a penny,” said Liana, toying a little with her necklace. It was her favorite pendant of a white jade lotus, that used to belong to her mother. “Inflation. They’re at least worth a nickel.”

“I’m all out of nickels,” he said. He stretched his arm out, and Liana realized, a bit belatedly, that his hand was inching towards her shoulder.

It was her turn to flush. “Ah, uh, yeah. It’s getting late. We should find Uncle Xandros.”

There was an awkward pause as Brenn plunged his hands into his jeans pockets. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “He’s usually up in the lab on weeknights. He’s working something…well, you’ll see.”

“I hope it’s interesting,” said Liana. “I don’t have much of a head for physics. I barely passed algebra, even with my uncle tutoring me.”

“Oh, you’ll find it interesting,” Brenn said with a grin. “I think it’s right up your alley.”

“Right up my alley?”

“So to speak. I know you like the Age of the Sagas.”

Liana stared at him. “What does physics have to do with the Age of the Sagas?”

“You’ll see!”

She never thought nerdy, gangly Brenn Fossoway would enjoy being mysterious as a shadowsider, but apparently he did.

“All right,” she said, swallowing a nervous laugh. She pushed herself off the car, but the heel of her boot caught on some uneven bit of the concrete; she stumbled. She almost fell over the curb, but he grabbed her just in time, almost jerking her arm out of her socket.

“Are you okay?” he said, concerned.

“Yeah.” Liana ground her teeth, cursing herself for her clumsiness. But she always started tripping and dropping things when she was exhausted.

After a moment she remembered her manners. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “I could’ve sprained an ankle.”

A street light by the science building entrance turned on, and the harsh sodium-yellow light flickered over his straight brown hair. He grew very still.

“Look—” his voice cracked a bit—“it’s been a long day. Maybe I should just take you back to Professor H’s house. I can get the keys. We can get some dinner. You don’t have to worry about anything—”

Her stomach growled. The idea of getting dinner sounded amazing, but she could wait a bit longer. She really wanted to see her uncle and his allegedly awesome lab. She had a chicken sandwich anyway, in her bag. If she was really hungry she could eat that.

“Nah, I’m good.” She straightened with as much dignity as she could manage. She even threw in a flowery gesture. “Lead the way, my good ser.”

He stared at her, as Liana smirked.

“You mentioned this mysterious project. Well, you’ve piqued my interest. I’m going to see it, Brenn Fossoway, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Chapter Text

As opposed to the ancient sun-bleached bricks of the various departments of Oldtown’s storied university, Winterton’s science department was brand spanking new. It soared up, all glass and steel girders and blank walls. All the glass made it even colder. Liana wrapped her arms about her, shivering. Again, she questioned her sanity.

Well, life was an adventure, she told herself with a mental shrug. What was life without a soupçon of madness?

She and Brenn hiked up a huge steel and glass staircase, which ended at a mezzanine.

“The lab’s this way,” said Brenn, unlocking a pair of double doors.

They walked into a huge room, about two stories tall. Bright white light made her squint; huge blackboards, covered with equations, ringed the room, and between the blackboards snaked thick cables that rose up into the ceiling and back down into the floor.

“Ana!” A booming voice echoed through the room. Her uncle bounded towards her, grinning. “I’m so glad you made it here safely!”

He gave Brenn a look. “I was wondering if I trust Fossoway with this task. Knowing his driving, I was afraid you’d get mowed down by a truck going forty in the fast lane.”

Brenn laughed nervously. “Oh Uncle!” said Liana. “Brenn’s driving isn’t that bad. I’m in one piece, aren’t I? It’s so good to see you!”

“It’s good to see you too. I can’t believe it’s been three years. You’ve grown so much!”

Tears filled Liana’s eyes. The last time she’d seen him was at Mom’s funeral, hugging each other in the temple vestibule. She struggled not to weep.

Dr. Xandros Hazredi looked much the same as when he tried to tutor her in algebra back when she was in high school, although he’d gained weight and his white beard had grown fuller. Even so, he reminded her of Mom, with his pale olive skin and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Neither her mom or dad’s families could agree who she looked more like; she did have her father’s bony features, pointy nose and knobby chin, but she had her mother’s darker coloring and long-lashed, deep brown eyes. Yet she inherited her father’s style—or lack of style, as it were. Her mother had always looked so put together, with her long black hair knotted at the nape of her neck, while her father always looked like he had thrown on any old clothes lying on the floor (which was usually the case).

Overwhelmed, she threw her arms around him.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she said, her voice thickening. “It’s so strange to see you here, in Winterton, of all places!”

“They really wanted to hire me,” said her uncle with a chuckle. “And who was I to argue?”

“It looks like they’re investing a lot of money into their science department,” she said, gesturing around to the room. “I can still smell the paint. This place looks like it cost a mint.”

Now that was exactly the sort of thing Dad would say. Liana knew that her mom’s family thought Dad was an ill-bred nobody, and thought their darling daughter could do so much better. A proper Qartheen boy, who knew all the right people, not some hick from some rock in the middle of the sea who worked in construction. Perhaps they were right. Mom and Dad’s marriage didn’t last. But everyone got divorced these days.  

But Uncle Xandros only smiled wrily.

“How is your father, Ana? I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

“Doing well,” she said warily. “He started a new job in Kingsport. He has a new girlfriend. Shayna. She’s nice.” Dad and Shayna had in fact met at group therapy for alcoholism, where they’d both gotten their seven year pins. But she’d rather die than mention it to Uncle Xandros. It had been hard enough for Dad to get into group therapy in the first place; the last thing she was going to do was blab to her mother’s brother about how he used to have a drinking problem.

“Glad to hear it.” There was another awkward silence. “What have you got behind your back?”

“Happy name-day!” Liana thrust forward a crumpled tote.

“Silly girl. It’s not my name-day for another month.” But Uncle Xandros looked into the tote. His face broke into a grin. “Oranges!”

“Yes! They’re fresh. I picked them from the tree in my back yard. I have some bananas too. From the Summer Isles. Not as fresh, but I know how much you like the Big Mycah cultivar.”

“You have an excellent memory, Ana. And wonderful taste too. These will be delicious for breakfast.” He sighed. “The North is an excellent place in many ways, but its produce is sorely lacking.”

Her stomach growled again. “I can imagine,” she said, trying her best to ignore it. She did have that sandwich…

She tucked the strap of the tote back over her shoulder. “So what are you guys working on in here exactly?” she said with deliberate casualness. “It looks, ah, interesting.”

Liana scanned the room. Scattered here and there were tables with half-finished projects, covered with various tools and whatnot.

But by far the most fascinating of these projects was a huge standing ring-shaped object, almost seven feet tall, the outside covered with a patterned wire mesh. It was mounted on a dais of dull black stone, and to its side stood a console covered with even more intriguing buttons, as well as a lever.

She itched to push them, but restrained herself with heroic effort. Was this the project that Brenn had been referring to?

“That, my dear, is the culmination of two years’ effort,” Uncle Xandros said proudly. “That is the Chronoscope.”

“The Chronoscope.” Her eyes widened. “Wait.” She glanced at Brenn. “Does that do what I think it does?”

“Yeah!” He smiled. “And more. It parts the veils of time, back to the Age of the Sagas itself!”     

Uncle Xandros shot Brenn a quelling look. “What my excitable young assistant means to say is… that we have discovered a way of viewing select moments in the past. Do you see that black stone there, on the dais?”

“Malignite,” said Liana. She remembered her Iron Islands history, when the Greyjoy kings sat on the sinister black throne of unknown origins. “Wasn’t the Seastone chair made out of the same material?”

“You are Ironish,” Uncle Xandros said, somewhat disgruntled. “That is indeed malignite. The old ruins of Yeen are made out of the same material.”

“Good old Yeen.” She affected a light tone, but even the name of the ruined city gave her the chills. “Have you been there?”

“Yes.” He gave her an unreadable look. “It’s every bit as sinister as you can imagine. But it’s a liminal place.” He paused. “What do you know about the sorcerous principle?”

“It’s a more intellectual way of saying ‘magic,’” Liana replied. “And it left the world when the last dragons died, and the Cataclysm was thwarted.”

“What you call magic—or the sorcerous principle—is really the power of another dimension,” her uncle said. “Another plane, which lies near ours. Sometimes it’s nearer—sometimes it’s farther. The beings who built Yeen—and the Seastone Chair—came from that dimension. They brought the power of this plane to our world, to our ordinary three dimensions, with its geometries and sciences. That’s why so many strange things happened back in the days of the long winters. This proximity of this other dimension wreaked havoc with ours.”

Liana stared. “What does this have to do with malignite? And your Chronoscope?”

“Malignite originates from this other dimension,” her uncle explained. “It is dense with an incredible, untapped potential, which we are only just beginning to understand.

“But… baby steps. Mr. Fossoway and I constructed this device, using some modern neutrinics theory, as laid forth by Gared Uller, to see some glimpses into a time when the ‘sorcerous principle’ was in full force. We’ve run some tests. What is truly remarkable is that most attempts to build ‘time viewers’ in the past have failed because detecting the passage of neutrinos through space and time—i.e. the core ideas of neutrinics theory—is functionally useless because the noise of the universe makes the resulting images to blurry to even detect.”

“Well, then how can it even work?” Liana blurted out.

“Malignite!” Uncle Xandros’s eyes blazed. “The properties inherit to the malignite somehow crystallizes the images within the pseudo-gravity field. In fact, it even makes the images more clear the farther one goes back in time.”

Liana’s brain whirled. What could this do for the fields of history? Of literature? Why, they could see the creation of Yeen. The construction of the Old Wall. Targaryens flying their dragons above Harrenhal. The entire history of the world would be laid out before them, like a television drama.

“My God,” she breathed. “I can’t even begin to imagine such a thing!”

“Yes, it’s truly remarkable. Let me show you!” Uncle Xandros flung his hand out. “Fossoway, power up the Chronoscope.”

Brenn gulped. “Dr. Hazredi, are you sure this is a good idea? The other techs aren’t here right now. It’s just us—”

“We can manage between the two of us,” her uncle said. “Nothing’s different. Just record the data as usual.”

Liana watched with interest as Brenn grabbed a book and started scribbling down notes. He checked the coordinates, flicked on a number of switches, adjusted a few knobs, then at last pulled the lever, which made a deep sub-bass sound that vibrated through her entire body. The lights flickered.

Then the ring on its base of oily black stone began to quiver. Within the ring, a mesh of golden light began to form. It grew brighter and brighter, causing her to squint--

And then the glowing mesh vanished. But, as she gazed through the ring, she didn’t see the other side of the room.

She saw a forest.

Mesmerized, Liana stepped towards it. Before her stood tall, ancient pines, shrouded by mist, the ferns of the undergrowth waving slightly in the breeze. It was utterly silent. A bird sang.

“Wow,” she whispered. If she stretched out her hand, she could almost touch it.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Her uncle beamed. “This is—or should I say, this was—the Wolfswood. The campus was built on this section of the Wolfswood about one hundred and fifty years ago. What you see before you is the virgin old-growth forest, untouched by man, as it was almost a millennia ago.”

Liana stepped even closer. It smelled all so… green. Like the headiest perfume out of the ritziest parfumerie in Qarth. She could even detect top notes, like the sap and pleasantly acrid scent of the conifer needles. Aside from the trilling of the occasional bird, she heard rustling, as if a squirrel was rummaging about the underbrush.

She gazed at it for a while, when she realized that it wasn’t going to change. She fidgeted.

“Have you guys ever seen anything?” she asked. “Like, uh, people?”

“No people, unfortunately,” said Brenn. “But we once saw a direwolf!”

Liana brightened. “Really?”

Brenn grinned. “Yeah, that was pretty cool.”

“That was after the third test,” said her uncle. “That was probably our most eventful test yet!”

“So, you see the same thing every time, right?”

“Pretty much,” said Brenn with a sigh.

Liana raised an eyebrow.

“So this is basically a webcam,” she said. “A webcam to the distant past—but a webcam nonetheless.”

Brenn let out a surprised laugh—but Uncle Xandros let out an annoyed huff. “It’s more than a webcam, Ana. The marriage of neutrinics theory with the power of trans-dimensional malignite could very well revolutionize the entire field of science!”

Leave it to Uncle Xandros to use two dozen words when half of those would suffice. She mentally translated. Basically, magic from this other dimension, paired with the science of their world, could create some (potentially) bad-ass shit.

“I think you’re right. You’re awesome, Uncle Xandros!” she said warmly. “Congratulations!”

“I would like to see a glimpse of culture back in this time period,” her uncle said.

“What time period is that?”

“Oh, you know, the end of the third century A.C—the beginning of the fourth century, give or take a few years. Perhaps we could move the Chronoscope down to the University of Oldtown…”

He started muttering to himself as Liana, who couldn’t ignore her hunger pangs any longer, pulled the sandwich out of her purse. She couldn’t bear the idea of eating food at gas stations or fast food joints for an entire week, so when they’d stopped in Kingsport, she’d run into a grocery store, bought a roast chicken, potato salad, and a loaf of bread for dinner, and when they were done with the chicken, she’d made sandwiches. This was the last sandwich, and the chicken was still moist. She was chowing down on the sandwich, hoping she didn’t look like too much of a pig, when she heard a rustling and a plaintive meep at her feet.

Astonished, she looked down to see a scruffy, oddly feral looking tabby cat staring at her.

Strange, she thought. I didn’t know Uncle Xandros had a cat. She removed a piece of chicken from the sandwich and crouched down.

“Here, kitty kitty,” she said, and the cat crouched down too, stiff legged, staring fixedly at her fingers. As soon as she dangled the meat towards it, it jerked towards it, grabbing it neatly. Then it darted off—

Back through the Chronoscope. The golden mesh of light formed again, passing through the cat, so bright that it was imprinted on her retinas. But in a second the light was gone, and she heard a familiar rustling in the underbrush.

She gaped. She stood up, lurching forward, towards the cat--  

But she had inched far too close to the dais of malignite. Teetering on her heeled boots, she tripped over the black stone and fell.

Cries of horror rang out behind her as a brilliant golden light enveloped her, searing her eyes, and an electrical prickling washed over her entire body. She felt suspended, impossibly, in mid-air; and there was a rushing of wind in her ears as if she was falling off the edge of the world.

When she finally slammed against the ground, she grunted. Numbness stole through her limbs. She couldn’t even move if she wanted to.

It was a blessing when everything went dark.

Chapter Text

God, the birds wouldn’t shut up.

Liana opened her eyes. At first all she could make out was a haze of green and brown, and a lush green smell that seemed to permeate through her skin. Birds twittered and cheeped relentlessly in the canopy above.

She sat up with a groan. Lord, she felt so stiff, as she recovered from the world’s worst hangover. She stretched. For a moment she wondered why she was lying in the dirt in a forest, of all things. For fuck’s sake, was this Brenn’s idea--

Then she remembered.

“Oh God,” she whispered. The cat. The accident. Her fall.

The machine wasn’t just a webcam. It was an honest-to-God portal. And she was stuck in the Wolfswood. Eight hundred years in the past.

Every muscle protested, but she pushed herself up, looking desperately for Chronoscope—of any sign of her uncle or Brenn’s work. Just as she’d seen back in the lab, she was in a thicket, surrounded by ancient conifers. Ferns waved faintly in the breeze.

“Uncle Xandros?” she cried. “Brenn?” Her voice echoed through the forest.

Nothing.

“God,” she whimpered. “Lady help me. Lord of Light, hear me!” She knew she must be on the verge of hysteria to be using the oaths of her mom’s faith. She wanted to run, to crash though the woods, screaming.

No. No. She pinched herself. Hard. She had to keep her wits about her.

And what was the number one thing to do when you were lost in the woods? Stay in the same spot until you were rescued. Running about would get you lost. She had almost no experience in hiking or camping or anything—but even she knew that.

Liana sat down on a nearby log. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, using her mother’s necklace as a focus. Lady of Lotuses, she thought. Je Taara. Mother Yeshi, Star of Wisdom, Jewel of Compassion, look after me. She breathed in and out until she was no longer in a state of panic.

They’ll come after me, she thought. They have to come after me. Uncle Xandros is a brilliant scientist. If anyone can fix—whatever’s the problem—he can.

For God knows how long, she sat on the log until her legs fell asleep. Then she paced about the thicket, shivering in the cold, damp, northern air. She sat down again, tears trickling down her face.

“I want to go home,” she said to the air. “God, I just want to go home!”

Silence.

Liana stayed in the thicket until the sun lowered in the sky. The temperature cooled even further. She rubbed her legs, as her teeth began to chatter.

This was the North. The freezing, inhospitable North—back during the Ice Age. And she was wearing skinny jeans, heeled boots and a fucking University of Oldtown sweatshirt. If she stayed out here any longer she would freeze to death.

Her mind kicked into overdrive as she quickly took stock of her belongings. She had her purse, with her wallet and smartphone (which of course didn’t have any bars). Of course, she had tried to call Uncle Xandros—just to give herself something to do while she waited—but she had no service. Of course. They didn’t go around building cell towers back in ancient times. But she could use it as a flashlight, so there was that. She also had her penknife in her pocket, as well as a little can of pepper spray attached to her keys.

She had her tote bag full of fruit (she’d eaten a few oranges) and a leftover granola bar. A cigarette lighter. A paperback novel. Her smartphone charge cord and wall plug. Very useful in ancient Westeros, she thought. Even her money was functionally useless. Her bank cards were pieces of plastic, and her money was made out of debased metals like zinc and copper alloy. The only thing of value she had was her mom’s necklace, and she would be damned if she would sell that.

Liana gritted her teeth. There was only one thing she could do. Find Winterfell, the ancient seat of the Stark Kings, and throw herself on the mercy of… whoever was there. Uncle had said it was the end of the third century or the beginning of the fourth century… give or take a few years. So she could run into, conceivably, Rickard Stark, or Eddard Stark, or Eddard Stark’s wife, or one of his kids, or—God help her—the Boltons of skin-flaying fame, who had occupied the castle at one point during the endless wars around the time of the Cataclysm.

Her teeth chattered. Perhaps she didn’t have to go to Winterfell. Perhaps could stay here and light a fire…

No, she thought. Be sensible. You don’t know a damn thing about setting a fire in a damp forest. Besides. It’s dangerous. There’s brigands and God knows what else, and they’ll notice a fire. Find the castle, try to see what sigils they’re flying, and go from there.

Of course, how would she find the castle? Well, she remembered seeing its ruins on the way to the university. The ruins had been off the highway to her right. The university was north of the city, and the city was west of the ruins. So she needed to head in a south-southeast direction.

As Liana turned her sweatshirt inside out, to obscure the modern screenprinting (no sense in attracting undue curiosity about a university that didn’t even exist in this time period), she looked at the sun. For good measure she also eyeballed the moss on all the trees around her, since in the northern hemisphere, moss tended to grow on the north side of trees.

She had her bearings—good. But one more thing.

So Brenn and her uncle could find her, she piled a small pile of rocks underneath the largest tree. Then she took her knife and carved WINTERFELL in the trunk. The wood was hard and knotty, and sap covered her hands and blade. But at last she was done.

She uttered a quick prayer, and went on her way.

                                                                                                               * * *

Hiking boots, Liana knew, were a thing that existed. There were shops that sold hiking boots. But she’d never thought she’d needed them. She’d lived in Qarth—an enormous fuck-off city where the desert met the sea—or Oldtown, another enormous fuck-off city where green hills met the sea. Or Pyke. Which was an island.

Dad, who loved fishing and had made sure she could rig a ballyhoo by the time she was two, was taking her out to canyons off the continental shelf by the time she was ten. She could drive a boat as well as a car, and knew how to tie every knot from the bowline to the cleat hitch. But all of this, while fascinating, was completely useless in the middle of the woods. There was no trail. She was wading ankle-deep through ferns and mud. The silence, punctuated by birdsong, was beginning to creep her out. And she was cold. She had no scarf, no hat, no gloves. Her fingers were turning to ice.

 Just keep moving, she thought. Keep moving. You’ll be okay.

After a while Liana noticed that she was walking down a slight slope. She tried to remember the maps she’d looked at. Didn’t the northern part of the Wolfswood lie on a mountain range? And Winterfell was situated in a valley. This has to be the right direction, she thought. At least she hoped it was the right direction.

Even in the late afternoon, of what was probably a balmy summer during the Ice Age, the woods were dim and shrouded with mist. She wanted to turn the flashlight on her phone, but that would deplete the battery. Though if anyone in this time period saw her with it, they’d think her some sort of warlock or shadowbinder, and… well, they didn’t burn witches at the stake in this period, but she couldn’t imagine the results would be pleasant.

She tucked her phone back into her purse, as she reached a brook. Uneasily, she looked at the slick, moss-covered rocks that rose out of the icy, rushing water.

I can’t slip and fall, she thought. I can’t get wet. I must keep my balance. Mom was graceful. I can be too.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped on the first stone. She wobbled a bit, but didn’t slip. So far so good. Then the next. And the next.

A pleased feeling rushed through her as she reached the other side. “Yes!” Liana said aloud. “Thank God, I did it!”

But a crackling and stirring from a nearby thicket made her whirl around. A heavily bearded man with a blackened face and dressed in bits of armor over a scavenged military tunic emerged from the underbrush, grinning at her. A massive scar bisected his face, and he was missing most of his teeth. He carried a spear, which he pointed at her. He said something to her, probably in reply to what she said. Not that she could understand. She didn’t know if he was because it was much more difficult to understand the Late Archaic Common than it was to speak it, or if it was because his accent was too thick, or a little of both.

Two friends of his also emerged from the thicket. One had a face bound with a handkerchief of sorts to hide his face—the other was wearing brown homespun rags. They both bore clubs, gnarled blood-stained things which gleamed with bits of metal embedded into the heads.  

The man shouted at her. As his eyes bore into hers, he licked his lips.

For a moment she stared with horror at this man from the distant past, her skin crawling, like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming truck—but as soon as he approached the stream, his boots squelching, the spell broke.

She ran.

Liana cursed herself for not wearing sensible shoes—but adrenaline shot through her. She leaped over fallen logs and streamlets like she ran a marathon, but the slope grew steeper and steeper, and as her heel caught on a branch, she went tumbling, down into the soft ferns and pine needles. She scrambled to get up again, but the bearded man grabbed her and flung her down.

Then he was on top of her, and his breath was rank, and he smelled like piss and shit and sour wine. He dropped his spear, his huge dirt-encrusted hands tearing fruitlessly at her zippered sweatshirt, when she screamed.

He snarled, striking her across the face, so hard she tasted blood. He took out a knife and began to saw away at the heavy lycra fabric, snarling profanities, spittle spraying her face.

God, no. No. No—she couldn’t go back to the Age of Sagas and be raped by some fucking random brigand after being there for five minutes! God, this was some kind of sick joke—

But wait--

To distract him, she began to sob and plead softly for mercy. But meanwhile, she wiggled her hand into her pocket, pulled her keys out as stealthily as she could, put her finger on the button of the pepper spray, and blasted him full in the face with two million capsaicinoid heat units.

The man fell back, clawing at his face as if the flesh melted off the bone, screaming like a baby but with the lungs of a man. As she scooped up his spear, his fellow brigands stared at her with horror, like she was a shadowbinder or warlock. There was a moment where everything seemed to freeze. The light had turned into a saturated golden green, as leaves whirled lazily down in a shaft of sunlight.

Then they rushed towards her with clubs, howling.

Fight or flight. She’d had enough of flight. Now she must fight. Clutching the spear, she thrust it at the first man who charged her. He wasn’t armored—and the spearhead pierced his guts. He dropped his club, gaping at her, as blood oozed at where the spear pierced him. She should pull it out, but she let go of the spear in shock, staring back at him with horror.

He fell to his knees, his brown eyes wide, breathing shallowly, clutching at the spear shaft with nerveless fingers.

His friend gave such a shriek her ears hurt. He charged at her, swinging his club in the air. She ducked. Oh fuck, oh fuck, she was out of weapons—

The club smashed into a nearby oak, narrowly missing her head. He uttered some kind of curse, but kicked her in the thigh. She fell into the dirt with a gasp, and struggled to get up, but the shadow of the third brigand loomed over her, as he raised his club high.

Helpless, she raised her hand as if to ward off the blow. She screamed--

When an arrow thudded into the man’s chest. He stared at it quizzically at first; then a second and third arrow joined its companions, his mouth dropped, and his eyes glazed over. The club fell into the soft soil with a thud, and he collapsed, boneless, gurgling, right next to Liana. His body twitched. A dark patch formed on his trousers as his bowels emptied themselves.

Whimpering, she scrabbled to get away from the dying man. She pushed herself up against the oak as yet another man strode up to her, holding a bow.

He was far more finely dressed than the others, in a fur-trimmed grey cloak and a leather jerkin, worn over a cream doublet embroidered with flowers. He had light brown hair, worn in heavy bangs over his face, and curling over the nape of his neck. He was pale, with a pointy nose, high cheekbones, full mouth, and oddly wide-spaced eyes that were somewhere between grey and blue and green. He looked very young.

He also looked somehow familiar… but she couldn’t imagine where she’d seen him before.

He looked at the dead brigand and smiled with a savage glee. He said something, and glanced back behind him. Another man’s voice shouted. Liana wanted to move, but she couldn’t. Her back was pressed up against the oak. If it weren’t for that, she would have fallen to the ground in a quivering mess.

Then he turned to her, saying something. His eyes were assessing, and they ran up and down her body, but he sounded… respectful, at least.

“Forgive me, ser, but I am not from here, and I have trouble understanding Common,” she said, as slowly as she could. She was amazed she could even keep her voice steady.

The young man looked surprised, but he repeated himself. His accent wasn’t as heavy as the brigands, so she was able to make it out. It was so strange to hear Late Archaic Common being spoken, in reality, by a person having a conversation. She'd only read it in books, though she had read the Sagas aloud in the original L.A.C. for some of her classmates. The vowels were longer, more drawled out, almost sing-songy, as opposed to the curt, sharp vowels and pronounced consonants of the modern language.

“You’ve done well killing a brigand,” he said. “Especially for a woman.”

When she finally figured out what he said, she wanted to sigh. She wished she could think of something clever to say, especially when that was some sexist nonsense right there, but her mind went blank.

“Ser,” she finally said, slowly and awkwardly, “I owe you my life.”

At least she was able to make herself clear, since his face split into wide, cocky grin. He glanced behind him.

“Did you hear that, Robb? I saved her life!” At least, that's what she thought he said. She lowered her eyes, concentrating as hard as she could on the language. 

“Yes, though you are not a ‘ser’ yet,” said the second young man, busy binding up the sobbing bandit leader.

“Knighthood is for greenlanders!” said the first young man, who looked extremely pleased with himself. “I’m Ironborn—”

“Yes, yes,” said the other young man, striding up to her. “My future Lord Reaver, you needn’t remind me of your house words. How long have I known you?”

“Too long,” said the first young man with a grin. “But she doesn’t know it.”

“Lady,” said the second young man. Liana gazed up at him. He was dressed in a long leather coat and luxuriant black furs, he was quite possibly the most handsome man she’d ever seen, with a chiseled face, broad mouth, dark blue eyes, and a thick head of dark hair that gleamed chestnut in the sunlight. A Prince Charming straight out of a picture book. Too bad she wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it.

“You are safe now,” he said. “I am Robb Stark of Winterfell, and this is Theon Greyjoy. Let us take you back to Winterfell so Maester Luwin may look at your wounds, and this creature here who attacked you may face summary justice.”

“Thank you… my lord,” she said faintly. Her mind reeled. Robb Stark. The tragic son of the equally tragic Eddard Stark, whose execution kicked off the Song of the Starks. And here, in the flesh, was Theon the Forsaken, champion of Sansa the First, who had been depicted in God knows how many plays, movies and operas. Her mouth went dry.

Robb Stark offered his hand, and she took it. He pulled her up, and she tried to steady herself. His gaze of concern turned to wonderment as he looked at her clothing.

“Those are some pretty garments,” said Theon, gazing at her form-fitting modern clothes with such an inappropriate appreciation—they were surrounded by dead bodies, for God’s sake—that she fought off the urge to laugh.  

“I’m from Qarth,” she said.

“You are a long way from home, my lady,” said Robb with concern.

“Yes,” said Theon sharply. “How does a Qartheen woman end up in the North, in the middle of the Wolfswood?”

She really did not want to be interrogated now. She staggered. “I—” She slumped back against the oak. “Oh God…”

“Enough,” said Robb, shooting a warning glance at his friend. “Let’s take you back home. Father can talk to you. Are you well, Lady, ah…”

“Pyke.” Her mouth went dry. “My name is Liana Pyke.”

Theon’s eyebrows shot up. “Pyke! Are you some Ironman’s bastard then?”

Oh, yeah. Pyke was considered an illegitimate surname in this period. Her mind raced. “My grandfather was the bastard, my lord.” In more ways than one. “My father was a captain who took a Qartheen lady of the house Hazredi as his rock wife.”

“What!” Theon said indignantly. “The Ironborn are only supposed to take Ironborn women as rock wives!”

Liana shrugged. “I know it is not the custom, my lord, but my father always did what pleased him, not what pleased others.” She gave him a placating smile. Since it was very important to keep these two junior lordlings thinking she was a lady, so even though she was exhausted and shaking, she took a deep breath. She executed her most graceful and most feminine bow, placing her right foot before the other, extending her hands with a flourish, and dipping ever so slightly. “I am grateful for your intervention in this extremity." Well, that phrasing was more Early Modern Common than Late Archaic, but she hoped her point came across. "I and my house owe you my life.”

“I wish we could have met under different circumstances, Mistress Pyke,” Robb Stark said. “Allow me to escort you to Winterfell, where you will have the chance to tell your story to my father, Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

She gave Robb Stark a polite smile. “I look forward to it. Tales of your father’s courage and honor have spread even to Qarth.”

The young Stark nodded gravely, but she glanced at Theon Greyjoy. His face was a perfect poker face, blank, but there was a skeptical glint in his eye.

It made sense to her. No matter the era, the Ironish were cagey as fuck. There were no flies on him, as her dad liked to say.

“Let’s go,” she said, and strode off with her new protectors into the Age of the Sagas.

Chapter Text

Winterfell. The great keep of the North. The castle of legends. The seat of the ancient Stark kings. Liana had read about it so much in books. It had been rebuilt after the Cataclysm, the rebuilding project started under Queen Sansa, and continued by King Eddard and Queen Bethany and by their children and their children’s childen. Now it looked much like a copy of Riverrun, with wide towers and high turrets. As there was not much evidence for what pre-Cataclysm Winterfell looked like, she’d always pictured it as a chilly, magnificent palace with narrow turreted towers flying the grey and white banners of the Stark clan.

And it would be snowing, of course. It was always snowing back in the Ice Age.

However, it wasn’t quite as Liana imagined. It lay on a sloping hill, surrounded by a verdant green plain. The towers were less grandiose then she imagined; they were actually quite heavy and squat, covered with blue slate roofs, and reminded her of mushrooms. A garden lay to west in the castle complex, filled with enormous oaks and one red weirwood tree that rose up, dwarfing all the others.

They passed through a small gate in the back, near kennels and kitchens, from the sounds of it, with the brigand still in tow. Lord Robb found a dark-haired young man, apparently the captain of the guard, to take the brigand into his custody. All of them then marched to what Liana could only imagine to be the Great Hall.

They all made quite a bizarre parade, Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy, and the captain of the guard, and the brigand, and her. As the peasants and servants came out to gawk, Liana told herself to keep her back straight and her head high, and not to gawk like a peasant herself.

Though it was quite hard, since she felt as of she had stepped into storybook with full Smell-O-Vision. Winterfell was a vast, bustling place, made of one connected courtyard after another, and it was crammed with people. Gruff stablemen looked up from the stables, soot-blackened blacksmiths looked up from the smithy, serving maids in loose gowns holding baskets and ewers, guardsmen in boiled leather and helmets resembling soup tureens glared hard at her from the walkways that ringed the various courtyards. But she looked straight and dignified as she might, although the entire place reeked of human waste and horse manure. She tried not to gag.

Welcome to the Age of the Sagas, Liana thought.

She was escorted into a huge hall, paved with flagstones. It was a coldly beautiful place, with a barrel vaulted wooden ceiling, and narrow windows letting in cool light. Many-branched candelabras and a few tapestries hung here and there, and at the east end of the hall lay an enormous hearth, with a fire roaring; and in front of it lay a large oaken trestle table.

At it sat a slender, middle-aged woman in a teal gown with fur-trimmed hanging bell sleeves, long auburn hair falling over her shoulders. This was no doubt Lady Catelyn Stark. She also saw a stocky, tough old soldier with long white hair tied oddly under his chin, wearing the ubiquitous leather armor of this time period; and an even older codger in grey robes sporting the chain of the Citadel. A maester, Liana thought with contempt, from the old order that kept knowledge locked up in their towers instead of making it free for all. She tried to remember the minor characters from the Sagas. Maester… Lewellin? Lowis?

Last of all, a broad-shouldered man stood in front of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He stared into the fire intently, until Robb stepped forwards.

“Father,” he said.

The man—Eddard Stark—turned around. Despite herself, Liana gasped. This was him. Ned Stark. Here was the man whose death had caused all the violent apocalyptic events of the Sagas. This was the man whose death had (depending on whom you asked) caused—or prevented—the Cataclysm.

Stark was not the most prepossessing man. He was, she supposed, as she had always pictured him; a strapping bearded fiftysomething Northern man in furs and leather with greasy light brown hair and a grim, squinting expression that made her think that he had a migraine. But she sighed with relief. God smiled on her, that the Chronoscope had deposited her here, rather than any earlier or later.

“What have you brought home this time?” Ned Stark asked his son wearily.

“Black Bartram,” said Robb, indicating to the chained and gagged brigand. “We found him, and slew the rest of his band. He won’t be reaving and raping any more.”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “And how did this happen? I thought you and Theon went hunting!” He gave her a hard look. “And who in the name of the Old Gods is this?”

“This is Mistress Liana Pyke,” Robb said. “We heard her screams and came to her aid. Bartram was, ah… attempting… to attack her. But she fought back.”

“She stuck a spear through one of his men’s guts!” Theon said. “Made him squeal, so she did. I bet he didn’t expect a woman to fight.” He turned about and gave her an assessing smirk. “She’s Ironborn. Half, anyway. No wonder she knows how to fight.”

“Mistress Pyke,” Lord Stark said. “It grieves me to hear that you were attacked on my lands. But you are safe here now. And this brigand will be punished.”

“I am grateful, Lord Stark.” She bowed. “As I told your son, I have heard much of your courage and integrity. I am honored to meet you.”

“Are you Ironborn?” he asked coolly. “You are very far from home.”

“My father was,” Liana said, and she briefly explained her heritage as she had earlier. Lord Stark’s expression did not change.

“Qarth is even further,” he said.

Liana took a deep breath. She'd rehearsed this speech in her head the entire way to the castle, and she hoped it sounded convincing. 

“My lord," she said, "I currently live in Oldtown with my uncle, Xandros Hazredi, who is a follower of Marwyn the Mage. He is particularly interested in the science of mineralogy, and had led an expedition to the Northern Mountains to uncover a rare vein of malignite. He wishes to explore its trans-dimensional properties, and how it might react in concordance with various other materials, especially in controlled experiments in regards to the testing of single variables.” If you can’t beat ‘em, confuse ‘em, her dad used to say.

There was a long silence as everyone stared at her.

The maester coughed. “Ah, is your uncle—Hasred, is it?—a member of the Citadel?”

“The name is Hazredi,” she said. “He is Qartheen. No, he is not.”

“Ah,” said the maester. All the highborns at the high table looked at her as if she might grow wings and fly away. Even Robb looked puzzled. Theon, however, looked as if he was mightily amused by the entire situation.

“I accompanied him, as I am his amanuensis. His assistant, Brenn Fossoway, also came with us.”

“Fossoway,” Lady Stark exclaimed. She sounded impressed. “One of the Tyrells’ bannermen?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding as if she knew all about that sort of thing. There weren’t a lot of descendants of the old noble houses left in Westria, because of the Revolutionary Wars. Most of them were executed by red Majorist firing squads. A few were left, here and there—their ancestors had fled to Essos or west to Nymerios and Ulthos or further south. If she remembered correctly, Brenn’s family were one of those.

“Unfortunately, our expedition was attacked by wildlings on the way back to Deepwood Motte. I escaped, but when making my way through the Wolfswood, I ran into this man here.” She gestured to the brigand. “He tried to rape me, but I fought him off. I killed one of his men with a spear, but the other one almost smashed my head in. But this other man saved my life.” She nodded to Theon.

“Theon Greyjoy,” Ned Stark said heavily. “You’ve done well this day.”

A genuine smile—not a smirk—came over Theon’s face. He beamed, looking as thrilled as if he’d won the lottery.

“I see,” said Lady Stark. “One Ironborn protecting another.” She enunciated each word with a bitter coldness.

“In his defense, my lady, he did not know that at the time,” Liana said. She sensed the hostility emanating from Lady Stark to the young Greyjoy, who was the ward—or rather, hostage—of Lord Stark.

She understood why, of course. All of this was covered in excruciating detail in the Sagas. Theon’s idiot father, Balon Greyjoy, so-called King of the Iron Islands, had rebelled when Theon was a child, and was thoroughly defeated by King Robert and his forces. Theon had been taken as a hostage, his life depending on his old man’s good behavior, and he had been raised by the Starks in this weird no-man’s land between “son” and “human shield.” Lady Stark despised the Greyjoys (not surprisingly, as the family often ravaged her home of the Riverlands), and in some sources, actively disapproved of his interest in Sansa, her beautiful firstborn daughter.

Later on, Theon, after returning home to his father, was goaded into betraying his former captors. Every child knew the tale of the capture of Winterfell and the murder of the millers’ children, and how everyone thought the two luckless peasant boys were the aristocratic Stark children. Of course, Theon paid for his crimes with his capture by the horrific Boltons, who tortured him in the most gruesome and appalling ways—yet they also managed to get their hands on Sansa Stark, who also suffered abominably. Eventually, they escaped together—Theon risking his life multiple times to protect the lady-- and later on in the battle with the ice demons, he sacrificed his life to protect her and all of mankind.

It also helped she’d worked as a docent during the summer at the Ten Towers, the castle where Theon’s mother had died, on Harlaw island. She was used to narrating stories about the Greyjoy family to various visitors all over the world, as the Towers was one of the best preserved castles in Westria. She didn’t know enough to write a thesis about the guy, but she knew a fair bit. Outside Otter Dagmarson the rugby player, or Garon Clyffe the first man to circumnavigate the world (and later eaten by cannibals), Theon the Forsaken was the most famous Ironishman ever.

There was a statue of him outside the city of Lordsport on Pyke, looking very lofty and heroic. He didn’t look anything like the actual Theon, of course. But it wasn’t as if photography existed in ancient times.

Until now. She itched to pull her phone from her purse and take a picture of the entire gathering. But that would be crazy. Keep it cool, she thought. The most important thing to get out of here alive.

“I owe Lord Theon my life,” said Liana, as majestically as she could manage. “But I would also like to thank Lord Robb for his invaluable assistance. If it were not for these two fine young men, I would not be standing before you this day.”

Ned Stark gazed at her, a long, assessing look. Liana looked back at him, unflinching. A minute passed. She wasn’t sure if he approved of her or not, but at least he didn’t seem disapproving. It was hard to tell with a man like that, though.

At last he turned to his son and his ward.

“Well done, boys.” He nodded at both of them, and now both were grinning like idiots. It was adorable.

“Now,” he said, glaring at the brigand, “let this man speak. He should say his piece before he is hanged.”

The captain of the guard ungagged him, and Black Bartram spat.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Lord Stark asked.

“I won’t deny I’m a raper and a thief, lord,” said the brigand. “Times are hard. Winter is comin,’ as you often say yourself.”

“That does not excuse rape and murder,” Lord Stark said, all ice.

Bartram gave a toothless smile. “But it’s what I’m good at, innit? I blame the gods!

“Speakin’ of the gods, though, you’d best watch this mad slut. I saw her traipsing through the wood, and I thought I’d have a bit of joy with her. All by her lonesome. With her little arse wriggling in those tight trousers of hers. I thought she might come to like it too. But soon as I wrestled her to the ground, she prayed to the Red God and blasted me with fire!” As the room gasped, he pointed at Liana.

“She’s naught but a fire witch, milord. You’d best hang her too before she burns all of Winterfell down to satisfy her god!”

“Take him away,” Lord Stark said to the captain of the guard, who led the prisoner out of the room.

“Mistress Pyke,” he said to her, not unkindly. “Is it true, that you are a follower of the Lord of Light?”

“I am, Lord Stark.”

“We do not often get worshippers of R’hllor here,” Lady Stark said. She had grown very stiff.

“Did you use some sort of fire spell on this man?” Lord Stark queried.

“No, my lord. I am not a magician. I merely used a device created by my uncle for self-defense.”

“May I see this device?”

Liana pulled out her car keys, detaching the pepper spray and handing it to Lord Stark. “It is activated by this button here,” she said. “Be careful. It’s very potent.”

Stark examined the plastic casing of the pepper spray. “It’s a curious material. I’ve never seen the like. How does it work?”

“You push the button here, and a spray derived from chili peppers sprays the person who is attacking you.”

Ned Stark knit his brow. “What is a… chili pepper? Is it a peppercorn?”

“No, it’s a plant that grows in the eastern reaches of Ulthos,” she said. “Despite the name, they aren’t related to peppercorns. It’s of the nightshade family. But it’s not poisonous. It’s a spice.”

“What does this… chili… look like?” the maester asked.

“It’s a long, angular fruit that’s either red, yellow or green,” Liana explained. “When you cut it up, it has seeds which are the hottest, most delicious spice ever tasted. It’s wonderful in small quantities. But in large quantities, it’s dangerous. This spray from this device,” she finished, “is made from this plant.”

“Ah,” said Lord Stark, and she wondered how much of her explanation he’d understood.

“My lord,” said the maester, “I should like to examine this device, if I may.”

“Perhaps,” said Lord Stark, “you should ask the lady, as it is hers.”

The maester looked at her. “May I, Mistress Pyke? I am Maester Luwin,” he added. “I serve Lord Stark and his family. I will give it back to you soon. I am merely curious about this. I have never seen anything like it before.”

The maester’s interest in her belongings made her neck tense up, but she smiled.

“Of course, Maester Luwin. You may examine. Do let me know if you have any questions. I will answer them to the best of my ability.”

With that, her interrogation was over—at least for the time being. She was, unfortunately, left in Luwin’s care as he seemed to act as the local doctor. She expected a thousand more questions about her clothes and studies and everything, but she was determined to weep or plead a headache just to get him off her back. Lord of Light, but this whole experience was exhausting.

Before she left the Great Hall, she glanced back at Theon Greyjoy. He looked back at her, his wide-spaced blue-green-grey eyes quizzical, as if he didn’t know quite what to make of her.

Well, to be honest, she didn’t know quite what to make of him either. Could he be considered a friend?

Liana also glanced at Catelyn Stark. The older woman fiddled with the fish brooch on her gown, and her eyes, when they focused on her, reminded her of the brilliant blue of northern glaciers. Her delicately molded lips thinned into a line.

Liana’s blood chilled.

Should Lady Stark be considered an enemy?

Chapter Text

As expected, Maester Luwin had a million questions while he examined her.

What manner of cloth were her clothes made of? Were her trousers in the Dothraki fashion? Didn’t Qartheen women go about baring one breast? What was plastic? What was malignite? Did her uncle follow the Lord of Light? His interests seemed of the alchemical variety—and a love of pyromancy would suit the ways of the Red God. Was he an alchemist? Had he written any books available at the Citadel? Had she met Marwyn the Mage personally? Was Brenn Fossoway of the green or red apple branch?

He didn’t seem a bad sort, rather loveable even, but he reminded her of a grizzled old terrier who wouldn’t let go once he made up his mind about something. She didn’t answer every question, though. She answered only a few, and deflected the rest. Luwin seemed dissatisfied, but let that pass for now.

In terms of her physical health, she came out of it better than expected; she was only bruised. He offered some ointment for her bruises. For her mental health, he offered milk of the poppy or dreamwine, or perhaps the two mixed together.

Liana chose dreamwine, which did not surprise the maester, as dreamwine was a Qartheen specialty. Suddenly, she remembered her oranges and bananas, and thought she might distract Luwin with them; but then she thought it might be more politic to present them to Lord and Lady Stark herself.

“Maester Luwin,” she said, just as he opened his mouth to speak. “If you could send the dreamwine and the soup and bread you mentioned to my room, I would greatly appreciate it.”

He nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”  

He sent a young serving girl with freckles and long flaxen braids to guide her to her guest quarters. She was humbled by the concern and hospitality that Lord Stark was showing her, but she suspected some of it might come from embarrassment that a Southron lady should be assaulted by brigands on his own lands, not far from his own keep.

The maidservant seemed hesitant of her, but polite enough. She offered to stay and help her disrobe, but Liana declined.

When the girl was gone, she allowed herself to relax. The room was fairly small, but it had a sturdy bed with an oak headboard, and a throw of furs over the blankets. It was surprisingly warm, too. There was even a small fire roaring on the hearth. Wasn’t Winterfell built over hot springs? She gazed about with a fascination mixed with melancholy. It was such a pity it would fall into ruins.  

Liana ate the soup, which was a bland onion soup, passable enough. But the bread itself was a treat, a chewy, hearty rustic loaf that was far more textured and flavorful than anything she could get at the supermarket. She polished it off so fast she was surprised she didn’t choke on it.  

A gown with hanging sleeves and a tight-sleeved undergown, similar to that worn by Lady Stark, lay on the bed, of a similar teal color. It was probably one of her cast-offs. She also found a voluminous linen shift with a gathered drawstring neck and a light corset, no doubt the “smallclothes” of this era.

Liana chewed her lip, thinking. Lady Stark might not like her, but she did provide her with the correct wardrobe. A lady’s wardrobe, even. Perhaps her name-dropping the Fossoways had some effect? Or had she done it in part to please her husband? No matter. She would have to think about how to repay the lord and lady’s kindness.

Still thoughtful, she stripped down and washed herself from a bowl and ewer of water that was provided on a nearby table. Perhaps later she could ask for a bath.

Once she had cleaned herself, she pulled on the shift and tucked herself under the blankets and furs. She left the tote of fruit on the table, but she placed her purse and valuables under her pillow.

“I’m here,” she said softly. “Uncle. Brenn. I’m safe.”

Back in the Age of the Sagas. A violent time period, filled with heroes, but yet more monsters. She prayed that her uncle and Brenn would find her. She prayed that they would find her soon.

Liana closed her eyes, but the image of the bandit she’d murdered with the spear rose before her eyes. She thought of how easily she’d plunged the spear into his belly, and how his eyes widened as he’d plucked at the spear shaft. Nausea rose in her throat.

She hoped Robb had cut his throat. A gut wound was horrible thing to die of.

Don’t think about it, she thought. There’s nothing you can do about it now. He was going to kill you.

She drank the dreamwine and fell into a thankfully dreamless slumber.

                                                                         * * *

Liana opened her eyes. Someone was knocking persistently on the door.

The knocks didn’t sound right. It’s a heavy wooden door, she thought muzzily. How odd. Most places she’d lived, the interior doors were hollow.

Go away, she thought. She burrowed down under the covers. She felt the nubby linen under her cheek, and the fur throw tickling her ear.

Fur? Linen?

Her eyes flew open, and she started up. She was in a castle chamber, before a large hearth, surrounded by stone and oak.

It wasn’t a dream. She was in Winterfell. In real life, honest to God Winterfell. It wasn’t a dream. She had really gone back in time.

Fuck.

“Mistress?” The door handle rattled. “Are you awake?”

I am now, Liana thought irritably, but she bit back a sharp remark. She hauled herself out of bed, wrapping herself in the fur throw, and unlocked the door. The young maid from yesterday stood before her, carrying a small basket of sundries. 

“Mistress Pyke!” the maidservant exclaimed. “I was sent by Lady Stark to tend to your needs. If you’re feeling well, she was hoping she might see you at breakfast in the Great Hall.”

She rather wanted to go back to sleep, but she sensed it would be wise to meet Lady Stark as requested. “Yes. I am feeling quite hungry.” Now that she mentioned it, her stomach growled. She blushed. “Thank you, ah—”

“Jessamyn, Mistress. Though—” she paused shyly—“most call me Jessa.”

“Do you prefer Jessa?”

“Yes, Mistress. Jessamyn sounds too much like a lady. I’m just plain Jessa. Begging your pardon.” She tugged her skirts in an awkward curtsy.

“Very well, Jessa. I’m happy to have you here.” Liana smiled at her. “Now, if you could help me dress, I’d be very happy. I’m not used to northern fashions. We have not so many layers down south.”

Jessa, now more at ease, proceeded with Liana’s toilet (to use the older word). First a fresh shift, then the quilted, lightly boned corset—which were, in a later period, called jumps—and then the undergown—or cote—and then the overgown with the hanging sleeves. The maid pulled the shift so it puffed out over the neckline of the cote, and pulled the sleeves of the shift and folded them over the ends of tight cote sleeves, so it looked like she had cuffs.

“This is one of Lady Stark’s old gowns,” Jessa said. “She did a great honor, gifting it to you, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mistress. I daresay Nesta was right put out by it.”

“Nesta?”

“That’s Lady Stark’s waiting woman. Very high in the instep. She usually gets milady’s cast-offs. But you beat her to it.” Jessa chuckled.

“Lucky me,” said Liana, as Jessa started to fuss with her hair. Women here, even the peasants, seemed to prize long, glossy hair, usually tied back at the crown with a small braid; Liana’s hair, black and a million different lengths—it almost looked like a half grown out mullet—was not half as nice.

“My goodness. What happened to your hair?” The maid covered her mouth, appalled. “Mistress—forgive me. I should never have said—“

“Don’t worry about it.” Liana shrugged. “I had it cut short, and now it’s growing out. I was going to have it trimmed, but I never seem to have the time.”

“Ah,” said Jessa. “Well, let me see what I can do.”

Jessa then went to work, liberally applying hair-pins, hair-pieces and pomades. When she was done, she offered a looking-glass. Liana gazed at herself in amazement. The half-grown out mullet was now sleek and tamed, and curled around her neck like the tail of a black cat.

“Jessa, you’ve done wonders!” Liana exclaimed. “If I could tip you, I would.”

The maid blinked in confusion. “T-tip? I don’t understand—”

“Never mind. One more thing.” Liana pulled her necklace off the table and put it about her neck. The white jade lotus was even more striking against the green-blue wool.

“Mistress Pyke, that is beautiful!” Jessa exclaimed. “Did you bring that with you from the East?”

“I did. It was my mother’s.” She held it out to the younger girl, who touched the jade with an awed reverence.

“That’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. They aren’t much for jewelry here in the North,” she explained. “Even Lady Stark only wears her silver trout brooch.”

Liana remembered the pin the older lady kept touching, like a talisman. “The sigil of her house,” she said, remembering her classes about Westerosi culture during the 3rd century AC.

Her knowledge clearly pleased Jessa. “Yes.” She gestured to the lotus. “Is that a sigil of your house? I mean… your mother’s house?”

“It isn’t quite the same in Qarth. But I suppose it is.”

“What kind of flower is it?”

“It’s a lotus.”

“A… lotus?”

“A kind of water lily. It has a very special significance, to those who follow the Lotus Way.”

“Is that a religion in your country?”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes, imagining the temple gardens, filled with lotus ponds and trees hung with liana vines. She’d had so many pleasant memories, roaming about the gardens during services-- she’d even been named for the liana. Her mother liked the symbolism, and her father liked how it sounded. “It’s a religion and a philosophy. We worship the Lord of Light, but we follow the precepts of Je Taara, the Lady of Lotuses.”

“Is Je Taara a goddess?” Jessa’s brow knit. “I thought the Red God only allowed worship of himself.”

“That’s true,” said Liana. “Je Taara was only a humble priestess, but she had a vision, of a God that preached love and learning, not hate and burning.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. You follow her—you don’t actually worship her?”

“Yes. We just read her words and follow her teachings. Sometimes she guides us in prayer. The lotus became her symbol, because the flower is rooted in mud, but grows in water, reaching towards the light, to become the most beautiful flower in all the Lord’s creation.”

God, but she did sound just like Mom when she explained all of that. And what possessed her, to explain the Lotus Way to a serving girl, one hundred years before the Lady was even born?

Jessa looked confused but somehow moved. Her hand flew to her mouth. “That’s wonderful. Oh, I wish I could see Qarth!” Her eyes filled with tears. “But I’ll never go farther than Winter Town. Ever. I’ll never even see White Harbor.”

Liana wanted to hug Jessa, but this did not seem properly lady-like. She did clasp her hands however.

“Maybe you will see the world!” she said encouragingly. “Who knows what the future holds?”

“Yes,” Jessa said, a small, hopeful smile crossing her face. “Who knows?”

Despite the warmth of the room, Liana shivered.

To tell the truth, she knew what the future held. What lay in wait for poor Jessa? Would she go down to King’s Landing, and be part of the Stark retinue slaughtered by the wicked King Joffrey? Would she escape and be sold into prostitution? Or would she stay in Winterfell, and be captured by the Boltons and be tortured, like many women were?

Or would she stay alive even longer, in order to be killed by ice demons during the Cataclysm?

“You look lovely, Mistress Pyke,” Jessa chirped. “Come, it’s time for breakfast!”

“One moment,” she said, belatedly remembering the oranges. She picked up the tote, stuffing her lycra hoodie on top of it. It occurred to her she might not want to give Lady Stark all of her oranges, and the hoodie would help disguise the fact she kept some in reserve. It seemed stupid to fuss over such details, when staring down the maw of the last long winter, but she had to do what she had to do.

Taking care to lock the door—and to stuff the key in her bag—Liana followed the maidservant, whose braids flopped behind her.

Suddenly, she didn’t feel very hungry at all.

Chapter Text

Fortunately, the light corset was not uncomfortable, but the long skirts that dusted the floor were quite another matter. Liana did her best to watch her feet, still clad in her heeled boots, but she moved slowly. She fought the urge to hike up her skirts. A lady wouldn’t do that.

She had to do her best to seem to be a lady, dammit.

They headed down to the Great Hall without incident, except for passing a young man with black curly hair and a heavy, almost pouting mouth. He was extremely pretty, but he was dressed far more modestly than either Theon or Robb. Also, his shoulders slumped, and his eyes were downcast. Liana would have thought him to be a groom—

Except when Jessa saw him, her face flamed bright red, and she stopped so abruptly that Liana almost tripped over her hem and fell into her, but managed to right herself at the last minute.

“Jon Snow!” the maid said with a gasp.

“Morning, Jessa,” he mumbled.

“Yes,” Jessa said, her voice sounding oddly strangled. “It is a good morning.”

At the sound of the name—Jon Snow—Liana froze, staring. Her bag dropped to the floor with a thud, but she couldn’t move.

Good God, it was him. The hero. Or rather, the almost-hero, who had helped pave the way for the defeat of the ice demons. But more to the point, a whole fucking religion had been formed around the man standing in front of her.

She well remembered all the history classes she’d taken at her high school in Qarth. There had been a lot of nonsensical prophecy circulating about Jon Snow by the ancient worshippers of R’hllor, and even though after the Cataclysm he’d gone off to rule over the various indigenous tribes of what was now called the Northern Territories, so many Red Priests and Priestesses were convinced that he was God’s Chosen, Azor Ahai, that R’hllorism split over it.

Even more to the point, the sect that followed Jon Snow as Azor Ahai became known as the Prince’s Path, while the faith of Je Taara was known as the Lotus Way. As a result, religious wars had blazed across Essos. The Seventy Years War. The War of the Great Grass Sea. The Compact of Sarnor. The Massacre at Norvos. Over the centuries, millions of people had died over it, in the fight of Prince versus Lotus. Thousands of Lotus Way priestesses had been burnt alive by zealous followers of the Path. Thousands of shrines and schools had been torched. Hundreds of thousands of followers of the Way had been forcibly converted or murdered by Path priests and zealots. It was a long and terrible history, and one soaked in blood.

But the Prince’s Path, for all its violence and love of the patriarchy, had at last fizzled out. Almost a thousand years on, the Lotus Way had become ascendant. The Lady’s garden shrines had multiplied across Essos and Westria, even among the confederated tribes of Ulthos and Nymerios, and down towards in the far southern reaches of Sothoryos, past the Green Hell and vast deserts, in the pleasant hills so removed from the chaos of Westria and Essos that the inhabitants didn’t even know what a wheel was until two hundred years ago.

Despite everything the followers of the Prince had done to crush it, the Lotus Way had survived. The Path scorned formal learning; but the Lady, with her book of teachings, encouraged everyone, high and low, young and old, man and woman, to read. To teach. And the schools and universities started in her name had flourished, growing, flowering everywhere.

It was as her mother always said. The vines would always smother the sword. And the flower would always grow to find the sun.

And here. And here was the Prince himself. The noble warrior who had inspired millions of fanatics to burn alive the worshippers of her mother’s faith. This man—who was really just a common boy who slumped. But one that also made her maidservant giggle and blush.

Nevertheless, it took all of Liana’s willpower not to make a warding gesture.

“You dropped this,” Jon Snow said, picking up the tote and handing it to her. For a split second, Liana paused; she took it, trying not to glower.

“Thank you,” she said. “You must be Jon Snow,” she added, her voice cold and precise.

He looked at her, squinting, his eyebrows canted up in a way that made him look absurdly vulnerable. “Ah, yes. Do I know you?”

“You are one of Lord Eddard Stark’s sons, are you not?” she asked. “I’m Liana Pyke. I came to Winterfell yesterday.” She smiled tightly. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

He shuffled his feet. “No. We haven’t. I—yes. There was a fuss. You killed that brigand. The raper.”

“I did, yes,” she said.

He grinned a bit, sheepishly. “I wish I could’ve seen it. He deserved killing, that one. Sorry,” he said, looking down again.

He was such a mumbling schoolboy. Liana could not begin to fathom why millions of people had killed in his name over the centuries. “No need to apologize,” she said. “Shall I see you at breakfast?”

“No,” Jon Snow muttered.

“And why’s that?”

He glanced at her teal gown.

“Didn’t Lady Stark tell you?” He smiled bitterly. “I’m the bastard.” With that, he stalked off down the hall.

“Oh, Mistress Pyke!” Jessa exclaimed.

“What?” Liana said.

“Didn’t you know he’s… Lord Stark’s bastard? By an unknown lady.” The maid lowered her voice. “Lady Stark hates him. More than life itself, I think.”

“Really?” Oh, right. This was all coming back. All the drama about Jon Snow’s supposed bastardy and how he was actually the legitimate son of some old dragon prince. Not that that had anything to do with anything. The Song of the Starks was stuffed with more extraneous plotlines than a Yuletide cake was stuffed with dried fruit. Though the Path took their savior’s royal draconic heritage very seriously.

Fuck the Path, Liana thought savagely. I hope they fuck off to whatever hole they’ve been living in.

Of course, the Prince’s Path sect didn’t even exist yet. She was becoming upset over nothing. Calm down, girl. Take a deep breath.

“Really,” breathed Jessa.

“That’s unfortunate,” said Liana.

There was a long pause where she racked her brain for something to say.

“Well,” she said. “I’m hungry. Do you think they’ll have sausage?”

                                                                                    * * *

They did, in fact, have sausage. In fact, the Starks had a bit of everything.

The fragrance of the food greeted her as soon as she walked into the Great Hall. The great table before the hearth was piled with rashers of bacon, smoked sausages, soft-boiled eggs, slabs of hard cheese, wheels of soft goat cheese, apples, biscuits, fried bread and pots of honey and blackberry jam. Drinks included small beer and herbal tea; there was, of course, no coffine or Yi Tish black tea. But even without caffeine, the scent of all the food was heady.

Though she really missed coffine. She usually could not get through the day without two cups of espresso, and the fact that she’d been without any trace of caffeine for almost a day was already giving her a massive headache.

“Good morning, Mistress Pyke,” said Lady Stark, making the most elegant gesture imaginable. Liana couldn’t imagine being that elegant naturally, especially not without at least three cups of coffine. “Would you have a seat? Arya, please move over for our guest.”

As she didn’t see Theon, Liana would have much rather sat next to Robb, but she knew better than to protest. No doubt sitting next to the men, who sat segregated on their end of the table, would have been considered inappropriate.

She also wondered if being placed with the youngest girl at the farthest end of the table was some sort of message. That she was being put in her place, somehow. A reminder, that, while she was technically a lady, she lacked the status and class to be seated nearer Lord and Lady Stark. She was sent to the kiddie table.

Oh, well. At least the food was delicious, even if she had to make do with no forks. And there were much worse things than sitting next to Arya Stark, the explorer of the Sunset Sea and the future Hero of Winterfell who slew the demon king himself.

Yet that all seemed a universe away. Little Arya, with her heart-shaped face, bright eyes and dark hair that flew everywhere, seemed so normal, with her fingers sticky with jam, that it was hard to be too intimidated.

Liana also sat near to Sansa Stark, the future Queen of the North, the “Gloriana” of legend. Now, of course, she was only a thirteen year old girl. But she was very pretty, with bright coppery hair, peaches and cream complexion, and crystal blue eyes. If Arya was the tomboy, Sansa was the lady, as elegant and composed as her mother. She murmured some courtesies in Liana’s direction, which Liana returned in kind.

She even had an adorable pale grey husky puppy in her lap, which she fed bits of bacon to on the sly. Wait—it wasn’t a husky, was it? That breed wasn’t around in Westeros at the time.

Wait. The famous direwolf cubs of the Stark clan. That was real? And not a literary device? Liana did a double take.

Well, I learn something every day, she thought. It certainly was very well behaved for a direwolf.

“Mother allows Sansa to bring Lady with her to breakfast,” Arya muttered. “She won’t let me bring Nymeria. Says Nym isn’t nice enough.”

“I’m sorry,” said Liana. “I’m not much of a dog person.”

Arya grimaced. “Then what kind of person are you?”

“I like cats,” said Liana.

“Theon likes cats,” said Arya. “He said every ship on the Iron Islands has a proper ship’s cat.”

“You don’t like cats?” Liana asked.

“I like chasing them,” said Arya.

“But do cats like being chased?” Liana asked, and Arya shrugged.

As soon as Liana stated her preference for cats, the puppy—Lady—perked up, and started nosing in Liana’s direction. “Oh!” Sansa said, smiling. “Lady heard her name.”

“Good morning, Lady,” Liana said to the puppy, and it lunged across Arya’s lap into Liana’s. It then jumped up and began to lick her nose. Liana started to giggle.

“Oh, Lady, do get down!” Sansa exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Mistress Pyke, Lady is a good dog, really—”

“It’s quite all right, Lady Sansa. Lady’s a good little girl. Aren’t you? You’re a precious baby! Yes you are!” Lady panted, wagging her tail, and clambered up her, all adorable clumsy puppy legs and paws. She looked like a stuffed toy. She was so adorable Liana could barely stand it. She scratched her head and ruffled her ears, and Lady’s tail wagged even harder in puppyish ecstasy.

Sansa, anxious, stood up, going over to Liana, as the older girl passed the wayward pup into her arms.

“She’s just excited to meet someone new,” said Sansa.

“I don’t mind,” said Liana.

“Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Certainly.” As Sansa went back to her seat, Liana got a good look at the younger girl’s gown. She never thought of herself as someone that interested in fashion, but perhaps the truth was that historical fashion was far more interesting to her than mass-produced fast fashion crap made in Sothoryian sweatshops.

“Your gown is very pretty,” Liana said. She noticed that Sansa wore a blue-grey gown of matelassé wool, with detachable sleeves and knotted flowers hanging off the high neckline. The fabric petals had delicate white embroidery of butterflies and dragonflies, each one unique. “I really like the embroidery. Who did it?”

“I did,” Sansa replied with a shy smile, as she hugged Lady.

“Wow!” said Liana with a smile. Wow was pretty graceless, and extremely modern, but it escaped her lips anyway. Well, perhaps it passed for a Qartheen exclamation. “That’s amazing that you can sew like that. You see, whenever I try to sew anything, I always jab myself with a needle. I can be a bit of a, ah, klutz.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed. “A… klutz?”

“Clumsy. Anyway, ah, that’s impressive. You’re really talented.”

Sansa beamed at that, as did Septa Mordane, a round-faced woman in a wimple who was apparently the Stark girls’ governess. “She is,” the septa replied. “She can play the high harp and bells and recite poetry and sing like a nightingale. There’s nothing our Sansa can’t do.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Liana saw Arya grimace. Poor kid, she thought. Growing up in the shadow of the Sister Who Could Do No Wrong. No wonder she became a Faceless assassin.

“You’re very kind, Mistress Pyke,” said Sansa. “I was just admiring your necklace. What is it?”

“It’s a lotus.” Liana took the pendant off and handed it to the red-haired girl, who examined it with care, her delicate fingers tracing over the carving.

“I don’t recognize the stone.”

“It’s white jade. A stone popular in Yi Ti.”

“Like the Jade Emperor!” exclaimed Sansa, clearly pleased.

“Exactly. It is the most important stone in Yi Tish tradition. It symbolizes virtue, loyalty and justice.”

“I thought your family was from Qarth,” said Sansa.

“Yes. But Hazradis originally come from the Maraad Ji district of Faros, in Great Moraq, which has a lot of Yi Tish settlements. Jade is very popular as a result. And the lotus,” she said, remembering what she’d told Jessa as Sansa handed back the necklace, “is the sigil of house Hazradi.”

“What are the words of your house?” asked Sansa.

“We find the sun,” said Liana, improvising, but pleased with herself nonetheless.

“I think those are beautiful words,” said Sansa dreamily. “I wonder what it would be like to embroider a lotus…”

“But aren’t the Hazradis your mother’s house?” Arya said with her mouth full, spraying biscuit crumbs all over the table. “You’re a Pyke, aren’t you?”

“Very much so,” said Liana.

“You said in the Great Hall yesterday your grandfather was a bastard,” Arya said, and both Sansa and the Septa exclaimed: “Arya!”

Liana chuckled. “No. It’s all right. My grandfather was a bastard. And no, we don’t have a sigil. I suppose my father could make one up, but he never bothered.”

“I didn’t think the children of bastards could have house sigils,” Arya said.

“Who’s to say they can’t?” Liana said.

That gave Arya some food for thought, as she chewed on her biscuit.

“If House Pyke did have a sigil,” Liana added, “I think it would be an angry man on a ship shaking his fist.”

Arya almost spat out her biscuit as she started laughing. Even Sansa giggled. Septa Mordane, bless her, looked confused.

“Speaking of angry men on ships, where is Lord Theon?” Liana asked. “I haven’t seen him all morning.”

Arya shrugged. “I don’t know half the things he gets up to.”

“Lady Sansa?” But when Liana glanced at the red-haired girl, she started, her cheeks suffusing with a crimson blush. Biting her lip, she looked down at her plate.

“I—wouldn’t know.” Sansa clutched her mug of mint tea. The girl was clearly trying to gather her composure. “Father’s ward can be most peculiar,” she added primly.

“That Greyjoy boy is a troublemaker!” Septa Mordane said in darkling tones, as Sansa blushed again. Liana wondered what that was about. Could the two of them already be falling in love? It didn’t seem likely from what she had seen already, but what the hell did she know?

“Ask Robb,” Arya said. “If anyone would know, he would. Him and Theon are thick as thieves.”

Liana glanced at Robb, at the other end of the table. He was busy discussing something with Lord Stark, while two younger boys listened. “They’re talking man things,” she said. “I’ll wait.”

“You’re funny,” said Arya.

“What do you mean, funny?” asked Liana. She had no idea why, of all people in the world, she felt so relaxed with little Arya Stark, but she did. She didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe it’s because all the important people at the table were completely ignoring them, so they could talk as they wished. “Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?”

Arya grinned. “Both.”

“That is funny,” said Liana. “I could say the same thing about you.”

Arya laughed, which made Sansa look at her crossly. “What are you laughing at, Arya? Is this some sort of joke I should know?”

“You,” retorted Arya. “You’re the joke!”

“Arya!” Sansa wailed. “Mother, tell her to stop. She’s being rude again!”

Liana buried her face in her hands. She was back in the Age of Sagas, but the sibling quarreling felt like she’d never her own time.

Lady Stark immediately began to reprimand Arya for her rude, unladylike behavior, when Liana remembered the tote bag at her feet. Just in the nick of time! Here was a way to earn brownie points with Lady Stark, and take the heat off Arya, who seemed to have a rare talent for sticking her foot in her mouth.

As the hubbub died down, and Sansa was comforted by her septa, and Arya’s lower lip quivered, Liana stood up.

“If I may have your attention,” she began. “Lord and Lady Stark, I wish to thank you for your gracious hospitality. You have tended me, dressed me, and fed me from your own table. I am deeply obliged to you for everything you have done.”

“It is nothing, Mistress Pyke,” said Lord Stark gruffly. “Not after you were attacked by reavers on my own lands. It is the least I could do.”

She bowed. “I am very thankful, Lord Stark. To show my gratitude, I do have something for you and your family. I know it isn’t much, but I hope you will like it.”

Liana pulled out the oranges and bananas from her bag. “Fruit from Oldtown and the Summer Isles,” she said, placing it on the table.

“Oranges!” Sansa cried with delight. “Are they Dornish blood oranges?”

“They’re just ordinary sweet oranges I picked off the tree in my back yard,” Liana said.

“Oh, I do love oranges!” Sansa clapped.

“Almost as much as you love lemons for your lemon cakes,” said Robb teasingly, and Sansa smiled.

“I didn’t know oranges grew in the Reach,” Maester Luwin said.

“Some do,” Liana said. “It’s warm enough.”

She picked up a banana, handing it to Lord Stark. He took it, gazing at it suspiciously, as if it might attack him. “I’ve never seen the like,” he said.

“You peel it, like so.” She mimed peeling a banana. “It has a creamy, sweet taste. It’s the Big Mycah variety, so it’s a bit firmer and more tart than other cultivars. Try it—I think you’ll like it.”

Ned Stark’s brow furrowed as he clumsily peeled the banana. He then took a bite, and his face immediately brightened.

“You’re right. It is very good. Try it, Cat.”

Daintily, Lady Stark nibbled on the banana. “Oh my!” She covered her mouth. “The flavor. It tastes like pastry. Like cream on my tongue.” She and her husband exchanged an intimate look, and Liana was suddenly reminded of how the Summer Islanders swore up and down that the banana was a potent aphrodisiac. Now, that was something that would be best left unsaid.

“I thank you for your gift, Mistress Pyke,” Lord Stark said. “It’s delicious. We grow much of our fruit here in our glass gardens, but we don’t get many Southron varieties up here.”

“It’s always nice to try different things,” Liana said. “I love trying different sorts of fruits from the Summer Isles.”

“The Summer Isles,” said Robb, who was eating his own banana thoughtfully. “That’s on the edge of the world, or thereabouts.”

She half smiled at that. The edge of the world. Of course, this was before they knew about Nymerios. Or the rest of Sothoryos. This was before they even knew the world was round, and rotated around a sun in a solar system.

“Yes. I’ve always wanted to go myself,” Liana said. “When I eat something like this, it’s like I can taste the Summer Isles myself. I can imagine myself relaxing on the beach in Moluu, with the sand between my toes, the wind in my hair, and the surf crashing before me.” She flung her arm out in an expansive, theatrical gesture. “It’s the taste of the tropics!”

The Starks just stared at her. Flustered, she sat back down.

“See, I told you.” Arya wrestled with the orange peel, spraying orange juice on her face in the process. “You’re funny.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t mind,” said Arya with a grin. “Thanks for the fruit.” She added, sotto voce: “By the way, Theon usually spars with Robb after nuncheon. In the courtyard. He’ll be there, if you want to see him.” She grimaced. “Though I don’t know why you would.”

Liana pulled out one of the extra oranges and tried to pass it to Arya. “Thanks for the info.”

“Keep it,” said Arya. “Give it to Jon. He should be there too.”

“Jon Snow?”

“Yes.” Arya eyed her curiously. “You’ve met him already?”

Liana squirmed. “Yes. Briefly. On the way to breakfast.”

“He’ll like it,” said Arya. “He doesn’t get many treats around here.”

After Liana promised that she would, she stared into the distance. She’d been here less than a day, but she was already getting enmeshed in the daily life of the Starks. Was she… making a difference?

Was she changing the timeline?

As she stared at the remnants of food on her plate, not only did her temples throb from the lack of caffeine, but an ice-cold horror crept over her. What if she changed everything for the worse? What if her bumbling about the past somehow brought upon the actual Cataclysm?

The jolly chaos of the Stark family continued to echo around her, but Liana couldn’t move. She thought of her parents. Her mother. Her father. What if somehow they never met? What if somehow she managed to change history so much that she erased her entire family from existence?

Suddenly sick to her stomach, Liana excused herself. Neither Arya or Sansa, wrapped up in their mutual rivalry, looked very concerned, and no one else noticed—only Lady Stark gave her a sharp look as she left the hall.

She could remember, she thought as she made her way through the stone hallways, unable to keep from trembling, how to get back to her rooms.

She hoped she wouldn’t be sick. She hoped she just needed to lie down.

And think.

Chapter Text

Liana napped in her room, which helped a little. She tried to think, but her eyelids felt as if lead weights had been attached.

Jessa woke her up for nuncheon, which she attended in a daze. Theon wasn’t there either. I need to talk to him, she thought. Why, she had no idea. But an obscure sense of urgency filled her as she thought of the Ironborn prince.

Sansa ate her food very prettily, and fed Lady (who was once again in her lap) scraps of boiled beef. “Lord Theon,” said Liana, gazing at her, choosing her words with deliberate care, “doesn’t seem to care for food much.”

The red-haired girl dropped her knife, clattering on her plate. Heat seared through her delicate face. She looked as if she might dive under the table. “I, um, wouldn’t know.”

“I love food,” Arya said, oblivious, tearing off some bits of meat and stuffing them into her mouth.

Sansa wrinkled her nose. “Arya, it’s disgusting watching you eat sometimes. You eat like a Dothraki screamer.”

“You’ve never seen a Dothraki screamer,” said Arya.

“I don’t have to, to have seen you,” said Sansa smartly, and Septa Mordane sighed, rolling her eyes.

The poor septa. She deserved hazard pay for dealing with these two.

As amusing as it was to listen to Arya and Sansa’s constant stream of insults, Liana was eager to bolt from the Great Hall. However, as dishes were cleared from the table, she dallied with Sansa and her little retinue of girls not to seem too eager. One girl—Bethany?—complimented her necklace, while another—Janys?—said flattering things about Liana’s carriage and gestures.

“Liana!” said Bethany (or was it Janys?). “What a lovely name.”

“I like it,” said Liana.

“Though isn’t it odd, to have such a name, if neither of one’s parents possess Northern blood?” said Janys (or Bethany), with a significant weight on her words.

“Oh,” said Liana, light dawning. “Oh, no. I wasn’t named for Lyanna Stark.” Lyanna Stark was Lord Stark’s sister, and Jon Snow’s mother. The beautiful woman whose abduction by a Targaryen prince caused a huge war, et cetera. That was another subject of operas in itself, though she’d never cared for the story itself, as tragic stories where women died in childbirth were something she found tedious. “I was named for the liana vine. It’s common in my country.”

Sansa’s ladies-in-waiting gave her utterly blank stares. Liana smiled. “My mother was named Lotis. Plant names run in our family.”

“The lotus!” Sansa said eagerly. “The sigil of your house. That’s so beautiful.” She glanced sternly at the other girls. “Of course a lady of Qartheen and Ironborn origin isn’t named for Aunt Lyanna. Don’t be such a goose, Beth.”

The younger girl proceeded to gobble an incoherent apology, as Arya, hovering in the doorway, shot her an impatient look.

“Excuse me,” Liana said, and as the girls continued to chatter amongst themselves, made her way to Arya’s side.

“I thought you’d never come,” said Arya, quickly setting off down the corridor. “Those girls can go on, can’t they?”

“I suppose,” Liana panted, trying to catch up with the tiny brunette without tripping over her hem. She darted down a few passageways, up a tower staircase, and through a gallery that overlooked the main courtyard, when she stopped so abruptly that Liana almost rammed into her.

“There you go,” Arya said, nodding with her head to the young men sparring in the courtyard. “There’s all of them. And your Lord Greyjoy.”

Liana opened her mouth, about to say he’s not my Lord Greyjoy, when Arya said:

“Now don’t forget to give Jon that orange. You promised.”

“I did.” Liana, who had been prepared, held up the tote. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Arya grinned. “Good.”

A plaintive meep sounded down the hall, and Arya was off like a light, chasing a scrawny tabby kitten.

That girl is incorrigible, thought Liana, and wondered when her inner voice started sounding like Septa Mordane. Well, it wasn’t her problem.

Please God, she’d be out of here soon enough.

She watched Robb and Jon spar under the eyes of the stocky, aged master-at-arms; while farther away she saw Theon practicing archery. He definitely looked to be a hand at it, as shot after shot hit the center of the target. He did not look up, as he seemed, understandably, more focused on his aim than anyone who might be watching. But she stared so fixedly at him that, after exhausting his quiver, he glanced up at her.

He smirked, in such a way that it was noticeable even at this distance.

Why do you want to talk to him? Liana asked herself. He’s not the hero of legend. Anyway, at least not yet. That’ll probably happen after the Boltons torture the fuck out of him. That’ll happen after he’s carved up like a Yule turkey.

Poor kid, she thought, her stomach twisting.

Well, she wasn’t about to avoid him now. And even if he was still a cocky, dumb, teenage asshole, at least he saved her life, and he was Ironish, like she was.

And dollars to donuts Lady Stark had not given him any of the fruit she’d brought with her.

Remember, you’re a lady, Liana thought, sweeping up her skirts as she descended the creaky wooden staircase to the courtyard. You’re a lady.

Dammit.

Her foot had barely hit the muddy ground when Theon strode up to her, his face wreathed in the biggest, smirkiest, shit-eatingest grin she could imagine.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Pyke,” he said. “I was wondering where you were.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Theon,” she said. “I could say the same. I noticed you were missing at breakfast and nuncheon.”

“You were looking for me, eh?” He leaned on his bow. “Fancy that.”

“Fancy that,” she echoed, wondering what on earth she could say next without him spinning it into some cheesy pick-up line.

But he didn’t need much encouragement at all, she realized, to come up with a cheesy pick-up line. “Speaking of fancy,” he said, “I barely recognized you without your trousers. They’ve trussed you up well, haven’t they? That’s one of Lady Stark’s gowns.”

“Yes,” said Liana. “She was so kind to give it to me, as all my belongings were lost.”

“It does suit you.” Theon looked her up and down, his eyes lingering over her bosom. “In fact—” he lowered his voice—“I think it suits you better. Brings out the roses in your cheeks.”

Good grief. The great Theon Greyjoy was a teenage gigolo. But it wasn’t as if she minded. He was pretty. His wide-spaced, slightly uptilted grey-green-blue eyes had a strange fey quality to them, like the merlings in the old stories. But it was damned awkward all the same. How old was he?

“You flatter me, my lord,” she said.

“I don’t flatter you at all,” he said, grinning. “How often do beautiful, exotic ladies come around to be rescued? It was my honor.”

She was less than thrilled with the flippant way he referred to her awful experience yesterday, but he was clearly a young, dumb dude who was trying very, very hard to impress her. She wished she could just beat a hasty retreat and not have to listen to any more of this chest-beating nonsense, but something told her that she needed to talk to him. Jessa and Arya and Sansa liked her to varying degrees, but somehow she sensed that only Theon Greyjoy, as clueless as he was, was her only viable ally in a castle filled with strangers.

“Thank you for saving my life,” she said. “But it was a terrible, nightmarish experience, and I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

Theon’s eyes lowered. For the briefest moment, an unsure expression crossed over his face. “As you wish, Mistress.”

“Anyway…” Liana cleared her throat. “I wanted to give you something. As a bit of a thanks.”

He glanced up again, hesitant. But then he flashed another ubiquitous grin. “A gift? For me?”

“To be honest, I gave everyone this at breakfast, but since you weren’t there, I held it for you in reserve.” She had no idea why Theon inspired her to such pedantry, but it seemed to be a way of holding him at bay. “Uh, here’s some fruit.”

She scooped up an orange and banana and thrust it at him. He took it, astonished. “An orange,” he said, awed. “From Dorne!”

“From my back garden in Oldtown,” she amended.

“And what is this?” He held up the banana, staring at it.

“It’s a banana from the Summer Isles.”

“Well,” said Theon Greyjoy. “I’m not sure what to think when a lady gives me this.” And he raised his eyebrows, pointing the banana at her and twitching it suggestively.

Liana stared back at him, before she dissolved into a helpless fit of giggles.

Theon leaned back, pleased with himself. “There! I made you laugh. I knew I could do it. You can be as serious as a septa, Mistress Pyke.”

She smirked a bit at that. “I suppose that’s true. But can you blame me?”

“I suppose not.”

He looked at the banana. “Now how am I supposed to eat this?”

“You peel it first,” she said, and he scowled.

“I knew that, Mistress. I’m not a fool.”

“Peel it then,” she said lightly. “I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how.”

To his credit, Theon figured it out quickly. Once it was peeled, he glanced at the pale, fleshy spear, then back at her. His face melted into a long, cat-like smile.

“I think,” he drawled, “this is something I would rather see you eat.”

To her annoyance, Liana felt her cheeks heating. “Yet I gave it to you. I’ve had enough bananas in my life.”

“But I’ve never seen you eat—whatever you call them,” he replied, and she sighed.

“All right. One bite. Give it here.”

She swore he was this close to saying, “and that’s what she said,” but perhaps that joke didn’t exist yet. She took the banana, opened her mouth and took one single bite.

But the expression on his face was just… something else. He had raised his head a touch, with his eyelids lowered, and his wide mouth was slightly opened. She had never thought she could watch a man get quite so aroused by the sight of her eating a garden-variety piece of fruit, but apparently her experience was quite limited. She almost choked on it.

“Thank you,” he said with a knowing smile, as she swallowed.

Liana raised an eyebrow. “Now, I want to see you eat the rest.”

He grinned. “Is that an order, Mistress Pyke?”

“If you insist.”

“Orders from you are a pleasure,” he said, and he proceeded to devour the banana with a brazen, tongue-wielding, lip-smacking flirtatiousness that left her speechless. She knew she should be embarrassed, or turned on, or both, but instead, she was fascinated. He was ridiculous. Endearingly so. She couldn’t think of what horrors would descend upon him, in the space of a few short years--

“I don’t know quite what you are, Theon Greyjoy,” she said, “but you are definitely something.”

“You mean to say, you are something, my lord,” he said lightly, smacking his lips.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said dryly. “Your banana-eating prowess made all proper courtesies fly out of my head.”

He laughed long and loud at that, and was no doubt about to respond with more amusing innuendo, when a voice spoke from behind Theon.

“Was Greyjoy laughing at one of his own japes, or one of yours, Mistress?”

Theon turned, revealing Jon Snow, giving them one of his rueful half-smiles.

“One of mine,” she said. “He ate some fruit in a silly way, and I responded in a way I assume he found witty.”

Theon grimaced. This was probably not exactly what he wanted to hear from an attractive woman, but Jon’s smile widened a bit.

“Greyjoy does fancy himself a proper lady-killer.”

“More than you, Snow!” Theon bristled. The two young men glared at each other; there was clearly no love lost between these two.

Desperate to change the subject, Liana hoisted up the tote. “Wait. I’ve got something for you, Master Snow.” She pulled out her second-to-last orange. “Here.”

Jon took it, puzzled. “An orange? For me?”

“She just gave it to you, didn’t she?” Theon snapped. He glanced at her, aggrieved. “And I thought I was special, Mistress Pyke.”

“You are, my lord.” She smiled sweetly. “I gave you my last banana.”

He smiled. “Now that’s something I can go to my watery grave feeling pleased about.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress Pyke,” said Jon, tucking his orange into the breast of his doublet for later. “Half the time Greyjoy speaks a great deal of mummery and nonsense.”

“I don’t mind. It doesn’t surprise me, at any rate. The Ironborn are noted for their often inappropriate senses of humor.”  

Theon opened his mouth, and closed it as Jon chuckled.

“That seems about right. Thank you for the orange. It’s very kind of you.”

“It is no trouble,” Liana said, looking at both the young men as earnestly as she could manage. “You are both my hosts too, and I want to be sure that you received the same gifts that I gave Lord Stark’s children at breakfast.”

Theon and Jon looked at each other awkwardly. Now she was quite sure Lady Stark put aside nothing for them. She was disappointed, she supposed; but not surprised.

“I hope you will be my friends,” she added, daringly.

Jon nodded; his bluff manner seemed to thaw a bit. “I would like to be, Mistress Pyke. I shall see you anon. I have business to attend at the smithy.”

Theon gave an annoyed glance at his retreating back. “You’re awfully nice to that bastard.”

“Well, my lord, my grandfather was a bastard. Does it matter?”

“It does. It should!” he said indignantly. “Bastards don’t have the same rank as trueborn, and it’s always been that way!”

“All right.” She spread out her hands. “If it’s always been that way, who am I to argue with it?”

Theon’s brow knitted. He glared at her for a moment, sensing her dry mockery. At last he shrugged too. “You’re a strange woman, Mistress Pyke.”

“So I’ve been told, my lord.” Liana gave him a faint smile. “I suppose it comes of being raised in Qarth by an Ironman. And living in Oldtown and Pyke too. It makes for… a jumbled way of looking at the world. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.” Theon gazed at her, biting his lip anxiously. “You’re the first person I’ve met of Ironborn heritage since…” His voice trailed away, as his eyes fixed on something over her shoulder.

“Since...?” Then she turned around to see Lady Stark staring at them, at the top of the staircase.

“Mistress Pyke!” she called down with an imperious voice. “I was hoping you could join us in the solar shortly.”

Theon glanced at her in alarm, but Liana smiled graciously. “I should love to, Lady Stark, if you give me one moment.”

Lady Stark nodded, disappearing in a flash of teal. A sick, nauseous feeling gripped Liana, as she stood there, her hands gripping the railing.

“Listen to me, Mistress Pyke,” said Theon quietly, his voice so intense she started. “You are iron and salt. The kraken eats the fish. Remember that.”

It was such an ancient Westerosi thing to say, identifying the people of one region with a particular animal, and depicting any interaction with another animal as a primal fight to the death, but it felt bracing. She needed it, she decided.

She flashed him a quick smile. “Thank you.”

His voice lowered. “You must tell me how it goes. Find me in the glass gardens after dinner. But go to your rooms first, in case you are followed.”

Liana nodded imperceptibly.

Well, she thought as she straightened her back and headed up the stairs. Things were about to get… interesting.

Her feelings from yesterday seemed to be dead on. Theon Greyjoy was proving himself to be a friend.

And Lady Stark… definitely an enemy.

Chapter Text

At first Liana, in her panic, had no idea where the solar could be, but she took a few deep breaths, and asked the next passing servant if he could escort her to the solar, that she was expected there by Lord and Lady Stark. As she learned from her time working as guide at the Ten Towers, solars were supposed to be the lord’s private sitting room.

This did not bode well, she thought, for the nature of their discussion. And the servant—an elderly man-- clearly realized it too, as he grew pale, before asking her to follow him.

Her heart started to race as she followed him through the labyrinthine passages of the castle, and she was almost hyperventilating as the servant led her up a steep, winding flight of stairs into a tower.

He rapped on the door. “Lord and Lady Stark? Mistress Pyke has arrived.”

“Let her in,” a voice behind the door called, and the old man opened the door.

The door revealed a small but well furnished solar, with tapestries on the walls and a mullioned window overlooking the courtyard. Lord Stark sat at a table, his hands steepled, and Lady Stark, in her usual teal, with a padded fish-embroidered collar looped around her neck, stood near the window, a letter in her hand.

Her bearing was regal as usual, but the set of her neck and shoulders was tense. Her mouth was set in a thin line.

Liana’s stomach twisted, but she curtseyed deeply.

“Lord Stark,” she said. “Lady Stark. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Mistress Pyke.” Lady Stark strode towards her, brandishing the letter. “I wish to discuss a certain matter with you.”

Oh fuck, Liana thought. “Anything, my lady. How may I assist you?”

“I was hoping,” she said, very cool, “that you could enlighten me on a particular matter. You mentioned yesterday, when you stated your case before my husband and myself, that you had traveled with your uncle and Ser Brenn Fossoway to the Northern Mountains on some sort of… alchemical expedition. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Liana said. “That’s right.”

“And you also mentioned that you were attacked by wildlings going back to Deepwood Motte.”

Her stomach sunk. If you’re going to lie, Dad had said, make sure you stick as close to the truth as possible. That was one of his favorite sayings, along with always sit with your back to the wall so you can see who approaches you and always see where the exits are in a room in case you need to leave quickly. Also known as “Life: the Ironish edition.”

Unfortunately, the only exits to the solar were the door behind her, a door on the opposite side of the room (leading to the lord’s bedchamber, perhaps?) and the window. None of which were remotely practical for sudden egress.

“Well,” said Lady Stark, her voice growing sharper. “Is that not what you said, Mistress Pyke?”

Her piercing blue eyes made Liana feel very small. “Yes,” she said softly. “That is indeed what I said.”

“I thought so,” said Lady Stark. She held up the parchment. “Which is why I sent a raven to Lord Glover of Deepwood Motte, inquiring if he had any knowledge of a recent expedition led by an Essosi mage. He sent a raven back very promptly, telling me he had never seen or heard of such a thing on his lands, or any lands adjacent, and that he would very much remember it if it had happened.”

Her bright eyes bore into Liana.

“So then, Mistress Pyke.” Her beautifully modulated voice grew cold and hard as ice. “You have accepted bread and salt from me and my husband, and gifts from my own hand. Yet it seems you have lied to us. Who are you? Who sent you?”

Liana stumbled back. Her knees weakened, and her sight darkened. I’m going to faint, she thought, hysteria surging through her. But this was no bourgeois Restoration era gothic romance, where governesses were wooed by tortured lords with mad wives in the attic. Fainting was not going to impress the Starks. This was the fucking Ice Age. She’d better think of something fast or she’d be dead.

You are iron and salt, Theon had said to her. The kraken eats the fish. Remember that.

For a moment, Liana closed her eyes, and the image of a kraken, its tentacles thrashing through the water, entwined with blue lotuses, flashed in her mind. A strange calmness stole through her.

“Lady Stark,” she said, gazing back at her hostess. “I am Liana Pyke. No one sent me. My uncle is Xandros Hazredi of Qarth, a brilliant and scatter-brained man who is on a mission to discover the secrets of malignite. I am not here by design. I am here only by accident. I did not lie to you.”

“Then what is this about Deepwood Motte?” Lady Stark exclaimed in frustration. “Are you claiming that Lord Glover lied to me?”

“Lord Glover,” Lord Stark said finally, “is my bannerman. The Glovers have sworn fealty to my house for countless generations. If you claim that he lies, Mistress Pyke, that is a very serious matter indeed.”

“Lord Glover is not lying to you either,” Liana said. “I did not lie to you, my lord and lady—I misspoke. I meant to say that we would return back to Oldtown via a ship’s passage obtained in Deepwood Motte, but I phrased it, I see, confusingly.” She spread out her hands, smiling in a self-deprecating way. “Westerosi Common is not my first language.”

“You speak it fluently enough,” said Lady Stark with a frown.

“If I concentrate,” said Liana. “I’m more used to speaking a different dialect. It’s this—” and she shifted to Modern Common—“which is more natural to me, more my speed, more my jam, as we say. This is what I think in, how my brain works, how my synapses fire, and when I shift back to your language—” she shifted back to Late Archaic Common—“I have to speak more slowly and phrase everything more precisely, because it doesn’t come naturally to me. I don’t get everything right.”

Lord and Lady Stark glanced at each other. “So how did you come to the North, if not by ship?” Lord Stark asked.

“We went up the kingsroad,” Liana said. She debated adding the detail of being in a carriage—no, wheelhouse was the right terminology, wasn’t it, for this time period?—but decided it would be best to keep it simple.

“Oh.” Lady Stark’s brow furrowed. Clearly this conversation was not going as she expected. Though Liana had to hand it to her; immediately verifying her statements with Lord Glover was a smart move. Lady Stark gave Liana a wary look. “We heard no word of your uncle’s travels in Winterfell.”

“That’s not my uncle’s style,” said Liana. “He’s a pretty unassuming guy. Man. Gentleman,” she added lamely. Well, maybe her linguistic faux pas were not going to be such a bad thing, if it reinforced her story that Common was not her first language.

“I thought he was Qartheen. They are, from all reports, a flamboyant race.”

Liana smiled. “Not my uncle so much. I hope you might forgive us, my lady, for not engaging you and Lord Stark when we first passed through Winterton. Uncle Xandros was eager to get to the source of the malignite.”

Lady Stark exchanged another glance with her husband. Liana had trouble parsing it. What did they think of her? Well, if I was Lady Stark, she thought, I wouldn’t trust me either.

“Tell us more about this malignite,” Lady Stark said, gesturing to a stool, as she sat down in a high-backed chair.

Well, this was good, right? Liana sat down as invited, and began to hold forth on malignite. She explained that malignite was the “oily black stone” of the Seastone Chair, the buildings of the Shadow City of Asshai, the foundations of the Hightower in Oldtown, and of the entire city of Yeen, the strange and haunted ruined city of cyclopean dimensions at the mouth of the Zamoyos River in Sothoryos.

“What do all these places have in common? Who built them?”

Lord and Lady Stark shrugged.

“I confess, Mistress, I have no idea,” Lord Stark said. “The race of men is a young one, especially compared to others.”

“That’s true,” said Liana. “My uncle doesn’t think they—the builders-- were humans. But if so, did they originate here on Erthe? The Cult of the Starry Wisdom worships a block of malignite, which allegedly ‘fell from the stars.’ In Qarthe, the Cult is connected to the Old Ones, a race of gods from the sunken city in Leng. According to Maester Theron, there is a race called the Deep Ones, a race of monstrous fish-men worshipped as gods by the men of Ib. And the Seastone Chair itself was discovered on the shores of Old Wyk by the First Men. It does not depict a human—it depicts a kraken, or a tentacled kraken like creature. No human hands are known to have been involved in its creation.

“Now, bear with me, my lord and lady, since I know this is all rather complicated. What if all of this connected?”

Lord Stark looked puzzled, but Lady Stark, stroking her chin, looked thoughtful. And unsettled.

“I have heard of such stories. But I thought them fanciful legends.”

“Well, my lady, the black stone has to come from some place,” Liana said. “Yeen didn’t just appear from nothing. It’s my uncle’s theory that malignite did not originate here on Erthe, but came from another place… the home of these creatures who built the Seastone Chair, and Yeen, and who are worshipped as gods by the men of Leng and Ib.”

Lady Stark looked at her sharply. “But you said your uncle was looking for a ‘rare vein of malignite’ in the Northern Mountains. Those were your words, Mistress Pyke.”

“Yes. Exactly. We don’t know if malignite comes from this other dimension, or if it originates here on Erthe, or if there is a similar stone of plutonic origins that is native to Erthe, and in the style of sympathetic magic, drew the attention of these… beings.” As soon as those words crossed her lips, a horror stole over her, and she stared into space, overwhelmed.

“Mistress Pyke? Mistress Pyke!” Lady Stark exclaimed. “Are you well?”

“I’m sorry, my lady. I was thinking.”

“You turned pale for a moment.” The older woman frowned. “This sounds all very sinister.”

It rather was, but Liana forced a reassuring smile onto her face. “Malignite is just a stone. Uncle Xandros just wishes to examine its properties. It could be a force for good, in proper applications.”

“But it could also be a force for evil,” Lady Stark said, her voice rising.

“Yes, but you could say that about any tool. You could take a rock and use it to hold parchments down—or you could use it to bash someone’s skull in. It’s a rock. It’s what you do with it that matters.”

Lord Stark chuckled. “She has a point, Cat.”

Lady Stark still looked unhappy. “It sounds unnatural to me, Ned.”

“I swear to you, Lady Stark,” Liana exclaimed, “my uncle Xandros is a good man. Not only is he dedicated to his field, but he searches for knowledge to help people, to improve the lives of everyone.”

“But he isn’t a maester,” Lady Stark said.

“No.”

“Is he a warlock? He is from Qarth.”

“He doesn’t do drugs,” said Liana.

“Excuse me?”

“Warlocks do a lot of drugs,” she replied. “It’s their thing.” Between the traditional dreamwine and shade-of-the-evening industries, and all the stories of ancient warlocks who used to trip on Ye Olde Timey Acid, Qarth’s (well deserved) nickname was Drug City. Even Liana had tried a few ‘shrooms on occasion. But Xandros was clean as they came. “Uncle Xandros doesn’t like drugs. He says they all give him a headache.”

“So he’s not a warlock because he’s never taken… drugs?” Lady Stark looked at the ceiling, as if hoping for reprieve from the gods.

“Warlocks love taking drugs that give them visions. It’s a shamanic thing, I guess? But Uncle Xandros is straight-arrow. He’s not into that. He prefers studying physics.”

“Physics? Is he a healer?”

“No. Not physics in the sense of being a physician, but physics in that…” Liana racked her brain for a definition. “It’s the science of studying the nature and properties of non-living matter and energy.”

“Ah,” Lady Stark said. “I am sure Maester Luwin would love to meet him. I don’t think… physics… is even studied at the Citadel.”

Liana tried to imagine Uncle Xandros talking Maester Luwin’s ear off about neutrinics theory, and the thought almost made her crack up. But then… God, she hoped she would see him again.

You will, she told herself. You will. He’ll see your message on the tree and he’ll send for you. Uncle Xandros is brilliant. He can do anything!

“Like I said, my lady, he’s a good man,” she repeated. “I pray to the Lord of Light that he is safe, and will come here to find me, so you can talk to him and see for yourself.”

Lady Stark very much looked like she wished this conversation was over—or better yet, had never happened. “Very well. I will pray to the Seven that your uncle is safe.”

She swept up her skirts. “I trust you will have a good afternoon, Mistress Pyke—”

Someone knocked on the door, and Lady Stark’s head jerked. “Who is it?”

“It’s Sansa,” a muffled voice said behind the door, and Lady Stark sighed. “Come in, dearest.”

Sansa walked in, holding Lady. “Oof!” she said, dropping the puppy. “You’re getting big!” She gazed about at the audience. “I’m sorry, Mother. Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, we were just… concluding our business here.” Lady Stark looked speculatively at Liana. “Mistress Pyke, I trust you will be available for any more questions if they become necessary?”

She bowed a little. Man, she thought, torn between frustration and admiration. In her own time, Lady Stark would make an excellent cop. “Yes, Lady Stark. I am at your disposal.”

“Very good.” She made a dismissive wave, but Sansa turned to Liana, her eyes bright.

“If you may stay, Mistress Pyke. I’d appreciate it.”

“Uh, okay,” Liana said.

“Okay?” Sansa repeated, puzzled.

“It’s what we say in Qarth for ‘very well,’ or ‘all right,” Liana responded.

“Oh kay!” Sansa giggled. “I like the sound of it. It has a pretty sound.”

“Sansa,” Lady Stark said. “You came here for a reason, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She brushed her hair in a distracted fashion. “Mother, I was wondering if I might be able to use the new bower for our sewing circle shortly. I am so sorry I did not ask earlier…”

“My sweet girl.” Lady Stark sighed. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind, but I have a bit of a headache this eve.” She shot Liana an annoyed glance. “Would you mind using the old bower instead?”

“Oh, Mother!” Sansa exclaimed. “The old bower is so noisy. You can hear all the conversations echo in the Great Hall, and you can smell the horses too from the courtyard. It’s so much nicer and genteel in your new bower, up here in the tower. I can smell your perfumes. I do love them. Especially the one with spiceflowers.” She dimpled at her mother, who seemed very close to capitulating. She went to her daughter, placing her hand on the young girl’s shoulder.

“Darling, I do understand—the new bower is much nicer. But I must lie down. You understand, don’t you? Beth and Jeyne will understand.”

Liana wondered if Sansa would pitch a fit, the way many spoiled teenagers would, but Sansa just swallowed her disappointment and smiled.

“Yes, Mother. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you, Sansa.” Lady Stark wrapped her arms about Sansa and kissed her forehead. Liana suddenly remembered her own mother, who would comfort her every time she came home from middle school, complaining about bullies who would tear her backpack off and throw her books around. She would wrap her arms around her, and she would place her face her face in her neck, breathing in her mother’s own favorite perfume, a pleasing combination of rose and jasmine.

Her mother died four years ago, but she still missed her every day. Her eyes filled with tears.

Not wanting to cry in front of these impressive figures from the Age of the Sagas, she kneeled, waving at Lady. “Hello, Lady! Hello, baby.”

Needing very little encouragement, Lady bounded up to Liana, jumped up on her, and starting licking her face. She laughed. “Oh, you are such a good doggo! Look at you—you’re a good baby. Yes you are.”

She scratched her ears and behind, as Lady wagged her tail, panting happily. Didn’t Lady die horribly at some point? She wished she’d paid more attention to the fates of the direwolves. But she’d never thought them real. She’d always thought they were some contrived literary device, invented by Archmaester Tarly or one of the maesters during the Plague Years who’d copied the manuscripts.

Well, the more fool her. She buried her face into Lady’s fur. “You are the best puppy. The best.”

“You like dogs, don’t you, Mistress Pyke?” Lord Stark’s voice echoed above her. She glanced up, to see him looking down at her, a twinkle in his eye.

“I do, yes.” To be honest, she was more of a cat person, like Theon, but some dogs were so charming she couldn’t help but love them. “But Lady’s a wolf cub, isn’t she?”

“So she is.” Lord Stark kneeled next to her, and Lady jumped up on him, eager for attention. He patted her head with a grin. “But Lady here is the sweetest and gentlest of all the cubs we rescued three moons ago.” He gave her a long, assessing look. “She seems to have taken a special liking to you.”

Embarrassed, Liana lowered her eyes. “I’m sure Lady likes everyone.”

“Not quite,” said Lord Stark.

“When Ser Harys Heigh visited several weeks ago,” said Sansa, “Lady nipped at his heels several times.” She wrinkled her nose. “What a horrid man.”

“He was enough of a gentleman not to kick Lady, at least,” her mother said.

“If he did, I daresay Grey Wind would have torn his throat out,” Sansa said with grim satisfaction.

“Sansa!”

“I’m sorry, Mother.” Sansa didn’t look very sorry. Some hint of the future Gloriana, the porcelain and steel queen of the North. “But I think he smelled wrong to Lady, somehow. She can pick up on such things.”

“So she can,” replied Lord Stark. “Ser Harys is the grandson of Walder Frey.”

At that, Lord and Lady Stark shot each another a significant look. The Freys were the hated aristocratic family that controlled the Twins, the main crossing of the Trident River. Even in Liana’s time, the crossing at the Twins was the most important border crossing between North and South Westria. Walder Frey ended up murdering poor Lady Stark and Robb in the infamous Red Wedding, one of the blackest, most infamous incidents swirling around the black, infamous days of the Cataclysm. For centuries, the poets said, people in the North would spit every time the Frey name was mentioned.

And the irony was, that even though Arya Stark did her best to wipe out all the adult male Freys with her Faceless Assassin magic, the Freys were so omnipresent and pervasive, with hundreds of little Freys running around, that they managed to revive with a generation. The Freys bred like rabbits. And like cockroaches, they had a disturbing ability to survive; they were one of the few noble houses to even survive the bloodbath of the Revolutionary Wars completely intact (mainly by swearing allegiance to the Majorist revolutionaries and turning in all their fellow aristocrats, and then switching their allegiance to General Whitethorn when he rose to power, and thus turning on the revolutionaries). In fact, the current Interior Minster of South Westria was a Frey, one Krystofer Frey.

So yeah. Weaselly, treacherous Walder Frey might come to an ignominious end, though he would probably laugh his ass off knowing that, in eight hundred years, the Starks were long dead and gone, but his great-great-great-great (how many greats?) grandson would be running the internal security of all of South Westria.

It’s ironic, she thought, ironically. Like the song. You’ve got ten thousand knives, when all you need is a spoon.

Liana was so lost in her thoughts that she wasn’t even paying attention to Lord Stark, until he cleared his throat. “Mistress Pyke?”

She started, and saw Lord Stark had reached out his hand. Smiling, she took it, and he helped her up.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “That is very gallant of you.”

“Father is always gallant,” said Sansa proudly, and father and daughter beamed at each other. Oh, my poor babies, Liana thought sadly. Winter is coming, and there’s very little you can do to stop it.

“Anyway, Mistress Pyke,” said Sansa. “We shall be embroidering in the old bower—down in the Great Hall—and I shall be delighted if you can attend.” She smiled. “Lady shall be there, with me. I’m sure she’d love the company.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa. I’d be delighted to attend.”

“Excellent! I shall see you shortly, then.”

Liana curtsied to Lord and Lady Stark, who inclined their heads very graciously in her direction. She knew they would start talking about her immediately as soon as she exited the room, and she was so tempted to hover there, after Sansa’s exit, to listen—but no. Lady Stark would probably check the keyhole. She was savvy, that lady.

Well, at any rate, she should freshen up to ready for Sansa’s circle. She couldn’t embroider worth a tinker’s damn, but at least she should hear some prime gossip.

Perhaps she would even find out why Sansa blushed so much when the subject of Theon came up.

Did she love him as all the plays and operas said she did? Was this a love story meant for the ages, as Maester Clovis claimed in his seminal fifth century work, The Woeful Tale of Queen Sansa and her Gallant Knight, or Jianno Verdyon’s famous Romantic opera, Sansa and Theon, one of the biggest hits of the Restoration, or in Alesander Mance’s turn of the century historical novel, The Wolf and the Kraken, which was later adapted into a half a dozen movies?

Of course, the characters in the operas and novels and movies were older, sexier people in their twenties, and not awkward teenagers. It was hard to look at these two dumb kids and try to imagine the legendary lovers of stage and screen, but hell, what did she know? She couldn’t see into their brains.

But if she just poked a little more…

Liana knew she shouldn’t. But she was here, in the Age of the Sagas.

She had a duty to posterity to know more.

Chapter Text

After refreshing herself in her room, Liana checked to see if her things had been disturbed, and was pleased to see that that everything was in exactly the same place, with nothing disturbed, at least as far as she could tell. Perhaps this was due to Lord Stark’s honor, and the particular politeness due to guests in this age; but she wasn’t going to risk it.

She did a thorough search of the room, and found a loose flagstone near the hearth. She stuffed everything in it, placing a loose hair over her smartphone just to be sure. Someone else might know of this hiding place—but if anyone lifted the stone, the hair would fall. She’d seen enough spy movies to know that drill.

With that sorted, Liana went to find Lady Sansa and company.

It turned out the old bower was a small chamber behind the hearth in the Great Hall. According to Sansa, it was where Stark ladies in more antique times gathered together to embroider, sing songs and drink mulled wine, until the Lord’s Tower was built, with its attendant bedchamber, solar and bower for the lord and his lady.

Sansa was right in that they could hear all the conversations in the Great Hall. (Liana noted to herself that no doubt this room made an excellent place to spy.) And, as the windows were opened, since the room was small and stuffy, she could definitely smell the overpowering and dominant motif of horse. Sansa had the maids set out incense and perfumes to provide a more pleasing atmosphere, but that could only go so far.

The Starks’ oldest daughter sat nearest the largest window, where the best light was, bent over a large standing rectangular embroidery frame stretched with fine linen. A basket of embroidering silks sat at her feet, and with delicacy and diligence, she embroidered what looked to be a pattern of blackwork onto a future shift. Lady sat at her feet, by the basket, worrying a bone, but generally being quite peaceable for a wolf cub. She was preternaturally well behaved, Liana observed. Generally most ladies of this time period would have a small dog or kitten at their feet; but Sansa was a Stark, and the Starks were represented by the wolves of their sigils.

The other members of her retinue, Beth (not Bethany) Cassel and Jeyne (not Janys) Poole, sat upon stools, embroidering on smaller but similarly rectangular embroidery frames. Septa Mordane did likewise, and a few maids were kept busy, filling glasses of wine or bringing in nuts and sweetmeats. It was calm and peaceable, and Liana—who was given a frame as well-- rather liked it, as it gave her time to think, even though she was an incompetent seamstress at best.

Arya, however, scowled as if she waited to see the dentist. She jabbed at her own embroidery frame, which—as Liana looked over her shoulder-- portrayed a very crude wolf chasing after several screaming people. The people looked like embroidered stick figures, waving little skinny stick arms.

Liana smothered a laugh, as Arya glared at her.

“I like your screaming stick people,” said Liana. “What you lack in for in technique, you more than make up for in sheer elan.”

Arya looked at her as if she were making fun of her. But Liana showed her own embroidery, which was a very rudimentary lotus. “Yours is better than mine,” she said. “I can’t embroider to save my life.”

The younger girl grinned. “I never thought I’d hear someone say that.”

“I admit, I’m terrible at it.”

“Not like Sansa,” Arya said in a low voice, looking at her sister—Septa Mordane was currently cooing over her stitchery. “She’s perfect. Septa says Sansa’s sewing is as fine and delicate as her hands. But my hands are like the smith’s. She said so.” She looked gloomily at her stubby fingers and grimy nails.

That’s not a nice thing to say to an impressionable child, Liana thought, but knew better than to say so. “Well,” she said. “We all have our particular skill sets. I bet you’re very good at other things.”

Arya brightened. “Yes. I love horse riding. And archery. I’m already better than Bran!” She gave her a look. “And someday I’ll be better than Theon.”

So said the future Faceless Assassin. “I’m sure you will be.” But Liana couldn’t resist raising her voice, glancing at Sansa. “But Lord Theon knows every part of the bow. I saw him at practice the other day. He’s very good at hitting his target.”

At that, Sansa flushed, jabbing her finger with her needle at that very moment. “Ouch!” she squeaked.

Septa Mordane immediately grabbed a spare bit of cloth to staunch the blood. “My goodness, Sansa, you’re not usually so clumsy!”

Sansa’s blush deepened, but she frowned in vexation. “I’m sorry, Septa. I was just… distracted for a moment.”

Liana turned back to Arya, who was looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “Lady Arya, you and Lord Theon should have an archery contest. That’s something I would pay to see.” She paused, smiling wryly. “That is, if I had any money. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“If I could beat Theon, I would pay you,” said Arya. “Thanks for suggesting it.” She gave a savage grin. “He always calls me Arya Underfoot. I’ll underfoot him.”

Good God, thought Liana. Remind me never to get on Arya’s bad side. If she was this vindictive as an eleven year old, she could just imagine what she would be like in ten years, post Faceless Assassin training.

“So,” Arya said, casting her embroidery aside, not even bothering to pretend it held any more interest for her. “How are you at archery?”

“I’ve never tried it.”

“Really?”

Liana shook her head.

“Well,” Arya said. “What about horses?”

“I’m not so good,” Liana said. “I’ve been told I ride like a sack of oats.” The person who had told her that specifically was her roommate Lindey, who came from a posh Reacher background. She once took her to her family’s stables in Honeyholt, where Liana had proceeded to embarrass herself with her lack of equestrian skills.

“If you can’t embroider or ride or shoot arrows, what can you do?” Arya asked, in that blunt Northern way that would no doubt offend anyone south of the Trident. But Liana, due to her partial Ironish upbringing, was quite used to that sort of thing. She gave Arya a lopsided smile.

“I can talk.” Or lecture, as her Dad and Aunt Jenny had told her. God knows, if she had lived back in the third century, and if she wasn’t rich or important enough to be married off to some dude, she would have probably become a septa, even if she thought the Faith of the Seven was nonsense. But there weren’t a lot of options for women in this time period, were there? “People tell me I’m good at telling stories.”

“Really.” Arya placed her hands in her lap. “The only one who tells stories around here is Old Nan, and she mainly talks about grumpkins and snarks.” She paused, shuddering. “And ice spiders. I hate her stories about ice spiders.”

“I don’t know anything about ice spiders,” said Liana. She made another stitch on her crude flower before she gave up and set the frame down too. “But you like horses, right? I know a great story about a magical horse that could fly anywhere in the world.”

“Oooh!” Arya grinned, her eyes sparkling, bouncing with excitement. Liana had a hard time remembering this was the girl who would end up killing the demon king himself—and would go on to discover the continent of Nymerios, before disappearing for good on one of her subsequent voyages. But she was acting like such a normal kid. Like she was about to see her favorite TV show. Or she was told she was going to an all-expenses paid trip to her favorite theme park. It was discombobulating. “Tell me. Tell me-- I want to hear!”

“All right,” said Liana, mentally preparing herself. But she should be able to tell it. The tale of the Enchanted Horse was one of the most popular stories in Qarth. She’d seen an animated version of it on television as a kid, and she’d read half a dozen versions of it over the years. She’d had plenty of practice spinning tales while working as a docent at the Ten Towers, and indeed, had heard plenty of stories from her grandmother, who was as gifted a storyteller as Queen Sherazan.

She spread out her hands, as if setting a stage—exactly as her grandmother had used to—and began.

                                                                                                                 * * *

Once upon a time (said Liana), a mysterious shadowbinder of Asshai, whose face was masked with red lacquered wood, came to Qarth with an equally mysterious horse. Now, this horse wasn’t just any horse. It was a strange mechanical device, made from ebony, that could soar up into the clouds, almost to the sun itself. It could fly anywhere, at any time. It was truly a marvel.

With such a machine, he managed to impress the wealthiest Pureborn prince of Qarth, a man who had the greatest and most beautiful throne in the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. This prince loved to collect curiosities, especially if they were fabulous and strange. He had a garden filled with white peacocks, gilded with gold and with feet stained with purple, and turquoises that could make men see visions and make women sterile, and the veil of the temple of the Goddess of Night, looted from the island of Ulos by Ironborn reavers. His treasury was the wonder of all of Qarth; indeed in all of Essos. But even this jaded prince had never seen anything like the ebony horse.

Determined to possess the marvelous device for himself, the greedy prince agreed to buy the horse from the shadowbinder, and barely flinched at the shadowbinder’s price, which was, to wit, the prince’s youngest daughter, a tender maid of fifteen.

The daughter was terrified at marrying the necromancer, and being forced to live the rest of her life in the sunless black warrens of Asshai, with its glowing river and mutated fish. Desperately, she went to her older brother, Arrelion, a youth of eighteen, who promised to intercede with his father.

The dashing young Arrelion argued with his father, to no avail. The shadowbinder, seeing how he already had an enemy in his future bride’s family, saw a way to rid the world of this high-spirited boy. He presented the ebony horse to Arrelion, winsomely describing how it could fly through the air, more reliably than even a dragon. He showed Arrelion the screw to turn, to make it ascend; and then he lied, saying it could descend by turning it the other way. Eager to try the magic steed, the young man jumped upon it, and flew into the air.

He flew and flew, until Qarth was no longer in sight; he then realized it was high time to descend. But the screw would not turn the other way. The shadowbinder had lied. The sun was growing closer and closer; the heat seared his face; but Arrelion, determined not to panic, searched the horse’s neck for another screw. Surely there must be one, or how would the shadowbinder have thus impressed his father?

After careful search, he found a smaller screw, hidden among the wooden curls of the horse’s mane. He turned it leftwise, and it descended, through cloud bank after cloud bank, past gulls and albatrosses, until he came to a strange archipelago of islands that looked like emeralds, set against the tossing waves of the magnificent ocean.

Down and down the horse went, until it alighted upon the roof of a strange palace, in a lush exotic country, filled with palm trees and bright tropical flowers. Intrigued, Arrelion scrambled along the roof, until he found an open courtyard, lined with pillars sculpted like lotuses. He shimmied down the nearest pillar, until he found himself within the palace itself.

It was utterly quiet, and deserted, and as he tried door after door in the atrium, each one carved with a different bird—first a parrot, then a cockatoo, then a bird of paradise-- he saw that there was no one there. However, he tried the last door—one carved with a beautiful swan in ebony. Upon his touch, it swung open.

It revealed a bedchamber, with a woman sleeping on a mahogany bed, carved to look like a like a swan itself, curtains of shimmering silk surrounding her.

Not wishing to awake her, Arrelion tip-toed to her bed, peering at her.

Truly, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, slender, with exquisite features and skin as black as the ebony of her door, or the ebony of his enchanted horse. “I must be in the Summer Isles,” thought Arrelion, amazed at how far the horse had flown. “The ladies of this island are renowned warriors, so I must take care in how I wake her.”

He touched her arm, and said, “My lady?” Then he bent the knee, to show he meant no threat.

It was an excellent thing Arrelion had done so, for the first thing the sleeping princess did, upon being awoken, was to grab her sword and swing it in the area where his head had been.

“Who are you,” she gasped, “and how dare you invade my sleeping quarters? What is your business here?”

Arrelion quickly prostrated himself, and told the angry princess the tale of how he came here. The princess, whose name was Jhananaya, was disbelieving at first; but when he described the ebony horse in particular detail, she became very curious.

“Show it to me,” said Jhananaya, and Arrelion obliged. He took her to the roof, where the horse stood, immobile; then he alighted it, giving a quick demonstration of what it could do, and how it would work. The lady then insisted on giving it a ride herself; then once she came down, she allowed Arrelion to accompany her. You might think a young man of Qarth might be put off by a lady that much in command, but I assure you (said Liana), her beauty and confidence delighted him.

Over a delicious dinner of mangoes, peppered curry, pork cooked in palm leaves and sweet amber wine, Arrelion told Jhananaya the entire story of what happened. The princess waxed indignant over how he had been treated, and said they should go back to Qarth immediately, to inform his father he was safe and to rescue his sister from the clutches of the wicked shadowbinder.

“We could go now,” said Arrelion, who was extremely concerned over his family’s well-being, but Jhananaya took his hand.

“I’m sure we could go in the morning,” she said, smiling at him.

Yet they did not leave the next morning, or the morning after that, or even a whole month of mornings. For you see, Jhananaya and Arrelion had fallen in love with each other, and she was loathe to part with his company. And, if they found other ways to entertain each other, who are we to judge? For the ladies of the Summer Isles are adept in the ways of love, and have seduced wiser men than our young hero.

(At this, both of Sansa’s ladies giggled, and Septa Mordane cleared her throat angrily, ready to interrupt. But Sansa, who looked as enchanted as Arya by the tale, told her to hush.)

At last, the two young lovers remembered their duties, and flew off back to Qarth. Arrelion met with his father and sister, who was overjoyed to see that he was still alive; and Arrelion was overjoyed to see that his sister had not been married to the shadowbinder. It was thus revealed to him that the magician had been locked away, sentenced to death if the prince’s son did not return in the space of three fortnights. Arrelion felt very much relieved to hear this, and his guilt for tarrying with his new ladylove lessened.

He informed his father about the beauteous Jhananaya, and the prince, who was very particular about etiquette in the way of all Qartheen, bid him to take the lady to his country house, where she might be prepared for their introduction, and the so-called ceremony of the Seven Jewels and the Seven Flowers. The betrothed is presented a ruby, a sapphire, an emerald, a topaz, an amethyst, a tourmaline and a moonstone; and the betrothed then offers the flowers, whose colors match the jewels. It is an ancient ceremony and very particular in the way it is carried out.

Arrelion went to Jhananaya and described his father’s wishes. When he was done, she shook her head. “You Qartheen and your etiquette,” she said. But she agreed to go along with it, as she wished to honor the customs of her future husband’s homeland.

Meanwhile, the shadowbinder, who had been released from prison following Arrelion’s return, burned with rage at his treatment. The prince had told him to begone with his mechanical horse, but the shadowbinder was a proud man. Not only had he been robbed of the prince’s daughter, but here came that insolent young pup, feted and praised, with a beautiful princess of his own. The shadowbinder vowed revenge.

And he knew how to get it too. Doffing his mask, which revealed a perfectly unremarkable face, the shadowbinder put on servant’s livery and took himself to the country house, where he pretended to be Arrelion’s servant, ready to take Jhananya to his master, back via the ebony horse. The princess was usually a careful soul, but she was so unused to Qartheen ways, she thought this “servant” was telling the truth. And she did not know the horse was no longer in Arrelion’s possession. So she mounted the horse behind the sorcerer, who touched the screw lightly, and the horse sprang up like a bird into the sky.

Poor Arrelion! He was approaching the country house when he saw the shadowbinder leap into the clouds with his ladylove. He cried out, but it was too late. They were gone.

The shadowbinder, who gripped Jhananaya with unnatural, sorcerous strength, flew west until they reached Slaver’s Bay, and landed in a birchwood forest near the Yellow City of Yunkai. Feeling quite hungry, he left Jhananaya by a shady stream, so he might fetch food.

The princess was feeling faint, but she knew it was her best chance to escape. She fled through the woods until she found a road. But even though she was fleet of foot, it did not matter. The shadowbinder came after her upon the ebony horse, cursing at her until he landed before her, brandishing a blade.

“Come here, princess,” he said. “Don’t you think it is better to be my wife, than sacrificed to the Old Ones? I will show you the Shadow Lands, from Asshai to Stygai in the Vale of Shadows, where you will live as a Queen.”

“Better to die in the sunlight than live as the queen of shadows,” cried Jhananaya, and as she threw dirt in his face, she screamed.

(Arya was especially enthralled with this part; Liana noted how she bit her lip and clenched her fists.)

Luck was with her, for one of the Wise Masters of Yunkai was travelling nearby. Hearing a woman’s scream he made speed towards them, and demanded, as he stroked his curled and scented beard, what was going on.

“She is my wife,” said the shadowbinder, “and I thank you for not interfering in what is a personal matter.”

“My lord,” cried Jhananaya, “I beg of you, take pity on me! I am a princess of the Summer Isles, kidnapped by this foul bloodmage who means to take me back to the Lands Beyond the Shadow. He used this enchanted horse to thus abduct me, and to bear me thence. My lord, I beg your protection from this man who will sacrifice me to the Old Ones if I do not become his wife!”

So moved was he by the beautiful woman’s pleas, and by her pride and bearing—as well as by the remarkable ebony horse that he saw-- that the Wise Master believed her instantly, and bid his slaves to strike off the shadowbinder’s head. He then commanded a horse to be made ready for her, and had her escorted back to his palace in Yunkai, where a lavish apartment and slave women were made available for her. Without giving her even time to thank him, he told her that she might be able to tell the story of her adventures on the morrow.

At first, Jhananaya, in her exhaustion, fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. The next days, she was fed and dressed in jewels and silks, and she was taken to see the Wise Master. He inquired after her health, and as she proceeded to thank him for his help, ready to ask to be returned to her true love in Qarth, her voice was drowned out by clamorous music in the city square, a clanging of cymbals, sistra, trumpets and drums.

“What can be the meaning of such noise?” the princess asked, and was informed:

“Why, it is part of my announcement to the public that you shall be my wife. And as a wedding gift to the populace of Yunkai, I shall fill the fighting pits with fighters for the citizenry’s amusement! Gladiators versus gladiators! Beasts against beasts! Beasts against gladiators, and gladiators against beasts! Every possible combination that you can imagine, with the greatest amount of blood. It shall be a glorious day.”

Overwhelmed with horror, the redoubtable Jhananaya at last fainted. The slave women attended to her, fluttering, pressing verbena oil to her temples and neck; and as the princess woke, she assessed the situation, determined to not go through this mummer’s farce of a marriage. Fluttering her hands, making strange gestures, and speaking in nonsense, she did her best to pretend to be utterly mad.

The Wise Master responded by sending all manner of physicians to her, from Norvosi priests to Qartheen warlocks to Lhazarene healers; and since she knew perfectly well that she was not mad, and her normal pulse would reveal to any amateur physic that she was sane. So she fended them off with increasing paroxysms of rage and madness, cursing, snarling, and lashing out like a tiger with her claws, so none could go near her. And all over Slaver’s Bay, and beyond, the stories grew of the beautiful and wise Summer Islander princess, betrothed to one of the Wise Masters of Yunkai, who was stricken with a feverish madness that passed all understanding.

Arrelion, who was determined to rescue his love even if it meant his life, had left Qarth some time ago, and had travelled from city to city along the coast of the Summer Sea until he had reached the lands of Ghiscar, when he finally heard news of Jhananaya. More determined than ever, he made his way to Yunkai.

First, he stopped at an inn outside the city, and gained the full particulars of the case. Once fully apprised of the situation, he was able to devise a plan.

Arrelion—who was pale the way most Qartheen are—was determined to disguise himself completely. He would not even look like a man of the glorious city of Qarth. He would look as completely different as possible; he would look like a Westerosi maester.

(At this, Sansa and Arya stirred, muffling their giggles.)

Now Arrelion (said Liana) had some experience with the Westerosi, as he had one maester as a tutor in his boyhood. Also, as one of the Milk Men, he was pale enough to pass as a westerner, too. He obtained a robe which he made to look like a maester’s robe, and he had a smith forge a chain too. He had also grown a long beard on his travels, so his disguise was complete.

He had no trouble obtaining an audience with the Wise Master, who was flattered one of the wise maesters of the Citadel would travel so far to help him. One of the Master’s slaves then escorted him to a room with a secret view of the princess’s apartment, where he could observe the princess in privacy.

Poor Jhananaya! How exhausting it was to pretend to be mad. At that moment, she allowed herself to weep, and sing a song lamenting her lonely fate, and how far she was from the man she loved. At the sight of his beloved’s misery, Arrelion’s heart beat fast, and he wept too; and he knew that the princess was not actually mad, but she had only contrived to appear so to fend off the Wise Master.

(Liana noted this part especially affected Sansa. Her hand flew to her breast; her eyes even welled up with tears.)

Leaving the hiding space quietly (Liana said), he returned to the would-be bridegroom, informing him that it was his professional opinion that the princess could be cured; but he must see and talk to her alone.

Eager to see his pretty princess’s sanity restored, the Wise Master quickly agreed. Arrelion was escorted into the princess’s apartment, and left alone.

At first, Jhananaya, wroth to see yet another physician, jumped up from the couch, hurling curses and insults upon the newcomer’s head. But Arrelion, unflustered, calmly approached her couch and bent the knee.

“Princess,” he said to her, so softly that only she could hear, “I think you know who I am.”

Jhananaya’s face crumpled. “Arrelion,” she said, barely breathing, “is that you?”

He nodded, and she wept. “I have come to set you free,” he whispered. He then told her of his despair to see her vanish, and his travels around the world to discover and free her. “You must tell me what happened, and what you know of the Wise Master, so we may devise a plan to outwit him.”

Their heads together, she told him how the Wise Master, so used, apparently, to owning slaves, that he would not even think of asking her consent to the marriage; and she told her lover everything she knew about the would-be bridegroom too. Arrelion began to formulate a plan.

The first step was for Jhananaya, the next morning, to dress in her finery and to be as genteel and civil to the Wise Master as possible. The Wise Master was delighted to receive her in such a fashion, and exhorted her to follow the advice of the wise maester of the Citadel in all respects. Without even waiting for her reply, he rushed away, to meet with the alleged maester as to the next step in her cure.  

Arrelion then began an interview with the Wise Master, carefully asking why a princess of the Summer Isles ended up in Yunkai to begin with. Eager to explain things, the Wise Master told him of how he rescued the princess from a wicked shadowbinder from Asshai. The shadowbinder had an enchanted horse of some type, but for the time being it was being kept in his vault of treasures. Arellion ascertained that the Wise Master was ignorant as to the exact nature of the horse, or how it might be used, a fact which would be very useful.

“Sire,” said the false maester, “I have given some thought to what illness has afflicted the princess, and now I know. The princess travelled here on an enchanted horse, created with the foulest bloodmagic of the Shadow Lands. The breath of this foul magic thus has sickened her, and must be expelled by the use of certain perfumes whose secret only I possess. If it pleases you, sire, and if you wish to give the people of Yunkai the greatest spectacle they have ever seen, command that the horse be brought into the square before the great pyramid of Qaggaz. Leave the rest to me. And in order to make the spectacle as splendid as possible, allow me to suggest that she may be robed in a tokar of gold and draped in the most priceless jewels of Yunkai.”

The Wise Master quickly assented.

And so, the next day, the horse was brought forth from the vault, and everything was prepared in the manner specified by Arrelion. The word spread throughout the Yellow City, and soon the square was packed with gawking onlookers, both free and slave, eager to see the marvels, until guards were called out to keep the peace, and to make way for the ebony horse.

When everything was prepared, the Wise Master took his place on a wooden dais at the foot of the pyramid, along with all the other Wise Masters and sundry hangers-on, with the banner of a harpy flying behind them, in the Yunkish fashion. Then Jhananaya arrived, accompanied by the Wise Master’s most beautiful slave women, and dressed in the stipulated finery and the most glorious gems ever seen.

The slave women helped Jhananaya mount the enchanted horse, and although she scarcely needed their help, she allowed them to do so, for the sake of the spectacle. Once she was secure, with bridle in hand, Arrelion placed three braziers stuffed with hot coals around the horse and the lady. He tossed various rare and fragrant perfumes onto the coals; then he lowered his eyes, crossed his hands upon his chest, and circled three times clockwise about the horse, muttering certain words.

(“What did he mutter?” asked Arya. To which Liana replied, “I think it was along the lines of “rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb, strawberry jam, rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb, strawberry jam.” Arya burst into gales of laughter at this, but was quickly silenced by Sansa, Beth and Jeyne.)

So (continued Liana) the braziers sizzled until there arose huge white clouds of scented smoke, which almost concealed the horse and the princess. This was the moment Arrelion had been waiting for. As light as a feather, he sprang behind his beloved Jhananaya, leaned forward, touched the screw, and was off, soaring into the clouds. But before they were out of sight, he shouted down to the Wise Master, who gawked at them with the rest of his brethren:

“Fare thee well, Wise Master of Yunkai—let that be a lesson to you-- when you wish to marry a lady, first gain her consent.”

And so Arrelion and Jhananaya returned to Qarth, where they married and lived the rest of their days, tasting all the joys and pleasures of life, until there came to them the Destroyer of Delights and the Sunderer of Societies, and the Shatterer of Palaces and the Caterer for Cemeteries; they drank from the Cup of Death, as do we all, and glory be to the Great Lord who never dies!

                                                                                                                     * * *

“And thus, my ladies,” finished Liana, quite breathless, “my tale is finished.”

Sansa leapt up, applauding, her face flushed. “My goodness! That was wonderful. Magnificent! Mistress Pyke, I have never heard the like. What a talent you have!”

Arya and the other girls jumped up as well. “Seven hells,” Arya said, her face writ with awe, as if she couldn’t believe she enjoyed it that much. “That was good!”

“Arya,” said Septa Mordane. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve you a thousand times. There’s no need for a lady to swear.” But then she paused, her face softening a little. “The story was quite nice though. Though I am not familiar with… the more outlandish styles of Essosi storytelling.”

“I liked it,” said Sansa firmly, and that was that. “Mistress Pyke, you must tell another!”

Liana stood and stretched.

“My dear lady Sansa, I shall. But not right now. Storytelling is tiring work. Perhaps, after dinner tomorrow…?”

Sansa clapped, all eagerness. “That sounds wonderful. I’ll get Robb and Bran and Rickon and Jon and… Theon,” she added, a beat too slow, a telltale flush staining her cheeks. “It will be quite wonderful. Don’t you think so, Septa?”

“I think it shall be a pleasant way of wiling away an evening,” said the Septa serenely, her attention returning to her embroidery. “Though I must warn you, Mistress Pyke,” she added, “if you are to tell such stories to the younger members of the household, you must keep it within the bounds of propriety, or Lady Stark will not be pleased.”

“Yes, Septa Mordane,” murmured Liana.

Sansa rolled her eyes a little; then she shot Liana a small, mischievous smile, as if she were already thinking of ways to circumvent her septa’s notions of propriety, at least in regards to storytelling.

Well, Liana thought. This shall be very interesting indeed.

And her meeting with Theon was coming up tonight, a thought which filled her with both fascination and dread.

She wondered how much she would tell him about her day.

And how much she should.

Chapter Text

Dinner in the Great Hall was truly a fascinating occasion, especially from a historical perspective, but Liana was too tired and her nerves were too fraught to enjoy it.

Lord and Lady Stark, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Theon and rest were seated at the great table in front of the hearth; meanwhile, Liana was seated at the next closest table, with the upper sort of servants, next to Septa Mordane herself, who seemed as uncomfortable with Liana as Liana was with her.

Lady Stark gave her a nod as she was seated, with the baked-in arrogance all aristos of this period seemed to possess. Liana nodded back. She’d been honored by being allowed to eat with the Starks for breakfast and nuncheon; clearly, the winds had changed. Yet it was no small thing to be placed with Maester Luwin, Septa Mordane and the others. A sign of respect, but also another sign of being put in her place.

She sighed.

The food was plentiful, at least, even though it wasn’t exactly to Liana’s taste. But she ate it anyway, glad she’d had all her shots and vaccinations, trying not to think of how it was prepared in the no doubt unsanitary kitchens of Winterfell. There was venison and mushroom pie, roasted mutton and buttered turnips served on trenchers of stale bread, as opposed to the enameled stoneware plates that the nobles dined upon. The fire roared in the great hearth; candles flickered everywhere on the vast trestle tables; minstrels played a few lively gigs on rather reedy sounding citterns, lutes and fiddles, while men tossed bones and bits of gristle to growling dogs roaming around the scented rushes that covered the flagstones; and serving wenches bustled about, delivering the various courses and touting pitchers of ale and mead for the rowdier servants at the lower tables, while she and the upper servants were given a thin red wine to drink. A Riverlands red? Probably. (They didn’t have vineyards above the Neck this early in history.) Probably the Starks had a Dornish vintage to drink instead.

Part of her was fascinated by it all, the scene of grandeur from the Golden Age of Winterfell, right before the fall. Even the odors of beeswax, smoking tallow, roasted meat, unwashed human and dog was beginning to seem less noxious to her.

It’s so easy for humans to adapt, Liana thought. Mankind is infinitely pliable. Yesterday morning I thought my biggest trouble was running out of gas outside Cerwynvale. Well, guess what…

Laughter echoed around her, but the only person who talked to her was the Septa, probably more out of a sense of lady-like duty than any general good will. It wasn’t too bad, though. They chatted about the food, about what people ate in the North, versus what people ate in the Riverlands, versus what people ate in Oldtown and Qarth. So the Septa loved food. And wine, she noted as Mordane put away cup after cup.

Out of the corner of her eye, Liana saw Theon glance at her, his eyes hooded. He smirked.

It was so strange. She recognized that smirk. It wasn’t the “hey foxy lady” smirk of earlier, in the courtyard; it was the weary, lopsided “can you believe this shit” smirk that was almost a patented Pyke family expression, seen in countless photos between her father, Aunt Jenny, and her late uncle Junior.

Without missing a beat, she smirked back. When Septa Mordane turned to stare at her, she transformed her smirk to a brilliant smile, raising her goblet of wine.

A strange thought came to her. Could she and Theon be related?

It wasn’t too strange, given how the Greyjoys got around. No doubt the thought had occurred to Theon too. He did implicitly call her a kraken. Shit. That was pretty flattering, but if he thought she was a Greyjoy agent… or God help her, some sort of bastard cousin…

That made her position here much more precarious.

But she wasn’t a Greyjoy agent. Someone sent by Theon’s dad or… uncle?... would have a letter to show who she was. She had neither. Not that Theon knew that. But she felt sorry for him, stuck here among the wolves as a glorified prisoner of war. Had he heard anything from his family, or did he live in a bubble? Did he know his dad hated his guts? Did he know anything about his mom?

Hell, did he know anything at all?

She needed allies. She needed friends. Someday Theon would be Theon the Forsaken, and a hero, but right now he was only an irritating teenage fuckboy. Yet despite his faults he had some connection to him because of their shared homeland, and it would be to her advantage to cultivate a friendship with him. She had no idea how long before she was stuck here before Uncle or Brenn came after her. She had to make sure that she wasn’t alone and friendless in this strange new world.

But if they didn’t come…

She shivered. She wasn’t going to think of that.

Yet.

                                                                                                                                          * * *               

As Theon suggested, Liana went back to her rooms, and then took a roundabout route to the glass gardens—the Ice Age version of the hothouse-- which she had scouted out earlier. For a teenage fuckboy, he seemed pretty handy at this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but maybe that was second nature to aristos of this time period.

There were two routes to the glass gardens; the godswood, which looked to be incredibly dark and creepy at night, and another route, indoors, through the walled corridors and galleries that ringed the castle’s outer perimeter. Liana chose the indoor route, as the main way to the godswood was through the courtyard, and as someone who had no allegiance whatsoever to the old gods of the North, she figured she’d look incredibly conspicuous to the dozens of servants working in that area.

No one seemed to notice her, though. Whenever you don’t belong, Dad always said, just keep your head high and pretend you do. Usually nobody notices. That was exactly what she did, and once again, he was right.

As her hand rested on the latch of the hothouse door, her stomach twisted. Would she ever see her father again? Would she disappear in the mists of history, leaving her family to wonder what happened to her?

No, Liana thought with a sudden jolt of determination. I’m coming back. Even if I have to go to Volantis to find a red priest or a bloodmage, I swear by the Lord of Light and the Lady of Lotuses that I will go home.

The door swung open, releasing a blast of humid summer heat into the crisp cold air. Liana, breathing in the dense fragrance of herbs and lemons, marched in.

It was like walking into the Reach at summer solstice, she thought, gazing around at the riot of blue roses, Myrish cucumbers, rows of butterhead lettuce, and delicate sprays of rosy maidenhair, along with rows of practical herbs like chives, dill, mint, sage and rosemary. Cultivated lemon trees grew in ceramic pots, the leaves glossy and dark, the fruit hanging among the branches like little golden suns. It wasn’t like a modern greenhouse, where all the walls were glass; only the gabled roof was made of glass panes, all mullioned and bubbly and thick; but it was effective and unexpectedly beautiful. Liana gaped.

“It’s like you’ve never seen a glass garden before,” a sardonic voice said, and Liana jumped. A pair of uptilted grey-green-blue eyes looked at her through a stand of ferns.

“Lord Theon,” she exclaimed, embarrassed, and made her way around the tiny path to where he sat, on a bench. She wiped her hands on her gown, suddenly nervous.

“Were you expecting to meet someone else here?” Theon Greyjoy drawled, leaning back and smirking. Of course. Would she have expected him to act in any other way?

“Of course not,” said Liana, trying her best to keep her composure. “My lord, you are my Number One Choice for a rendezvous at this here hothouse… garden… place… thing.” Okay, that was awkward. “Good evening.”

He looked puzzled for a moment, but then he was back on his game. “It is a good evening, now that you’re here.”

Good grief, thought Liana. Does he practice those pick-up lines in front of the mirror?  She pictured him slicking his hair back, and doing finger guns at his reflection, like some preppy guy in an ‘80s movie.

“That’s cool,” she said.

Clearly not expecting that response, Theon blinked and then gave an awkward chuckle. This was seriously giving her junior prom flashbacks. And she hated high school.

“Okay,” said Liana. Let’s cut through the crap and do this. “Thanks for meeting me here, Lord Theon. Just to let you know, I did as you suggested and went back to my room first. Then I went through the halls and made sure I wasn’t followed. Best to be careful, you know. Anyway,” she continued without giving him time to respond, “I’m sure you want to know what happened with Lady Stark this afternoon.”

“Ah,” he said, scratching his head. “I was wondering…”

“So, my lord, let me tell you what happened,” she said, and she proceeded to narrate what happened that afternoon. She even included her discussion with Lord and Lady Stark about malignite, though she condensed it as much as possible so he wouldn’t get a headache like Lady Stark.

When she was done, Theon had gone owl-eyed. He swallowed.

“So,” he said hoarsely. “You did manage to fend off Lady Stark, which is impressive. But your uncle is studying… if I am understanding this correctly… the black stone of the Seastone Chair?”

“He isn’t studying the Chair per se,” Liana said. “He’s studying the stone of the Chair.”

Theon’s eyes narrowed.

“I know, Mistress,” he said coldly. “I understood your meaning. I’m not stupid.”

She flinched.

“I’m sorry,” she said, contrite. “I’m an enormous pedant, Lord Theon. It’s an awful habit, and I understand it is extremely annoying. Please forgive me.”

His eyebrows quirked. He seemed somewhat mollified. “Just this once,” he said, raising his chin haughtily. “But no more, Mistress Pyke, or I won’t be quite so forgiving next time.”

She mimicked his expression. “Is that so?” she asked. “What will you do?”

He grinned. “What do you want me to do?”

And this was exactly where she didn’t want the conversation to go. She twisted her hands in her lap, not meeting his eyes.

Once again, there was an awkward silence.

“You’re a strange woman, Mistress Pyke.” Theon stared at her, as if that very act would somehow allow him to plumb all her secrets. “Why are you seeking me out?” He swallowed. “Did my father send you?”

And there was that Ironish bluntness again, unchanged throughout the centuries. If this was Qarth, it would take two hours over tea to cover the same territory.

“No,” Liana said.

A flash of disappointment crossed his face, before his mouth tightened. “Then who?”

“No one.”

“I can’t believe that,” he blurted out. “You’re from Qarth. You’re studying the black stone. Did—”

Theon cut himself off, obscure horror lighting his eyes, before looked away, his fists tightening. “When were you last in Qarth?” he said, glancing back at her. His eyes had darkened, and his wide mouth had narrowed to a thin line.

He thinks an enemy might have sent me, she realized, and then she thought, a blast of realization overcoming her: Oh fuck.

Euron Greyjoy. His mad uncle. He’s been to Qarth. He’s studied necromancy and bloodmagic. And they say he worshipped the Old Ones. Oh, Lady.

“I left four years ago, when my mother died,” said Liana. “My father came and brought me back to Westeros. I lived in Lordsport for a time, with my Aunt Jenny, before I moved to Oldtown… to be with Uncle Xandros.” She smiled wryly. “He thought I could be more properly launched into society in Oldtown, then back in the Islands.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, of course, but close enough, and something that he would understand. She could hardly imagine explaining universities to him, or pass herself as a Maester as the Citadel. The fucking Citadel was as misogynistic as everything else in the Age of Sagas.

Theon laughed. “Launched? Are you a ship? Bloody greenlanders.”

He relaxed. No doubt this did not seem to be the response that one of Euron Greyjoy’s creatures would give him. “So you’ve been in Pyke lately.”

“I was there six months ago,” she said. “For my aunt’s name-day.”

“What is your aunt’s name?”

“Jenyfer Pyke. She runs a bar… I mean a tavern… called the Laughing Squid.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Now you are from the Islands! That’s a good name, it is.”

“It amuses my aunt.” And the tourists who drank there. Liana pictured her aunt—with her sun-streaked blond hair and tan, her shell necklace and wetsuit, and how she would surf the Pipeline off Great Wyk, effortlessly "riding the barrel" in one of the magnificent tube riding maneuvers that got her first place three years in a row in the South Westria All Regional Surf Championship. Though she couldn’t imagine telling Theon any of this.

“It amuses me,” said Theon, as if that was all that mattered. “I shall stop and have an ale at your aunt’s tavern when I return to Pyke, after my Lord Father calls me back to his side.”

Yeah, and maybe you can pick up a t-shirt while you’re there, Liana thought, but knew better than to say so, though she had to bite her tongue not to say it.  

“If you’ve lived in Pyke, then surely… you must have news of my father,” Theon continued.

“I, um…” It was her turn to swallow. Everything she’d heard about Balon Greyjoy made him sound like a grim, narcissistic asshole who loved to wallow in misery, and who had no time for his children unless they somehow managed to expand the empire that only existed in his mind. “I have to be honest, my lord. I’ve never met him. He doesn’t get out much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just that. I don’t know if he’s sick, or if he just… doesn’t like people? I don’t know. I’m sorry, my lord.”

Theon averted his eyes. “I haven’t heard from him since I left Pyke,” he murmured, half to himself, his eyes hazy and unfocused. Somehow he seemed lost, adrift, a man trapped in a rudderless boat with a broken mast, powerless to do anything against either sharks or the waterspout in the distance. “Not even a raven. I… never mind.” He sat up, suddenly remembering his pride, glancing at her sharply. “He’ll send for me soon enough.”

Sure he will, she thought, fighting off the urge to take his hand. Then he’ll use you up and discard you the way he did his other kids. The way Grandpa did to Dad and Aunt Jenny and Junior too.

“My lord,” said. “I have met one member of your family though.”

He stared. “Who? Yara?”

“No,” said Liana. “Your mother.”

This wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. But one of the highlights of the collection at the Ten Towers was a letter from Alannys Harlaw Greyjoy to her husband, begging him to let her visit her son in Winterfell. The letter was never sent; it fell under a crack in the pavement, until some Harlaw descendant discovered it and gave it pride of place in the library.

Liana had read it. The scrawl was barely readable, and the parchment was covered with ink dots turned into bizarre doodles of ships or seals or whatnot. But the sentiment was powerful. The woman begged her husband, so neglectful, so cold, to respond, please, to her request to let her visit her only living son. At the time the letter was written, Theon would have to have been sixteen or so; but Lady Alannys still thought he was a child of eight, the same age as when he had been taken hostage by the Starks, after his father’s failed rebellion. She wanted to bring him his favorite toys, she still had the toy longship he’d left behind the great chest when he was taken from her (did my lord pray remember it, it was the one with the linen sail emblazoned with the gold kraken on black), and she wished to bring it back to him, since he’d loved it so. She missed him so much, please, would he allow her this small trifle, she would not bow to the Starks, she would remember she was once Queen of the Iron Islands, she would stand tall before the wolves… please, please, my lord, she just wanted to see him, her boy, her child, one last time.

The letter ended: “Please, my lord husband, allow me this one last thing, this one tiny thing, and I shall never trouble you again. Let me die and go into the deep, knowing my boy is well.”

She blinked back tears, as Theon looked at her uneasily. She guessed these were the last words he expected to hear.

“You’ve met my mother?”

“Yes. Briefly.” She chose her words with care. “I was at Harlaw… your uncle, Lord Rodrik, was not in residence at the Towers, but I was allowed by his steward Three-Tooth to see his library, for a limited time. Your uncle has a great collection of Ironborn history books which I find to be quite fascinating.

“When I left, I passed by Lady Alannys. I think… she is not often out of her rooms, my lord. She asked me if I had seen you, and how you were doing. She said that she wanted to bring you the toy longship left behind when the Starks took you. She said it was the one with the linen sail emblazoned with the gold kraken on black. She said you’d left it behind the great chest before you were taken away. She said you’d loved it so.”

Theon froze. There was a long moment, where he scarcely seemed to breathe.

“You saw my mother,” he rasped. “I have not— have not…” His voice trailed off. His face twisted, and his eyes shone with tears.

Clearly trying to gather himself together, he took a deep, rattling breath. “Why is she at Harlaw, Mistress Pyke? Why is she not at Pyke with my father?”

“My lord, they’ve separated.”

“Separated?”

“I don’t know, my lord, I can only guess.”

He took her hand, his fingers digging into hers. His gaze grew even more intense. “Mistress Pyke, I must know.”

“Well…” She fidgeted. “I would wager their separation happened because of what happened to you. And her declining health.”

“She did not look well?”

“No, my lord. I’m sorry. She was thin and pale, and she did not look as if she slept well. I did not have much of a chance to talk to her—Three-Tooth came and took her away. Again, my lord, I am very sorry.”

Theon took a deep breath.

“You should not be sorry.” He spoke with difficulty. “I understand this is not easy news to deliver. But you have been a great boon, Mistress Pyke, by giving me news of my mother.”

“I wish I could be more of a help,” Liana said.

His face spasming with some unnamed emotion, he stared at a potted lemon tree, and she wondered what he saw instead. The seas off the island of Pyke? His father’s castle? No, probably the last time he saw his mother, when he was ripped away from her arms by armed soldiers at the age of eight, and taken to live with strangers in the dark forests of the North, hundreds of miles from the sea.

The minutes passed as they sat together, in something of a silent companionship. He seemed to have forgotten that he held her hand.

She stared at the long fingers holding hers. For once, he wasn’t wearing gloves. He had aristocratic hands, with deft, tapering fingers, uncalloused and with square-cut nails. Wouldn’t the Boltons prune some of those pretty fingers off? She didn’t know. Even the Song of the Starks was not conclusive on that particular matter. Whatever happened, it seemed very far away from this greenhouse, among the ferns and herbs and lemon trees, amidst the moisture and heat.

She stared at the pensive profile, with its sharp nose, wide mouth, and knobby chin. It was so strange. So intimate. Well, she was looking for a friend. Though Theon Greyjoy made for a very odd sort of friend.

“No, Mistress. You have been a great help indeed,” he said at last.

“I am glad to hear it.”

He smiled a little, the pensiveness melting away. “Good.”

Liana smiled back at him. “Perhaps some day I shall see you at the Laughing Squid. Though chances are I shall be living in Oldtown.”

“In the Reach,” he said scornfully. “Among the Southrons and their gilded ways.”

“It’s not so bad,” she said. She wiped the sweat from her brow. It was quite warm here in the glass gardens, especially with her multiple layers of wool. She could feel the sweat trickling under her breasts. Wasn’t Theon sweating too, under his doublet and jerkin? Compared to the men of her time, he had a strong smell, but it wasn’t unpleasant. God knows, she probably smelled too. It’s not like she’d a chance to take a shower or use deodorant over the past twenty-four hours. “There’s plenty to do.”

He raised an eyebrow, flirtatious again. “And there’s not enough to do in Pyke?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be turned into some ridiculous innuendo. She stayed silent.

“I never thought I would see you speechless,” he said, lightly, teasingly. “Mistress Pyke, you are so clever with words and your tongue.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve said about me, my lord,” Liana said, and she bit her lip in annoyance. Why was it so easy to flirt back with him? He was seventeen years old. He was a kid. What was wrong with her?

“Oh, I think I could say a lot of nice things about you,” Theon said. “If you give me the chance.”

“My lord?”

Theon smiled at her, wrapping his other hand around her waist. He pulled her towards him.

“Mistress Pyke,” he murmured, “I don’t doubt your loyalty to me. Come with me—be my salt wife. I shall take you back to Pyke and keep you in proper style.”

“Proper style?” she echoed, aghast.

He nodded. “I’ll have a rock wife, eventually, but I’ll honor you as well.” He grinned. “We shall have many sons. We Greyjoys are known for that.”

Liana’s head spun. Was this… a proposal of sorts? Good fucking God. “Lord Theon—”

“Theon,” he said huskily. “If I may call you Liana.”

Liana froze, staring at the adolescent prince with something very much like horror.

She couldn’t think. She couldn’t speak. In one mad, storm-tossed moment, she barely knew which way was up. Of course, the thought did cross her mind that she could just accept—and fuck him, and to hell with everything else. It would be fun, right? Wouldn’t he be a good lay?

After all, he was a kid, but he had a nice body, and those pretty eyes, and that musky smell, and she could feel all those little pheromones setting her nerve endings on fire…

But another part of her, the sensible part, wanted to scream and scream and scream. No. No. He was seventeen, for fuck’s sake, and he was known to make incredibly stupid decisions, and what if she got pregnant or an STD or…

What would Brenn think?

Brenn. Oh God, Brenn.

She thought of his gentle eyes, his long face, his tall, lanky build and easy, goofy laugh. She’d so enjoyed their trip up north together and their camaraderie. She thought of their fumbling, shy flirtation over the past week or so, and she flushed. What if she was rescued? What if she did see him again? How could she ever look him in the eye again if she’d fucked Theon Greyjoy?

She set her jaw. She took a deep breath.

“Lord Theon, you do me a great honor with your proposal.”

He smirked. “Yes, I…” Then he looked into her face and frowned. “What is it?”

“I can’t accept.”

“Why?” he snapped. A hurt look flashed across his face. “I thought you liked me.”

“I do!” she exclaimed. “I like you a lot. I just… I can’t.”

“Why not?” he retorted. “I am an prince of the Iron Islands. I am a Greyjoy! Your father is a Pyke—the son of a bastard. Your aunt is an innkeeper.” He spat that out, sneering. All wounded pride, he removed his hands and pulled away. “I not only saved your life, but I do you a great honor, Mistress Pyke.”

“You have done me a very great honor indeed,” Liana said, extending her hands, speaking as soothingly as she could. “My father is of low birth, as you have seen. But my mother comes from a great house of Qarth—she married beneath her, and this is something my uncle still regrets. He has fed me and clothed me and educated me, and he has plans for me to make a good marriage. I cannot betray the trust he has placed in me. He’s been good to me, my prince. I must remain honest and virtuous, for his sake.”

Theon stood. He glared at her. “That Southron Fossoway. That apple knight. Is he the man your uncle wishes you to marry?”

Liana looked away, blushing. Theon scowled.

“It is. I thought so. You—the daughter of an Ironborn captain—married to some weakling apple-loving greenlander!”

She wanted to jump in and defend Brenn. But no. She couldn’t alienate Theon more than she had already. By the Lotus, these men and their touchy pride!

But she had one card left to play. Her ace in the hole.

“My lord,” she said, “I beg of you, please be sensible. What would Lady Sansa think if she knew that you took me, a guest bound to her by bread and salt, as your lover? Wouldn’t she be upset?”

Theon scowled. “Why in the seven hells should Sansa Stark care what I do?”

Liana raised an eyebrow. “Why should she?”

He gazed at her. His expression shifted. Light dawns over Marblehead, Liana thought. “Wait. Are you saying—”

“Every time your name has come up over the past day, she has blushed like a rose,” Liana said. “And that has been exactly five times. I’ve counted.”

She held up one hand. “First of all, over breakfast. I asked for your whereabouts, and she blushed deeply and said she had no idea what you could be up to. Secondly, over lunch, I asked if you cared for food much, and she turned bright red. I thought she might fall out of her chair—”

Theon started. Then he barked with laughter. He doubled over, collapsing on the bench, wheezing.

“My lord?” Liana asked.

It was another minute until he could speak. His face had turned a mottled red, and he was guffawing in the most unprincely way imaginable.

“It was her!” he sputtered. “Drowned God, she saw us!”

“Who?” Liana asked. “Who’s us?”

“I brought this whore in from Winter Town,” Theon said. “Ros. Gorgeous. Red hair. Very, very talented.” He gave her a lopsided smirk. “Well, to show my appreciation, I decide to… show Ros a good time myself. With my mouth. Down there.”

It wasn’t as if Liana had never heard anything like this before, in her life back in the future, but she was supposed to be a lady. And this was very inappropriate for someone of her supposed station. Jessa and Septa Mordane would be horrified. She blushed, covering her face with her sleeves.

“Should I stop?” Theon asked, amused.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Liana said, her voice muffled. “Go on.”

“Well, while I was… at it… I hard a certain squeak. At first I thought it was a mouse. But after I was done, Ros tells me that she thinks she saw someone watching us. Who, I ask? But she doesn’t know. All she saw was a flash of red hair.” He laughed again. “I thought it might have been one of the kitchen scullions. But Lady Sansa herself! By the gods!”

“That would explain it,” Liana said, lowering her sleeves. “But she did blush a lot, my lord. I think she has a certain…fondness for you.”

He looked confounded. “What makes you think that?”

“She has been very consistent about blushing whenever your name is mentioned, under any circumstance,” Liana said. “I’ve been a thirteen year old girl, my lord, and I would never do that if it was for someone I cared nothing for.”

A flash of hope brightened his eyes; then they dimmed.

“Lady Stark guards her like a jewel,” Theon muttered. “She’s the Starks’ pride and joy. She’s to be married off to a Martell. A Tyrell. Or a Lannister,” he spat. “Or Prince Joffrey himself.”

Liana leaned towards him. She lowered her voice.

“But do any of them deserve her, my prince?”

Theon stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“Will any of them make her happy?” Liana asked.

“In a match between great houses, does happiness matter?” he asked bitterly.

“Your house is a great house,” she said. She lowered her voice even further. “Just imagine what your mother would think, if she saw Sansa Stark brought home as a bride.”

Theon swiveled around, his grey-green-blue eyes wild, desperate.

“Do you mean it?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Do you think Lord Stark would…”

“Observe her first,” said Liana. “Woo her, my lord, and win her heart, and maybe you can win Lord Stark’s blessing.”

Theon nodded, his eyes still wild, distracted, and without a backward glance, he tore out of the glass gardens, as if he were pursued by the demon king himself.

Liana remained in the gardens, staring at the lemon trees. She thought of Sansa and Theon as she’d seen them in operas and plays and movies and novels. The fair red-headed lady, born to be a queen; her doomed, dashing knight. Tortured, tragic, star-crossed. She’d always loved the story. She’d always wanted to see the two of them together, happy at last.

But here she was, back in the past, manipulating a fucked-up, cocky, stupid teenage boy. Someone who’d been abandoned by his father, and imprisoned by political enemies. Whose own mother had gone mad. Who had no idea what he was getting into.

And, for that matter, neither did she.

You stupid girl, she thought, overwhelmed. You stupid, stupid girl.

What have you done?

Chapter Text

The next night, after dinner, Sansa had them all meet in front of the hearth in the Great Hall. In addition to Arya, Sansa and her crew, chaperoned by Septa Mordane, all the boys were there too, including Robb, Theon, Bran, and Jon. Jon hung in the back, mopey but intrigued; Bran jumped up and down with excitement; and Robb palled around with Theon, who did his best to pretend that he was too cool for all of this, though he kept glancing at her.

Stop looking at me, dude, Liana thought. Septa Mordane has eyes. She’ll think we’re a thing, and holy shit, no.

But she sipped her mulled wine, willing the anxiety to recede. She had a story to tell.

“So, my lords and ladies, what story should I tell tonight?” Liana asked.

“Tell something new!” Arya exclaimed.

“Something with romance,” Jeyne said with a sigh. “Like Jonquil and Florian.”

“No!” Bran piped up. He was a excitable and adorable little boy, with dark blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and it depressed Liana to think he would become the doomed prophet-king, the so-called “Bran the Broken,” later assassinated by Bronn of the Blackwater, the ruthless, ambitious lord of Highgarden and the future founder of the Blackwater dynasty who ruled Westeros during the Plague Years. (A tragic and interesting bit of history, though the similarity of the names “Bran” and “Bronn” was unfortunate, especially during Western Civ exams.) “I know what I want. Something with fighting. With knights!”

“I think we should hear ‘The Enchanted Horse’ again,” Sansa proclaimed in regal tones that quelled all arguments. “It’s got romance and fighting, and I think Robb and Bran should hear it.”

Liana noted that Sansa didn’t mention Jon, who looked depressed, but used to such treatment. She also didn’t mention Theon, who peered speculatively at the redhead. He quaffed from the goblet he was holding.

“What was that you said, Sansa?” he said, flashing his best rakish smile. “I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say ‘The Enchanted Whore’? Now that’s a story I’d like to hear.”

“Lord Theon, remember your manners,” Septa Mordane snapped, as Sansa blushed a deep crimson, gazing down into her lap for a moment. The septa looked as if she were about to say more, when Sansa looked up again.

“No, Theon,” she said slowly. “That is not what I said. I said ‘The Enchanted Horse.’ Horse. Do you know what a horse is? Or have you drank so much you’ve forgotten?”

Theon gaped at her, as Sansa’s pretty lips curled back into a snarl.

“Now shut up and let Mistress Pyke tell her story.” She bit off every word for emphasis. “I don’t want any more interruptions.”

Jon let out a bark of laughter, as Arya giggled.

“Sansa,” her little sister said, “you really are a wolf!”

Sansa scowled.

“I want you to be quiet too, Arya,” she said. “Mistress Pyke,” she said, once again all gentle courtesy, “I am so sorry for all the interruptions. I am sure it is most disagreeable for an artist of your caliber. I promise you—” and her eyes swept the room, landing on Theon—“that you will not suffer any more interruptions tonight.” Or else was left unspoken.

Theon shrank, reddening, and he looked as if he wanted to crawl away and hide under the benches. Everyone else was still grinning at him, which Liana could imagine was especially mortifying for a proud (and deeply insecure) boy like that. Especially since the dressing-down came from Sansa, of all people.

Liana cleared her throat. “If I may crave your attention, good gentlefolk…”

She then once again launched into the story of Arrelion and Jhananaya. She thanked God for her job at the Ten Towers, which required telling the same stories, over and over, for a variety of audiences. (Even her time on the Lasiray High debate team back in Qarth had proved useful.) This time, as there were more boys present, she expanded on the fighting and violence. She was pleased to see that Theon, after sulking and scowling for the first half of the story, eventually perked up and started listening once the shadowbinder got into a bloody battle with the soldiers of the Wise Master and was brutally hacked to death in an added flourish. By the end he was as entranced as the rest of them, leaning in with shining eyes, though every time Robb glanced at him he made a show of being nonchalant and unimpressed.

He really is an idiot, Liana thought with something approaching affection.

At the end, she received a standing ovation, led by Sansa herself. Septa Mordane looked annoyed (no doubt she found her charge’s love of foreign storytelling excessive), but participated gamely, as Liana bowed multiple times as if she were a diva receiving a curtain call at the Oldtown Opera House.

“Now Robb,” said Sansa eagerly as she took Liana’s hand, leading her aside as if she were her pet troubadour. “Wasn’t that every bit as wonderful as I said it would be? Have you ever heard the like?”

“No, I have not,” Robb admitted. “That was quite enjoyable, Mistress Pyke. Didn’t you think so, Theon?”

Theon didn’t respond—he was too busy staring at Sansa, who, Liana thought, was in fine looks tonight, with the firelight intensifying her hair to a vibrant ruby-copper hue, her smile brilliant, and her cheeks flushed. “Theon?” Robb asked again.

Theon started, as if waking up. “Oh, right,” he said weakly. “Yes, it was… good.” He struck one of his usual poses, tucking his fingers into his waistband and smirking. “Not bad for some Essosi fairy story.”

“Not bad!” Sansa said indignantly. “It was more than ‘not bad.’ I thought it was superb. Brilliant. Awe-inspiring. The minstrels at the Red Keep could not perform more sweetly for Queen Cersei herself.”

Dear old Queen Cersei. Liana fought the urge to make a gagging noise. Theon, meeting her eyes, looked like he was about to burst out laughing.

“I think Mistress Pyke would rather be here, than anywhere near the Lannisters,” he replied.

While this was no doubt amusing (and true), Sansa’s roseleaf lips formed a small O, because this sentiment, at this point in history, with a Lannister queen, was sailing perilously close to treason. “Well,” she said, flustered. “I am sure Mistress Pyke would not be so rude to decline any royal request, were it to come. But… speaking of rudeness…”

Liana glanced back at Theon. She raised her eyebrows. Apologize, she mouthed. Theon stared back. She stared harder until he averted his eyes.

“I, uh, yes,” Theon mumbled. “I am sorry, Mistress Pyke, for being, ah…inappropriate. It comes from my Ironborn sense of humor,” he added with some defiance. “Which is always inappropriate, as you said.”

“Ah yes,” Liana said, waving her hand. “It’s no worry. I’m used to that sort of thing from my father. A bit of nautical crudeness, as it were. But thank you for the apology all the same. I’m sure it applies to Lady Sansa as well…?”

Theon glanced at Sansa, almost shyly.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry, Sansa.”

Lord, it was like pulling teeth getting that out of the boy. But Sansa glowed.

“Thank you, Theon. That’s very thoughtful of you. Now,” she added graciously in a way that made Septa Mordane beam, “it is my turn to apologize. I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely ladylike in how I responded.”

Robb grinned, looking at Theon. “Not entirely ladylike?”

Theon flushed. “It’s no matter, Sansa. Really.”

“There’s one thing that I think would really please me,” said Sansa, crossing her arms.

“What’s that?” Theon regarded her with a combination of suspicion, eagerness and fear.

“You tell us a story,” said Sansa. “Three nights from now. Something from the Iron Islands. Something with both fighting and romance. There must be something, shouldn’t there? Anyway, we’d love to hear it.”

Panic dawned in Theon’s eyes. “I don’t… think that’s a good idea.”

“Come now, Theon!” Robb said jovially, clapping the other boy on the back. “I think it’s a marvelous idea.”

“Yes, please!” said Sansa. She stepped forwards, resting her hand on Theon’s arm. She was a tall girl, already, and she gazed into Theon’s eyes. She smiled, her cheeks dimpling. “I would love to hear it. Please?”

Liana wondered if Theon prayed to the Drowned God. He was certainly staring at the younger girl as if he were drowning himself.

“Yes,” he said at last. “All right. I will.”

Sansa clapped. “Outstanding! I am looking forward to it. In three nights.” She wagged her finger at him. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Liana found the Greyjoy prince’s expression to be fascinating. He looked torn between wanting to hurl himself out the nearest window, and hurling himself at Sansa’s feet and pledging his sword.

Would any of this happened if she weren’t there to act as a catalyst? Liana wondered. Or had something of this sort always bubbled under the surface? After all, not only were they attractive, hormone-riddled teenagers, but Theon was literally the only young man of Sansa’s age and of similar rank and status in a twenty mile radius that she wasn’t related to. Liana would be surprised if there had never been any flirtatious byplay between them. But no doubt her presence had some effect. Perhaps Sansa had subconsciously switched on her game once she realized that Theon could interest a girl other than a hooker or a skivvy?

Before Robb went off with Theon, arm about his shoulder (no doubt about to hit the taverns), Theon shot her a panicked look. Liana looked at his retreating back helplessly. Unless she managed to find the time and place to coach him on how to properly tell a yarn, he probably was going to crash and burn.

Ordinarily, if this was a romance novel set during the Restoration, with hooped petticoats and carriages and fainting couches, she’d send a message through her redoubtable ladies’ maid. But while Jessa seemed like a perfectly nice girl, dollars to donuts she was one of Lady Stark’s spies.

It’s what I would do, if I were Lady Stark, Liana reasoned. I’d keep a suspicious guest outflanked by spies on every front so I’d know her every move.

Well, Theon had been here almost a decade; she supposed he was an old hand at arranging a meeting with a woman, as he had already demonstrated.

But still, she didn’t like just hanging around waiting to hear from a man. It rubbed her all wrong.

She went to lean against the hearth, frowning, when she heard feather-light feet approach her. She turned around to see Arya.

“You changed it,” Arya said. “You added more blood and guts. For the boys, right?”

“Yes,” said Liana. “I figured they’d like that sort of thing.”

“You figured right,” said Arya. She grabbed a piece of kindling from the firewood rack and tossed it into the flames.

“Did you like it?” asked Liana.

Arya smiled. “I did.” She paused. “I guess if you told it a third time, more things would change?”

“Probably,” Liana replied. She found herself staring into the flames, like a fire priestess of the old faith. “A story is a living thing, Arya. It might seem to be made of air and words, but it breathes like flesh and blood.”

“Or like fire,” said Arya.

“Exactly.”

“Theon is going to be telling a story soon, if Sansa has her way,” said Arya. “And Sansa always gets her way.”

“Does she?”

“Oh yes.” She smiled with a bitterness odd in so young a girl. “She’s very good at twisting people around her little finger.”

“That’s one kind of talent,” said Liana.

“I guess.” Arya fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable in the drab blue dress she was forced to wear. “Theon’s going to embarrass himself again if you don’t help him.”

“That seems to be the case,” Liana said dryly.

“You should help him then.”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

Arya shrugged. “He and Sansa are two peas in a pod. Always thinking they’re so grand, always peacocking around, and they’re so mean to Jon. But I don’t want to sit around and listen to him tell a terrible story.” She grimaced. “Hemming and hawing about some Ironborn nonsense. That would be painful.”

“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Liana agreed.

Arya tilted her head, fastening her sharp eyes on Liana. “I’ll let you know, then.”

“Let me know what?”

“Where to find him.” And with that, Arya darted away, leaving Liana once again in contemplation of the flames.

                                                                                                        * * *

The next day, after nuncheon, Arya whispered for her to go to the godswood. With a slight nod, Liana did so, keeping her head high and looking as if she had every right to go there.

She’d never been to a godswood before. It was not surprising; in her own time, the faith of the Old Gods was restricted only to the more isolated parts of North Westria, and the Northern Territories, and the former states of Thule and Thennland. She was used to gardens at the Lady’s shrines, but those were much newer creations than the copses dedicated to the nameless gods of nature the Northerners traditionally worshipped.

Liana passed through the woodland of pines, oaks, and ironwood, thick with undergrowth, and kept in almost a permanent shadow from the heavy canopy. It was supposedly ten thousand years old, but Liana doubted it, given how prone the ancients were to exaggeration. Just think of how many of those supposedly unthinkably ancient families, allegedly around for eight millennia, went extinct over the course of a mere eight centuries.

She came to the center of the wood, where stood a huge weirwood tree, an eerie thing with ivory bark and clusters of crimson leaves dangling from gnarled, curving branches. Eeriest of all was the face carved into it—a twisted, melancholy face that had the crudity of a kid’s drawing but wept red sap.

Liana made a warding sign. Lord of Light, Lady of Lotuses, she thought. Protect me from all things that wish me harm. But she didn’t get bad energy from this place; it just seemed… foreign. Disinterested. Like she was a gnat in the cosmic scheme of things. Well, perhaps she was.

She curtsied. “Lord Tree,” she said. “I am a guest of this place. I mean you no harm. Thank you for allowing me here.”

The tree stared back at her with sad indifference. What a depressing god, Liana thought. No wonder R’hllorism took off after the Cataclysm. At least R’hllor did things. And He had a name, which was always nice. Nameless gods did not seem to be particularly helpful, especially on a psychological level.

But still, she was a guest. She curtsied again, and sat down on the tree’s roots, staring in the cold, black pond. She felt like she was being watched. But it wasn’t observation done in malice; but something puzzled. Like she shouldn’t be there.

No kidding, she thought. Lord Tree, you have no idea.

Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait before Theon emerged out from the cover of the woods.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“What do you think?” Liana asked, annoyed. “Arya told me to meet you in the godswood.”

Theon rolled his eyes. “You were supposed to come by the hot springs! By the old Guest House,” he amended, not very helpfully.

“My lord,” said Liana, “this might come as news to you, but I am a stranger here, and I have no idea where things are. Also, Arya told me to come to the godswood—she didn’t specify the hot springs in the godswood.”

“Bloody Arya Underfoot,” Theon muttered.

Liana glared at him. “She is helping us out. She doesn’t have to.”

“I suppose,” he muttered, flinging himself in a particularly graceless way down on the root besides her. Liana glanced back at the tree’s face. Lord Tree, she thought, I’m sorry my companion is such a tool. “Well, at any rate, I’m here.”

“Yes, you are.”

Theon pulled out a dagger, cleaning his nails with it. He scowled. “I’m going to stand up in three nights’ time and make a complete fool of myself, aren’t I?”

“Well, with that attitude, you are,” Liana said. When he glared at her, she added, “my lord.”

He didn’t snap at her, which meant he had to be depressed. He sighed. “I think Sansa hates me.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Liana.

“Well, she ripped my head off in front of everyone after a harmless little jape.”

“It was a stupid jape,” she said. “And you should have known better than to joke like that front of Lady Sansa instead of just your drinking companions. But be that as it may, I think you recovered nicely.”

He stared at her. “How’s that?”

Good God, Liana thought, casting her eyes to the sky, wishing she could smack Theon Greyjoy in the head with a four by four. “She was flirting with you pretty hard after your apology. She not only asked you to tell a special story for everyone, but she put her hand on your arm and made goo-goo eyes at you. Come on.”

Theon brightened a bit, but frowned again. “She did that to Cley Cerwyn a few months ago, too. Little minx. I’d warrant she would do that to any man.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. He was doing his best to talk himself out of doing anything. “Well, is Cley Cerwyn here?”

Theon looked at her as if this might be a trick question. “No?”

“That’s right. And who’s here instead?”

“Me?”

“Very good!” Liana hoped she didn’t sound too much of a sarcastic asshole. She sensed that Theon, who was probably quite comfortable flirting with ladies of a lower class, was thrown for a loop in dealing with a lady who was not only of his own class, but the sister of his best friend.

“Look, my prince,” she said, “this is an excellent opening. She’s told you what you need to do—now you just need to follow through. Is there a story you had in mind?”

“Well…” Theon hedged. “I think I do.”

“What is it?”

He fidgeted with his dagger. “My mother used to tell me a story about a selkie bride.”

Selkies! The mythical creatures that changed from seal to human, and dwelled upon all the islands of the Sunset Sea before the arrival of mankind. Liana leaned forward. “That sounds intriguing. Could you tell me more?”

“It’s just a fairy story,” he muttered. “It’s foolishness.”

You live in an age with ice demons and dragons, Liana wanted to say. Why are selkies one step too far?

But she said nothing, just gazed at him intently. “Tell me.”

He stared back at her, until he finally lowered his eyes.

“All right. You’re from Pyke. Most likely you’ll understand.”

She waited. His head lowered further, and he began to speak, his voice so soft she had to strain to hear.

“When I was a child… whenever I was going to sleep, I heard the seals cry on the rocks beneath the castle. Whenever I asked about them… my mother would tell me this story.” His voice grew even more quiet. “She told it to me the night before I was taken away.”

As Liana thought of the seal doodles on Alannys Harlaw’s letter, tears came to her eyes.

“I remember the seals too,” she said. “They sounded so funny. But I liked them just the same. It was so easy to fall asleep, with the waves crashing against the rocks, and the seals barking. It’s not like here at all.”

“No,” murmured Theon. His hand clenched around the pommel of his dagger. “There’s only the howling of wolves.”

Liana shuddered. Meanwhile, the eyes of the weirwood bored into her back.

Neither of you belong here, it seemed to say. You belong to the sea. Go back to the sea, woman, and take this man with you.

“So, my lord,” she said, wrapping her arms about her, glad for the hand-me-down cloak Jessa had brought her that morning. “Tell me. Tell me what happens.”

Theon looked up at her, biting his lip.

“So,” he began. “It all starts with a young fisherman outside of Lordsport…”

He told the story, haltingly, in the most bare bones fashion, of a fisherman who heard of the story of how the selkies would come and doff their skins, and dance and amuse themselves as humans on the night of the summer solstice. He went to see for himself, took the skin of the most beautiful seal woman, and without her skin, she was forced to live as his wife.

For some years, they lived as man and wife, and she bore him several children. But he always kept her skin locked in a chest, and carried the key on his person. Well, one day he forgot the key, and she stole her skin back and returned to the ocean.

A few years later, the fisherman, on a seal hunt, brutally killed the woman’s selkie husband and sons; and the woman swore vengeance on all of Pyke, vowing that so many men will die, from drownings and falls and being dashed to death on the rocks below, until all the corpses will be able to link arms around the entire island in an unbroken chain of death. 

“And thus, her curse continues to this day,” Theon finished.

Liana blinked. The irony was that Theon’s own father, the horrible Balon Greyjoy, would die exactly in such a way as specified by the selkie’s curse. Was that a coincidence?

“A melancholy end, to a melancholy tale,” she said. “But it’s the most perfectly Ironish thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Ironish,” said Theon. “You mean Ironborn?”

As she nodded, he sighed, nudging his toe through the dirt.

“I’m not good at this, Mistress Pyke. No one’s going to care.” He gave a humorless smirk. “Seven hells, I wouldn’t care if I had to listen. Why should anyone else?”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, my lord. It’s a good start.” Liana gave him her most encouraging smile. “It’s a good story too. It’s got romance—it’s got fighting. You just have to practice. Let’s go through it again.”

Theon told it again, again and again. By the third time around, his hesitancy had worn off, and his voice grew more assured, but she continued to drill him on the finer points of upping the stakes, connecting with one’s audience, and maintaining eye contact.

As a literature student, Liana expected the heroes of the Age of the Sagas to be much better educated about public speaking than she was, but she was shocked at how much he didn’t know. Granted, as a nobleman, he’d had some training in rhetoric, although it was far less than she’d imagined. Was Maester Luwin the only tutor he’d had since he’d come to Winterfell? That… did not impress her. Someone of princely rank, she thought, should have a specialized rhetorician training him, not just some all-purpose tutor who’d never actually practiced anything that he taught. After all, mastery of rhetoric and oratory was one of the key aspects of a royal education. The classic treatises taught that it involved a wealth of knowledge; the mastery of invention and style; and the ability to win people over, the ability to instruct, and the ability to stir emotions. Storytelling, was, in its way, a sort of rhetoric and oratory. And Theon knew almost nothing about it. Oh, he had some ability to parrot the great speeches of the past; this was the sort of mimicry that the classic authors scornfully called sophistry; but he seemed to have little knowledge of how to construct a speech effectively from scratch.

It was horrifying to realize that she was actually a better public speaker than he was, and she’d just had her high school debate team and tour guide job experience to go on.

Seriously, the fuck? And Theon and Robb had enjoyed the same education, from the same tutor. She thought of all the terrible decisions those two had made, in the events leading up to the Cataclysm. Could this possibly come from the mediocre education they’d received?

But for all his lack of grounding in the rhetorical arts, Theon was quick to pick up on her suggestions and pointers. It wasn’t easy, but he was dogged, she’d give him that. But after a few hours, his voice grew rusty, and he looked like he was about to start stabbing things in sheer exhaustion and irritation.

They agreed to pick it up again the next day.

Fortunately, the next day—same place, same time-- went much more swimmingly, as Theon gained confidence, and his narrative grew in richness and detail. (She also brought a waterskin to keep him hydrated, another important detail.) His style was quite different from hers, of course. She favored the florid and arch style of Qarth, while Theon embraced a poetic starkness that was very much in the style of Ironborn tales, like the trickery of the Grey King, and his romance with the merling princess, and the destruction of the cannibal tree Ygg and the sea dragon Nagga.

At last, the third day arrived, and after yet more practice, Liana’s breast swelled with pride at the progress of her charge.

“Very good,” she said, after the last rendition of the Selkie Bride, and Theon flashed an exhausted but triumphant grin. She wondered if he would have worked this hard if it wasn’t to impress a pretty girl, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Results were results.

“Now, let’s impress some Northerners, shall we?” she said, and he laughed.

“Mistress Pyke,” he drawled, “you’re a difficult task mistress, but I’ve almost enjoyed it. ‘Almost’ being the key word here.”

“Well, my lord,” she said, “I’m glad you’ve almost enjoyed yourself. I’ve almost enjoyed having you as a student.”

Theon laughed again, longer and more loudly this time, so much so that crows cawed at them out of the branches of the nearest oak.

“It’s a pity you can’t teach me other things,” he said, looking her up and down, his voice heavy with meaning. “But—” he held up his hands as she gave him an indignant glance—“I understand your uncle prizes your virtue. You will make that apple knight a worthy wife.”

He paused a beat. “If some Ironman doesn’t steal you away first, of course.”

“That’s always a danger,” she said dryly, and he grinned.

“Isn’t it? You know,” he added, “I was thinking there was something familiar about you.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. The chin. The nose. The smirk.” He smirked. “I think you have Greyjoy blood in you.”

She smirked back at him. “You don’t say.”

“You hardly seem shocked. But you know this already, don’t you?” Theon snapped his fingers. “In fact, I know how we’re related.”

This would be news to Liana. “How’s that?”

“Your grandfather. What was his name again?”

“Jenner Pyke.” Jenner, who’d named his children Jenner Junior, Jenson, and Jenyfer. Rumor had it that he used to knock over banks on the mainland back in the ‘40s, when the Great Wars had ravaged Essos and most of the men in North and South Westria were being conscripted. But Jenner had evaded the draft, and used the chaos to his advantage. He was every bit as skeevy and self-involved as Balon Greyjoy, and his death, and ensuing traditional funeral, where he was set upon a bier of driftwood and sent into the ocean, caused everyone to breathe a sigh of relief.

“When would you say he was born? About eighty years ago, mayhaps?”

“Yes.” Liana raised an eyebrow. “Give or take.”

“I know you said he never talked about his true father. But I’d bet my eyeteeth he was the bastard of my great-grandfather, Dagon Greyjoy, the Last Reaver, the terror of the Sunset Sea.”

Liana thought about it. From the information she’d given him, that was a pretty decent guess. And God knows, the Pykes probably were descended from some Greyjoy king back in the day, given the familial resemblance. “I think you’re right,” she said.

At that, Theon looked as thrilled as if he’d run into his long-lost sister. “So, that’s settled. We’re cousins!”

Oh, God. She had graduated from a potential Greyjoy agent to a Greyjoy cousin. Was that… good? She had a feeling the Starks would not be impressed. She glanced back at the depressed weirwood tree. She didn’t think Lord Tree was impressed either.

But Theon offered her his arm, as if she were indeed his lady cousin. It was ironic that he disdained bastards so much, and yet was treating her with so much respect; but then, that spoke more to how lonely and isolated he was, a little squid among wolves, so far from the ocean.

We’re all hypocrites when it suits us, she thought, and Theon was no different.

“Come this way, coz,” he said.

Liana hesitated for a moment. She could just imagine the general reaction of Winterfell’s residents of them walking arm in arm, and she wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. Arya and Robb would be amused, and Sansa might be jealous, though she’d do her best to hide it. Jon would just shake his head and make a grim comment about how now Theon was accepting of bastards. But Septa Mordane? Maester Luwin? Lord and Lady Stark? Her innards heaved.

“Should we be so open about our blood tie, Lord Theon?” she asked. “I know Lady Stark despises all the Greyjoys.”

Theon’s mouth tightened. “I know. But I don’t care. I’m a Greyjoy, a prince of the Iron Islands, and if I wish to claim you as a cousin, cousin, it’s my right. Lady Stark can go swim off if she wants.”

“If it pleases you, my lord,” she said, gingerly taking his arm.

“Cousin,” he said, correcting her with a cocky smile.

“My lord cousin,” she amended.

He laughed. “Close enough!”

“Pray, my lord cousin, lead the way,” Liana said, and as they emerged from the godswood, she hoped she knew what she was doing.

Because she was pretty sure she had about as many clues as her newfound cousin…

Which was to say, none whatsoever.

Chapter Text

Indeed, Sansa was all eyes when Theon marched into the Great Hall that evening, with Liana on his arm. Beth and Jeyne began to giggle with the same sugar-high mania of junior high school girls on a sleepover, but Sansa sent them a death glare that silenced them tout suite.

Sansa glided over to them with consummate grace, but for a split second she looked as if she had swallowed a frog.

“Greetings, Mistress Pyke,” she said. “And Lord Theon. I am glad to see you both here this evening.”

“Good evening, Lady Sansa,” said Liana, lowering her eyes.  

Sansa fiddled with her hands.

“It’s interesting to see you both… together. I did not realize that you and Lord Theon were becoming such, ah, good friends.”

Theon’s smirk broadened. As dense as he could be around girls of his own class, even he couldn’t miss the jealous inflection in her voice.

“I’ve discovered something wonderful, Sansa,” he said. “Mistress Pyke and I are cousins.”

Sansa gaped. “Cousins?”

“Yes. Her grandfather was the bastard of Dagon Greyjoy, my own great-grandfather!” Theon beamed as he held up Liana’s hand. “We share the same blood, iron and salt. Mistress Pyke here is a Greyjoy. Well, almost.”

“That’s remarkable,” said Robb. “But I can see something of a resemblance.”

“You can, can you?” Theon raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Yes. It’s the smirk.”

At that moment, both Liana and Theon cocked their heads and smirked in Robb’s direction. “By the gods, it’s uncanny,” he said, shaking his head.

“Isn’t it!” they said at once, and they laughed together, startled.

“Jinx,” said Liana.

“You really are related,” said Sansa with awe. “Mistress Pyke, you’re the great-granddaughter of the Lord of the Iron Islands.” She blushed a little. “On the bend sinister side, of course.”

Liana was not surprised that this would impress Sansa. She seemed of the old conservative Westerosi bent that put much stock in having the correct lineage. Even though Liana’s mother came from a respectable Qartheen family, that was still Eastern and suspect. She was still descended from peasants on her father’s side; to have a lord there back in the near past no doubt added more cachet, at least to Sansa’s point of view.  

“It seems that way,” Liana said.

She glanced at Jon. He hung back, as he usually did, but he glowered at them all. Well, perhaps he should be angry. He might have been raised in privilege, but growing up as Lord Stark’s allegedly base-born son was no bed of roses, as the Song of the Starks made clear. And here she was, a stranger, with the trueborn Stark children fussing over her alleged noble bastard blood like that actually meant something.

Hell, if she were him, she’d be pissed off too.

“So, you’re kin,” Jon said, stepping forwards. “Are congratulations in order?”

Theon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Maybe. But that would stick in your craw, wouldn’t it, Snow?”

Sansa frowned. This was her event; she had planned this; she clearly hated to see it marred by any discourtesy or old feuds.

“There is nothing sweeter than discovering family, like parting weeds to find a winter rose,” she said, and it sounded like she was quoting some obscure song or the other, probably some ballad lost in the Plague Years.

“Very prettily said,” said Robb in approval, and though Theon looked unimpressed, he wisely said nothing.

“Right,” said Jon. “Congratulations, Greyjoy. I just never thought to see you so excited to be related to a bastard.”

She expected Theon to snap back, but instead Sansa whirled on him, her eyes flashing.

“Jon!” she said coldly. “How dare you! Theon’s been here almost ten years, and this is the first we’ve ever seen of his family. She’s his cousin.”

Jon flinched. “But she’s a Pyke.” Bitterness filled his voice. “Not a Greyjoy.”

“Yes,” said Liana. She stepped forwards, spreading out her hands, doing her best to exude calm. “Truer words were never spoken. I will never be a Greyjoy. I will always be a Pyke.”

She paused, catching Theon’s eye. “But… it doesn’t matter. We know how the seals sing.”

Theon gazed back, his sea-colored eyes filled with something like gratitude. She nodded at him, a slight smile hovering on her lips. She’d grown up an only child. She’d always wondered what it would be like to have a brother. Was it like this? She had no idea. But she hoped so.

“I’ve never seen a seal,” Jon said glumly, and she wondered with exasperation if he could not be sullen for a moment? But she hid her irritation and smiled.  

“They’re very cute,” she said. “They look like big puffy puppies with fish tails.”

Theon rolled his eyes, muttering “women” under his breath, but Jon smiled at her description.

“Puppyfish,” he said, and the tension in the air dissolved. Sansa and her ladies giggled.

“Yes,” said Liana. “I do hope you’ll stay and listen to Lord Theon’s story. I think you might like it.”

“Did you help him with it?” Jon asked, his eyes flicking back from Liana to Theon and back again.

Theon almost snarled. “Now look here, Snow—”

Liana raised a hand. “I was only Lord Theon’s audience as he perfected his technique. Even the most accomplished storyteller needs an ear to practice.”

“Right,” said Jon. His bemusement slowly shifted to amusement. “I’ll stay, Mistress Pyke. For your sake.” He melted back towards the wall, leaning against it, folding his arms as if he waited in judgment. Arya soon appeared by him, and began whispering into his ear. Was Arya telling Jon her role as liaison? It was possible. She couldn’t imagine it was easy to keep secrets for long in a castle.

“Don’t put yourself out,” Theon called after him, his voice raw with frustrated anger.

“My lord, you must calm yourself,” Liana said. Espying a wine cup and flagon, she poured him a cup. “Take a deep breath. Concentrate on the story. Let it fill you like the waters of the ocean. Nothing else matters.”

Theon nodded, gulping down the wine and wiping his mouth. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Like the waters of the ocean. What is dead may never die.”

“But rises again, harder and stronger,” she replied, in the ancient proscribed fashion. She was no expert in the faith of the Drowned God, but she knew enough to say that.

Now, Grandpa Jenner had been the last Pyke to follow the Old Religion, but even though Dad and Jenny were cynical about the whole thing, she could tell that they believed in it a little. After all, after their Lotus Way wedding at the shrine, Dad had an additional ceremony with Mom at the beach, done by themselves, as they walked into the sea, cutting their wrists with a knife and letting their blood mingle, and then finished off with symbolic drownings after the Old Way. It was done without any Drowned priests (even in Qarth, there was such a huge Ironish ex-pat community that there was bound to be several floating around somewhere). But Dad was enough of a free spirit that he said fuck it and did it himself.

Traditional Ironish marriages were not supposed to be dissolved by divorce; and Dad was reluctant to get divorced at all, even with the jerry-rigged ceremony on the beach. Mom had to serve him papers three times to get him to sign, and Liana always wondered if he’d hoped to get back together with her later, after he got himself cleaned up.

But then she had to go and die of cancer. Life fucking sucked sometimes.

Yet as the old saying went, what was dead could never die.

Liana was conscious of how everyone in the Great Hall stared at her and Theon as she gave him a last-minute pep talk, like some coach in an inspirational sports biopic. The crowd was bigger than the last time they’d met there. Well, perhaps people were really curious to see Theon Greyjoy tell a story. Or perhaps they just wanted to see him fail. No doubt Septa Mordane would make sure that Lord and Lady Stark would hear everything, including her supposed kinship with the hostage prince.

Theon looked at her again, as if looking for approval. “I can do this,” he said, as if trying to convince himself.

She touched his arm.

“Yes, you can,” she said. “I know you can. Your mother would be proud.”

He smiled back at her, tremulously. “Thank you,” he said in a low voice.

Liana sat down, on the nearest bench, next to Sansa, who had saved her a space. Smoothing her skirts, she gave Theon an encouraging nod.

Sansa, meanwhile, smiled at him. Did she flutter her eyelashes? Liana had to admit, Theon looked dashing in a new cloak and doublet of his house colors, black and gold. She wondered if Sansa realized the lengths that Theon was going to impress her. Did she have any idea? Even subconsciously?

As Theon cleared his throat, setting down his winecup, the hall silenced. He spread out his hand.

“So it came to pass in the days of Harren Hoare…”

                                                                                                 * * *

So it came to pass in the days of Harren Hoare (said Theon), there lived a young freeman by the name of Erik, son of Enrik, who fished the seas off the island of Pyke and reaved at the command of his lord. He was a youth, but brave and he knew the ways of the battle-axe as well as the proper way to row, tie knots, and rig and control the sail of the longboats they used in those days. Yet he was poor, from a poor village; he ate no meat, but strew stock-fish to dry in the wind and the sun.

But he lived alone, as his parents had died some years before-- the winds howled and beat against the walls of his hut. He wished to marry, but he forebore from offering to any, as he had nothing to offer, and had not yet distinguished himself with any great deeds.

Yet one day, while out fishing, a storm overset his vessel, and he was thrown into the waves; as the water filled his lungs he thought, before losing consciousness—I shall be an offering to the Drowned God—yet I have died before I have accomplished anything--

But he found himself waking up on the shore, and he thought he saw a woman’s fair face bending over him, with hair the color of red-gold greaves from a dragon’s hoard, long enough to cover her, and eyes like the depths of the sea.

(At that description, Liana started. The original description had been “white-gold greaves,” not “red-gold greaves.” Why, that sneaky bastard, she thought.)

She spoke to him, and he felt her soft hands on his face.

(It was Sansa’s turn to start, with Theon’s eyes meeting hers as he spoke the next line. Her cheeks flamed.)

Am I dreaming, wondered Erik, or did she rescue me from certain death?

(Theon turned away from Sansa and back to the audience.)

Yet he could not speak. His ears rang. He puked up more seawater and fell again unconscious.

When he woke again, he thought more of this woman, and became convinced that he was not dreaming.

“By the Drowned God, I shall marry her,” he swore, and asked about of his neighbors if they had ever heard of such a woman, with red-gold hair that covered her and eyes the color of the depths of the sea. No, they said to a man; we have not heard of such a woman. And Erik son of Enrik cursed his fate, but refused to give up hope that he might one day find the woman who had saved his life.

One day it came upon that he met a priest of the Drowned God wandering by the shore.

“Erik son of Enrik,” the priest said to him. “It has come to my attention you have been asking about a woman who mayhap rescued you from the embrace of the Drowned God.”

“That is so,” said Erik.

“And does she have red-gold hair that covers her and blue eyes?”

“So she does.”

“There is no such woman who lives on the island of Pyke,” said the priest. “Therefore she is a witch, a skinchanger, one who takes off her sealskin to seduce mortal men. If you ever see her again, the only kiss you should deliver is that of your axe.”

“So mote it be, priest,” said Erik. “Mayhaps you should tell me where to find her, so I might deliver such a kiss.”

“Every solstice, upon the beach of the inlet where the seals gather, the selkies cast off their skins and dance the way mortals do,” said the priest. “You might find your leman there, if you cleave her lying head from her shoulders, you would be doing a service for mankind, and the Drowned God too.”

“What is dead shall never die,” said Erik, as if he agreed to such a task, and went about his day, eager to see the next solstice.

The solstice night came, and Erik was there at the inlet, hiding behind the largest boulder, his trusty axe in hand. For he did not come to fight, but only a fool would come unprepared. When there is magic afoot, cold iron is the best friend a man might have.

It started peacefully enough though. A herd of seals swam to shore, and clambered onto the rocks. But then they removed their skins as if removing clothes, placing the skins down, and Erik’s neck prickled. For this was unnatural work, the work of the Storm God, and he fought the urge to flee, as well as fighting the urge to descend upon these creatures and slaughter them all.

I must remember that this is to find her, he thought. I must not be distracted by bloodlust or fear.

Yet it was as if the Drowned God smiled upon him. For who should place her skin down upon the boulder where he hid, but the girl who rescued him. She looked the same, with the red-gold hair that covered her, and her eyes as blue as the depths of the sea. But he was now conscious and alert, and he could see how, like the other selkies, she wore nothing under her hair. As he stared at her, he felt as if he had plunged into flame.

(Liana thought of how, in some of the earlier versions of the story, Theon had waxed at length at the seal woman’s beauty, her bouncing breasts and round arse. Once she was done laughing she told him it would be best to use restraint, given that Septa Mordane would be watching him with an eagle eye, and would no doubt stop him if he became too risqué.)

(“Restraint is best,” she’d told him. “Choose your words wisely.”)

All in all, she was (Theon continued, with admirable restraint) the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

I must have her, he thought. I will die if I do not.

(Meanwhile Sansa had fixed her eyes on Theon. Her mouth had parted a little, and her breathing grew shallow.)

So, as naked as they were born, the selkies frolicked upon the beach, dancing in circles and running and playing games like tug-of-war, but with ropes of seaweed rather than actual rope. If you’ve ever seen seals, you’ll know they’re a playful lot. As Erik watched them, whatever bloodlust and fear he possessed dwindled away to nothingness. They all seemed quite loveable and harmless, and he was glad he had ignored the words of the priest.

Yet while the woman with red-gold hair frolicked with the rest of them, Erik stole her skin, tucking it underneath his coat. As pretty as seals are, their smell is absolutely rank, and Erik almost gagged. But he managed to keep his gorge down, which I assure you was quite the feat.

(“What do seals smell like?” Arya asked. “You don’t want to know,” Theon responded. “You really don’t. Best just to keep a safe distance.”)

(Then Sansa shushed her, blushing as Theon smirked at her.)

Eventually, the solstice festivities wound down, and all the selkies gathered up their skins and plunged back into the ocean. But Erik’s rescuer, his red lady, could not find her skin. She searched and searched, until she was the last on the beach, and she began to weep.

At last Erik emerged.

“Are you missing this?” he asked, holding up the skin, and she let out a cry.

“I beg you, please give it to me,” she said, and then stared at him.

“You are the man I rescued, a moon ago.”

“You did indeed,” said Erik. “I want to thank you for it.”

“You may thank me by giving back my skin!” the red lady said in a show of temper. But Erik shook his head.

“And let you swim back out to the sea, where I shall never see you again? No, my beauty, I think not. You shall be my rock wife, and you shall bear my sons.”

“I am not of your kind,” said the red lady, but he noticed she didn’t move.

“Do you think I care?” said Erik. “You saved my life. There are none on Pyke your equal. I know. I’ve looked.”

“So you say,” said the red lady. “Have you looked very hard?”

“I have.” He pulled her into his arms. “I want only you.”

(At this, Arya grimaced, but Sansa sighed, leaning her head on her hand.)

And so the red lady (said Theon) — whose name, in the Old Tongue, was Ránleif, Sea’s Heir—at last consented.

“I will no longer cavil with you,” said Ránleif. “I will live as your wife, and be faithful to only you.”

Erik was about to rejoice, but then she added:

“But I warn you, Erik son of Enrik, if the day comes that you shall leave my skin unlocked and unguarded, I shall swim back into the ocean and rejoin my brethren. I will live with you as a wife for as long as you do this, but I will never be truly a human, no matter how much you wish it.”  

“So mote it be,” said Erik son of Enrik, and together, they returned to his hut.

The next day he married her, in the usual ceremony, where they mingled blood beneath the salt waves and pledged their troth before the Drowned God. He did not bring a priest, for he distrusted all priests now; instead he officiated as one himself.

(A new detail, Liana thought, startled. It reminded her of Mom and Dad, and their “marriage” on the beach.)

And thus Ránleif Sea’s Heir became the rock wife of Erik son of Enrik. Though she was not of woman born, they found joy in each other, and she bore him first one—then two sons. His luck grew, as his fishing expeditions grew more and more fruitful; and not only this, but he reaped more luck when going a-reaving with the other lord’s men, bringing thralls and gold home to his wife, though he would not take home salt wives. He had her skin locked in a chest, and at all times he kept the key to the chest attached to a chain kept ‘round his waist; knowing her warning, and how she blessed his home, and was the mother of his sons, he would not cause her any other offense.

(“Kind of him,” muttered Jon, causing Theon to glare in his direction. Afraid Theon might lose the thread of the story, Liana caught his eye, smiling and gesturing slightly.)

(Theon nodded, taking a deep breath.)

Iron was the key, and iron was the chain, and iron was the will of Erik son of Enrik. But Ránleif Sea’s Heir was not Ironborn; she was born and bred in the waters of the Drowned God. And salt water can corrupt and wear down even the hardest metal. Such would be the fate of the man who dared to wed the daughter of the sea.

He rejoiced in the fish of his catch, in the gold of his reaving, and in his wife’s white arms. But when men grow too successful, often they grow too soft, and too at ease with themselves and the world. And so, when one day he went out fishing with his companions, and though the catch was splendid, as usual, he realized that he had left he key at home.

“Today,” he cried in despair, “I have lost my wife!” After he explained the reason for his outburst, the other men, with all haste, pulled up their nets and lines and rowed back to shore, yet it was too late. Erik’s house was empty, save for his children.

The youngest flung his arms around his father, babbling how he saw his mother descend into the waves, towards a bull seal that sunned itself on the rock. And Erik grew cold, cold as the darkest hour of the night, for he knew the next time he would see his wife, that would be his death.

The years passed. Erik, who used to scorn the ways of the Drowned Men, grew more mindful of what the priests preached. Whether this was wise of him, I leave that to you to judge.

The day came when his neighbors planned a hunt—a special hunt, for they would voyage to the far northern coast of Pyke, in one of the deepest caverns, to hunt the seals that dwelled there. Of course, not all seals are skinchangers or wizards. Many of them are simply seals, and they are an invaluable resource in the islands, for they provide meat, skin and oil. Erik’s oldest son, named Leif, would be joining him on the hunt, and Erik was glad of the distraction, for since the disappearance of Ránleif joys came too few and far between.

Yet the night before the hunt, Erik had the strangest dream. He dreamt that Ránleif came to him, her red-gold hair falling to her ankles, and her eyes as blue as the depths of the sea.

“Erik son of Enrik,” she said, “for the love you bore me, if you do go on this hunt, do not kill the great bull seal lying at the cave’s entrance—for he is my husband, and waited for me many years while I dwelt with you upon the rocks.

“And if you go into the cave, I beg you, do not harm the two seal pups who lie within the cavern’s heart, for they are my sons.” And she described the skins of the young seals, so he would know what they looked like.

Much disturbed by this dream, Erik sought the priest of the Drowned God. This was, in fact, the very same man who had told him many years ago to kill Ránleif were he to ever see her again.

“I see this woman still plagues you,” said the priest. “You were a fool, a godless fool, to take a witch to wife, and get her with sons. Now she breeds with other skinchangers to create more foul beasts to plague the men of this island.”

“What should I do?” cried Erik, and the priest declared:

“You must disregard this dream as lies from a harlot and a sorceress. If she bids you to spare these monsters, you must do the opposite. You must kill them, rend the life from their bellies, and take joy in their blood, for you are Ironborn, and this is the will of the God.”  

(“No!” Sansa cried softly, her eyes filling with tears.)

Erik knelt, as the priest blessed him with salt, and said he would do as the holy man commanded.

The day of the seal hunt dawned, and the men of Erik’s village came to the deepest cavern on the northern coast. Erik saw the bull seal lying near the entrance, and plunged his spear into animal’s blubbery body; it reared and roared, bearing its teeth, but it was no match for iron. It thrashed, blood spilling upon the seaweed-slicked rocks.

Quick work was made of the other seals in the cave, until Erik and Leif came to the young pups in the cave’s heart. They squeaked and trembled, but they were small things, and were killed quickly.

(Sansa wept.)

It should have been a triumphant day for Erik son of Enrik, but the day hung low and grey about him, and he tasted the bitterness of ashes in his mouth. When they returned home, the catch was divided up, and for his share Erik was given the body of the bull seal and the front and hind flippers of the two pups.

That night, a storm broke, and winds whipped the walls of Erik’s house, and rain lashed the eaves. His son Leif had no idea why his father was so long in the mouth, and had the thralls cook up the head of the bull seal and the pups’ flippers for dinner, and did not understand why his father could barely pick at the meat, though Leif himself ate it with a hearty appetite.

“Rejoice, my father,” said Leif. “This was our first seal hunt together. The Drowned God is proud of our success. What is dead may never die.”

“But rises again, harder and stronger,” said a strange voice, and Erik and Leif turned to see Ránleif, Sea’s Heir, enter their smoke-room, red-gold hair flowing down to her ankles, and her eyes as blue as the depths of the sea.

“Mother?” said Leif with a gasp.

“Aye, I am your mother,” said Ránleif. “And I am the wife of the bull seal whom you slew, and the mother of those pups you slaughtered. Those are your half-brothers, the ones you now eat.”

As Leif gagged, spiting out the meat, Ránleif turned to Erik. Her eyes darkened and her face grew white as bone.

“I begged you not to kill my sons and my husband. I asked you to forbear for the love you bore me. Now I see what love you bear. Now behold the love I bear for you.”

And she pointed at Erik son of Enrik.

“Man, heed my words. I shall declare vengeance on all the men of Pyke. I swear before the Storm God, and the Drowned God, and all the gods between, that so many men here shall die—from drownings and falls and being dashed to death on the rocks below—that all the corpses will be able to link arms around the shore of this entire island in an unbroken chain of death!”

Lightning flashed and thunder crashed—and Ránleif vanished, never to be seen again by the eyes of mortals.

There is not much more to say. Erik lived the rest of his short life under a shadow; indeed, he died on the next reaver’s raid, and as he plunged into the ocean, he saw the flash of red-gold hair, and knew this time she would not save him from drowning.

Men die on Pyke frequently, from deaths at sea and falls from the many cliffs. There are not yet so many men who have died who can form an unbroken chain of corpses around the island. Who knows when that day will come?

But some day, I say, it will come, and if Ránleif is alive, she will laugh, a long and bitter laugh, as she grieves for her dead husband and sons, and she curses the day she ever married a mortal man.

                                                                                         * * *

“And my tale is ended,” finished Theon.

There was a long silence, as Sansa wiped tears from her eyes and everyone stared at the young Greyjoy with a combination of both horror and fascination. Liana gazed about anxiously. It was so… different, and dark. Was this a mistake?

“By the gods, Theon,” said Robb, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was… interesting.”

“Interesting,” said Theon, looking at his friend unsteadily. He poured himself a glass of wine. “All right.”

“I liked it,” Arya chirped. Theon and Liana glanced at her in surprise. “It reminds me of some of Old Nan’s tales, in that it was a bit scary. But it was different too. I liked… what was her name… Ránleif?” She grinned, her teeth looking very bright and white and sharp. “I liked her curse.”

You would, thought Liana, but all the same, she was grateful for Arya’s intervention. Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel looked stunned, and Jon looked like he was slowly mulling it over. Bran wasn’t there, which was just as well. She supposed the Septa had already put him to bed, as she probably didn’t trust Theon to tell a perfectly child-friendly story.

She glanced at Sansa, who was still sitting there, silently, wiping her face.

“Lady Sansa,” said Septa Mordane. “You’re weeping!” She placed her arms on her hips. “No more tales from you, Lord Theon. They affect my poor lady too much.”

Theon curled his lip, but Sansa held up her hand.

“No, Septa. You needn’t protect me.” She raised her chin. “Stories should effect one’s emotions. That’s how one knows that they’re powerful.”

She stood up, curtsying to Theon.

“My thanks to you, Lord Theon. That was truly a wondrous tale from your homeland. Both dark and haunting—and, as I specified, with both fighting and romance.” She smiled at him. “You told it most beautifully. I shall be thinking about it for a long time.”

Theon smiled back. This time, it wasn’t a smirk—it looked sweet and genuine.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Now,” said the Septa. “It is late, my ladies, and we must to bed. Come along Arya!”

“No!” Arya squawked. “I don’t want to go to bed. Septa, you can’t make me—”

“Oh, can’t I?” said the Septa grimly, and the sounds of their argument continued into the corridor as everyone trailed out of the room.

But Theon lingered, leaning against the hearth, finishing his last cup of wine, as Robb wandered out with Jon. Yet Sansa lingered, joining him by the fireplace. Liana was about to leave the hall, but she turned her head back, unable to resist overhearing.

“Thank you again for your story,” Sansa said.

“It was a pleasure,” said Theon. “A pleasure telling it to you,” he added with special emphasis, and Sansa blushed.

“It was a very Ironborn sort of tale,” she said.

Theon grinned. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s so… dark and harsh and grim. But strangely beautiful.”

“Yes. That’s the Islands for you.” He paused awkwardly. “At least, from what I remember.”

Sansa gazed down at her hands, clasped modestly in front. “Who first told you the story? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I don’t.” He drank from his cup, setting it down on the lintel. “My mother told it to me.”

“Your mother.” Even from across the room, Liana could tell how she stared at Theon with the same fascination she had earlier. “You’ve… never talked about your mother. Ever.”

“That’s right. I haven’t.”

There was an agonizing pause.“How is she? Your mother, I mean.”

“She’s alive.” Theon leaned on the hearth. “She’s living with my uncle now. And has for some years. I just learned this.”

“From Mistress Pyke.”

“Yes.”

“I’m… glad of that, at least.” Sansa’s voice was tentative. “That you have some family that care about you.”

“Some family.” She couldn’t see his face, since it was turned towards the fire, but he sounded bitter. “My father didn’t even tell me my mother was ill. I have not heard a single word from him the entire time I was here. Some family indeed!”

“Oh, Theon…” Sansa breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s nothing to do with you. I mean—” He took a ragged breath. “I mean, you’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve always been a sweet girl, Sansa.”

She let out a breathy, embarrassed giggle. “I try. I mean… well. I could have tried harder, I think. I know. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for.” He pushed his hair back. “I haven’t always been that… um, approachable… myself.”

“You needn’t apologize either.”

He shrugged. “If you insist.”

“I do.” She placed her hand on his arm, pale fingers against the black doublet. “I just want to help, Theon. You’re such a dear friend to Robb, and… I would like to be your friend too.” She paused shyly. “If you’ll have me.”

If you’ll have me, thought Liana with shock. That was a key lyric from the libretto of Sansa and Theon, the famous Romantic opera. In fact, some of the most beautiful leitmotifs of Verdyon’s career was built upon that particular lyric.

Theon didn’t move. He just stared at her, his pale brown curls limned by the fire. It was if he saw her for the first time.

“I would be honored, Lady Sansa.” He took the hand resting on his arm and kissed it gently. His voice grew husky. “I would be honored to be your friend. I hope you will consider me one as well.”

She gazed back, with eyes shining like stars. For the first time Liana felt like an intruder, and slipped further within the crack of the open door.

“I have to go now,” she whispered. “Septa will be wondering where I am. But I will see you soon.”

“You can count on it.” He still held her hand.

“I do want to hear more stories. More Ironborn tales, please.”

“Of course. Anything you want,” he said, and she tugged her hand away, blushing all the while.

“Good-bye,” she said, and before Liana could hear his response, she slipped through the door and down the corridor, her heart pounding in her ears.

After walking some way, she leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling winded.

Lady of Lotuses. Lord of Light. This wasn’t supposed to happen yet. She’d been so cavalier, manipulating Theon the Forsaken when he was still a child, and now… now what?

She’d taught Theon to tell a story. She’d told him about his mother. She’d arguably improved his relationship with Sansa just with her meddling. What did this all mean?

This was a key point in history. One of the most important moments, in fact; so many important people lived right here, who would later go on to change the world. And here she was, dumb little nobody Liana Pyke, monkeying up the works for funsies. What the hell was wrong with her?

Had she just stepped on a butterfly? Was everything going to go to hell, because of her? Would she write herself and her family out of existence?

But how could she still be alive? She stared at her fingers. She clenched them into a fist. It felt solid, at least. Wouldn’t she be in danger of disappearing like Martyn in Return to the Future?

Or was she a solitary game piece that stayed in place, as the world shifted around her like a million dry autumn leaves, slipping, drifting, altering...?

Liana trembled.

Chapter Text

There’s only one thing she could think to do.

Pray.

Liana had been in Winterfell for five days and nights, and she was beginning to get some sense of the castle’s layout. She found her room without too much trouble, and after preparing for bed (even taking off all those layers of clothes had became easier after almost a week’s practice), sat and stared into the flames.

Je Taara might not have been born yet, but R’hllor, the god she worshipped, was powerful as He ever was. In the old fire faith, men and women lit bonfires at night and prayed for their Lord to bring the dawn. This practice was not so much done in the Lotus Way; but at the shrines, there was always a brazier burning in the Holy of Holies, and every statue and image of the Lady, whether she sat upon a lotus or stood on a vine-covered sword, was surmounted by a flaming sun, to point them to the source of all divine power and glory.

The vines would always smother the sword. And the flower would always grow to find the sun.

All the other gods faded before R’hllor, the sun. The Old Gods didn’t care. And the Seven, as far as she was concerned, didn’t exist. The Drowned God—well, maybe there was something to Him too. But this was not His domain. She was hundreds of miles from the ocean. There was not much He could do in this situation.

But R’hllor? Yes. Yes. He defeated the ice demons during the Cataclysm. He might help her too. The flames always illuminated the night…

Desperation clawed at her, as Liana raised her head and hands.

“Lord of Light, Lord God,” she whispered, “who brings the sun to the earth, who lights the way in the darkness, who brings truth and love to all, tell me what to do. Light the way before me. Bring the sun to one who can see. Bring light to one who is blind. What is it that I should do? God, hear me, I pray.”

And she said the most antique of refrains: “The night is dark and full of terrors.”

And she felt it deep within her bones, a cold paralyzing terror and helplessness. Here she was, eight hundred years before she was even born, in a place and time foreign to her, on the verge of almost being destroyed by an unfathomably ancient evil.  

Am I fucking up? Liana thought with horror. What am I doing? Am I destroying everything? Am I doing the will of the Other?

Oh God, oh God, will I ever see my family and friends again?

She stood there for a while, gazing into the licking, leaping flames, until exhaustion hit her like a truck. She curled up under the counterpane and furs, sinking into oblivion.

                                                                                 * * *

When she opened her eyes, everything was gold and light and fire, though the fire came not from flame, but rather electric lights and tapers.

She knew the Oldtown Opera House well. She admired it, though she’d seen it before, the last time she’d seen Verdyon’s The Fallen Woman there. The auditorium was constructed in the traditional Braavosi horseshoe style; in the center, over the pit, hung an epic chandelier hanging with a thousand crystals and prisms, while in the walls over the boxes were carved recumbent nymphs and dragons. She basked in the busy, gilded, ornate style of the Beautiful Epoch, the ceiling above resplendent with murals of gods of the old Valyrian religion, including Araxes the great, Meleys the beautiful, Tessarion the wise, rendered in the fanciful style of one hundred and fifty years ago.

It was gilt and gingerbread and Reacher frou up to her eyeballs, to quote Aunt Jenny. She imagined the era in which it was built—she thought of how ladies in ornate bustle gowns and dapper gentlemen in tailcoats strolled through the gilded halls, discussing the latest operas, the latest scandals. Could Sansa and Arya and Theon—or any of the other Starks, really—imagine such a place?

It was about as far from ancient Winterfell as you could possibly get.

Liana smoothed her black designer gown, adjusted her black gauze spangled stole, and smiled at Brenn, who sat next to her. He smiled at her, his hazel eyes crinkling. He looked sharp too, in a well-tailored suit and crisp shirt.

“Hi,” she said shyly.

“Hi,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” she said. “It’s nice to be here. With you,” she added, flushing.

“It is,” he said, and the lights dimmed.

The curtains opened, and as the ominous minor chords of the music started, Liana knew what it was immediately. It was the second act of Verdyon’s Sansa and Theon.

Violins struck, larghetto affettuoso, as the lights rose on Sansa, standing in her nightgown, singing of her misery and the cruelty of her husband, Ramsay Bolton, and how she yearned to flee into the snows beyond Winterfell. It was an extraordinary aria, every bit the equal of Violante’s arias in The Fallen Woman, and even though the subject matter of ancient history was more respectable than the story of a prostitute dying of Ulthian blacklung, the depiction of Sansa’s humiliation and horror was just as piercing and insightful, and the portrayal of a woman suffering from a forced, abusive marriage was stunning, especially considering the time in which it was written.

But the musical fireworks were just beginning; for after Sansa’s aria concluded, Theon—her former love, cruelly mutilated and brainwashed by the evil Ramsay—entered to tend to her as a servant, but he would not answer to his name, no how much Sansa entreated him.

There followed a thrilling duet as Sansa sought to remind “Reek” of his true name; and her pure coloratura, reaching feverish heights, soared across the auditorium as she frantically reasserted his true identity. He tried to resist—no, it is not me, I am not that man you seek, my lady, I am Reek, I tell you, I am Reek—until, at last, overcome, he fell into a swoon.

Then the blue lights of the Winterfell set deepened, and a spotlight shone on the two lovers. Theon stirred, and as she reminded him again of who he was-- he kissed her hands. Then he sang his section of the duet, one filled with tender lyricism, and she embraced him, as they launched into one of Verdyon’s classic harmonies, the voices of the tenor and the soprano deftly interweaving over the delicate andante violins and the shimmering orchestration. Then they reaffirmed their love—the leitmotif of if you will have me was repeated within the melody-- and the voices soared with ecstasy into the stratosphere, with all the passion of Romantic opera that Liana loved.

As always, Liana leaned forwards, breathless from the sheer beauty of the music. When the duet ended, she sprang to her feet with the rest of the audience, applauding, as Theon and Sansa bowed.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said eagerly to Brenn.

“It is!” he said eagerly. “You know, I never thought I’d like opera until you talked me into it—”

Brenn was about to say more, she was sure of it—when the lights went off. But there was no shouts or screaming. Just silence.

As if a radio had switched off.

The next thing she knew, Liana found herself walking down a hallway. There was still gilt and gingerbread and Reacher frou, and her heels sank into the plush carpeting.

But there were doors. Dozens of doors. Hundreds of doors. Thousands. Millions. The hallway continued as far as the eye could see, until it receded into darkness and nothingness.

Where am I? wondered Liana, shivering. She wrapped her stole around her, but it wasn’t the furs of the ancient North—it was just a decorative stole. Very Southron, she could imagine one of the Starks commenting with a grimace.

She went to the first door, wrenching it open.

Before her lay another opera house. It was similar to the one she knew, but the décor was subtly different, with harpies instead of dragons. The performers were still the soprano and tenor who played Sansa and Theon, respectively. But they stood in a new scene, in a different set, singing a new duet with which she was not familiar.

She tried one door, then another, then another. Behind each door lay another opera house, with décor that was either similar or wildly different, but still with Sansa and Theon, in a different set, singing different duets. Sometimes the music was more tuneful and sweet; sometimes it was more discordant and raw. Sometimes the set looked like some attempt to depict Castle Black, or King’s Landing, or the Iron Islands, or even Volantis. It was hard to say.

Liana shook her head, confused. What did all these doors mean?

What was the Lord trying to tell her?

The next door she came to, the door sprang open just at her touch, and for some reason she stepped through. It seemed just like her Oldtown Opera House, down to the dragons and the murals of the Valyrian gods. Even the great chandelier was lit up, its electric tapers shining off the thousands of faceted crystals.

But as soon as she stepped over the threshold, the door slammed shut behind her.

Alarmed, Liana wiggled the knob, but no dice. It was locked.

She stumbled down the aisle, past the empty seats. “Hello?” she called out. “Brenn? Uncle Xandros?” Her voice echoed through the abandoned auditorium. Even the curtains were up, but the stage was empty, even of a painted backdrop.

Liana whirled around, dropping her stole. “Oh God! Is anyone here? Where am I?”

Nothing. Nothing but echoes.

Overwhelmed, she crumpled. She leaned against one of the seats, gasping, shuddering, tears leaking out her eyes and her nose running. There was no one around—she didn’t have to appear dignified and stoic. She could cry as much as she wanted--

Until—what was that—a voice?

She wiped her tears, craning her neck.

It was. Oh God. She heard it, faintly, coming from somewhere. It sounded staticky, muffled, like something heard on an AM radio station with a bad signal. But she would know that voice anywhere.

“Li…na?” Brenn called. “L…ana? Liana! Liana!”

“Brenn!” she screamed. “Brenn! I’m here!”

“Liana, where are you?”

“Brenn,” she shouted until her voice was horse. “Brenn! I’m right here. Can’t you hear me? I’m right here. Brenn—Brenn!”

                                                                                  * * *

Liana bolted up, sweating, her throat raw.

“Brenn,” she whispered.

She stared into the flames, still guttering on the hearth. The logs had broken down into charred pieces and hot embers, but there was still life in it. Still warmth, even in the cold of the small hours.

“God,” she whispered, “what are you trying to tell me?”

She got out of bed. She stumbled towards the fire, kneeling, peering into it, hypnotized. She drew closer and closer, until, within the flames, she saw an image of the hallway, with all the doors, leading to new operas.

So many doors. So many possibilities.

Wait, Liana thought, jerking, her eyes widening. That’s it. That’s what R’hllor was trying to tell her. Every door led to a different opera house—with different sets—and different songs. Each door represented a different reality.

The world was not one single timeline; there was no one single destiny. There were paths. There were doors.  

This is a multiverse, she thought with amazement, remembering what Brenn told her on the drive north. It was the most exciting theory in theoretical physics, according to Brenn. There was an infinite number of universes; and our universe, he said, was just one miniscule region of a much larger universe, where a million billion universes were contained.

Oh my God, Liana thought, in awe, pressing her hand to her mouth, amazement and horror surging through her. That’s it. That’s it.

I’ve started a new timeline.

And Brenn is trying to find me.

She looked out the window, towards the Wolfswood, and the wolves that howled there. “Brenn, I’m here,” she said, resting her forehead on the cold mullioned glass panes. “I know you’re out there. I’m here. Can you hear me?”

She paused. “Brenn?”

Again, she started to weep. But behind her, the fire continued to crackle. It reminded her of radio static. Like someone out there was trying to get through to her. It almost seemed… reassuring.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Liana crawled back in to bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Somewhere, out there, was her world, the one she had left. Someday, Brenn and her uncle would find her.

She just hoped it would be before it was too late.

Chapter Text

“Is everything all right?” Sansa asked at breakfast the next morning. “You seem… tired.”

Lady clambered up on Liana’s lap to lick her nose.

“Hello, baby,” Liana said to the direwolf cub. “Who’s a baby? You’re a baby! Yes, you are!” She noticed Theon—who was at breakfast for once—covertly watching them. He rolled his eyes at her dialogue with Lady though. Well, my dude, she thought, I guess you’re too cool to fuss over cute animals, are you?

Lady seemed to agree that she was a baby, though. She wagged her tail and gave Liana her best doggo smile. Liana scratched her ears.

“I didn’t sleep too well last night,” she said.

“I hope you are not coming down with an illness, Mistress Pyke,” Sansa said.

“I’m not feeling badly,” Liana replied. “You’ve all been very kind to me—especially your mother, allowing me to dine with your family for breakfast.”

“I asked her to,” said Sansa, dimpling. “I don’t mind having you here in the morning, especially since Lady has taken such a liking to you.”

Liana nodded to Lady Stark, who gave them a cool smile.

“But still,” Sansa continued. “If you haven’t been sleeping well, that is concerning. Should I call in Maester Luwin?”

Liana gritted her teeth. Luwin himself was not a bad man, but in the 5^th century AC, back during the Plague Years, when the Lotus Way first entered the cities of Westeros, the septons and maesters were enraged by how the prayer leaders of the Lady’s shrines would set up schools so everyone could learn how to read and write. As declared by the Lady, education was the priority for all followers of the Way; and the leaders of the Faith of the Seven found this a threat, because they believed only certain people, as approved by the Faith and the Citadel, could be allowed to study. As a result, the Lotus Way was outlawed in Westeros during the days of the Blackwater kings.

Meanwhile, back in Essos, Way adherents formed primary and secondary schools and universities, open to everyone, man or woman, rich or poor, black or white. Westeros, under the thumb of the Faith, lagged behind the East for centuries, until the University of Oldtown was established by King Petyr the Magnificent, first of his name, first of the Velick kings. With the rise of universities and public schooling, the Faith of the Seven became less omnipresent in Westrian culture, though it was still around, unfortunately.

But still. Fuck the maesters, and fuck the Citadel.

And Maester Luwin still had her pepper spray, six days later.

“Are you well, Mistress Pyke?” Sansa asked, concerned.

“I’m quite all right,” Liana said, rousing herself from her dark thoughts. “I just had a strange dream.”

“What was it?” Sansa asked gently. “I hope you can tell me, Mistress Pyke. I would like you to think of me as a friend.”

“Thank you,” said Liana, touched, remembering the grim, tight-mouthed portraits of Sansa I she saw in her history books. When was all the sweetness stamped out of her? Was it at the court of King Joffrey? Or was it later, at the hands of the Boltons? Well, that was years away at any rate. She took a deep breath.

“I dreamed I roamed the halls of a great opera house…”

“Opera house?” Sansa looked confused. “What’s an… opera?”

“Sorry, my lady. It’s a Qartheen word. It’s a sort of palace.” She cleared her throat.

“I was wandering through its halls, looking for Brenn. I heard him keep calling my name—Liana, Liana—but I couldn’t find him. I kept calling his name back, but I didn’t know where he was. And he didn’t know where I was. It was very upsetting.”

Miserable, she looked down into her cup of small beer, as Sansa touched her shoulder.

“I am so sorry, Mistress Pyke. Although I have not been promised yet…” She blushed a little at that. “I imagine it must be so hard to be separated from one’s betrothed. I am sure Father is doing his best to find Ser Brenn and your uncle.” She paused. “But…”

“But what?” Liana glanced at her curiously.

Sansa shook her head. “I’m just reminded of a strange legend of the Wolfswood I heard of as a child.” You still are a child, Liana wanted to say, but didn’t.

“What is it?”

The redhead picked at her eggs. “The crofters in the woods swear that it is haunted. They swear they’ve seen my Uncle Brandon wander through the woods, calling for his sister Lyanna, whom Rhaegar Targaryen abducted and… dishonored. He would call her name into the winds, and whenever a mortal man asked him his business, he would say ‘tell her that Bran is looking for her…’”

She sighed. “Now, you see, I am being silly. Repeating the stories of the smallfolk.”

Liana’s mouth grew dry.

“No,” she said. “Thank you for telling me, my lady. I find it illuminating.”

Holy shit. Maybe the local serfs thought the forest was haunted by dead Starks, but dollars to donuts it was Brenn.

Had Brenn been searching for years? But no, she had to think fourth dimensionally. He’d been using the Chronoscope, trying to pinpoint her exact location.

Somewhere, out there, he was looking for her.

Her dream from the flames—the dream that R’hllor Himself has sent—was right.

Liana’s heart warmed at the very thought, and for the first time since she’d been thrown back into the past, she felt real hope. 

                                                                             * * *

After nuncheon she wandered over to the courtyard to watch the boys sparring.

Liana, who had grown up with a great deal of structure since she was a child, with playdates and tutoring and extracurricular activities, felt at a loss at what to do with herself. Dad said she worked too hard, and didn’t know how to relax. The Ironish had such a different culture from the Qartheen, who were all about etiquette and propriety and schedules and academic excellence. Liana often thought it had been good for her to move to Pyke and take a breather before going off to college. Dad wasn’t always there—when Mom had died, he was working in Oldtown on some jobs, and later he moved to Kingsport. (The Islands could be a lot of fun, but there wasn’t a lot of work there outside fishing and tourism.) So she got to know Aunt Jenny, and her long-time live-in boyfriend Pelu, an ex-pro surfer from the Ultharian Isles; and her aunt taught her about life “on the Iron side” (as a million tourist t-shirts proclaimed).

True, Jenny failed at teaching her how to surf, but at least Liana managed to forget for a little bit about constantly worrying about school and grades and success. It was great to just chill and go to the beach and watch the seals cavorting and the waves crashing against the shore. Often she’d grab her bicycle and go off cycling down to Lordsport and Iron Holt, further north, or the ruins of the old castle near Pyke Village. There were movies and ice cream shops and thrift stores and record shops if she was bored, and in the evening she helped her aunt and Uncle Pelu tend the bar.

But she couldn’t do anything like that here. There was no sea. Nowhere she could walk to—ladies couldn’t leave the castle unsupervised. There was the castle, and whatever circumscribed activities appropriate for ladies. Which usually meant sewing with Sansa, Jeyne, Beth and Septa Mordane, while listening to conversations about gossip and courtesy and singing troubadour songs about love and chivalry. She was either in her bedroom, or the Great Hall, or the old bower or the new bower. And that was it.

At least she had her stories to tell in the Great Hall. And those had become Events. So there was that. That gave her something to do, something to concentrate on.

But God! She felt trapped here. She felt so claustrophobic.

Brenn, where are you? Liana thought. Are you coming soon? Please. I think I’m losing my mind.

As Ser Rodrik (that was his name, right?) supervised, the boys sparred with swords. They were an energetic lot. She knew nothing about swordplay, but she saw how the boys had different styles. Robb practiced with a very large sword that required both hands, in a very muscular sort of fighting style, but Jon was quicker and more deft with a longsword and buckler, while Theon was even lighter on his feet, with a smaller sword, who darted in and out between the two other boys, jabbing, with the aim of tiring both of them out. After a few minutes, Jon ended up disarming Robb, the older boy’s greatsword falling into the mud, but when Jon faced off with Theon, Theon grabbed the edge of the buckler with his left hand, grappling it, giving himself an opportunity to reach behind the shield and give Jon a good whack across the shoulder. Jon yelped in surprise and pain, dropping his buckler.  

“Seven hells, Greyjoy!” he snapped, rubbing his shoulder.

“Never fear, Snow,” Theon said with a smirk. “These are just practice swords. You’re not in any danger.”

“Excellent grappling maneuver, Theon,” Robb said, and Ser Rodrik nodded in approval.

“I’m glad you remembered the importance of grappling in single combat,” the older man said. “Fighting with a buckler can be tricky work, since you’re working with two objects at once. Yet I expect that more practice from all of you, though. The art of sword and shield is vital during wartime.”

They walked away, depositing the swords with the rest of the equipment in the armory, Jon still scowling at Theon, while Theon strutted along, clearly pleased with himself. He glanced up at Liana, waving, and Liana walked down the stairs to join him, daintily picking her skirts out of the mud, a la Sansa.

“Morning, coz,” he said. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“It wasn’t bad,” she said. “It sure beats sewing.”

For a moment, he looked puzzled by the expression, then laughed. “It does, doesn’t it?”

“Are you like Arya, Mistress Pyke?” Robb asked politely. “Less interested in embroidery than horses and archery?”

“Lord Robb, I don’t think I can be trusted with any sharp objects,” Liana said. “But I do like to tell a good tale, as you know. In fact, tonight I shall be telling the tale of ‘Antun Haro and the Fifty Thieves.’”

“Oh?” said Robb.

“Oh yes. It’s got buried treasure, diabolical villains, one exceptionally clever slave-girl and lots and lots of bloodshed. I’m sure you all will enjoy it. You too, Master Snow,” she added, noticing how Jon was lurking in the background, looking sullen as usual as he massaged his sore shoulder.

He glanced up, shifting awkwardly. “Thank you. Your stories are always good to hear, Mistress Pyke.”

“Well,” said Liana. “Is that actually a compliment, Master Snow?”

“Yes.” He flushed. “You’re a skilled storyteller, Mistress Pyke. I’ve never heard the like.”

“You are kind,” said Liana, unable to keep a flirtatious tone from her voice. “I hope the story tonight pleases you as much as the previous stories. I rather think it will. You must let me know what you think.”

She had the pleasure of seeing Jon’s blush deepen (and she also had the pleasure imagining how all those Path fuckers would lose their minds seeing a follower of the Way flirting with their precious Azor Ahai). But Theon bristled.

“I noticed you didn’t say anything about my story last night, Snow,” Theon snapped.

Jon shrugged. “It was good. Very Ironborn. But that’s what you’re all about, isn’t it? Telling us how wonderful the Ironborn are.”

“I’m a prince of the Iron Islands!”

“Former prince,” said Jon, his eyes glinting.

“Bastard!” snarled Theon.

Both of their hands flew to the daggers at their waist. She glanced at Robb in alarm, who held up his hands. “Jon, Theon, for the love of the Old Gods…”

The situation was getting tense fast. She had to defuse it now. She placed her hand to her throat, giving her best airy laugh, like Violante in The Fallen Woman.

“My dear cousin… Master Snow,” said Liana. “How you do both carry on.”

Jon scowled, and Theon grimaced. “Carry on?” he said.

“Yes. Always at odds. In fact, it reminds me a bit of bull seals. You’d see them sitting on the great rocks off the shores of Pyke. They’d always be fighting over territory, lumbering about, roaring, and whacking each other with flippers.”

They both stared at her, stunned. And then Robb burst into laughter.

“Gods, that’s right!” he sputtered. “That’s you two idiots!”

Theon and Jon blushed a dark red, as Liana joined Robb in laughter. But laughter was infectious; Theon started to laugh next, and Jon began to reluctantly chuckle as well. Soon all four of them were roaring like the best of friends at The Laughing Squid after several tumblers of whiskey.

Then a servant cleared her throat. Liana turned to see Jessa, clinging to the stair railing.

“Mistress Pyke,” she said. “Lady Stark wishes to request your presence in the solar.”

“Well, my lords, it’s been a slice,” said Liana, turning to the young men before any of them could say a word. “But I’m afraid I’ve been called to the principal’s office. I will see you all later, I expect. Don’t kill each other in the meantime.”

With a gracious nod, she sailed away behind Jessa, leaving Theon, Robb and Jon gaping after her.

                                                                                            * * *

“Mistress Pyke,” said Lady Stark, sitting straight-backed in her chair as Liana sat on a stool. She examined her closely, not looking entirely pleased. “It has come to my attention that you claim that your grandfather was Dagon Greyjoy’s bastard. I am surprised that you did not see fit to mention this earlier.”

“Lady Stark,” said Liana. “I can explain.”

“Please do.”

“My lady, the truth is that I never thought much about my paternal great-grandfather. But Lord Theon noticed a familiar resemblance, and similar mannerisms that we possess, and it is his theory that my grandfather’s sire was the late Lord Dagon.”

“Do you believe him?” Lord Stark asked.

Liana shrugged. “Lord Stark, it’s the Iron Islands. Everyone’s related somehow. I’ve heard stranger things.”

“I can see the resemblance.” He peered at her. “Not so much in the eyes. But there’s something about the jawline, and the chin.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s knobby.”

A small smile crossed his serious face. “It is at that.”

There was an awkward silence, and she asked: “Have you any word from my uncle? Or Brenn? I mean… Lord Brenn,” she corrected herself, coloring.

Lord Stark sighed. “I’m afraid not, Mistress Pyke. My men have been searching the Wolfswood, but the crofters have heard nothing about your party that was attacked. Though there have been plenty of wildling incursions, as of late,” he added, his face darkening.

“Now…” he went on. “My men haven’t been able to search the forest as thoroughly as they might, because… a few of them have been on edge. From the hauntings.”

“Hauntings?” Lady Stark asked sharply. “This is the first I’ve heard of it, Ned.”

Lord Stark’s eyes flicked towards Liana, uncomfortable. “You know, it’s just… the old stories. About my brother and sister.”

“But that’s what they aren’t they, Ned? Stories.”

“I don’t know.” Lord Stark rubbed his forehead. “Even Jory’s heard it, and Jory’s not the sort to jump at grumkins and snarks.”

Genuine distress filled Lady Stark’s face. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced back at Liana, and his expression became remarkably earnest. “My apologies, Mistress Pyke. I’m sure you just want to see your uncle and betrothed safe. We will find out what happened to them, I swear, by the Old Gods and the New.”

Liana fought to keep her expression neutral. God, he was such a good man. It pained her to think of how he would die.

Or… would he? This was a new timeline, after all.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

Well, there was one good thing about these supposed “hauntings.” It meant Brenn was actively looking for her. So that meant that all she had to do was stall for time until he showed up.

Liana prayed it would be soon.

“We should thank you, Mistress Pyke,” Lord Stark said. “We’ve heard how you taught your, ah, cousin lessons in storytelling these past few days. The performance was a success, I hear. Arya was very excited. An impressive feat. Arya is not easily pleased.”

“I’ve gathered that, my lord,” she said, smiling a little.

“It’s especially impressive,” said Lady Stark, “since your cousin Greyjoy can be a bit… rough in his language, as you have no doubt noticed. But Septa Mordane said it was told very prettily, even if the subject matter was rather grim.”

“I’m glad,” said Liana. “It was a story Lord Theon’s mother told him, and he was eager to present it in a compelling and entertaining fashion. I’m pleased to be of some assistance, even if it was just in some small way.”

Lord and Lady Stark glanced at each other, in one of their patented “Married Looks” they were fond of exchanging.

“I think perhaps you could help us in a larger way, Mistress Pyke,” Lord Stark said.

Well, this was a surprise. What could they want?

“I would be delighted to help you, my lord,” said Liana. “My lady.”

Lady Stark took a deep breath.

“I have been talking to Septa Mordane. She speaks well of you.” Liana was glad that she’d spent so much time with the Septa in agreeable conversation, even if three fourths of it was discussing food and booze and the remaining percentage was praising Sansa’s talents. “She believes you’re a respectable, worldly, educated woman with some knowledge of Southron nobility. And the fact that you are engaged to… this Fossoway gentleman. Is he a ser or a lord?”

“He’s not a knight, only the younger son of a lord,” Liana said, remembering her conversations with Brenn on the way north. Well, Brenn’s dad would have been a lord before the Revolution, so maybe that counted.

“Forgive me if I have asked this previously. Is he of the green or red apple branch?”

“Neither,” said Liana. “He belongs to an obscure cadet branch who style themselves the yellow apple Fossoways. Their house is Orchard Hill, south of Ashford.”

Lady Stark quirked up an eyebrow. “A fine marriage for you, then. I take it this betrothal was done with the approval of Lord Brenn’s father and mother?”

Liana lowered her eyes. “The Fossoways of Orchard Hill are not as rich as their cousins, Lady Stark. My mother’s family, the Hazredis, belong to the Spice Guild of Qarth and are not poorly off. Lord Brenn is my uncle’s assistant, and I am my uncle’s heir.”

This was all close enough to the truth to sound probable. And Lady Stark looked favorably impressed with her, for the first time ever. The power of name dropping, Liana thought ironically. She’s from the South for sure.

“Well,” said Lady Stark. “That seems like a reasonable choice for all parties involved. Again, I will pray to the Seven for the safe return of your uncle and your betrothed. I’m sure Sansa will do the same. She speaks highly of you, Mistress Pyke.”

Liana smiled.

“Sansa is a daughter of whom you can be proud,” she said. “She will go far.”

It was Lady Stark’s turn to smile. Her blue eyes sparkled.

“That’s true. We have the highest of hopes for her. And this brings us to how you may help us.

“It seems you can teach,” continued Lady Stark. “Perhaps you might consider working with Septa Mordane on lessons for Sansa? You said she will go far. I think that you are right. We have not settled on a betrothal for her yet, but if she is destined for a Southron court, a little extra polish would not be inappropriate.”

Lord Stark looked less thrilled with the prospect of a Southern marriage than Lady Stark, but he nodded. (Perhaps, she thought, he might be more open to a Greyjoy marriage instead?) But Liana nodded, thrilled with the possibilities.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, my lady! I am honored by your confidence in me. In fact, I have an idea on what I might be able to teach, if you’d like to hear.”

“We are very interested, Mistress Pyke,” said Lady Stark. “What did you have in mind?”

“Some basic grounding in rhetoric,” said Liana.

“For a woman?” Lord Stark exclaimed.

“That is an extraordinary suggestion, Mistress Pyke,” Lady Stark replied. “What makes you think this might be appropriate for Sansa?”

“Simply this, my lady.” Liana spread out her hands. “Rhetoric is a vital skill for a man of princely rank. Yet some knowledge of it is vital for a princess or great lady as well, since much of court life involves persuasion and panegyric and mastering the art of public speaking. Not only is it imperative to learn how to be convincing, knowledge of rhetoric allows one to hold one’s own ground and discern if others use suspicious or faulty arguments.”

“Go on,” said Lady Stark.

“There are many circumstances where a lady might be required to deliver a speech,” said Liana. “For example, she might wish to put forward a candidate for an office, and she might need to persuade her husband or others. Secondly, the wife of a lord or a prince is often called upon to deliver a speech begging for mercy for this, that or the other. Often, this is a strategy agreed upon beforehand by the lord or lady, so the lord doesn’t look weak by immediately announcing mercy-- he merely appears as if he is persuaded by his wife’s piety and gentleness. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, are the matters of betrothal. A lady might need to convince her husband in regards to the best choice of wives and husbands for their children.

“Lord and Lady Stark, I ask you to consider my proposition. The time for Sansa’s education is now. I know what life is like at the Southern courts. I can guarantee you that she is going to have to give more than one speech in her life. Wouldn’t it be better if she obtained a basic primer on rhetorical basics immediately, rather than figuring it out as she goes?”

Lord Stark grimaced. “It sounds like a lot of devious Southron nonsense—” But his voice trailed away as Lady Stark gave him a significant look.

“Ned,” she said. “I think Mistress Pyke makes a valid point. If Sansa does wed a man from south of the Neck…” Her voice trailed away significantly.

Lord Stark grumbled something under his breath, as Lady Stark sighed.

“Perhaps, my lady, it would help if I put together a lesson plan, and submitted it your lordship and ladyship for further consideration,” Liana said 

“I think that would be a marvelous idea,” said Lady Stark, as her husband nodded reluctantly.

“In that case, my lord, my lady, I shall get started right away.” Excitement surged through Liana at the very idea. This sort of thing was exactly in her wheelhouse. “I just need quill, ink and parchment, and access to the library.”

“Done and done,” said Lord Stark, looking amused despite himself. “I look forward to your plan, Mistress Pyke.”

Liana sprang up. “I will not disappoint you, Lord and Lady Stark!”

And she wasn’t, she swore to herself. Even if Lady Stark would tear her head off if she knew Liana’s plans for Sansa and Theon.

But what she didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt her. And better Theon, who would grow to love Sansa, than a sadistic creep like Joffrey, who would murder Lord Stark and beat and humiliate Sansa in front of his entire court.

Speaking of Joffrey. When was he and his horrible mother coming to Winterfell?

Because she wondered how much time she had.

Or rather, how much time she hadn’t.

Chapter Text

Teaching might have been in Liana’s wheelhouse, but writing in the Age of the Sagas definitely wasn’t.

She was allowed access to the library, where there was an adjoining room—a scriptorium—with a desk and a separate stand for the inkhorn, knife and a box of sharpened and tempered quills. It occurred to Liana that she needed to be very careful with the ink—and sharpening the quills—because if she splattered ink over her one and only dress, she would be forced to stay in her room all day while Jessa cleaned it, or worse yet—she would be lent a servant’s gown. She would lose face, a terrifying prospect in this era.

As a result, she sharpened her quill as little as she could, leaving a blotchy, messy scrawl on the various sheets of parchment. Animals died for this, she thought, cringing as she looked at the results on the cured sheepskin. Scholars were noted in the Ice Age for their beautiful handwriting, and hers looked like a five year old’s with ADHD. But it was what it was. Perhaps, instead of submitting a plan, she might ask to do a presentation instead.

Liana glanced over the pile of rhetorical treatises that a wary Maester Luwin had dug up for her, including Grazdan mo Zaraq’s Against Sophistry, Aerion Telaeryon’s The Art of Rhetoric, and most promising, the Pentoshi master Tullio Kikyris’s On Oratory. Kikyris, of all the available rhetoricians, was the most accessible, though Telaeryon made a bunch of good points too, and was also considered a foundational text in rhetorical classes. If she had as little time as she suspected she did, then it would be best to focus on those, along with some good old Lasiray High debate team speechwriting 101.

She reread The Art of Rhetoric as well as On Oratory, writing down the salient points, and thought about how she might be able to distill them down, with added assignments. She was mulling this over, when she heard a slight tapping on the half-open door of the scriptorium.

Liana glanced up to see Theon, grinning at her.

“Took forever to find you,” he groused as he sauntered in. “Here you are, tucked away in the library like a bloody maester. Why are you here, anyway?”

“Well, funny you should ask…” she began, and then realized that there might be someone else in the library. Her eyes darted around.

“Don’t worry,” he said in a low voice. “Nobody’s here. Not even Arya Underfoot. I checked. And double checked too.”

Her anxiety abating somewhat, she nodded. “Right. Here’s what happened with Lord and Lady Stark.” And she quickly filled him in.

But instead of being pleased with her possible new position, Theon’s face twisted with disgust.

“Rhetoric?” he spat. “Why in the seven hells does Sansa Stark need to learn rhetoric? She’s not some dried-up old justiciar. She’s a woman.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Theon Greyjoy,” Liana snapped, at the end of her tether. “She’s not going to be a goddamned salt wife or a junior concubine. She’s a lady who will probably marry a Lord Paramount or a prince. She’s going to have duties and responsibilities to her lord and bannermen and subjects that will involve giving a speech at some point. She’s a bright girl, and I have a chance to teach her something that she’ll be able to use.”

Her eyes narrowed, as she pointed the quill knife at him. “Or would you prefer I just shelve all of this, and she and I can talk about fucking cross-stitch for the next three weeks?”

Theon stared at her, stepping back. He’d never heard her swear before, she realized.

“You don’t have to bite my head off, you know,” Theon said sulkily. “I just think it’s funny to teach a girl rhetoric.” He scowled. “It’s more than I’ve ever got.”

“I’m sorry,” Liana said. “My lord…” Probably a bit late to go back to titles, but it couldn’t hurt. “I strongly believe you should have been trained in rhetoric. A rhetorician should have been brought from the Free Cities to teach you everything in these treatises and more. You’re a prince.”

“Former prince,” Theon said bitterly. “Didn’t you hear Snow?”

Fuck him, she wanted to say, but held her tongue. “Look, regardless of the legality of whatever royal claim you might have, the fact remains that you are of princely rank. You deserve a princely education.”

She didn’t think Theon could look more bitter, but his mouth twisted as if he bit into a lemon.

“No matter what Robb may think, coz, I’m not a ward. I’m a hostage. A prisoner. I was lucky to get whatever education the Stark boys had.” He grimaced. “Of course, it’s not as if Lord Stark hired a rhetorician for Robb either.”

“Of course not,” said Liana. “Lord Stark informed me that rhetoric was ‘devious Southron nonsense.’”

“He would say that,” said Theon. He cocked his head, smirking. “But you’re devious, aren’t you, cousin?”

She cocked her head back. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He leaned against the writing desk. “You got an in with Lady Stark, didn’t you? She loves anything Southron. You can put on a show with those Reachlander airs and graces, as good as any I’ve seen. Now you’re going to teach Sansa how to talk people into thinking that night is day, and day is night. I can’t wait.”

“That’s good,” said Liana. “I’m glad you’re keeping your eyes on the prize.”

“Eyes on the prize?” Theon repeated dumbly.

“You know perfectly well what I mean.” Liana lowered her voice. “Your red lady.”

Theon flushed.

“She’s not my red lady. She’ll be the lady of whatever Lord Paramount or prince marries her.”

“But you are a prince,” said Liana.

“Stop it!” Theon snapped. “I’m not good enough for the fucking Starks, I can tell you that. I never will be.” He slumped. “I’m here to execute if my father starts acting up again, and that’s it.”

Liana wanted so badly to give him a hug, but knew that such a gesture would be very misconstrued. She contented herself with laying her hand on his wrist, which felt risky enough. But Theon looked so depressed he didn’t even comment on her touch.

“Cousin…” she began, but her voice trailed away.

He gazed at her, his eyes darkening. “I don’t know why you care so much. I hardly know you. You’re a stranger. But…” His voice grew almost inaudible. “I feel like I’ve met you before. I don’t know why.”

“Lord Theon. Cousin.” Liana’s mouth went dry. He was losing heart again. How could she best convince him? “I know this sounds mad. You don’t believe in the Lord of Light. But last night I…saw… things in the flames.” Well, that was true at least. God, forgive me.

Theon stared at her. “Are you a fire witch, like that raper said?”

He paused, then shook his head. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“I’m not. I swear to you, coz, I’m not a fire witch or sorceress or anything like that. But last night R’hllor blessed me with visions. And one of things I saw was you…and Sansa.”

For a moment, terror flashed across Theon’s face. “Me and Sansa?”

“Yes. Some years older. Dressed in rags. The light around you was blue as ice. You kissed her hand. And then you embraced, like lovers.”

Well, that was what she saw, in her dream last night. And the dream was brought to her by the Lord of Light. So she wasn’t lying.

“What does this mean?” he said hoarsely. “Why would you be shown such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” said Liana. “But I sensed this from what I saw. Tragedies will befall you two. But you will fall in love. And that, somehow, you are meant to be together.”

“Me and Sansa.” A muscle twitched in his jaw as he stared at the ceiling. “Why in the seven fucking hells would your Red God give a shit about me or Sansa? It doesn’t make any bloody sense!”

Liana shrugged. “If I knew, I would tell you. But I swear to you, I didn’t start seeing things in the fire until last night. If the Lord of Light chooses to bring me visions, I’m not going to question them.”

“I…” Theon pushed his hair back. “This is… madness. I…”

He looked lost for a moment; then he took a deep breath. “I have to go.”

She let him leave.

Liana stared down at her appalling handwriting. Oh God, she thought. I hope I haven’t made a horrible mistake.

                                                                                        * * *

She was so wracked by anxiety that she could barely concentrate on her lesson plan; and she had to prepare for her story anyway. I’ll work on this tomorrow morning, she thought, and after she obtained Luwin’s approval, she took her notes and the treatises back to her room where she could review them later.

Liana then went for a long walk around Winterfell to calm herself. She wished she had her sneakers with her, instead of her damned heeled ankle boots which she had to wear every waking moment of every single day, but she told herself at least they were quality leather shoes with sturdy gripped soles that were arguably even better quality then what the Stark family wore.

I’m sick of wearing the same clothes, she thought as she gazed out over the battlements into the Wolfswood and towards the Northern Mountains. I’m sick of wearing the same shoes. I’m sick of ‘a bath’ being a sponge bath taken with a basin. I’m sick of unseasoned stew. What I’d give for some curry so hot it makes your nose run. And coffine. And espresso. And vodka as strong as paint thinner, not just the usual fucking wine and ale.

God! And what she would give for a hot shower with bath gel and a toilet and a sink with running water. And a computer with a Wi-Fi connection. And a working phone. The list went on and on.

The cold wind whipped her braid around as Liana let out a sob.

She leaned over the parapet. “Brenn?” she called out. “Brenn?”

Perhaps one of the soldiers with the soup tureen helmets glanced at her oddly, but she didn’t care. She almost thought she heard “Liana?” very faintly, on the wind.                                   

                                                                            * * *

At dinner, Liana sat next to Septa Mordane as usual, and the Septa gave a sour comment about Theon being missing from the usual Stark line-up at the main table.

“You know,” the septa said, “I really thought he was starting to change after he told his tale the other night. I thought he was going to be more… receptive, and responsible. But no. It seems he’s gone out to Winter Town again.” She sniffed.

“Well, I wouldn’t think too much of it,” said Liana, hiding her alarm under a bland smile. “What’s the saying? You take two steps forward, then one step back? That’s how progress goes, I think.”

“It’s not a saying I’m familiar with,” said Septa Mordane. “But it seems a worthy one. Is it a saying from Qarth?”

Liana agreed it was and changed the subject, as her brain churned with worry and anxiety.

Had Theon gone out to drink his worries away in Winter Town, in the company of… God, who the hell knew. Did he actually have any other friends than Robb? She didn’t think so. Lady, that was so fucking sad.

Well, it shouldn’t surprise her. She’d just fucked with his head, telling him about her vision. And in this period, self-medication was limited to wine and ale. Well, there was dreamwine and opium, which was quaintly called “milk of the poppy,” but that wasn’t Theon’s style.

Also feeling the need for self-medication, Liana drank deeply from the crappy Riverlands vintage the upper servants were given, noticing that Septa Mordane was doing the same thing.

It’s too bad, Liana thought, we can’t go for a girls’ night out, eat whatever we pleased, drink whatever we wanted to, and bitch about whatever came to mind. No, we have to stay in the castle and be available and look pleasant all. The. Time.

Man, fuck this time period.

She drank enough to dull her anxiety and misery, but not enough so she wouldn’t be able to tell her bandit-killing gorefest in front of her boss’s kids. Because that’s what Lord Stark basically was now, right? Her boss.

It wouldn’t become official until he’d approved her proposal—and first she needed to finish her proposal-- but she would think about that tomorrow.

She had tonight to worry about first.

                                                                                      * * *

“Antun Haro and the Fifty Thieves” was one of the most famous stories to come out of Qarth, and it had been adapted to TV and movies even more often than ‘”The Enchanted Horse.” It had tons of excitement and adventure, combined with great characters. Who could forget Antun, the poor man who discovered a magical treasure cave owned by bloodthirsty robbers, purely by accident? Or Antun’s rich, hapless brother Hanno, who was slaughtered by bandits when discovered hiding in the cave, or the clever slave-girl Marghiana, who single-handedly boiled alive the bandits hiding in oil jars on their third attempt to murder Antun? And the story had what all great stories had—a memorable villain, in the robber king Matanos, and his obsession with tracking down and murdering the entire Haro family for discovering the secret of his treasure cave. Matanos pretended to be an oil merchant; then a shopkeeper who claimed to be opening a shop next door to Antun’s house, so he could get an invitation and dine at their table while planning the murder of the Haros. And the climactic moment—what a moment!—when Marghiana, in performing a sword dance, plunged a sword into the chest of Matanos when she recognized him.

As she expected, everyone applauded loudly when she’d finished, though Robb grimaced.

“Mistress Pyke,” he said to her, once the applause died down. “Once again you charm us with another story from the shores of the Summer Sea. I enjoyed it very much. But… there’s one thing that bothers me about it.”

“Yes, Lord Robb?” Liana queried. “What bothered you?”

“Antun Haro offered Matanos bread and salt, and he was a guest under his own roof,” said Robb. “But one of Haro’s own household killed him. This is a crime against the gods! But Marghiana isn’t punished. She isn’t executed for killing a guest. Instead, she’s freed and rewarded with the hand of Haro’s own son! I know this is Qarth, which has its own customs, but how can this be right?”

What the hell? Had he been even listening?

“Lord Robb,” Liana began, wondering how she could state her case without offending him, but before she could say anything, Arya jumped up, her eyes flashing.

“Robb Stark! You complete idiot!”

“Arya,” said Robb, shocked—and Septa Mordane exclaimed “Arya!” as well in displeasure-- but Arya forged ahead.

“Marghiana killed the robber king because he was going to murder her and entire Haro family. He already killed the brother. He cut off Hanno’s head and left his corpse to rot in the cave! He tried three times to try to kill Antun and the rest of the Haros, but Marghiana stopped him every time. Matanos lied, Robb—he lied about his true identity so he could get inside the house and butcher everyone. But Marghiana saw through his disguise and his lies and stopped him for the last time. And you would execute her for that? I don’t know even know what to say to you!”

“Arya, I—” Robb winced. “You know what Father would say about guest rights. What about the Rat King?”

“That’s not the same at all, and you know it. Marghiana is a hero, Robb Stark. It’s no crime to defend your family, especially when their lives are at stake. If I were in her position I would have done the exact same thing!”

Robb’s mouth hung open, as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Arya, I never knew you felt so strongly about this.”

Arya folded her arms, jutting out her jaw. “Well, I do.”

Robb glanced at Sansa, as if asking her for help, but she just shrugged. Then he glanced at Theon, hanging against the back wall—where Jon usually lurked—but his friend just looked away.

Robb had brought Theon in earlier, and she was glad that the Greyjoy heir wasn’t completely blotto. He seemed pretty morose, though, and despite Robb’s attempts to be jolly, Theon just hung off to the side. Now he moved closer to the fire again, saying nothing. He leaned against the fireplace, arm on the hearth lintel, head in hand, eyes shadowed.

She hoped he was all right—but she couldn’t help but admire his swagger, even when he was depressed. It was a pose worthy of a hero in a romantic novel, usually one where the hero had a mad wife in the attic.

As Robb tried—unsuccessfully—to reason with Arya, and Septa Mordane lectured her on her rudeness, Sansa glanced back towards Theon. Romantic brooding boys were like catnip to girls Sansa’s age, Liana recalled, remembering half of the young adult romances she’d read back then.

“Did you like the story, Sansa?” Liana asked.

“I liked it very much,” said Sansa. “Though, to be honest, I preferred ‘The Enchanted Horse.’ It was more of a love story. This… felt more like something Arya would like.”

“As we have just seen,” Liana said dryly.

Sansa giggled, her eyes darting back again towards Theon. “Perhaps we should ask my cousin for his opinion?” Liana said.

“Yes,” said Sansa primly. “I hope he wasn’t too drunk to appreciate it.”

“We shall see,” said Liana, gesturing for Sansa to go first.

With a grace Liana envied, Sansa glided to Theon’s side, Liana shadowing behind her. The younger girl nodded her head. “Lord Theon. I’m glad to see you were able to make it. And you’re upright.”

Little Sansa Snark, Liana thought, amused. Theon did smell like he crawled out of a cask of wine. Which made his ability to stand even more impressive.

“Lady Sansa,” said Theon, giving a vague wave in her direction. “You needn’t worry. Robb was going to drag me out of The Smoking Log even if he had to load me up in a cart.” He gave a half-hearted smirk.

“I’m glad to see that wasn’t necessary.” Sansa was ever the lady. “I imagine you’d be very sad to miss one of your cousin’s tales.”

“I would be,” said Theon, giving Liana an unreadable look that made her squirm uncomfortably. “She always manages to surprise me.”

“What else are relatives for?” Liana said. “I hope you enjoyed the story.”

“It was as bloodthirsty as you promised it would be,” Theon drawled. “With a clever woman who isn’t above deception and violence to help her own family.” She had a feeling he wasn’t talking about Marghiana, either. “But it had much less love or lust this time around. What did you think of that, Lady Sansa?”

His hooded gaze fixed on Sansa’s face, which flushed.

“Not everything can be a love story,” Sansa said. “I appreciate that… there are different types of stories out there. Not everything can be Florian and Jonquil. Or Arrelion and Jhananaya, to use one of your cousin’s examples.”

“But that’s what you prefer, isn’t it, Lady Sansa?” Theon’s voice toed the line between polite and insolent. “Gallantry and yearning and the heights of passion. You’ve always liked that, even when you were young. And you still fancy it, though you’re older now.”

His eyes swept over Sansa’s body briefly, and if Liana thought Sansa was red before, well—now her cheeks were a radiant scarlet. She wondered if she might slap him.

No. That would bring them too much attention. And she was quite sure Sansa didn’t want that.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting that in a story.” Sansa raised her chin. “Gallantry and yearning and the heights of passion. Don’t tell me there wasn’t any of that in your selkie tale, Theon Greyjoy, or I’ll call you a liar.”

Now it was Theon’s turn to redden.

“In fact, you’ve been awfully quiet all evening,” Sansa said, stepping forward, a teasing note creeping into her voice. “Lurking by the hearth. I wonder why. Have you thinking about your selkie—your red lady?”

The flames in the hearth reflected red-gold glints in the masses of Sansa’s soft hair. Like the red-gold greaves from a dragon’s hoard.

Theon openly stared at her now. As if he wanted to drink her in with his eyes. “Always,” he said.

Sansa turned crimson now. Her lashes lowered.

“I want to hear another story from you,” she murmured. “The story of the Grey King and the mermaid. I want to hear a proper Ironborn love story. Jeyne says they don’t exist.”

“Jeyne’s an idiot,” said Theon huskily. “They exist. I can tell you all about them. If you want to hear.”

“I do,” Sansa whispered, and her eyes glowed softly as she gazed back at Theon. “I would love to hear.”

“I’ll do it then,” said Theon. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Lady Sansa.”

She gave him a shy smile. “I know what people say about you, Theon Greyjoy. But I don’t believe them. Not for a moment. I know you would never disappoint me.”

At that, something shifted in Theon’s expression. His grey-green-blue eyes grew radiant, and the line of his mouth softened. He stepped forwards. “I won’t.” His voice grew thick. “Lady, I swear it.”

Holy shit, was she going to have to throw cold water over the two of them? Liana had really underestimated the power of teenage hormones. Even though the argument with Robb, Arya and Septa Mordane still continued unabated, someone else had noticed the exchange by the fireplace. And that someone was Jon.

He strolled towards the three of them, his brow creasing and his expression stormy. He looked like he was quite ready to rip Theon into bits. Of course, Theon and Sansa didn’t noticed, since they were staring at each other, oblivious to the world.

What would Marghiana do? Liana had a pretty good idea.

“Master Snow!” Liana exclaimed, moving towards him. “How good to see you. But you didn’t even come up and bid me good evening when I arrived in the hall. I’m sad, Master Snow. I thought we were becoming friends.”

“We are, Mistress Pyke.” He tried to look around her, frustrated (she was exactly his height, especially with her heels). “What’s going on—”

“If we are friends, then may I call you Jon?”

“Uh, yes. Mistress Pyke, if you would allow me—”

“I should love it if you call me Liana.” Ironically, this was very close to his mother’s name. Not that he would know that yet.

“Yes. Liana.” Jon gritted his teeth. “What’s going on there?”

“Where?” Liana asked innocently.

“With your cousin Greyjoy and Lady Sansa!”

“Oh,” said Liana, throwing up her hand in an airy gesture. “They’re merely having a discussion about your favorite topic. You know, seals.”

She smiled blandly as Jon blushed. She took his hand.

“My dear Jon,” she said, feeling as if she were channelling every femme fatale from every historical drama ever, “not only did you not greet me when I arrived, but you rushed past me without even a by-your-leave. I have worked so hard on this story for the night’s entertainment, and you have not breathed a single syllable on your opinion of it. It leads me to think you think very little of our friendship.”

“Oh no, Mis—Liana. I think you’re kind. And very talented. Your story was the best thing I’ve ever heard. I just—” His eyes darkened. “You may not know your cousin’s reputation with women. And Lady Sansa is very, very innocent.”

“He would not hurt her,” said Liana. “I swear it.”

Jon shook his head.

“You don’t know him like I do, mistress. I’ve known him nine years. That’s a good amount of time to get to know someone. He’s a womanizer—a lecher—a whoremonger.”

“So?” Liana argued. “He’s a young man of princely rank. He’s sowing his oats.” Well, ideally Theon wouldn’t visit prostitutes at all, given that it was a systemic problem in this time period, but it seemed foolish of her to impose her modern morality on the past, and if Theon was having consensual sex with willing partners—hell, that was an improvement on most men from this time period anyway. Jon seemed to have a very stringent morality, but he was, as the saying went, the exception that proved the rule. “That doesn’t mean he’s a raper or a debaucher of maidens.”

Jon’s jaw set. “Your relationship blinds him to his true nature. If I may pass, mistress— Liana—”

But as Jon at last passed her, Sansa had melted back into the crowd, leaving Theon in a now insouciant pose. He looked a bit more cheerful, Liana noticed. She wondered how Sansa had bid him farewell while she and Jon were talking.

“Well, you look like someone pissed into your ale,” Theon said by way of greeting. “But what else is new, Snow?”

Jon jabbed his finger towards his chest. “What was your business with my sister, Greyjoy?”

“My business with Sansa?” Theon sneered. “We were only talking for a moment, Snow. It’s not illegal now, is it?”

Jon clenched his fists. “I don’t want to see her around you, do I make myself clear?”

“Fine words,” said Theon. “What are you going to do about it, bastard?”

They were in full bull seal territory now, and Liana felt helpless. “Cousin Theon!” she exclaimed. “Jon, please. I don’t want a fight—”

“Liana, stay out of it,” Jon said tersely. “This is men’s business. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Theon drew back, glaring at her and Jon.

“Oh… is it Jon and Liana now?” He seethed, his teeth bared. “Maybe I should ask you what your intentions are about my cousin!”

“I have no intentions,” Jon spat, “but even if I did, they’d be honorable, which is more than I can say for you and my sister!”

“Oh ho, so you were thinking about my cousin.” Theon jabbed his chest with his finger. “She’s too good for the likes of you, bastard. Have you forgotten she’s betrothed? Or maybe you were hoping that southron knight dies out in the Wolfswood—and you can have my cousin all to yourself, and start your own little bastard family? Is that it?”

“Theon!” gasped Liana.

“I’ve had enough of your gab, Greyjoy,” Jon said through gritted teeth.

“Have you?” said Theon with a smirk. “Well, I’ve barely started to—”

But before Theon could get a chance to finish, Jon hauled off and slugged him in the face, the sickening thump of fist against flesh resounding through the Hall.

All chatter hushed.

Theon staggered, falling against the wall. But he could hold his wine, and the Drowned God only knew how the Ironborn lived for shit like this. As he wiped the trickle of blood from his mouth, his eyes became a murderous gunmetal grey.

“You fucking whoreson!” he snarled. And Theon launched himself towards Jon, grabbing him by the doublet and punching him on the underside of the jaw with a full right uppercut.

Jon flew, grunting as he hit the rush-strewn flagstones, but kicked upwards, catching Theon in the kneecap with the heel of his boot. Theon collapsed, gasping, but before Jon could gain any advantage over him, Theon managed to lever himself up just enough to get the jump on Jon. He pushed him into the floor and started raining punches down on him. But Jon was no pushover—he kneed Theon in the stomach and shoved him against a chair, where Theon banged his head on the chair’s leg. The other boy was momentarily stunned; but had the presence of mind to roll out of the way as Jon aimed his fist towards his teeth. Soon the two were scrabbling on the floor of the Great Hall like angry bearcats, snarling, spitting, pounding each other with a whirlwind of fists with what was clearly the pent-up rage of the last ten years.

At last Robb and Jory and several other men managed to tear the two apart. Theon and Jon were winded, bruised, bleeding, their clothes torn. They glared at each other, then looked down, shame-faced, as Robb stared at them.

“What in the seven hells?” Robb said with horror. “What possessed you? Theon? Jon?”

They said nothing.

“Mistress Pyke,” said Septa Mordane. Her voice was hesitant, as she touched her shoulder lightly with her hand. “Are you… well, my dear?”

Oh God, thought Liana, overwhelmed, terrified. Everyone’s going to say they were fighting over me. That I’m a slut who turned two men on each other. And the Starks will throw me out. Oh God, I’m fucked! Lord of Light, I’m so fucked!

“Oh Septa,” she said, and burst into tears as she fell into the older woman’s arms.

“There, there,” said the Septa, patting her back. “You’re safe, my dear.”

“Septa,” Liana said through her tears. “Men are such idiots!”

Septa Mordane sighed.

“That they are, my dear. That they are.”

Chapter Text

“Mistress Pyke,” Jessa said to her the next morning, as she laced up her corset, “what on earth happened last night? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Liana considered saying she didn’t want to talk about it, but that was probably a bad idea, given how precarious her situation was.

“What have people been saying?” she asked. On one hand, she didn’t want to be portrayed as a homewrecking promiscuous foreign upstart; but on the other hand, if Sansa was named as the cause, that was even worse.

Jessa grimaced. “That it was over you, Mistress, but it’s no secret there’s bad blood between Lord Theon and Jon Snow, and that it was bound to happen sooner or later. But also—” she looked uncomfortable—“that it was no surprise that it was over a woman, either, given Lord Theon’s reputation, and that Snow is a bastard, and blood will out, and all that. Though he’s always been a perfect gentleman to me,” she added, blushing.

“What about Lord Theon?” Liana asked.

“He grabbed me once, but I slapped him,” Jessa said. “He’s left me alone ever since, which is more than I can say for some of the men around here.” She paused, her lip curling, clearly remembering those other men. “But make no mistake, Mistress, he’s handsome. Charming enough, in his way. So there’s no end of girls who try to, ah, gain his favor. He’s especially popular with the whores and tavern wenches down in Winter Town.”

Liana thought of Theon’s story of how he performed oral sex on his favorite prostitute (the very act that Sansa had seen by accident). Again, it wasn’t ideal he patronized brothels, but at least he cared if the girls in question were having a good time. So, that was another point in his favor, she supposed.

“Do you like him?”

“To be honest, I don’t have an opinion, mistress. But most people seem to love him or hate him, you know? He’s quick with a jape or a smile, but he’s very quick to tell people what to do, and he can be awfully high-handed. Yet he’s a lord, so…” Jessa shrugged. “Lord Robb likes him, so I suppose he can’t be entirely bad.”

Damned with faint praise, thought Liana, but she half expected to hear something worse.

“What have they been saying about my role in this?”

Jessa bit her lip. “Depends who you ask, Mistress. I think most think you’re innocent. It’s just bad blood between those boys. But there’s a few malcontents and gossips who say elsewise.”

Liana’s stomach lurched. “Elsewise? Like what?”

“Like Lady Stark’s maid Nesta claims you were leading on both of them, playing the two off each other like some Southron courtesan.” The maid’s brow furrowed. “You weren’t, were you? That doesn’t seem right.”

“I wasn’t.” Indignant, Liana folded her arms. “Master Snow and I conversed in a friendly way, and my cousin took offense, because he was drunk. It was extremely stupid. I hope Lord Stark reads them the riot act.”

“Reads them the… what? What is a riot act?”

“Never mind. It just means that I hope Lord Stark reprimands them severely.”

“Oh! Well, don’t be afraid, Mistress Pyke. I am sure he will.”

As Jessa finished styling her hair, Liana said, “You’ve been so helpful, Jessa. I just have one more question.”

“Thank you, Mistress. What’s that?”

“Should I take breakfast here in my room, or go down to the Great Hall? I don’t want to see anyone, really, but I don’t want to see like I’m hiding because I’m ashamed. I’m not from here, so please let me know if I’m, ah, not behaving correctly.”

“Ah.” Jessa twirled one of her braids in thought. “I don’t think any sensible person would blame you if you took your breakfast in here, but someone like Nesta might talk. That’s a Southron thing, Mistress—for a woman to be more discreet and retiring. In the North, they expect you to be more direct, to stare everyone in the eye even if people talk.”

“I suppose it’s like the Iron Islands in that respect,” Liana said. “Thank you, Jessa.”

 “Anytime, Mistress Pyke.” Jessa smiled.

                                                                           * * *

 With Jessa’s advice in mind, Liana held her head high and marched down to the Great Hall, even though serving girls and assorted men-at-arms smirked and whispered as she passed. But she held her head high, doing her best to exude dignified, unflappable calm.

 She was immediately glad she came, though. Not only did Lady wag her tail and pant happily (was she already getting bigger?)—but Sansa and Arya turned to her.

“How are you?” Arya asked. “I loved your story. It was the best yet. But…” She scowled. “Seven hells, boys are stupid.”

“Arya,” Sansa said, “you shouldn’t swear.” But her reprimand sounded half-hearted. Her eyes were shadowed, as if she hadn’t been sleeping well, and she hugged her little wolf pup, as if she never wanted to let her go. She probably knew quite well that the fight last night was really over her, even though Liana had a good idea that all parties involved were pretending it was about Liana instead, and it didn’t look like this fact pleased Sansa in the slightest.

“I’m so sorry, Mistress Pyke,” she said in a low voice. “What a horrid end to an otherwise wonderful evening.”

“I bet it was Theon’s fault, though,” Arya mumbled. Sansa shot a death glare at her little sister, but held her tongue, for which Liana was grateful.

“Lady Sansa, Lady Arya,” said Liana. “I’m quite well, thank you.” Given the circumstances, of course. “But I’ll be even better once I eat.”

At that, Arya laughed, her mouth half full of sausage, as Sansa wrinkled her nose. But again, she was silent, which seemed very un-Sansa.

Liana ate the best she could, and when she was done, she saw Lady Stark gesturing her towards the end of their table.

“Lady Stark,” she said as she reached her side, curtsying.

“Mistress Pyke,” Lady Stark said. “If you are done eating, would you mind accompanying me and my husband back to the solar?”

Well, if that wasn’t the most graciously worded order she’d ever heard. Liana said she wouldn’t mind at all.

After she accompanied Lord and Lady Stark back to the solar, Lady Stark shut the door behind her, and Lord Stark stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, folding and unfolding his arms.

“Mistress Pyke,” he said. “I must apologize for the behavior of my, ah, natural son and my ward. Their behavior was inexcusable, to use you as an excuse for their brawl.” His long face grew even longer, and he looked as sad as she’d ever seen him. “You have suffered greatly as of late, and it isn’t right for you to be in the middle of this foolish quarrel between green boys. I am very sorry, Mistress.”

The words dried on Liana’s tongue. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t this. Lord Stark apologizing to her?

“My lord,” she said, “you are too kind. Green boys will fight. It’s what they do.”

“Mayhaps,” said Lady Stark. “But it is not something that pleases me.”

She gave her husband a fierce look with her Tully blue eyes, and Liana remembered how Lady Stark, according the Sagas, despised Jon Snow because her husband brought him home while she was pregnant with Robb; not only was she enraged that he would bring home his alleged bastard soon after they were wed, to their own home, but she was always afraid that Jon might usurp her own son’s titles and estates. (Not that Jon would have done that, but it wasn’t an unreasonable fear—for was that not what Ramsay Bolton, née Snow, did to his half brother Domeric?) Also, there was the old canard that bastards were inherently corrupt, because of the circumstances of their birth. Again, Liana could roll her eyes at that idea from the safe perspective of the beginning of the 12^th century, but Lady Stark grew up with these beliefs, so of course that would seem reasonable to her.

We swim in the sea of our particular culture, thought Liana, and none of us know how awful it is, or how polluted it really is. How can we know, as it is all that we know? It’s easy to point to people in the distant past, and call them unenlightened fools, but won’t people a thousand years in the future also think us fools as well?

“If you will, Mistress Pyke,” said Lady Stark, “I would appreciate it if you may tell us what happened, in your own words.”

“There was very little to it, my lady,” said Liana. “I was talking with Master Snow, and Lord Theon, who had been drinking very heavily, started questioning him about his intentions towards me. That was when Master Snow lost his temper, and the fight happened.”

Lady Stark looked somewhat mollified, but she wasn’t finished.

“Jon Snow wasn’t disrespectful to you, was he?” she asked.

“Not in the least, my lady,” said Liana. “He was perfectly gallant. There was nothing improper about anything he said, or any of his behavior for that matter.”

“Then why did your cousin take such quick offense?’

“I assume because he was drunk,” Liana said. “And he has a bad temper. It’s a Greyjoy trait.”

Lord Stark smothered a laugh at that. “That’s true enough, Cat.”

“You mentioned he was drunk.” Lady Stark seemed less than amused.

“Extremely, my lady. He stank of wine. And Robb had to bring him in. Lord Theon cracked a joke—I mean, made a jape about how Robb was ready to load him up in a cart to take him out of The Smoking Log if necessary.”

At that, Lord and Lady Stark rolled their eyes in perfect unison.

“It sounds like him,” Lord Stark said in disgust. 

“By the Seven, that Greyjoy boy is a menace!” Lady Stark exclaimed, her nostrils flaring. “Not only has he been drinking at all hours, but he’s been drunk and disorderly in my own hall!”

Liana felt some alarm at that. She didn’t want Lady Stark to lose her temper at Jon Snow, but neither did she want Theon to get into trouble either, or a marriage with Sansa was never going to happen. She thought quickly.

“Forgive me, my lady, but as drunk as he was, I found Lord Theon’s behavior polite and unexceptional until Master Snow started needling my cousin after he began questioning him about his intentions. Master Snow was not improper to me, I want to make clear, but I think he was… unnecessarily aggressive with Lord Theon. I believe he could have handled the encounter in a more polite and less antagonistic way.” She frowned. “Especially since I was standing right there. I tried to calm them down, but Master Snow told me to stay out of it, that it was ‘men’s business.’”

“Is that so, Mistress Pyke?” Lord Stark frowned, rubbing his chin.

“It is indeed,” she said. “They were both idiots.”

Now it was Lady Stark’s turn to laugh. “It seems that way.”

“Idiots they may be,” said Lord Stark, “but they shall still apologize to you for their disrespect.”

Liana bowed her head. “Thank you, my lord."

“Those boys have been spoiling for a fight for years,” Lord Stark added. “I suppose it’s just as well that they got it out. But I am very unhappy with how they chose to do so.”

“My lord, I must thank you for being so generous and fair-minded,” Liana said. “There are not many men of your lordship’s station who would have seen fit to hear the story of one such as myself.”

Lord Stark gave a thoughtful nod.

“For all your Southron ways, Mistress Pyke, I find you an intelligent and forthright woman. My daughters value your company, and Lady has taken a liking to you. I would be a fool not to ask you what happened, as you were a witness.”

Liana curtsied. “You have my gratitude, Lord Stark.”

“Get up,” he said gruffly. “This isn’t Oldtown. You needn’t bow and scrape all the time.”

As Liana stood up awkwardly, Lord Stark moved over to the table.

“I have news,” he said. “I went out into the forest again this morning with my men, and we may have discovered something that gives us some ideas to your uncle and betrothed’s disappearance.”

Her heart began to beat faster. “What? Please, what is it?”

“We found a secluded clearing a few miles from the castle,” Lord Stark replied. “There was a tree there with the words ‘Winterfell’ carved upon it, with a small cairn of rocks piled on top of it.”

At that, Liana started, but the Warden of the North wasn’t finished yet.

“Mistress Pyke… we found this scarf on the cairn.” He opened a casket on the desk, pulling out a long knitted woolen scarf, of contrasting blue and grey stripes.

“My God!” Liana said with a gasp. “That’s Brenn’s scarf!”

She held out her hands, and Lord Stark passed it to her. She examined it; it hardly even looked like it had been exposed to the elements. Tears filled her eyes as she held it to her face, breathing it in. She could still catch a whiff of his aftershave, a faint smell of pepper and bergamot. She really shouldn’t have noticed it, but she’d seen him slap it on enough before they were leaving the hotel or motel. She’d remembered thinking it was such a Reacher thing to do, to be so particular about his aftershave, but it smelled nice, and God knew the car was small enough she noticed way too much about his personal habits, from his five o’clock shadow to his white but slightly crooked teeth to his Ashford shirts with the coffine-stained cuffs that he never buttoned. She buried her face in the scarf again. It was a little bit of home, her distant world eight hundred years in the future, and it took everything she had not to burst into tears.

“It is a remarkable find,” said Lady Stark softly. “This gives us hope, Mistress Pyke, that your betrothed is nearby, and alive and well!”

“Yes,” said Liana, her voice quivering despite herself. It was a sign for her—she knew it—that he was getting closer. Did they locate the alternate timeline, and did the Chronoscope just wide enough to hurl the scarf through? That must be it. It must be!

“It even smells like him,” she said, blushing, as she stroked the soft fabric. “He must’ve just lost it.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Lord Stark said, glancing at his wife.

“I cannot thank you enough, Lord Stark,” Liana said. “That you should lead the search for my betrothed personally. And to find this. Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”

Lord Stark shifted uncomfortably. “It is the least I could do, Mistress Pyke, given that you were attacked on my lands.”

“May I see the scarf, Mistress?” Lady Stark asked gently.

“Of course.” Liana handed it to her, and the older woman examined it with care.

“It’s beautifully made,” she said. “The wool is very fine. It’s delicate. It’s a quality piece.” She raised an eyebrow. “Your betrothed has very good taste.”

Liana colored again. “I think so, my lady.”

“But there’s this bit of cloth I find odd,” Lady Stark said. She held up the fabric care tag. “The lettering is very fine.” She squinted. “‘One hundred percent wool. Dry clean only. Made in Ateria,’” she read. She looked blankly at Liana. “What does that even mean? Where is Ateria?”

Ateria was actually one of the countries in the Further South of Sothoryos, south of the Green Hell and the Great Desert, that remained undiscovered until the Age of Luminance. The people of the Further South, who, only a few centuries ago, were simple Stone Age farmers and herdsmen, like the Até, the Ko, and the Tree Children (who seemed remarkably like Sothoryian version of the Children of the Forest in the ancient North), were horrendously exploited by expansionist colonialist powers. Countries like North and South Westria, Braavosia, Pentosia, Myrthia, Rhoyneland, Volantia, and Doth-Sarnor plundered the resources of that continent until the inhabitants gathered enough resources to kick them out.

Of course, the Westrians and Essians also exploited the great kingdoms and queendoms of the Further South, like Sa’shaaba and the Taisia-Tua. In ancient times, the Summer Islanders were the only people who traded with the people of the Further South; they never breathed a word of it to white people. Not that she blamed them.

And it wasn’t as if Westrian or Essian exploitation of Sothoryos had ever ended. Even now, most of the sweatshops used by fashion companies were located down in the Further South, and it made Liana feel guilty every time she looked at a fabric care tag.

By the Lady, Brenn, she thought. Why couldn’t you have cut the tag off? You doofus!

“Uh, Brenn does like his fine clothing,” she said. “I guess that’s the sort of thing some garments in Oldtown have.”

“It is odd.” Lady Stark shook her head, passing the scarf back to Liana. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are the house colors of the yellow apple Fossoways?”

One morning over breakfast at a diner in Bitterbridge, Liana had picked Brenn’s brain about his family’s history. Because of the Revolutionary Wars, there were vanishingly few pre-Cataclysm aristocratic families in South Westria left; though there were quite a few in the Iron Islands, which the Revolution ignored, and lots in Dorne, which had its own Revolution a century later. (Most of the aristos in North Westria had been wiped out by the Cataclysm itself—no firing squads needed there.) But there were the Freys, the yellow-apple Fossoways, the Blackwoods, the Norcrosses and… uh, the Waynwoods? Maybe? There weren’t a lot. Every so often, slick magazines like Oldtown Monthly or Roseroad Life featured a spread of a pre-C aristo’s restored manor, photographed with a loving glow. Nowadays, they were rare enough to be considered exotic.

At any rate, Brenn had mixed feelings about his glorious ancestry. Of course, he did know his house words, and his house colors, since he had a grandmother who drilled it into his head. “Three ochre apples attached to a green branch on a field of yellow, bordered with green,” he’d told her, as he took a break from his omelet. “House words—High hangs the bough.”

He had sipped his coffine. “Super useful to know, I’m sure. Go yellow-apple Fossoways. Whee!” And he had had whirled his finger around in a way that had made her laugh.

Of course, little did Brenn know that such knowledge would be very useful indeed.

“Yellow, ochre and green, my lady,” said Liana.

“I find it interesting that his scarf features more Northern colors,” said Lady Stark. “I would have thought he would have chosen his house colors instead. Those do seem much more in keeping with Reach tastes.”

God, people of this time period really were obsessed with their house colors. “Lord Brenn has often informed me he looks terrible in yellow,” Liana said, deadpan, as she draped the scarf around her neck.

“Whatever the colors are,” Lord Stark said in brisk tones, “he must be nearby. The scarf is barely touched. It looks like it was just pulled from his clothes chest. There’s not even a dead leaf on it.”  

He shook his head. “But it puzzles me, Mistress Pyke, why it should be lying there, with no tracks and no sign of the soil or the underbrush being disturbed.”

“Perhaps he dropped it if he were going by on horseback?” Lady Stark suggested, giving Liana a sympathetic look. “He might have been abducted by brigands who hope to hold him for ransom.”

“But there were no hoofprints either,” Lord Stark said. “And then there’s the question of the carving of ‘Winterfell’ on the tree, and the cairn underneath. Was he planning on arriving at Winterfell? Did he know you were here, Mistress Pyke?” He shrugged. “So far I can’t make sense of any of it. It’s a mystery.”

 He turned to Liana. “But I will get to the bottom of it, Mistress Pyke, this I swear to you.”

She was about to dip another curtsy but stopped herself in time. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

As she paused, Lord Stark eyed her curiously. “Is there something else, Mistress Pyke?”

Liana paused. “Ah, I was wondering if your lordship still expected the presentation of my lesson plan, in regards to the subject of suitable rhetorical training for Lady Sansa.”

Before Lord Stark could say anything, his wife stepped in.

“Yes, indeed, Mistress Pyke. I should love to hear what you have to say.” As Lady Stark glanced at her husband, a determined gleam flashed in her eye. “I think it shall all be very suitable and useful for my daughter’s future.”

“Very well,” Lord Stark said, tapping his fingers on his desk in a distracted way. “Yes, I think that shall be fine. Let us know when you are ready, Mistress Pyke.”

“Indeed, my lord. My lady.” Liana nodded, and as soon as they nodded back, she scurried away, sweating bullets in relief.

That went so much better than she thought it would.

Now, back to the scriptorium.

                                                                                 * * *

 Liana spent the rest of the day holed up in the scriptorium, planning Sansa’s lessons. The more she went over the treatises, the more her ideas crystallized in her brain. With Lord and Lady Stark’s support, she was able to concentrate now—it felt as if a storm had blown over.

And, best of all, she had Brenn’s scarf. Dear God, his actual scarf. She kept touching it, and holding it up to her face, so she might be able to breathe in the faint scent of his aftershave.

She was only called away from the scriptorium once, to come back to the solar. When she arrived, she saw Theon and Jon standing there, their faces covered with bruises—most notably, there was a huge shiner on Theon’s eye, and a great blue bruise on Jon’s jaw.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Pyke,” said Lord Stark, holding his arms akimbo. “Here are the green boys. Somewhat the worse for wear, as you’ve noticed.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Stark. Lord Theon. Master Snow.” Liana crossed her arms across her chest, giving a sardonic smile. “Don’t the two of you look like a sight for sore eyes.”

“Sore eyes is about right," said Lord Stark. His lips twitched up so he almost looked amused. "Well, now, lads. Don’t be blushing maidens. Don’t you have something to say to the lady?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress Pyke,” Jon muttered. “I shouldn’t have acted in such a way. I behaved poorly. I won’t trouble you again.”

“Apologies, coz,” said Theon. He tried to flash a devil-may-care smile at her, but he winced. “You didn’t see me at my best.”

“That’s an understatement,” said Liana. She sensed what Lord Stark wanted her to say next, but a sudden impulse moved her to go off-script.

“Look,” she said, “you two are complete idiots, but somehow, I still like you. And I would like you to like each other. Please shake, and if you swear to me to me you’ll try harder not to be at each other’s throats every minute of every single day, I might let this go.” She paused. “Now, shake!”

“Best do it, lads,” Lord Stark said in a steely voice, and Theon and Jon grasped their wrists and shook. She could almost hear their teeth grinding in their heads as they did so.

“Now,” said Liana, “you must swear an oath to me before the gods you hold dear that you will be friends.”

 At that pronouncement, Jon and Theon stared at her, as if they expected that she was joking. There was a long awkward silence. In the distance, she could hear some men training in the courtyard. She heard the clash of blades, and she thought she heard Ser Rodrik shouting.

“Jon Snow! Theon Greyjoy!” Lord Stark snapped in his best parade-ground voice. “You will do as the lady requests. The both of you will swear. Now.”

Thus rebuked, the boys lowered their heads.

“I swear by the Old Gods and the New that I will be friends with Theon Greyjoy,” Jon mumbled.

“I swear by the Drowned God that I will be friends with Jon Snow,” said Theon through clenched teeth.

Liana had no idea if they would be actually friends, but hopefully these oaths would prevent them from striking each other in the near future.

“Excellent,” she said. She drew herself up to her full height. She glared at them with such ferocity that they both lowered their heads. “Now,” she said in darkling tones, “I swear by the Lord of Light and the Lady of Lotuses that if I ever see or hear you fight again, I will not rest until you are both locked in the dungeons of Winterfell as miscreants and oathbreakers. Do I make myself clear?”

Liana never thought of herself as a proud woman, but it was a downright pleasure to see the future Azor Ahai and the future Forsaken Prince cringe as she stared them down.

“Yes, Mistress,” the two of them said at last, in the same cadence as chastised ten year olds.

“Thank you,” she said. She turned to Lord Stark. “And thank you, Lord Stark.”

“It was a pleasure, Mistress Pyke,” Lord Stark said, and he actually smiled at her. “I look forward to seeing your lesson plans.”

“I look forward to presenting it, Lord Stark,” said Liana, and as she sailed down the stairs of the Lord’s Tower, she permitted herself a satisfied smirk.

Chapter Text

Liana had to admit, given Lord Stark’s initial antipathy to rhetoric training for his daughter, she dreaded presenting her lesson plan.

But even though her nerves felt tighter than well-tuned piano wire, and the sight of Lord and Lady Stark sitting in their solar, with Lord Stark stony as usual and Lady Stark polite but cool, she struggled not to throw up.

But she made herself breathe slowly. She counted to ten. She touched her necklace—tucked under the layers of Brenn’s scarf—and prayed.

With that, she felt more able to concentrate. She shuffled her notes in her hand (God, if she just had a podium) and cleared her throat.

“Lord and Lady Stark, thank you for allowing me to be here with you today. This afternoon, I would like to present to you my lesson plan for teaching Lady Sansa rhetoric. I propose to teach her a way of being able to get what she wants, using only her words, but in an intelligent, reasoned and most importantly, moral way. The goal of these lessons is to present the basics of rhetoric, using Telaeryon’s Art of Rhetoric and Kikyris’s On Oratory as a guide. If it pleases you, my lord, I will explain.”

Lord Stark waved at her. “Please proceed, Mistress Pyke.”

Liana began.

                                                                      * * *

So (said Liana), what is rhetoric?

According to Aerion Telaeryon, one of the early and most famous orators of the Valyrian Freehold, rhetoric is the ability in any particular case to see the available means of persuasion. In his treatise, the Art of Rhetoric, he stated there were three types of rhetoric: the judicial, the demonstrative, and the deliberative.

First of all, judicial rhetoric sets down facts and an assessment of the past. This is similar when the Hand of the King puts forth his judgment on a murder case. He lays forth the evidence, describes the suspects, and he finally states what he thinks happened. This is judicial rhetoric.

Secondly, demonstrative rhetoric, which can encompass praise or blame, proclaims something about a current situation, such as a eulogy or a speech at a wedding. It can also include the condemnation of a wicked man. It is a type of descriptive rhetoric rooted within the present.

But the most exciting type of rhetoric is the third type of rhetoric— deliberative rhetoric. This is how one accomplishes change, for it focuses, not on the past or present, but the future. Or rather, a possible future. The speaker presents the audience with a possible future, and asks their help in preventing it, or bringing it to fruition.

But how does one create a good deliberative speech? It doesn’t just involve writing in the future tense. Both Telaeryon and the Pentoshi master orator Tullio Kikyris agree that there are three available means of persuasion. (Liana held up three fingers.) Those are: character, reason, and feeling.

Character is how you can convince an audience to listen to you. Why should they listen to you? It includes being a person of good character and courtesy, for if the orator gives the impression of being a bad person while speaking, he or she is actually speaking badly, since his or her words seem to be insincere owing to the lack of character.

Reason is the use of logic. Whatever you are talking about, you must know it well. To use reason, you can present examples, analogies, and quotes. But this doesn’t just include figures and facts. It also encompasses the very structure of your speech. It is good to do research—it is good to know your subject—so you can use facts to help convince an audience. But you are painting a picture for your audience, and you must not bore them. You must carry them with you on this journey, this journey to a possible future you wish them to refute or embrace.

Kikyris himself used reason when requesting a condemnation of the corrupt magistrate Varenys, who enslaved freemen and raped their daughters and murdered visiting diplomats for their artwork. He described Varenys’s crimes in such comprehensive detail—with corrobating witnesses and documents— that it was no surprise that the magistrate, at the end of the trial, had all his estates confiscated and was exiled to Ib.

Which brings us to the final means of persuasion, which is feeling. Appeals to emotion can be a good way of getting what you want. It can be very powerful, and it is often critical for an orator to appeal to an audience’s emotions.

But since it is so powerful, it should be used with care. Feelings can be irrational and violent; you can convince people to sue for peace as easily to make them cry for war. You must know your audience, know what they want, as well as knowing exactly what you wish to achieve; and then proceed.

For example, I have heard that Nymeria of the Rhoynar was an exceptional orator, and used emotion very effectively when convincing her people to settle in the deserts of Dorne. There were some who were not convinced that they should stay, for Dorne is a very different climate from the mild riverlands of the Rhoynar. But she movingly described all the horrors of their journey, from the destruction of their beloved cities, to the depredations of the corsairs to the horrors of Yeen and the Isle of Toads, to the butterfly fever on Naath—finally culminating with those kind souls in Dorne who welcomed the ragged wanderers with open arms—that even the most stubborn holdouts were weeping and willing to do anything she wanted.

In conclusion, character, reason and feeling are powerful methods for any orator. These methods of persuasion have been used from the days of the Valyrian Freehold to today, and I wish to help Lady Sansa know how to use them effectively.

But knowing the best and most appropriate tool to use means that it is vital that you know your audience and what exactly you are trying to accomplish.

Also, it is just as important, if not even more important, of being able to see when these rhetorical tools are being used on you.

                                                                                * * * 

When she was done, Lady Stark clapped with enthusiasm. However, Lord Stark rubbed his chin, looking pensive.

“Well, I think she laid out her case very well,” said Lady Stark. “Don’t you think, Ned?”

“Aye,” Lord Stark said. “She spoke well.” He frowned. “I just wish this all wasn’t necessary.”

“So you think it is necessary,” Lady Stark pressed.

“I think so,” Lord Stark said gloomily.

He stood. “I don’t want Sansa to marry a Southron, but it looks like you’re set on it. It’s a pity we didn’t consider Roose Bolton’s suggestion last year for Sansa to marry his son.”

“Ned,” said Lady Stark sharply. “You weren’t seriously considering our Sansa as a wife for Domeric Bolton? At the Dreadfort?”

Lord Stark sighed. “It would have been a good match, Cat. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. The boy’s dead.”

Yes, poisoned by his illegitimate brother Ramsay, as stated in the Sagas. The future nemesis of both Sansa and Theon. Liana’s blood grew cold.

Lord Stark began to pace. “Well, it looks like the choice is going to be taken out of my hands anyway.” He turned abruptly. “If you need me, I’ll be in the godswood.”

He was halfway out the door when he turned around, sheepishly looking back at Liana. “Forgive me, Mistress Pyke. You’re an eloquent woman. Sansa will learn much from you. If you will excuse me…”

As he shut the door, Lady Stark sighed. “By the Mother! Mistress Pyke, I am sorry. There was no reason for him to charge out like that.”

Liana’s head whirled. It seemed she got the job. But what the hell was that about?

“Was… something bothering him, my lady?”

“He has a great deal on his mind,” said Lady Stark, and the same pensive expression that was on her husband’s face appeared on hers.

Spotting a flagon of wine and two cups on a silver platter on the table, Liana stood. “Would your ladyship care for some wine?”

Lady Stark raised her eyebrows and flashed a rueful smile. “Certainly.”

As Liana pressed a cup of wine into Lady Stark’s hand, she thanked her, and said, “You should pour yourself a cup as well, Mistress Pyke. The gods only know how you deserve it.”

“Thank you, Lady Stark.” Liana gratefully poured herself some wine and gulped it down in a way she hoped wasn’t too unladylike. Lady Stark sat down on the window seat, and gestured for Liana to sit on a chair—not a stool.

An honor, Liana knew. She sat, as Lady Stark drank her wine, gazing out the mullioned window, the sunlight highlighting her loose auburn hair. She looked exactly as Liana imagined a middle-aged Sansa Gloriana would look. God knows, maybe in the future Sansa would sit at the same window seat surveying her kingdom, wondering what her mother would have done in her place…

There was silence in the solar. Liana fidgeted with her scarf. It seemed to her that Lady Stark wanted to talk, but perhaps she wasn’t sure how to open up. Perhaps it was her move.

“Lady Stark,” Liana said. “If your ladyship will forgive my curiosity… what did his lordship mean when he said the choice had been taken out of his hands? If I am being forward, I trust your ladyship will let me know. Your have been more than kind to me.”

“It’s quite all right, Mistress Pyke. You should know.” Lady Stark turned to Liana, her brow creased. “It seems that in a month or less we shall have royal visitors at Winterfell.”

Liana almost dropped her cup. “What?” she said with a gasp.

“Yes.” Her eyes were troubled. “We have heard word to expect King Robert himself. I am not sure what it is about, but… I am sure he has significant business to discuss with my husband.”

Significant business, indeed. Lord and Lady Stark must’ve just heard word of the second great event of the Sagas—Jon Arryn’s death. And King Robert’s caravan up north, which meant the king, upon arrival, would want to discuss Ned becoming Hand of the King as well as betrothing Sansa and Joffrey.

No wonder Lord Stark had been so out of sorts and distracted.

Shit.

“This is… tremendous news, my lady,” Liana said.

Lady Stark gave a grim laugh. “’Tremendous.’ An appropriate word, Mistress Pyke, if there ever was one.”

Liana gripped her winecup. “Does her ladyship think that his majesty… I mean, his grace… wishes to propose a betrothal?”

“It is possible. Or probable.” Lady Stark’s fine-boned face was taut. Was she flattered by the thought? Or wary? It was hard to tell. “The king and my husband were fostered together. They were comrades-in-arms. They’ve always wished to unite their families.” She quirked up an eyebrow. “I imagine you know that already, though. For someone born in the Further East, you seem very well informed of Westerosi affairs.”

“I have lived in Oldtown for years, my lady,” Liana said.

“Yes, that’s true. And Reachlanders do love their gossip.”

“That they do.” Boy, was that ever true, even in Liana’s time.

“Then…” Lady Stark leaned in, her bright blue eyes fastening on Liana keenly. “You must have heard of some word on events at court. King’s Landing is far from Oldtown, that’s true, but I hear ravens fly quickly down the Roseroad.”

“I have heard something, my lady.”

“What is it? It shall not leave this room. I swear it by the Seven.”

Liana licked her lips nervously. “My lady, they say that a stag may think to rule… but it is, in truth, a court of lions.”

Lady Stark’s eyes flew open. Man, Liana thought, she was getting too good at 3^rd century era language. The current king, Robert Baratheon, whose house was represented by a stag, was an aging drunk slob whose wife, Cersei Lannister—one of the most reviled people in history—came from a wealthy house represented by a lion. Not to mention Cersei’s father Tywin, who held the purse strings, ran everything. And, of course, as even the most casual readers of the Sagas knew, Cersei was banging her twin brother, resulting in a bunch of blond incest babies a la Flowers in the Garret, and the oldest incest baby, Joffrey, was a psychopath who looked sure to become the next Maegor the Cruel before his untimely demise.

Lady Stark took a deep breath.

“So,” she said. “If my daughter married the prince, she would go forth into a lions’ den.”

“I believe your ladyship is correct,” said Liana.

Concern, apprehension and fear crossed Lady Stark’s countenance before she sighed.

“I don’t know what to think, Mistress Pyke,” she said. “I understand your concern. But… let us say this comes to pass. How could we refuse? Not only is this a glorious match for our house—but all I can think is how my sweet Sansa would jump at the chance. She would dearly love to live at the Red Keep. She’s talked about the southern courts as long as I can remember. Tourneys, mummers’ shows, masked balls… She wants the glamour of the South. All she’s known is Winterfell. She’s barely been beyond the gates. How can we deny her such an opportunity if it comes up?”

Liana wanted to scream. Lady Stark must know how dangerous it was to go to court. She must have some idea how dangerous the Lannisters were. But she was so keen on giving Sansa what she wanted (or what Sansa thought she wanted) that she buried her head in the sand. Sansa wasn’t stupid, but she was incredibly innocent and sheltered. Not only was her education lacking, but she’d barely been anywhere. She had no idea what she was in for.

The Lannisters would crack her like an egg and eat her for breakfast, sunny side up.

And Liana couldn’t very well say that. She couldn’t say, “Hey, Lady Stark, don’t send your kid to court, she’s dead meat, also, the Lannisters are super fucked up and ruthless. Also, the queen and her brother are fucking each other!” That… would not go over well.

She had to say something, though.

“Life at court is difficult, Lady Stark,” Liana said. “Lions aren’t just big cats one may cuddle and toss balls of string at. They have claws. And teeth.”

Lady Stark drew herself up.

“But my daughter is of House Stark,” she said coolly. “She is a wolf. And wolves have claws and teeth too.”

“So they do, my lady.” Liana opened her mouth again when she knew she should just shut up. “But has Lady Sansa been taught to use hers?”

The older woman paled. The answer was clearly no. But she stiffened, raising her chin.

“Mistress Pyke, I have given you leave to speak your mind, but may I ask that you also remember your place. I have requested you to give Lady Sansa lessons in rhetoric and elocution—but did not ask you to become my small council.”

A clear rebuke. Liana lowered her head.

“I am sorry, my lady.”

“It’s quite all right.” Lady Stark waved her hand, once again all noblesse oblige. “I did ask you for your opinion.”

“Lady Stark, in regards to Lady Sansa’s education, may I present a suggestion?”

“You may, Mistress Pyke.”

“If the royal party is arriving here within a month or so, perhaps it might be wise if, while I acquaint her with the works and precepts of Telaeryon and Kikyris, I might also help her prepare an encomium for the king and the queen.”

“An encomium?”

Liana bit her lip to prevent a sigh from emerging. Education for lords and ladies in ancient Westeros seemed to be a little weak across the board, wasn’t it?

“An encomium,” she said calmly, doing her best not to sound condescending or pedantic, “is a piece of demonstrative rhetoric that praises a particular subject. Several famous encomiums include Archmaester Gylford’s In Praise of Queen Alysanne, or Kikyris’s The Encomium of Pentos, or Phyrros of Myr’s The Acclamation of Folly, though the last is a satirical example.”

Lady Stark nodded stiffly. “I am familiar with Archmaester Gylford’s work, but not the others. Please continue.”

“If your ladyship wishes to consider it,” said Liana, “perhaps Lady Sansa might write and deliver an encomium to their majesties after their arrival, to demonstrate the gratitude of House Stark towards the royal visit, as well as demonstrating Lady Sansa’s considerable accomplishments.”

“Their majesties?”

“I’m sorry. That is a Qartheen expression.” Actually, his majesty was an anachronism, not used until King Petyr the Magnificent’s reign hundreds of years later. “I mean… their, ah, graces.”

“It’s an interesting idea,” said Lady Stark. “But we must see how Sansa takes to her lessons. And if she does well, then I will discuss it with my husband.”

That sounds reasonable enough. “Thank you, your ladyship,” she said.

Lady Stark stood, smoothing her skirts.

“Given that we have little time, and you have much to teach my daughter, I’m sure that Septa Mordane can spare her from needlework lessons several hours a day, starting now.” Lady Stark raised a delicate eyebrow. “Are you ready to begin, Mistress Pyke?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” said Liana.

Who knew how ready that made her, but as Dad liked to say, fake it ‘til you make it.

She might have to fake it—and hopefully, if she didn’t fall into an interdimensional wormhole and find herself in the dimension of the Old Ones, or she wasn’t kidnapped by Targaryen dragonlords who turned out to be alien lizardmen in disguise, or the Boltons didn’t parachute out of the sky with their flaying knives, she might be okay.

Liana touched Brenn’s scarf again.

Brenn, I know you’re out there, she thought.

I just hope you get here before it’s too late.

Chapter Text

Liana and Sansa sat in the schoolroom, staring at each other across a table.

“Mistress Pyke, Mother says you’re going to teach me… rhetoric.” Sansa’s face screwed up a little as she said the last word.

“Yes, Lady Sansa.” Liana folded her hands.

“Why?”

“Because, my lady, at some point in your life, you are going to need to give a speech, and I’m going to teach you how to do that. With just the right speech, with just the right words, made with care, crafted with skill, you can convince people to get what you want.”

Liana had debated mentioning the royal visit, and the proposed encomium, but decided it was much too soon, and it was Lord and Lady Stark’s place to do that anyway. Also, such a tremendous event, along with the advent of the allegedly glamorous Prince Joffrey, would distract Sansa… from her schooling, as well as from Theon. Later, Liana thought. We’ll discuss it when the time is right.

However, Sansa’s response was to pout.

“But I already know how to speak in public,” she said. “I’m not a child.”

Liana bit back a laugh. “In that case, Lady Sansa, can you outline for me the six essential parts of giving an effective speech, as recommended by Tullio Kikyris?”

Sansa opened her mouth, and closed it. “No.”

“Then can you tell me what the three genres of rhetoric are, according to Aerion Talaeryon?”

“No.”

“Well, then how about the three principal means of persuasion?”

The younger girl shrunk back in her seat. “No…”

“All right. We have our work cut out for us, then. I’m glad you see you have enough parchment and an inkhorn with you, because, my lady, I believe it would behoove you to take plenty of notes.”

She cleared her throat. “Let’s begin with a brief history of the history of oratory in the Valyrian Freehold, shall we?”

                                                                                          * * *

At the end of the hour, Sansa’s fingernails were stained with ink, and Liana’s voice was hoarse. If there was one thing she was glad of, being stuck back this far in the past, was that she didn’t have to worry about students with any fucking cell phones.

“I think this is enough for today,” she said briskly. “Let’s meet up tomorrow, same place, same time, and we can start discussing Telaeryon’s Art of Rhetoric.”

She started organizing her own notes, when she realized that Sansa was staring at her.

“Yes, Lady Sansa? What is it?”

“I just wanted to say… thank you,” she said in a small voice. “For stepping in the way you did. After your story. When I was talking to Theon.”

Sansa started wringing her hands. “I know that Jon wanted to confront Theon. But you stepped in. And they fought about you instead. But it was really about me.” She bit her lip, squirming.

“It’s quite all right, my lady.” Liana gave her an understanding smile. “It had to be done.”

“I know. I just…” Sansa blushed. “I wish it hadn’t been necessary, but…”

“Boys are idiots,” Liana supplied.

Sansa giggled. “They are!” She paused, worrying her lower lip, and turning the most extraordinary red.

“Speaking of boys… or men, I should say… How is Theon? I heard that Father and Mother made him apologize to you.”

“He was bruised, but cocky.” Liana smiled. “But he’s in one piece. And I made him and Jon swear an oath to be friends. Which made them very cross, as you can imagine.”

Sansa covered her face with her hand, dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“I can just see it!” she said, muffled. “By the gods, I wish I’d been there!”

“I don’t know if it’ll take,” said Liana. “But I expect you to hold them to their oaths, Lady Sansa.”

“Oh, I will.” Her smile became conspiratorial. “I’ll do my best, Mistress Pyke.”

“I know you will, my lady,” said Liana. “You seem to be very diligent at getting things done.”

Septa Mordane had talked up Sansa as being a good student and a hard worker, and Liana was glad to see that did seem to be the case; though Sansa had given Liana some lip at the beginning, she’d calmed down and took as many notes as Liana had requested, and she even took interest in the material, asking questions about how rhetoric differed in Old Ghis from Valyria, when Liana had mentioned how much the Ghiscari despised Valyrian “sophists,” and Sansa even inquired what the state of rhetoric was like in Westeros before the Conquest, though she didn’t seem to like the answer that it was “non-existent.”

Oh well. If her student was engaged in the material, that was the best possible sign. Her tutoring looked like it was off to a good start.

“Thank you,” said Sansa, as Liana finished gathering up her things. “I’m sorry I was not respectful to you earlier, Mistress Pyke. I was… surprised. But I did enjoy the lesson.”

“I’m glad. I know this is not in the usual way of education for a Northern lady, but I hope that your ladyship will find it interesting and useful. At any rate, Lady Stark seems to think it will.”

“My lady mother knows best,” said Sansa demurely, which annoyed Liana, because she knew that was what Sansa was supposed to say. Liana rather wished Arya was invited to the lessons too; but on the other hand, she doubted her ability to handle Arya. That girl was a force of nature. Hurricane Arya.

She was so lost in her thoughts that for a moment she didn’t even notice Sansa’s fidgeting.

“Yes, Lady Sansa? Do you have any other questions?”

“Mistress Pyke, may I—” The words dried up on Sansa’s tongue. She looked, for some reason, incredibly nervous.

“What is it, my lady?”

“Could you, ah, give your cousin this?” Sansa jumped up, pushing a note into her hand. Her cheeks burned a bright red as she shoved all her own notes into a leather portfolio, and then she dashed off out the door, clutching her portfolio to her chest, her hair a bright copper banner streaming behind her.

Liana examined the carefully folded bit of parchment. She wondered what it said, but it was sealed shut with wax.

Well, she thought, her lips curving up in a smile.

Well, well, well.  

                                                                                    * * *

Not surprisingly, Theon was in the courtyard, practicing archery again. For once, he was by himself; though, as usual, his shots all hit the bullseye consistently. It seemed that there were two things that Theon loved above all else—archery and wine.

Well, also, girls, but that went without saying.

It was a good thing he hadn’t been drinking while he was shooting at the target, or that wouldn’t be a pretty sight. She descended the stairs, watching him underneath the shadow of the gallery, leaning on a pillar, until he lowered his bow. He glared at her, from across the field, and after he yanked the arrows out of the target, came stalking towards her.

Liana stiffened. His face was still bruised, his brows were drawn, and his mouth was twisted in a surly grimace. But she kept her expression easy.

“Good afternoon, coz,” she said. “You have hit the center every single time. Are you the world’s greatest archer?”

“I bloody well might be,” Theon said shortly.

“What, you’re not even going to greet me?” she said.

He continued to glare at her.

“You treated me like a child in front of Lord Stark,” he snapped. “You made me swear a binding oath to that bastard Snow that I would be his friend. Now you want me to be happy when you dance up to me, smiling? What sort of fool do you think I am?”

Liana’s smile froze, and as her eyes flickered about, checking to see if anyone was listening, she lowered her voice.

“My lord cousin, you seem to forget that I intervened with Jon Snow because he was going to beat you to a pulp because he saw you flirting with Lady Sansa. Because I stepped in, she had time to get away. Would you preferred if I had done nothing, and Jon had made a scene about you and Sansa being overly friendly in front of the entire household? Would you prefer that had come to Lord and Lady Stark’s notice?”

Theon swallowed.

“Also,” she added, “when Lord and Lady Stark called me to be interviewed about the incident, Lady Stark was more than willing to believe you were drunk and instigated the entire thing. But I said you were handled yourself well, although you had been drinking, and though you overreacted, you thought you were defending my honor. I also said that Jon had also done nothing too wrong, he was not overly friendly with me, though he had disrespected me by telling me to stay out of what was ‘men’s business.’”

Liana narrowed her eyes. “Since I had Lord and Lady Stark’s support, I said it was just a foolish fight between foolish young men, and Lord Stark agreed with me. Why do you think you got off so lightly?”

She stepped closer, jabbing his chest with his finger. “Would you prefer I’d handled it differently? Would you prefer that I told him the complete truth?”

Fear flickered across Theon’s face. “No,” he said.

“Very well then,” said Liana. “At the very least I think I’m owed a thanks. I didn’t want to see you raked over coals.”

“Right,” said Theon, avoiding her eyes. He ducked into the armory, putting away his bow and arrows. When he came out, he wiped his hands on his breeches.

“Thank you, cousin,” he at last said reluctantly. “I’m… sorry I fought with Snow. I know I embarrassed you in front of everyone. That wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.” He gritted his teeth. “But that bastard always gets on my last bloody nerve.”

“Believe me, I understand,” said Liana. “Jon Snow is perfectly nice, but he reminds me of Aeyore.”

“What? Who?”

“It’s a stuffed grey donkey from a children’s book,” said Liana. “This little boy named Robin imagines all his toys are alive, and they all have distinct personalities. The donkey is very depressed and is never pleased by anything. Once, when he’s invited to a party, he says, ‘A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don’t blame me when it rains.’” She imitated Aeyore’s sad expression and slumped her shoulders.

Theon burst out laughing. “That’s Snow all right!”

“I thought so,” she said. “And you’re Tygger.”

Theon cocked his head. “What?”

“He’s a stuffed tiger that bounces everywhere, and half the time he bounces into trouble.” She took his arm. “Come, let’s bounce into the godswood. I have something you might find interesting.”

“Interesting, eh?” As he leered at her, giving her a once-over, she sighed.

“It’s not about me. It involves a certain red lady.”

Theon flushed. “Very well.”

He said little as they walked into the forest, though as they walked through the gate he steered them to the right.

“Not near the weirwood,” he mumbled. “I don’t want that old face glowering at me while I…” His voice trailed away. “Let’s go to the hot springs.”

Theon led her towards a bubbling set of pools, steam billowing up in inviting clouds. Around the pools, various boulders were strewn about, and as Theon sat down on one, spreading out his cloak, Liana perched next to him, her hands primly in her lap.

“This seems a pleasant place,” she said.

“It is,” he said. “I’ve come to soak here after sparring.”

“That sounds nice,” she said.

“Oh yes. I’ve got even nicer memories of these springs as well.” A roguish grin crossed his face. She could just imagine what those other memories entailed.

Liana shook her head. He really had a one-track mind. Well, she wasn’t sure if Sansa’s letter would change that track, or derail it entirely, but she would have to wait and see.

“But that doesn’t matter,” said Theon, shifting restlessly. He gestured. “The note, coz.”

She pulled it from her sleeve, handing it to him. For a moment, he looked like he might panic.

But that moment passed as he took the note, broke the seal, and read it. As Liana caught a glimpse of exquisite flowing script, his lips parted in a slight smile, and his eyes softened. He looked pensive. Wistful. Even melancholy.

As he set the note down, he stared into the depths of the gently bubbling water, as Liana fidgeted.

“So, what does it say?”

“She wants to meet me here, by the hot springs, tomorrow afternoon.” Sweat beaded on his forehead, as he pulled at the collar of his jerkin.

“All right,” said Liana. “I’ll bring her here after our lesson. No one should suspect.”

Theon quirked up an eyebrow. “That the very proper Mistress Pyke is arranging a tryst?”

“I hardly imagine it will be a tryst,” Liana said in freezing accents. “As Lady Sansa is thirteen, and the daughter of Warden of the North, I trust, Lord Theon, you will remember that you are a gentleman.”

He laughed. “You sounded just like Septa Mordane when you said that.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Who’s to say I’m a gentleman?”

Liana stared at him until he shifted uncomfortably.

“Right. Well. I promise I won’t go bouncing into anything that I can’t bounce out of. Is that enough to calm you, cousin?”

“That’s enough.”

Though, to be honest, she wouldn’t be calm until she saw Theon and Sansa safely married, and Brenn could take her back to her own time.

“Good. We’ve sorted it out.” Theon flashed a sly grin. “Are you ready to try out the hot springs, coz? It’s my favorite part of this bloody castle, I’ll admit.” And he immediately began to unfasten the clasps of his jerkin. He threw it down, and then he began to unbutton his doublet.

Liana gasped. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He pulled off his boots. “I’m going to take a soak. Think I need it, after that business with Snow.”

He cocked his head, and his smile was that of a cat’s. “Will you be joining me, sweet cousin? The water is warm.”

Liana sprung up, heat flooding her cheeks. “Oh, you are incorrigible!”

She whirled around and stomped off as Theon’s laughter rang out in the woods.

He was incorrigible. Absolutely incorrigible.

She hoped Sansa knew what she was in for.

Of course, did Liana know what she was in for? With King Robert coming in a month or so, and Brenn haunting the woods, leaving articles of clothing, and here she was trying to teach the future Queen of the North Rhetoric 101 while trying to match her up with the future Forsaken Prince of the Iron Islands. Perhaps she was mad.

A line from another famous children’s book ran through her head as she gazed up into the canopy of the ancient pines and oaks.

I’m mad. You’re mad.

Perhaps we’re all mad here.

Chapter Text

“Did you give him the note?” Sansa asked quietly, as soon as the door of the schoolroom was closed.

Liana began to arrange her texts, parchments, ink, quill and knife to her satisfaction. “Yes,” she said, her voice equally low. “I handed it to him.”

“Well?” Sansa demanded. “What did he say?”

Liana debated what to say, but decided honesty would be the best approach.

“As he read your note, he seemed quite wistful and a little sad, but also nervous,” she said. “But I think he is excited to see you.”

Sansa blushed a little, but then she frowned.

“I don’t understand why he’d be sad. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“What lady does not like a lover with a trace of melancholy?” Liana said, keeping her tone light.

Sansa’s frown deepened, though now she just seemed puzzled. “I… guess never thought as Theon as the melancholy sort.”

“Lady Sansa, I don’t think you are entirely unobservant,” said Liana gently. “But if you think back upon your acquaintance with my cousin, do you really think he is entirely without any melancholic tendencies?”

Sansa stared off into the middle distance, thinking. “Now that I think of it, Mistress Pyke, I guess not. I just…” She paused, clearly searching for the right words. “He’s always japing, smiling and smirking at people. Sometimes… I forget what he used to be like. And what he still is like, sometimes, I think.”

She gazed up anxiously at Liana, as if searching for approval. Liana smiled.

“Yes. Now, this can be instructive, Lady Sansa. And this shall be very important for your upcoming lessons.

“Sometimes surfaces can be deceiving. Sometimes, what people say they want one thing, but they actually want something else. Sometimes, people say they are one thing, but they actually are something else. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Sansa. “People lie.”

Liana winced. That was Lord Stark speaking, she was sure of it.

“That’s not always the case, Lady Sansa. Yes, people do lie. But sometimes… the truth is more layered. For example, if my cousin smiles and jokes, but is actually sad about various things, does that mean he is lying, or just that… he is a complicated human being?”

Sansa mulled this over.

“It must mean that he’s complicated,” she said at last, her face pensive. “I pretend to be happy too, sometimes, when I’m not.”

“Yes,” said Liana. “We all do. But that’s a fairly simple example. Many times people claim to be something or want something else, but what they actually are—and what they actually want—is altogether different. It is from simple malice or deceit? Or that they don’t know their own mind? Who knows. People are complex. It could be anything.

“But at the same time, you can overthink something. Sometimes, when a person tells you who they are, you must believe them.”

Sansa’s brow knitted. “But how do I know what it is? How can I possibly tell?”

“It’s not easy,” Liana admitted. “But most of the time, I feel a person knows.”

“How?”

“By listening to that small, still voice in your head,” Liana said. “It’s your instinct. Think of it… as the wolf in you. It tells you what you must do. You must heed it, Lady Sansa. It is of the utmost importance.”

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa stammered.

“Let me tell you a story to illustrate my point,” Liana said. When Sansa nodded, she continued.

“Once, back in Qarth, I had to walk to the library. They have public libraries there—they’re quite large and beautiful. Anyone can use them, if the librarians have approved you.

“Well, this library was located at the end of a large square, and the way to reach it was over a bridge under the cover of trees. One afternoon I was walking there—and even though the sun was out, it was quite dark, because of the trees.

“I’ve been to this library a thousand times. But this time, as I set foot on the bridge, I began to feel nervous. I felt that someone was watching me, the way a hunter watches a deer.

“I told myself I was imagining things. I had a lot of library books to return, and I know if I didn’t return them on time, I would have fees to pay. My mother was sick, and I was trying to save money. I didn’t want extra fees. And it was the middle of the day, and there were police—I mean, city guards—everywhere. What did I have to fear?

“So I took another step on the bridge. But the feeling just grew worse. It was as if that inner voice was screaming at me. I felt sick.

“Now, I could have just ignored that voice and continued to the library, and returned the books. But I knew I should trust my instincts, so I turned around and walked back to the square. I knew everything would be overdue, and I would have to pay those fines, but I told myself I could manage.

“Even so, I felt immediately more at ease—but I didn’t feel better until I got home and locked the door. And to be on the safe side, I took a roundabout route back to my house in case anyone was following me, because it’s better to be safe than sorry.

“Anyway, I didn’t think any more of the incident until I found out, months later, that a young girl, my age, was kidnapped outside that very library not so long after I almost crossed that bridge. She was raped and murdered, and her body was dumped into the desert. The man who did it was eventually caught. That was something he liked to do, apparently—he liked to wait outside public buildings, and stalk and murder young girls.”

Sansa’s mouth dropped open. She paled. “By all the gods!”

“If I hadn’t listened to that inner voice, to my instincts, I’d be dead,” said Liana flatly, and she shivered just thinking what it was like, standing on that bridge, feeling cold eyes watching her every move. “Women are vulnerable. Men like to prey upon us. Therefore, we need to use every tool at our disposal. So if your instincts tell you should trust a person, or that you should be afraid, or that a person is complicated, or that a person is nothing more than who they say they are, listen. Because that might save your life.”

For a moment, Sansa trembled. Then she gathered her composure.

“You said this inner voice was like a wolf.” She raised her chin. “That shall be easy to remember, for the Starks are wolves, and I am a Stark of Winterfell.”

“Very good, my lady,” Liana said. “I trust you will never forget that.”

“I will not.” Sansa paused. “But… I am sorry, Mistress Pyke. What does this have to do with rhetoric?”

“I’m glad you asked,” said Liana. “I am going to teach you the three genres of rhetoric, the three means of persuasions, and the six components of a successful speech. But what this boils down to is simply this—you must know what you want to do, what you aim to do, and what your audience really wants. This requires having good instincts. This requires listening to your instincts. You can read all the books in the world, but if you don’t have good instincts, you’re…” She was about to say fucked, but changed it at the last minute. “…In a bad way.”

“I see,” said Sansa thoughtfully, and Liana thought that she actually might.

“All right,” said Liana. “With that said, let’s move on to the Art of Rhetoric, shall we? Let us turn to page one, book one.

“Rhetoric is the counterpart of Dialectic…”

                                                                                  * * * 

Telaeryon was not the easiest of authors for beginners to grasp, as Valyrian philosophy tended to be rather dense, and fond of syllogisms and inductions, but Liana did her best to scan though the dense text and sum up the main points. They made it through the first two books, and to Sansa’s credit, she took notes and asked good questions, and she wasn’t obviously fantasizing about boys (or rather one boy in particular), but after a while her eyes started to glaze over.

At that point, Liana said they could call it a day, and take a walk out into the godswood, and Sansa lit up like a Yuletide tree.

They strolled through the woods towards the hot springs, and Theon was there, sitting on one of the boulders, staring into the water, as if praying to the Drowned God himself.

He jumped up when he saw them; his eyes were a little wild. He looked like he might bolt.

Sansa stepped towards him.

“Theon,” she said, her soft voice plaintive. “I… I’m glad you’re here.”

“You asked me to come.” Theon glanced around, swallowing. Then he forced himself to grin, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Liana took several steps back, until she stepped behind a nearby ironwood tree, a huge, ancient tree with black bark, gnarled branches and thick foliage. I’ll keep watch, she thought. But not too far away, of course, that she couldn’t hear and see everything. Did that make her a voyeur? At this point, she supposed it didn’t matter.

“I was worried about you,” Sansa said. “Your face. Your eye.” She winced. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.” Theon smirked. “Snow got the worst of it. Have you seen him?”

“No,” said Sansa forcefully. “And I don’t want to. He had no right to come after you. We were only talking.”

“Was that it then?” Theon’s voice roughened. “Only talking?”

Sansa turned away a little, her hair covering her face like a red-gold veil. “No. I mean…” She stopped, flustered. “I like talking to you.”

“More than Cley Cerwyn?”

“Much more!” she said indignantly. “I don’t care about him.”

“But you do care about me, though, is that it?” His eyes fixed on hers. “Is that what you’re saying, Sansa?”

“I…” Her voice sounded breathless. “Of course I care about you. You’re Robb’s best friend.”

His voice grew teasing. “Is that the only reason why?”

“No.” She peeked at him shyly. “There’s Jonquil.”

“What? What’s a Jonquil?”

“My old doll!” Sansa blushed. “Don’t you remember?”

“Wait.” Incredulous, Theon cocked his head. “You mean when I was twelve? That time Arya the Brat threw your doll high up into the ironwood tree yonder, and I climbed to get it even though everyone said it impossible to get, and they told me if I tried I would break a leg doing so?”

“But you got her for me anyway,” said Sansa, and Theon laughed.

“Yes. And I didn’t break my leg. Only my arm.”

“Poor Jonquil,” said Sansa. “Stuck up in that tree with all those ravens for days. A raven even pecked out one of her pretty eyes. I had to get her fixed.” She frowned.

“Poor Jonquil?” snapped Theon. “What about me? I fell out of a tree with that bloody thing. Snapped my arm in twain! Good thing Maester Luwin is good with physic, or the future Lord Reaver of Pyke would be one-armed.”

Sansa turned towards the ironwood tree, the very one that Liana was standing under. But she wasn’t looking at Liana, or even the tree; she stared up into the canopy, as if seeing a foolhardy twelve-year-old Theon Greyjoy hallooing up in the topmost branches.

“I still remember you, up there in the ironwood,” she murmured. “Everyone was terrified you would fall, but you laughed at all of them. And then you did fall, and I heard the bone break, and I didn’t know what to do. Septa said it was all my fault, making a fuss over a foolish doll.”

“Septa Mordane is a bitter old woman,” said Theon with a barely restrained snarl. “You didn’t do anything, Sansa. It was my idea. Mine. It was my fault I fell out of the tree, because it was my idea to climb it in the first place.”

“Thank you,” she said. “For that.”

A slow grin of triumph spread across his face.

“You know, you never thanked me at the time. Fancy that. It’s taken five years. And finally a thank you from Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell for rescuing her precious doll.” He squinted at her. “Do you even play with dolls anymore?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Theon Greyjoy,” said Sansa, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m not a child. Do I look like I still play with dolls?”

Once again, he looked her up and down. Sansa had the sort of figure thirteen-year-old Liana would have killed for, and even though the redhead’s blue gown was modest and loose, as Theon surveyed her, she still blushed a fiery rose.

“No,” he said, his voice growing husky and low. “Definitely not.”

As the wind changed direction, leaves rattling in the trees, steam from the hot springs billowed about them, surrounding them in a dense moist fog. Beads of moisture glittered on their hair and clothes. They gazed at each other, Sansa dumbstruck, her cheeks almost feverishly hot, and Theon looking both fascinated and confused, staring at her as if she were the selkie from his story made flesh.  

“I am almost a woman,” she said softly. “If Lord Bolton’s heir hadn’t died last year, I’d probably be betrothed to him. Mother was against it. But Father said it would unite the North. But…” She shrugged.

“He’s dead,” Theon said harshly. “From God knows what. Just as well. I don’t want to see you living at the Dreadfort.”

As Liana winced from the irony of that, a slight, mischievous smile formed on Sansa’s lips.

“It doesn’t sound like the most inviting place,” she said. “But I ask you, Theon Greyjoy. Where would you like to see me living?”

Theon opened his mouth as if to speak; then he seemed to think the better of it, and gave her a long, sidelong look.

“Where is it that you’d like to live, Lady Sansa?”

As she pressed a pale hand on his sleeve, the steaming clouds shimmered about them.

“I’m a Stark of Winterfell. But someday I must leave for the home of my new husband, whoever he may be. Yet there’s a wolf inside me, a little voice that will advise me, always. Who to trust. Who to love. Who knows what that wolf will say?”

Liana started, as Theon gulped.

“I never knew you were much for riddles, Sansa.”

“There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, Theon Greyjoy.” She raised her head. “I know you think I’m just a little girl who likes cakes and songs and sewing a fine seam. But mayhaps you’re wrong. Mayhap there’s more to me than you think.”

“Is that so?” He leaned towards her, seizing her hand. “I would be a fool to underestimate you, Lady Sansa. You and that wolf of yours.”

“You’d best beware,” she said gently, as he pulled her towards him.

“Of what?”

“Wolves can eat people,” she said, her eyes glittering with a reckless abandon, and for a moment, Liana thought Theon might lose every shred of self-control and kiss her, enveloped by the warm clouds of mist from the springs.

Instead, he grabbed her hand and kissed it. He kissed it several times, and turned over her palm and kissed the soft mound there, and Sansa looked like she she might faint.

“Theon—” she said, gasping, her breast heaving.

But the wind, fickle as ever, blew the steam away, and it dissipated. Theon’s face cleared, hardening, and he looked far older than seventeen. He stepped away.

“Lady Sansa,” he said. “I know you love your songs. Of gallant knights and courtly lords. But life is not a song. You must be careful.”

Sansa scowled.

“But what if I don’t want to be careful? I’m always careful—I always do what Mother and Septa tell me. I’ve never once taken one misstep. Not one. Arya can get away with murder, but I have to be perfect. Absolutely perfect!”

Theon shook his head, his jaw tightening.

“Robb would have my head,” he muttered. “You’re his little sister.”

“We’re doing nothing wrong,” she said, wiping some of the condensation off her face. “I like you, Theon, I just… want to get to know you better.”

He gave her a cocky grin. “Oh, is that all, little wolf? I thought you wanted to get to know me a lot better.”

She gazed at him, biting her lower lip. “You must think I’m horrible.”

“I’ve thought a lot of things about you, Sansa Stark, and ‘horrible’ isn’t one of them.” Theon’s expression was rueful. “I don’t want you to… regret anything.”

There was silence, the only noise the bubbling of the springs, and the rustling of the leaves. Even Liana held her breath.

“My only regret would be not to be your friend when I had the chance,” said Sansa. Her eyes grew bright with tears. “I don’t know where I’ll be a year from now. The Vale? The Reach? Dorne? I want to go… I want to leave these gates. I’ve never been anywhere, Theon.” Her voice lowered. “But it frightens me, a little, not knowing where I’ll be. I lie awake at night, thinking about the future. I want to think it’ll be all feasts and tourneys and dancing.” Her voice grew lower, almost inaudible. Liana had to strain to hear. “I want to picture it. But sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I can’t see anything at all.”

Theon took a deep beath, as if it had been knocked out of him. “Sansa, you have a wonderful future ahead of you. I’m sure of it.”

“I wish I could be sure of it,” she whispered.

He took her hands. “Your parents will take care of you. Your father—” He sounded pained. “He loves you, Sansa. He wants the best for you.”

“The best?” She turned away. “If Domeric Bolton lived, I’d be Lady of the Dreadfort.”

Theon stared at her, stricken. “Sansa…” His voice trailed away.

“Oh Theon.” She gazed at him with a sweet smile. “I know I can trust you. You’ve always been good to me. I just wish—”

“What?” he asked, his voice soft.

She looked off dreamily again.

“As long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to see the nine wonders of the world that Lomas Longstrider wrote about. Valyrian roads. The titan in Braavos. The Hightower in Oldtown… the three bells of Norvos… the triple walls of Qarth. The Long Bridge of Volantis. The Five Forts of Yi Ti. The great palace of Sarnath, though that’s in ruins now. Even the Wall.

“But most of all, someday, I want to see the ocean.” Sansa took a step closer, peering into Theon’s eyes, as if she could see it there. “I’ve heard so much about it. But I can’t even picture it. I want to see it more than anything.”

“You will.” He clutched both her hands to his chest. His voice grew rough with longing. “I’ll take you to see it. It’s gorgeous. The waves crash onto the rocks… the foam sprays your face… and you can’t help but notice all the colors in the water, like every jewel in the world. And you can’t imagine how vast it is. It extends as far as the eye can see… to the horizon… and it never ends, Sansa.”

“Until the edge of the world,” she said, leaning in.

His grip tightened on her hands. Theon stared at her, as if he’d never seen her before.

“Yes,” he echoed. “Until the edge of the world.”

“So you’ll take me to see it,” she breathed.

“Yes.”

“Is that a promise?”

Theon’s eyes glowed with intensity. “Yes.”

She tilted her head up. “I mean to hold you to it.”

“I hope you do.”

They didn’t move. Are they going to kiss? Liana wondered, fascinated by the scene unfolding before her, but appalled at herself for ogling them like it was an opera playing out for her enjoyment. But she couldn’t tear herself away. She wished she could help them ride away together and have their happily ever after, but life in the Age of the Sagas was monstrous and cruel, as they would soon find out.

Well. Maybe they had a decent chance in this timeline, if she had anything to say about it.

They leaned ever closer and closer, until Liana heard, ever so faintly in the distance, the chatter of two women entering the godswood. She picked up a handful of pebbles and threw them into the hot springs, making Sansa and Theon jump.

“Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

Sansa gasped.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, tearing away. “But I’ll see you again, soon.”

“Is that a promise?” Theon asked.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said with a reckless grin. “Because I mean to hold you to it.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it once more, passionately, lingeringly. As Sansa’s mouth parted and her eyes dilated, her face and neck flushed a deep crimson.

“Yes,” she said thickly. “And you must tell the story of the Grey King and the mermaid. I want to hear.”

“Anything for you, my sweet red lady.” As the voices grew louder, Theon let her hand go, bowed as he tossed his cloak rakishly over his shoulder.

“Take care of her, coz,” he said to Liana. “Make sure she doesn’t run off to White Harbor to take the first ship to Volantis.” He winked. “After all, I wouldn’t want her seeing the sights without me.”

And with that, he sauntered off.

Sansa stared after him for a moment; then she stumbled into Liana’s arms, blushing and shivering.

“Oh, Mistress Pyke,” she whispered. “Am I such a fool? What have I done?”

Liana embraced the younger girl, who was her height, if not taller, even with Liana wearing heels. She smelled faintly of lemons and lavender.

“Lady Sansa,” she murmured, “he is a good man, and I think he will become devoted to you.”

“You think so?” Sansa asked.

“Don’t ask me,” said Liana. “What does your inner voice say? What does the wolf inside tell you?”

Sansa closed her eyes, concentrating with all her might. After a moment, she opened them again, her crystal blue irises focusing on Liana.

“I think… that he cares for me. I know what everyone says about him, but when I’m with him, I feel… safe.”

“That’s good,” said Liana. “Does it tell you anything else?”

“That I care for him too,” Sansa whispered. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I wish I didn’t. It would be so much easier if I didn’t.”

“Life is never easy, my lady,” Liana said, and she hugged her, Sansa wept a little on her shoulder.

“Now, compose yourself,” she said. “We must go back inside.”

The younger girl nodded.

“I promise I will help you,” said Liana. “I don’t know what, but we’ll figure out something.”

Sansa smiled a little at that.

“If anyone can figure out what to do, Mistress Pyke, it’s you.” Her eyes shone with hope. “You must be the cleverest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Liana grimaced. “I don’t know about that.”

She really didn’t.

What the hell was she going to do, Liana wondered in frustration as they walked back to the keep. Talk Lord Stark into betrothing Sansa to the kid that was his ward/hostage/human shield? Lady Stark would have a meltdown. Or would she help Sansa and Theon run away together? Fuck, that was even worse. If she pulled a stunt like that, and Brenn wasn’t around to pull her ass out of the fire… well, people back in the Age of the Sagas had been beheaded for far, far less.

She put on a brave face for Sansa, like she was smart and competent and clever, but the truth was she had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

Well, there was one thing that was clear.

Whatever it was she was going to do, she’d better figure it out.

Soon.

Chapter Text

The next few days were kept quite busy for Liana, between Sansa’s lessons after nuncheon, storytelling in the evening, and assisting Theon with his Grey King and the mermaid story in the hours in between. She barely had any time to herself at all, and perhaps that was all for the best, so she didn’t have too much time to brood.

However, whenever she had a chance, she would take a walk on the battlements, Brenn’s scarf around her neck (with the tag removed), and she would look into the cold yet majestic wilderness and wonder what the fuck she was going to do next.

                                                                          * * *

Theon never stated his feelings about Sansa to Liana, but it was obvious to her that he definitely was starting to care for her, given how he drove himself to make the Grey King story The Most Awesome Story Ever within the space of three days. Instead of the customary two hours of rehearsing and fine-tuning before the weirwood tree, Theon was now like to take three, almost four hours, to the extent she heard Robb complain about Theon was never around anymore, for either sparring or drinking at the Smoking Log. It got to the point where the very idea of workshopping the Grey King story exhausted Liana, but she had no intention of backing out, not when Theon was actually was motivated to do something on his own for once.

And it was, she admitted, a pretty awesome story; she hoped everyone else would find it so too. It managed to be grisly, dark and oddly flamboyant, which seemed to be the Ironborn way.

The one thing that did concern her was the fact that Theon couldn’t stop staring at Sansa whenever they were in the same room together, and Sansa would do the same, flushing and smiling gently. Robb was oblivious, but Arya and Jon had immediately noticed; Jon scowled, casting dark looks at the other boy, while Arya demanded why she was so interested in Theon, did he have mud on his face or something else? This had immediately aroused Septa Mordane’s suspicions, and she glared at Theon so ferociously that even he got the hint and avoided Sansa’s eyes for the rest of the day.

But even with the septa’s unspoken warning, they shared the occasional glance; and when Liana was walking about with Sansa here and there, Theon happened to just show up, walking by, brushing his hand against hers. Not surprisingly, the day after the meeting by the hot springs, Sansa asked Liana to give Theon a note, and Theon responded in kind. Note followed note after note. She never read them, but she saw how their reactions; Sansa would look down and blush, sometimes kissing the letter after Liana presented it to her, and although Theon would occasionally grin, most of the time he became became pensive and intense, sticking the missive in his doublet before stalking off in the most distracted way.

It was clear that neither of them had any experience with dissembling. Liana supposed that was good, sort of, but watching them trying to coordinate this budding courtship—with discretion—was nothing short of painful.

Finally the night arrived, when Theon was to tell his story. The Selkie Bride, for all its grimdark Ironborn romanticism, was a small tale; but the Mermaid Queen story was more of an epic, featuring the Grey King, before he was grey, seducing the merling princess betrothed to the God of Storms.

Theon had expressed concern to her in private that he could do justice to a story that he had last heard told by skalds in his father’s hall back when he was eight years old, but Liana had assured him he would do wonderfully.

As she sat next to Sansa in the Great Hall, she gave him a reassuring smile, as Theon cleared his throat nervously, and began.

                                                                      * * *

 Back in the Dawn Age (said Theon), on the shores of Old Wyk, a mermaid sat on a rock, combing her blood-red hair with a comb of bone. The scales of her tail were silver-blue, like her eyes, the color of the sea when the sun shone brightest upon it.

As she combed her hair, she sang a sweet song, and the Grey King, who was walking the shores of his kingdom, stopped to listen.

At this time, the Grey King—whose true name has been lost to history—was not yet grey. He was a handsome young man with a full head of green-black hair, and eyes like the winter sea. He was bold and clever too, for he stole fire from the heavens by taunting the Storm God who blasted a tree in response, and he taught the folk of the Iron Islands to sail and weave nets.

All the maidens of Great Wyk desired to be the next queen, but the Grey King had not yet found one he loved enough to marry. But the merling, with her blood-red hair, silver-blue eyes, and pure voice, was the most desirable maiden he had ever seen.

He did not run, nor did he draw his sword to demand that she come with him. Instead, he approached her with smiles and fine compliments, which astonished her, because she was used to mortal men cringing and hiding from those of her kind.

This mortal, however, was bolder than bronze, and she liked him. She sang him another song, and another, and another, and then asked him to sing her a song instead, and he was only too happy to oblige. His voice was not match for the mermaid’s, but it was a fine voice nonetheless, and it pleased her.

The princess was not supposed to be there. She was only there on Old Wyk because she had fled from her father’s hall, as she had just been betrothed to a man she did not like. That man—or rather, god—was the charmless and cruel Storm God, who controlled the winds and the ravens and destroyed anything he didn’t like with bolts of fire from his fingertips. It didn’t matter if it was a house, or a ship, or a man. The Storm God loved to destroy on a whim, and his whims were deadly.

The mermaid feared and hated the god, and she did not want to be his wife. In fact, she much preferred this witty young man who took such care in wooing her.

“I should much rather marry you,” said the mermaid to the Grey King, who replied: “Then your wish is my command. My hall lies over the hill yonder.”

(“This was before the Grey King killed Nagga the dragon,” Theon added as an aside, “so it was well before the hall of Nagga’s bones was built. Some say this early hall was made from the wood of an earlier shipwreck, for some say the Grey King came from a mysterious land across the Sunset Sea, and his ship crashed upon Old Wyk, where he made his home.”)

The mermaid (said Theon) nodded. Then she sprinkled water on herself, transforming herself into a human woman with legs. Although she was clad in nothing but her hair, she accompanied the Grey King to his palace, where he clothed her and fed her with food from his own hand, and they went to bed, finding joy in all the ways that men and women do.

 (Theon said the last with only a little bit of a smirk, and Septa Mordane, to Liana’s relief, just sniffed.)

But this, as you can imagine, did not please the Storm God, who proceeded to buffet the luckless island with storms and floods and tidal waves, drowning fisherfolk and all those who lived on the shore. After seven days and seven nights of this relentless activity, half the island was underwater, even the Grey King’s own hall, and men, women and children fled to the highest point of the island, seeking not to drown.

As the Grey King, along with the princess, led his people to the highest peak, the mermaid’s father, a merling sorcerer, sent his warriors to carry her off. As soon as they emerged from the thrashing waters, they turned to men, armed with tridents and carp’s tongue swords. The Grey King fought with all his might, slaying mermen left and right with his great axe of bronze— but the mermen swarmed him like ants, until he was outnumbered, twenty to one.

As the princess screamed with horror, he was struck down, disarmed, and restrained by a dozen merling fighters as the sorcerer himself stood over him, intoning words of the ancient tongue of the Seafolk. Then he sprinkled him with water, gesturing in the air, making runic incantations.

As feathers spread over him like greyscale, the Grey King shrunk and twisted, his arms extending into wings, and his feet turning into webbed claws. Soon, the man that was the Grey King was a common gull, and as the mermen pelted him with stones and arrows, he flew away, vanishing into the distance.

Meanwhile, the princess was dragged off and locked in her father’s undersea hall. Her father told her that she must marry the Storm God, or she would never be free again. But the weeping girl swore by salt and stone that she would rather die than marry the Storm God, and that her heart belonged to her lover, no matter what might be done with her.

The sorcerer cursed her and struck her so hard across the face that her lip split, and locked her in her room. The girl sank to the floor, weeping despite herself.

How would she ever see him again? She was under the sea, and he was in the air, flying above the surface of the water. How could a creature of the air and a creature of the sea ever hope to meet?

 (Sansa teared up at this point, and Theon’s voice faltered. Liana was afraid that he might be thrown entirely off his game, but he took a deep breath and forged onwards.)

But the two lovers refused to accept defeat, and soon help arrived (in the usual fashion of folk tales). The Grey King, in his gull guise, captured a fish, and when the fish begged for mercy, he gave it, letting it swim away.

But the fish owed the Grey King his life, and knew of his story. By way of repayment it swam to find the merling princess, who fed the fish as it attended to her at the now barred window of her bower, and as she petted its head, she told it to give her love a message.

The message was this: that he might be turned back into a man if he flew to the isle of Lonely Light, deep in the ocean, where a powerful witch dwelled. No doubt her price for her help would be steep. But the princess was desperate, as the hour of her wedding approached, and she dreaded with all her heart her marriage to the ruthless Storm God. Not only would he take her away from the sea, which she loved as much as her own heart’s blood, but she was deathly afraid would burn her to cinders if she as much looked at him the wrong way.

 The fish then informed the Grey King, who flew off to Lonely Light, his heart surging with hope.

Lonely Light is a desolate place now, and was even more desolate back then, before its beacon was built, and controlled as it was by those with knowledge of the dark arts. It is a small island, surrounded by cliffs, and almost every inch was covered with the bones of men, sailors the witch had drowned and warriors she had murdered. The witch’s hut stood in the middle of the island, at its high point, where the beacon stands now, and it was a crude hovel of stone and sticks, crowded with various magical tools and potions, with barely any space for the witch and her daughter, who attended on her mother’s every need.

They were the ugliest pair. The witch was as hideous as you can imagine, toothless, half blind, with long tangled hair and fingers like bones, but her daughter was a drooling, leering creature with a huge nose and pimpled skin and hands like meathooks and nails long and curled and encrusted with dirt. Living on Lonely Light drives even sanest people to madness, and these two thought they were as beautiful as merling maids, and the daughter, as she crouched over the bones of the dead, tended to comb her hair and gaze onto the sea, and sing in her croaking voice.

Now, the witch knew of the Grey King’s plight, and did agree to change him back into a man. For the witch, it was the work of a moment, but it was a great relief, indeed, for the Grey King to recover the use of one’s hands and feet-- but the cost was indeed as steep as he feared, as soon as he could stand on his own two feet again, the witch demanded that he wed her daughter.

“I see,” said the witch, looking him up and down like a side of meat, “now that I have restored your true form, that you are a handsome man, and you shall do well to wed my daughter. You will take her and fill her with your seed, and you shall give her a daughter that I might train after me. And if you’re good, I shall keep you here, and you shall do as I direct you. You shall be my warrior and my goodson and the father of my grandchildren. Does this sound pleasing to you?”

The daughter simpered, clapped her hands and hung herself about the Grey King’s neck, excited at the idea that such a doughty warrior would be hers to possess, but the Grey King, repelled, silently swore by salt and stone that he would rather die than marry her.

He told the witch, though, it all sounded agreeable to him, because what would have happened to him if he refused? Nothing good, of course. The bones of hundreds of men on Lonely Light attested to that. How many of them had been asked to be the daughter’s husband?

Now, the witch, in her hut, had many magical artifacts in her possession—including an ointment that could make men walk and breathe underwater-- but her prize possession was a bronze cauldron, that could not only provide endless food and drink, but could revive the dead. The cauldron was a crusted, ancient, ugly thing, and looked far less enticing than its neighbor, a cauldron of gold, that looked shiny and fair and naught else.

But the witch wanted to celebrate, and she boasted to the Grey King of her bronze cauldron’s powers, and fed him until he was sated. However, he touched little of the drink, and plied the witch and her daughter with more of the magical ale. Even though they could put away drink like a sailor with an empty leg, even they eventually fell over and started snoring.

The Grey King, still sober and alert, went to work. Using sand, he polished off the bronze cauldron until it shone like gold, and he took the gold cauldron and slathered it with mud and dung, so they looked exactly reversed. When the two woke up the Grey King exclaimed:

“Mother, you claim that this cauldron can revive dead things. Well, how can I believe you?”

“My son,” said the witch, “you saw with your own eyes the food and drink this cauldron produced. Do you call me a liar?”

“Oh Mother,” said the Grey King, “I would never call you a liar, but you are old, and perhaps you misremember. For food and drink is one thing, but reviving the dead is quite another.”

“My memory is as good as yours,” said the witch, but the Grey King said, “mayhap it is, mayhap it isn’t. Have you ever been in the cauldron yourself?”

Much wroth that he would dare to suggest that she did not know the powers of her own cauldron, the witch told her daughter to kill her, chop her up and throw her into the cauldron, where she would be revived, and twice as hard and strong as before. The daughter was reluctant, but the witch insisted.

At last, as requested, the daughter sliced the throat of her mother the witch, took an axe and chopped her into pieces, blood and gore and guts splattering everywhere, and threw her into the cauldron.

But for all this bloody work, the daughter threw the witch’s corpse into the gold cauldron, disguised to look like the bronze cauldron of revival—and the cauldron did nothing. The witch stayed dead and dismembered, a jumble of flesh and chopped up limbs already beginning to stink. The daughter began to scream, a high, keening noise that went on until the Grey King struck off her head with the axe that killed her mother. He then tossed the bodies of the witch and her daughter off the cliffs, so the gulls and crabs might feast upon their remains, and proceeded about his business.

And his business was to revive all the dead men that lay on Lonely Light. One by one, he sorted the bones, casting them into the bronze cauldron, where they sprung up, reclothed in flesh, bright-eyed, and harder and stronger as ever; until he possessed a host, fierce, angry, dedicated to him, ready to die for him, who covered half the island.

He armed them with all the weapons the witch had discarded and touched their foreheads with the ointment that allowed them to walk and breathe underwater, and then led them down into the ocean. They walked upon the floor of the sea, past fey trees and flowers that bent in the currents, passing confused fish and other sea creatures until they reached the gates of the merling sorcerer’s hall, a great building of coral and pearl, its roof made of mussel shells, lit with a thousand tapers that glowed with a strange white light whose source was unknown to mortal men.

It was just in time, too, for the princess was to be wed to the Storm God, and the hall thronged with chattering merfolk dressed in their festive best. When the warriors burst through the gates, they screamed and scattered, and were quickly routed. Even the Storm God, blundering about in his wedding finery, was caught unawares. He could not even blast the invaders with lightning, as he was in the underwater kingdom and his powers of fire could not work there. But he blustered and raged, grabbed his war hammer with one hand, and the other seized the princess, to prevent her from escaping.

But the Storm God was so focused on the Grey King, that he had forgotten the woman he was to marry. She thrust herself up with her tail. With her free hand, she took her comb of bone from her hair and stabbed him in the eye.

The god screamed a scream that rocked the foundations of the hall itself; it caused the ocean floor to tremble; and they heard it echoing from the Lonely Light to Asshai of the Shadows. As the humiliated god fled, nursing his leaking, bloody eye, he swore revenge upon the Grey King and the princess and all their kin, for generations to come, until the stars fell out of the sky and the sun grew cold.

With the god gone, the merling sorcerer gave his reluctant blessing, and our hero left with his host and his bride, glad to once again return to his home. The Grey King knew he would have to worry about this someday. He knew he would have to wage war against the Storm God. He might have to wage it for a thousand years.

But as he stood upon the shore of Old Wyk, reunited with his lady, her blood-red hair waving in the wind, under the fresh clean sky and before the crashing waves, he kissed her. At least for the moment, he found himself happy-- indeed, happier than any mortal man had any right to be.

                                                                   * * *

The hall burst into applause, as Robb jumped up and threw his arm around Theon.

“That was a wonderful story!” he exclaimed. “No wonder why you were working so hard. I loved this one especially.”

“Really?” Theon wiped his sweaty forehead.

“Really!” Robb replied with a grin. “It was a proper adventure. A brave man faces off with monsters and moves the earth and sky to rescue a beautiful maiden. What’s not to love?”

Theon blinked, as if processing it, and then a genuine smile crossed his face.

“Thank you, Robb. I know you weren’t mad about the last one.”

Robb shrugged. “I can’t be mad about every story, can I? But this one—I loved it, I did. I’d want to hear it again, at some point, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t!” Theon still looked delighted and a bit incredulous as well, as if he had trouble believing this was happening to him. “Whenever you want, Robb. You know where to find me.”

“I do. Though I have to admit,” Robb added with a grimace, “you’ve been paying too much attention to your cousin’s stories, what with your character also killing his host.”

Theon sighed.

“She was an evil witch, Robb.”

“Yes, but…”

“It’s good to know,” said Theon, smirking, “if you’re ever captured by an evil witch, you’ll do nothing, because your honor means more to you than your life.”

As Liana cringed, Robb gave a careless, delighted laugh. “But I’ll have you with me, right? That tale is better than the tales of Lann the Clever. I loved that bit with the cauldrons!”

“Thank you,” said Theon sharply, “but anything Ironborn is far better than any gold-plated Lannister shit.”

This time, Robb gave an uncomfortable laugh, as Theon turned to Sansa.

“Sansa, I want to know what you thought. Did it please you?”

Sansa’s bright blue eyes were radiant.

“Yes,” she said, pressing her hand to her bosom. “I loved it. It had a happy ending.”

“It did.”

“And Ironborn romances do exist.”

“They do.”

They gazed at each other, not moving, not even breathing, until Sansa blushed and turned away. Septa Mordane stepped forward—her eyes alert—but then Robb gave Theon a rough, affectionate side hug.

“You’ve told a story that pleased my sister! I never thought I’d see the day. Your stories involving women were, ah… ones I could never repeat.” And then Robb blushed and laughed, as Theon rolled his eyes.

“I liked it,” piped up Bran. “It had a lot of fighting! No knights though. But an army marching along the floor of the sea!” The boy’s eyes glowed. “That was wonderful! I’ve never heard the like.”

Theon smiled. “These were tales I heard growing up in Pyke. Skalds would come, and sing songs from the Dawn Age and the Age of Heroes.”

“Really?” Bran almost bounced with excitement. “Is a skald like a bard?”

“Yes,” said Theon. “It’s what they call bards in the Iron Islands. But the style is very different from what greenlanders fancy, and skalds always compose their own verses.” He looked around, as if still amazed people actually were interested in what he had to say. “Long heroic stories are called drápa, in the Old Tongue, and there’s a kind of spontaneous verse called lausavísa that marks special occasions.”

“I’d love to hear more,” said Bran.

“I have others too.” Encouraged, Theon swept out his arm. “Some time I should tell you the story of how the Grey King killed Nagga, the greatest dragon of the seas.”

“Ooh,” said Bran. “Dragons!”

“I hope you may let me know if you remember any other love stories,” Sansa interjected boldly.

“Oh, yes.” Theon’s eyes grew heavy-lidded. “I will.”

At that, Arya’s eyes narrowed; Jon frowned; and even Jeyne Poole giggled, nervously plucking on her sleeve. God, thought Liana, those two are the absolute worst at keeping a liaison secret. Was she going to have to teach Intrigue for Dummies in addition to rhetoric?

“Sansa,” said Septa Mordane. Her voice was stern. “It’s getting late. I’m sure your brother and Theon have matters to discuss.”

“Septa—” Sansa exclaimed.

“Forgive me, Lady Sansa, but it is getting late,” said Liana. “Perhaps your septa has a point. Perhaps it is time for you to retire.”

At that, the septa gave her a slight, grateful smile (and Liana did feel somewhat guilty at this, because she did have more experience dissembling than Sansa and Theon, and this was just a move to make her look less like a wingman and a schemer).

Sansa raised her chin.

“Then I shall retire, but Mistress Pyke will accompany me. Septa Mordane, I’m sure Arya will welcome your wise words.”

“Sansa,” Arya whined.

“Come, Mistress Pyke,” Sansa said haughtily. “I bid you good night, everyone.” She exchanged one more speaking glance with Theon, but at least this time she had enough sense not to say anything.

The Starks’ eldest daughter marched with her head in the air until they reached her chambers. In the future, Liana had seen photos of Queen Sansa’s recreated bedchamber in the Winterfell museum, but that was in a different tower, not even built yet, and while luxurious enough, it bore little resemblance to what she saw before her now.

This bedchamber was much larger than Liana’s room, practically a suite. It was hung all over with tapestries of lords and ladies going a-maying in flowered fields with pretty castles in the distance, large chests of clothes carved with flowers and dragonflies, fresh scented rushes laid upon the floor, the large embroidery frame Liana had seen in use earlier, and a work table, covered in cloth pieces, positioned near the window decorated with a vase of winter roses.

As soon as the door shut, Sansa's mask crumbled.

“Mistress Pyke,” she whispered, falling onto her bed. “What am I to do? By the gods, I am so miserable.”

“Lady Sansa—”

“Gods, when I look at him, I just—” Sansa paused. “For years, he’s been so ridiculous. So vulgar. So smug. Mistress Pyke, I know he’s your cousin, but for years I’ve thought him such a fool.”

Sansa clenched her fists.

“But when I look at him, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. When he looks at me, in that way he has, I feel… I am on fire. I even dream of him at night.” Her cheeks heating, she flung herself down onto her pillow.

“He’s not a fool. Maybe I’m the fool. I spent years underestimating him, and now… now that I’m about to be betrothed to only the gods know who…”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I feel so ashamed. I don’t know what to do.”

At that, Lady jumped up on the bed, licking her face. Sansa hugged her wolf pup. “Oh, Lady! Sweetling. You’re so good to me.”

Liana sat down next to the young noblewoman. “My lady, I know what you’re going through.”

“Do you?” Sansa leaned her head onto Lady’s. “Mistress Pyke, I always thought when I fell in love, I would be happier about it. It would be like the songs. Like Florian and Jonquil. Or Prince Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones. But… I don’t feel very happy. I mean, sometimes I do. But I feel so awful. And confused. And…”

She turned pink. “And so many other things.” She looked down at her lap, worrying her lower lip. “I think about him all the time. And whenever I think about him, I feel so very… strange.” She blushed down to her bosom.

Was this Sansa’s veiled way of saying that she was thinking about sex? Lord of Light. How was she to handle this?

“Lady Sansa, I know what you are feeling,” Liana said carefully. “There was a boy in high school back in Qarth I was crazy about. I thought about him all the time. I think I probably would have dated him, if my mother hadn’t gotten sick.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Customs in Qarth must be very strange. Why would a school be high? Is it a religious school? Did you learn the tenets of R’hllor there?”

“Uh, no… it’s a secondary school,” said Liana, but Sansa still looked confused.

“Never mind,” said Liana. “What I mean to say is, my lady, your feelings are normal. Lots of girls and boys your age feel that way about other attractive people in the same age bracket. Lord Theon is attractive, and he’s close to your age, and you two seem to have a lot in common, so I’m not surprised you would both, ah, take to each other.”

“But what should I do?” Sansa burst out. “I shall be betrothed to someone before the year is out. I just don’t know who.” Her mouth twisted. “I suppose I shall have to go into marriage knowing that… I want to be with someone else. It is my duty to my house.”

“Well,” said Liana, lowering her voice. “How would you feel if your father allowed you to marry my cousin? Would that please you?”

Sansa’s mouth dropped; and she gripped Lady so tightly the wolf pup started to whine. “Do you think that could happen?”

“Lady Sansa, I know that your mother wants you to marry a Southron lord or prince more than anything,” Liana replied. “And your father doesn’t want that with equal measure.”

“So…”

“So, the Iron Islands isn’t in the South. The Greyjoys are one of the great houses of Westeros, and my cousin is of princely status. My lady, it’s not a terrible match.” She paused, honesty compelling her to add: “It’s not the best, for a lady of your rank, but it’s not the worst either.”

Sansa laughed a little, letting Lady go so she jumped down and nestled at her feet. “I suppose that’s true. But would Father allow it?”

“I don’t know, Lady Sansa. What does he think of the Ironborn?”

Sansa thought. “I think he despises them for their violence and lack of honor. But… at the same time, he admires them for their honesty and strength, though he would never say so.”

“It’s a tricky situation,” Liana admitted.

“Do you think you could talk to Father about it? Please?” Sansa widened her eyes. “He likes you. He thinks you’re clever and brave—I know he does. And he feels very badly about the brigands, and that your betrothed is still missing. If you approached him, with care…”

Liana couldn’t think of a worse idea. That she would approach Eddard Stark with a marriage proposal for Theon and Sansa? Maybe he liked her now, but once she started running her trap about a possible marriage between his precious oldest daughter and his expendable ward, she could just see his long Northern face becoming increasingly angry and grim. The very thought made her want to fling herself out the nearest window.

“Yes, but Lady Sansa, you’re his daughter. Are you sure you shouldn’t approach him?”

Sansa blanched. “By the gods, Mistress Pyke, I think that would be a very ill idea. I think he might think that I am only approaching him because… because… Theon dishonored me. He knows Theon’s reputation with women, and he would probably jump to conclusions.”

“Probably,” Liana said, and all of a sudden she thought of the scene in The Invisible Tollbooth, when the hero Miles, after making an assumption, finds himself on the Island of Conclusions, leading himself to conclude he had jumped to Conclusions. Now she was imagining Lord Stark flying across a strait to a tropical island as Miles did. “But… let me get this straight, my lady. You do want to marry my cousin?”

Sansa blushed.

“Yes,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I think I would like that. I think I would like it very much.”

Liana took a deep breath. “Right,” she said. “It would probably be good to discuss it with Lord Theon first. To see that we’re all on the same page.”

“On the same page,” Sansa echoed, puzzled but amused. “You have the most interesting way of expressing yourself, Mistress Pyke.”

Liana allowed herself a laugh. “I suppose I do.” She scratched Lady’s head, and Lady licked her hand, panting happily. “Let me see when I can arrange our next meet-up in the godswood.”

Sansa’s face glowed.

“Oh, yes. Please. I’ll look forward to that.”

I’ll bet you do, thought Liana, as she curtsied and bid her good-night, promising she would send for the maid to prepare Lady Sansa for bed. She well remembered what it was like to be an adolescent girl, brimming over with hormones.

Of course, hormonal teenagers were not known for their excellent decision making skills.

But that’s why she was there—right? Right? After all, she was twenty-one—she was practically an old lady compared to those two.

Oh, Brenn, she thought, leaning against the keep’s stone wall with a sigh. You better get your ass here fast. These kids might think I’m the second coming of Marwyn the Mage, but I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

And that was becoming more and obvious with every passing day.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

***

***

***

“Lady Sansa wishes to talk,” Liana murmured to Theon the next day, in the godswood, after his usual post-nuncheon archery practice.

Theon swallowed. “Does she?”

“Yes. I think she wants to know your intentions.”

“My intentions?”

Is there an echo in here? Liana bit her tongue to prevent the sharp reply from emerging. “Yes. Are they honorable, coz? Are you only going to toy with her affections, or do you intend to marry her?”

Theon wheezed, as if someone had walloped him on the chest. “Marriage? She’s already thinking of that?”

Liana gave him a hard glare. “Of course! Your interactions have become more than a little intense, what with the hand kissing and all. And you know as well as she that if the Bolton heir was alive, this wouldn’t be happening at all.” She paused a beat. “So, what shall it be, cousin? Do you intend to make an offer, or do you intend to treat Lady Sansa like one of your whores?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Because if it’s the latter, let me assure you, cousin, I will not hesitate to go to Lord Stark and tell him everything.”

At that moment, Theon’s eyes blew wide in fear, but his nostrils flared. His face twisting into a snarl, he opened his mouth, but she quickly interjected:

“But I don’t think I’ll have to do that.”

Theon blinked, thrown off. “What?”

“You did such a wonderful job with your story,” said Liana smoothly. “When it comes to storytelling, you’ve really upped your game the past two weeks. You’re almost the equal of a Qartheen talespinner in the Saffron or Tamarind bazaars.”

Theon’s face calmed. “Almost?” he jibed. “I think I’d be better!” He put his hand on his hip. “An Ironborn prince, when he sets his mind to a task, can far excel any damned cringing Essosi.” He seemed to realize what he had said as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Um, no offense,” he mumbled.

Liana smiled, more amused than offended by his clumsy braggadocio. “None taken, coz. At any rate, whether you’re better or worse, after your tale, Sansa was ready to swoon. And you were staring at each other for the longest time.”

Theon flushed. “I suppose.”

“You’d best be careful with that,” she said. “Or Septa Mordane will go to Lady Stark, and you don’t want that, do you?”

He blanched. “No.”

“So, that brings me back to my original question. What are your intentions towards Lady Sansa?”

Theon said nothing. He leaned against the nearest oak, looking the picture of misery as he gazed up through the dense network of branches, giving the most melancholy sigh possible.

That, she supposed, was an answer in itself, but she needed more information.

“I assure you, you can trust me. If you love her, you love her, but if you don’t, you don’t.” She lowered her voice softly. “But is the idea of spending the rest of your life with her so entirely hateful?”

“It’s not hateful at all.” His eyes flickered, a strange variety of emotions chasing across his countenance. “Any man who ends up married to Sansa should thank the gods.”

“Well,” she said.

“Well, what?” Theon snapped, straightening. “What I want doesn’t matter to the Starks, as I’m sure you’re well aware, cousin!”

Liana leaned closer. “Well, what if it’s what Sansa wants too?”

Theon looked as if he had trouble breathing. “Is it? You’re not japing with me, are you, Mistress Pyke?”

“I swear by the Lord of Light I am not,” replied Liana. “Last night, when we were in her chambers, I asked her point-blank if she wanted to marry you, and she said, ‘I think I would like that. I think I would like it very much.’”

Theon paled, then reddened. He looked stricken, almost like he might faint himself.

“I’m sorry,” Liana said in a low voice. “I should have waited for her to tell you herself. But I don’t want any chance of miscommunication, which is why I’m telling you now.”

“Thank you,” Theon said hoarsely. He pushed his hair back, his eyes widening with something like horror. “Drowned God, what am I supposed to do? Lord Stark would kill me before he would allow me to wed Sansa!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Liana said, and Theon let out a harsh, sardonic laugh.

“Don’t be naïve, cousin. I know he says I’m his ward, but he would strike off my head if my father as much as sent a longship to plunder the mainland. If he knew that I was sniffing after his daughter, the Old Wolf would geld me, then behead me.”

He sighed again.

“Gods, my luck is shit. My mother’s gone mad, the rest of of my family doesn’t care if I’m alive or dead, and neither does Lord or Lady Stark.” His jaw tightened. “I should just run off to Essos to become a sellsword. Sansa doesn’t deserve the trouble I’ll bring her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Liana gripped his arms. “Do you know how miserable she would be if you did that?”

“Would she? She’d be miserable at first, I’m sure. But she’d get over it.”

“No. She wouldn’t.” Liana tightened her grip. “Sansa might seem like a silly teenage girl, but I assure you she feels things very, very deeply. If something happened to you, I don’t think she’d ever forgive herself.”

He gnawed on his lip, lowering his eyes.

“All right,” he muttered. “You can let go of me now.”

“Uh, sorry.” Liana released him.

Theon rubbed his arms, shooting her an amused look. “I had no idea that a bookish wench like you could be so strong. I thought you’d break my arms. Gods, but your hands are big.”

Suddenly self-conscious of her hands, Liana tucked them into her sleeves. She did have large hands—she often had to go to the mens’ department when shopping for gloves. She also had large feet too, but fortunately she was tall enough it wasn’t something that came up too often.

“You have a grip like Victarion’s,” Theon went on.

“Who?” She’d spent enough time at the Ten Towers, she should know who that was, but it was a common enough name in the Greyjoy line. Was it Victarion the Red? Victarion Greybeard? Or Victarion the Last Reaver? They all blurred together in her mind as some big angry guy with an axe.

“My nuncle. Well, one of them. Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. Strong as a bullock, and twice as thick. You’re nothing like him, of course. But there’s almost something about—” Theon gave her an appraising look, then shook his head, as if he were imagining things. “Never mind. It must be that Greyjoy blood.”

“I suppose it manifests in surprising ways,” Liana said.

Theon laughed. “It does, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, coz,” he added with a wink. “As large as your hands are, they’re quite pretty. As I’m sure is the rest of you.”

Liana rolled her eyes up to the sky. “However pretty my hands are, I assure you, Sansa’s hands are much prettier.”

Theon grinned. “I won’t argue with that.”

“Good. And I hope to God that if you two do end up together, you would be satisfied with her hands, and her hands only.”

He flushed.

“If the Drowned God did see fit to grant Sansa Stark to me as a wife,” he said roughly, “then I would never see another whore again. I would never tup another maid. Is that what you want to hear, coz? You like oaths, don’t you? Because I would swear it, by salt and stone and steel, if need be. Is that what you want?”

She smiled in relief. “I am glad to hear it. And no, you needn’t swear. Your words are enough.” I can tell you mean them, she wanted to say, but didn’t.

“Good,” he said. “Now, you mentioned a meeting with Sansa.”

“I did,” she said, and they agreed to meet after the rhetoric lesson later that afternoon, by the hot springs.          

                                                                              * * *   

The very idea of meeting with Theon after the lesson meant Sansa was so distracted she could barely concentrate on the various examples of speeches using reason as a means of persuasion, but after Liana chided her for her inattention, she managed to pull it together and attend to her work.

But she couldn’t hide how thrilled she was when class was over, and at the prospect of once again meeting with Theon. Not only did her eyes sparkle, but she couldn’t stop smiling—first at the magpie perched on the window, then at a maid bundling along a pile of laundry, and then at an old servant holding a mop and a bucket of dirty water. The servant gave her an odd look as he passed them, muttering under his breath that even for the gentry, it was too early to start tippling.

“Lady, please,” Liana said in a low voice. “I’m happy you’re happy, but if you could just—dial it down a bit, or people will notice.”

Even with her anachronistic lingo, Sansa managed to get the drift of what she was saying, and settled her face into a more sedate expression.

“Is that better, Mistress Pyke?” she asked anxiously.

“Much,” Liana replied, and they were off to the hot springs.

Theon was there, pacing. But the moment he saw Sansa he stood, stock-still. He swallowed.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, his voice raw.

“Lord Theon,” she replied. She pushed her hair back, giving him a shy smile. “Though I suppose we needn’t use titles at this point, should we?”

“I suppose not.” He took her hand, kissing it. “Sansa,” he said. “I’m glad to see you.”

She gazed at him, her eyes as luminous as blue pools. “I am too.”

Theon met her gaze. As the two regarded each other in rapt silence, the hot springs bubbled and seethed. The wind rattled the trees, and a distant raven cawed. It seemed they dwelt alone in a sphere of glass.

“Your story,” Sansa whispered. “The one about the Grey King.”

“Yes? What about it?”

“I loved it so much.”

“Why?” As if realizing how abrupt that sounded, Theon amended hastily: “I mean, if you could tell me what you liked about it, that might, ah, help me for next time.”

“Oh,” said Sansa. “There were so many things. The romance was charming. The villains were horrible. The hero was clever, with his trick with the cauldrons, and the mermaid even had a chance to stab the Storm God with her comb.” If Sansa was the type to chortle, she would have chortled with glee then, but instead her lips tugged upwards.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he murmured. “I told it for you.”

“Oh, I can tell.” She leaned closer. “Your mermaid had red hair. Didn’t your selkie have red hair too?”

Theon reddened. “Um. Yes.”

“How was it you put it in the selkie story?” Sansa tilted her head. “That she had hair like ‘red-gold greaves from a dragon’s hoard.’ And the mermaid had hair of ‘blood-red.’”

“Yes,” he mumbled.

“So which is it?”

“What?”

“My hair.” She flashed a small flirtatious smile. “Is it like blood or dragon gold?”

“Your hair,” Theon said slowly, clearly mulling over what he wanted to say. “It’s neither of those things.”

“Tell me,” she said, her voice unsteady.

He leaned in closer as well. “It’s the color of the sea when the sun sets off the coast of Pyke. The water turns into a sheet of rose copper. It shimmers.” He touched one of the locks that fell onto her shoulder. “I haven’t seen it since I was a child, but it was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.”

Sansa’s eyes glimmered. “Theon.” His name was a sigh, and she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder.

His hands curled around her shoulderbones. “Sansa, I…” He paused, his face twisting into an agonized expression.

“What is it?” She glanced up at him with concern and confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“Gods,” he said with a groan. “I can’t stand this any longer. Marry me!”

“What?” she exclaimed.

“I love you,” he blurted out. “I want you to be my wife. Please.”

Sansa blinked. “Is this… is this a proposal?”

Theon turned a fiery red. “I know, I’m making a right hash of this. But I mean it, Sansa, I’m mad about you. I know… I know I should be approaching your father first. But…”

He took a deep breath, lifting his head. The sunlight haloed his curls, outlining them in gold. At that moment, any clumsy adolescent coltishness melted away, leaving a young man who looked every inch a prince.

“I want to marry you,” he said. “If you’ll have me.”

Liana shivered. If you’ll have me. The leitmotif.

“Oh, Theon.” Sansa’s eyes were round; yet she didn’t move. “This is mad. Father would kill you if he knew.”

At that, the light went out in Theon’s eyes. He sagged. “You’re right. He would.”

He was about to turn away, slumping, when Sansa caught his arm.

“But I don’t care,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t. I’ll talk to him. I can convince him this is a good match. I know I can.”

Theon’s eyes brightened a little. “Sansa…”

“Yes.” An utter look of determination came over her. She squared her shoulders. “Yes, I will have you.”

He took in a sharp breath, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, but now she trembled. “I love you, Theon Greyjoy, and don’t you forget it.”

“No,” he said, with utter intensity. “I won’t.”

He gazed into her eyes, as if she were the most precious thing in the world to him; then he cupped her face in his hands, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Sansa’s lips parted. Her eyes shone like the sun. Her breath grew shallow and fast.

After a long, breathless moment, he lowered his mouth down on hers.

At first, Liana could barely hear them. He kissed her gently, quietly, feather-light, but after a few minutes of scattering kisses upon her waiting face, Sansa buckled against him, sighing. As he continued to kiss her, she snaked her arms about him, and she returned his kisses with greater fervor, and her sighs now turned to gasps. She gripped his shoulders, his hands tightened about her waist, and they showed no signs of parting. As the light in the glen shifted, and the shadow of a nearby oak fell upon them, wrapping them in shade, Liana could hardly make them out, save for the outline of two merged figures. Yet, the shadow undulated, and she heard little sighs and moans and desperate pants.

Oh fuck, thought Liana, alarmed. This was spinning out of control fast. She had to do something to stop them, or God only knew what would happen next…

Just as she was about to try to grab their attention, she heard someone crashing through the underbrush. She whirled around to see Jeyne Poole running towards them.

“Lady Sansa!” She stopped, gasping for air. “Septa is looking for you. I think she’s suspicious.”

Sansa and Theon parted, and they were disheveled, their faces flushed, and Sansa’s mouth was not only chafed and red, but her careful coiffure was half undone. Jeyne went up to her, touching up her hair, her deft fingers flying as she tucked back everything into place.

“Go to the weirwood with Mistress Pyke,” said Jeyne. “She’ll be going there first. And you,” she said to Theon. “Best go through the Guest House. None of the servants will be there at this hour.”

Theon gulped. “All right.” He turned to Sansa. “I shall see you later, my lady.”

“Sansa,” she said with a gentle smile. “You no longer have to call me ‘my lady,’ Theon.”

He didn’t even seem to notice Jeyne. “But soon,” he replied, “if the gods are good, I shall call you wife.”

“Yes,” Sansa said with a sigh, and he folded her into his arms again, and he kissed her until she was flushed pink and shivering with delight.

“Now go,” said Jeyne and Theon nodded, giving Sansa, Jeyne and Liana a mocking salute as he ambled off into the shadows of the trees that surrounded the Guest House.

“To the weirwood with you two,” said Jeyne to Sansa and Liana. “And do try to look like you’ve been praying.”

Sansa nodded, mutely. Even with her hair fixed, she did have the look of someone who had been kissed very soundly.

“Come, Lady Sansa,” said Liana. “Your friend is right.”

“Aren’t I always?” Jeyne retorted. “I think you’d know that by now,” she added to Sansa. “Hiding your letters from Theon under your mattress. Pah!”

Despite herself, Liana laughed. Sansa shot her an aggrieved look, but went along with Liana anyway, where—once they reached the weirwood tree—she knelt amongst the dry leaves and began to pray. And when Septa Mordane found them, Sansa smiled at her with maidenly innocence, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

I am the worst influence on her, Liana thought later in the evening, once she had reached the safety of her rooms. Innocent little Sansa Stark, now turned into a dissembler and an intriguante. She was not sure whether to be disgusted with herself or proud.

She was lost in the midst of her reverie when someone knocked softly on the door. Wishing that security peepholes existed in this era, she unlatched the door, blocking it with her foot, as she peered out.

She saw Jeyne Poole, raising an eyebrow.

“Will you let me in, Mistress Pyke?” Jeyne said. “Lady Sansa sent me to discuss her rhetoric exercises upon the morrow.”

She doubted that was the case, but it seemed as good an excuse as any. “Do come in, Mistress Poole,” Liana replied, gesturing her inside.

Jeyne entered, looking about curiously. She was a slender brunette with hair elegantly arranged in a braided chignon, with a face as delicate as a cameo. She wore a dark blue dress with hanging sleeves, very much in the style of Lady Stark’s gowns. She was older than Sansa—about fourteen or fifteen, perhaps? Liana knew that Jeyne was the daughter of the steward of Winterfell, Vayon Poole, but she could barely remember her from the Sagas. But there wasn’t much to know, to be honest. She was a friend who accompanied Sansa down to King’s Landing, and later vanished—probably sold into a brothel by arch-scumbag Littlefinger.

The girl shot her a knowing look. “I’ve come here not to talk about rhetoric, as you’ve likely already guessed,” she said. “But your cousin. Her ladyship bids me to give you this.” She passed Liana a note.

“Thank you, Mistress Poole,” Liana said. “I know we haven’t had much of a chance to talk, but I did want to thank you for alerting us today.”

Jeyne shrugged. “I would do anything for Lady Sansa. And who would want to stand in the way of true love?”

Her voice was both rueful and ironic, which was odd to hear in a denizen of Winterfell. “I do think they are actually in love,” Liana said cautiously.

“Oh, I think so too,” said Jeyne. “I’ve never seen Lord Theon quite so smitten.”

“Do you know him well?”

“I suppose the correct answer to that is that at times I’ve wished I knew him well,” said Jeyne. “He is a handsome young man, is he not? I certainly stared at him enough during sparring practice. But I don’t think he had a taste for any respectable girl until recently.”

She wondered what Jeyne was getting at. “That seems about right.”

“Yes. Though they do make quite a pretty pair.” Jeyne paused. “Well matched in looks and age as well as station. Is that what your cousin, Lord Balon Greyjoy, thinks too?”

So Jeyne also thought she was a Greyjoy agent. Liana paled. “Lord Balon knows nothing about this.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe. You, a Greyjoy cousin, appearing from nowhere, and helping Lord Theon woo our Lady Sansa. Quite successfully, I own.”

“I’ve never met Lord Balon,” Liana said curtly. “He’s a bitter old man who sits in his castle, brooding over past defeats. I doubt he would approve of his last remaining son and heir marrying a Stark. But what of it?”

Jeyne’s eyes widened in surprise. “You would so disregard the wishes of the head of your father’s house?”

“My father is a Pyke, not a Greyjoy,” Liana said. “Besides, Lord Balon is of the past. Lady Sansa and Lord Theon are of the future.”

Jeyne tapped her jaw thoughtfully. “That’s an interesting thought.”

Seeing an in, and a plausible excuse for her meddling, Liana pressed her point.

“Lord Balon supports the Old Way,” she said. “That what the old guard on the Islands call reaving. But it only helps the rich stay rich. It doesn’t help the fishers or the miners or the farmers—any of the poor struggling to get by—those who can’t afford a ship or a sword. They… we… need a future Lord and Lady Reaver who cares about the common man. Who wants to listen to them—to aid them—to lend them a helping hand during the winter, when harsh winds blow and the catch grows scarce. We need a new way of thinking to revive the Islands. We don’t need some old man baying about how he’s going to steal some poor peasant’s horse or some merchant’s spare change. That’s like slapping a bit of gauze over a gushing artery. It’s not going to do anybody any good in the long run.

“What we need is fresh blood and new ideas. To bring a better, stronger, and more prosperous way of life to the Ironborn. I think Theon and Sansa could provide exactly that. Theon has the potential to grow and learn, and I feel Sansa can be very intelligent and pragmatic, as well as kind-hearted and wise. They could, I think, make an excellent ruling couple. She could make more of a difference there, than married to some ponce in Highgarden, or to a damned Lannister for that matter.”

“You know, I never thought of it that way,” said Jeyne. “It sounds like something my father would agree with. Proper stewardship of a kingdom, to pass it down for the next generation. Or something on that theme.”

“Not just that,” Liana added. “They’re also quite in love.”

At that, Jeyne smiled dreamily. “Yes.” For all her irony, the steward’s daughter seemed to be quite a diehard romantic. “They are indeed.”

“So,” said Liana, “that should help Lady Sansa adjust, if she’s really emotionally invested in the relationship. I think my cousin needs the emotional support as well. I think, deep down, he is a good person, but he’s quite, ah, insecure.”

Liana knew her modern relationship terminology was no doubt confusing to the slim brunette, but she nodded, seeming to get the gist of it. “That’s true. You know…” She paused. “You should be telling Lord Stark this.”

“I would like to,” said Liana. “But timing is the key.”

“Yes.” Jeyne looked pensive. “Well, I will help you however I can. I know little about the Iron Islands, Mistress Pyke, but I like to think I know a little about love.”

“Do you, Mistress Poole?”

“Enough to know that when a spark ignites, one should nurture the flame, not snuff it out.” She stood up. “With that, I bid you goodnight.”

When Jeyne had left, Liana sat by the fire.

She stared at the leaping flames, brooding, wondering would have happened with the young lovers if Jeyne had not come running in at the last moment. What if Septa Mordane had found Theon with his tongue halfway down Sansa’s throat, and Liana hovering nearby like some sort of lady’s maid in a period farce? What the hell would have happened then? Liana’s stomach churned. She didn’t even want to picture it.

She frowned. She might know a little bit about the future, but she had started a completely different alternate timeline, and all bets were off. She was a fool if she thought she could control what happened.

One should nurture the flame, not snuff it out.

But what if the fire grew out of control? What then?

Chapter Text

The next day went much the same as usual, with note-passing and needlework and rhetorical training, though Liana had to admit that it was a huge relief to have Jeyne as a fellow ally. Managing Theon and Sansa had been like herding cats—but now she had a fellow cat herder.

She and Jeyne exchanged glances throughout the day, but they didn’t have a chance to talk until dinnertime.

At first, they didn’t discuss anything particularly sensitive; just general chit-chat while leaning against the wall and sizing everyone up. Theon and Sansa had arrived, and sat at their respective ends of the table, but this time avoided each other’s gaze (possibly a bit too conspicuously).

“They made a handsome pair,” said Jeyne in a low voice. “Though maybe now they’ll finally stop gawking at each other.”

Liana smirked. “Did you talk to her ladyship about it?”

“Yes. The cow eyes and sighing was getting a bit much.”

“Young love,” said Liana. “Did you get her to hide her letters in a better place?”

It was Jeyne’s turn to smirk. “Yes, thank the gods.”

“That’s a relief. What would they do without us?”

“I do not want to know,” said Jeyne. She crossed her arms across her chest, frowning. “I hope that we won’t have to do too much more sneaking around. I do hope you will have some success discussing the issue with Lord Stark.”

Liana shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t know why Lady Sansa thinks I’ll have any luck,” she said. “I’m a stranger here.”

“That’s true,” said Jeyne. “But you are the master of rhetoric and elocution. I’ve heard you, Mistress. You can talk the birds out of trees. Your argument last night was a good one.”

Liana thought it might be better if Sansa made that argument herself, when she saw Arya pass by. What with all the teaching, storytelling, and intriguing lately, she hadn’t had much chance to talk to the younger girl. She stepped forwards and waved.

“Good evening, Lady Arya!” she said cheerfully.

At the sound of her voice, Arya smiled; but as she looked back and saw that Liana was talking with Jeyne, and her smile vanished.

Jeyne’s only response was to whinny like a horse. Arya paled and darted to the high table, as Liana turned and glared at Jeyne.

“What was that about?” she demanded, but Jeyne just shrugged with exaggerated mock innocence.

Annoyance filled Liana, but she didn’t have the energy to make a scene. As they went to sit down at the upper servants’ table, she mused that it didn’t surprise her to know that her new ally could be a bit of an asshole. But she was only fifteen, and kids were often assholes. Maybe Arya had short sheeted her bed once or something. Who the hell knew? Anyway, it wasn’t any of her business.

It disgusted her that she was even deeper within Sansa’s clique than ever, and that meant she had even less of a chance to talk to Arya than ever. God, she hated cliques. It was so fucking high school.

Liana sat across from Jeyne at the upper servant’s table, across from Jeyne’s father Vayon, who seemed a pleasant enough old man with a craggy face and stringy grey hair and the usual scoop-necked rusty black doublet with the gathered northern style shift. The main courses of dinner tonight were onion pies, blood sausage and haunches of venison drizzled with some odd yet pungeunt sauce made from honey, salt, pepper and bacon fat, served on the usual stale bread trenchers, along with copious cheap red wine. As all of them drank and ate, she described to Septa Mordane—who sat to her right—of the day’s lessons and Sansa’s progress, and the Septa nodded, asking the occasional question about relevant exercises and whatnot.

“Any further thoughts on the encomium?” the Septa finally asked in a low voice, as the plates were cleared. Liana supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that Lady Stark mentioned the encomium to the Septa, and that the Septa probably knew quite a bit about the upcoming royal visit. Liana still hadn’t mentioned any of this to Sansa or Theon, and the very idea of it made her stomach roil. Perhaps it didn’t help that she’d just eaten a huge pile of meat washed down with buckets of wine, and no water or vegetables to be seen. How did people in this time period eat? They had to have stomachs of cast iron.

Fuck, she thought. I need some fresh air. I need some water.

She took a deep breath and ate some bread. That settled her stomach, at any rate.

The Septa glanced at her with concern. “Are you feeling well, Mistress Pyke?”

“I’m quite all right, thank you.” Liana forced a chipper smile.

“Anyway, back to your question, we’re still working through the three means of persuasion. I’ve tried to loop in a few examples of encomia, but if it happens, I think I’ll encourage her ladyship to keep it short and to the point.”

“That sounds wise,” Septa Mordane began, but she stopped as she saw Lord Stark rise. Everyone began to stand as well, but he gestured for them to sit back down.

“My good people.” Lord Stark raised his goblet. “I have excellent news to share with you all.”

He gazed out into the crowd sternly until everyone silenced, and only then he continued.

“Our king, our liege, King Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, is traveling here to Winterfell as we speak. In a little over a fortnight we shall be entertaining the royal household, along with Queen Cersei and all the royal children, including the crown prince himself.” With the mention of Prince Joffrey, he threw a significant look at Sansa, smiling a little, as if he knew she would be especially pleased.

But Sansa looked like a rabbit, wide-eyed, frozen at the sight of a predator. Her father, with a faintly puzzled air, continued.

“I expect everyone shall be up to the task—there is much to be done to make the castle ready for our royal guests. Work shall be appointed by Master Poole. Please stand, Master Poole. I know you will make the Stark family proud.”

Jeyne’s father stood, nodding at his lordship, as everyone in the hall applauded dutifully. Jeyne shot Liana a look of pure panic.

“That is all I wish to say,” Lord Stark said. “There’s lots of work to be done. But not tonight. Enjoy the pies,” he finished gruffly as he sat down again.

The serving girls came out with a variety of sweet dessert pies and confections as the hall erupted in a hubbub. Robb looked thrilled; Bran bounced up and down with excitement, while Arya looked both suspicious and intrigued. Not seeing Jon, Liana peered about until she saw him at one of the lower tables. He leaned on his hand, looking as suspicious as Arya but far more morose and grim.

When he saw her looking at him, he raised an eyebrow, then his mug of ale. She raised her cup of wine. Wasn’t he going to be joining the Night’s Watch soon, and doing his best to save the world from the Cataclysm, before he ended up fucking off into the frozen wastes for good?

Well, she thought. It was nice knowing you, Jon Snow. Though I doubt you’d like to know how you’ll be remembered in my time.

Liana turned back to see how Sansa was doing. Despite all the excitement and noise, she had not moved. And neither, for that matter, had Theon, who had the same blank, terrified expression on his face.

So, it was official.

The king, the queen and the psycho prince were going to be here in two weeks.

Fuck.

“Isn’t this wonderful, Jeyne?” Vayon Poole said, and Liana realized where Jeyne got her irony. “A bit of glamor in our humdrum northern lives! The king and the queen themselves. You’ll have a chance to see all those southron fashions and hairstyles you never stop talking about.”

Jeyne’s smile froze. “Yes, it should be nice.”

“Prince Joffrey’s arrival will be welcomed,” said Septa Mordane. “I’ve heard he is a handsome young man.” She gave Liana a pointed look. “I imagine he and Lady Sansa will have much to talk about.”

Liana sipped her wine. Septa Mordane was all about courtesy, and that was her courteous way of warning her off. Well, two could play at this game.

“Yes,” she said, her voice as bland as blancmange. “I’ve heard so many interesting things about his highness. That he’s an interesting young man with interesting tastes.”

Jeyne held up her winecup to hide her mouth from her father and the Septa. Interesting? she mouthed.

“Interesting?” said Septa Mordane, taking the bait. “I’m afraid we do not have your acquaintance with the southron courts, Mistress Pyke. What do you mean by interesting?”

“Well,” said Liana, her voice heavy with meaning. “I heard he loves the colors gold and red more than anything. Also, he is very, very, very fond of the crossbow.”

This was clearly not what Septa Mordane expected to hear. She grimaced. “That is interesting.”

“Yes,” said Jeyne uneasily, glancing back at Sansa, who had still not moved. Her expression had not changed. But Liana noted with horror that Sansa’s brittle, rigid posture was slowly folding in on itself, and she looked like she might collapse at any moment. “If that’s the case, I’m not sure that’s a subject that Lady Sansa would like to discuss.”

“My dear Jeyne,” Septa Mordane said firmly. “Lady Sansa is a courteous young maiden, and if a royal visitor is fascinated by crossbows, I am sure she will she will endeavor to educate herself on the subject.”

Jeyne lowered her eyes. “Yes, Septa.”

That effectively killed all conversation in their little circle until dinner was finally over, and Jeyne fled to Sansa’s side, murmuring in the younger girl’s ear, taking her arm in a gentle, supportive way and—as the other girl teetered-- led her from the hall.

Theon, was, once again, leaning by the fireplace, staring into it. He didn’t even glance up when she approached. He looked like he might wish to hurl himself in.

Liana touched his arm.

“Meet me in the glass gardens,” she whispered. “Go through the godswood. I’ll come through the outer bailey.”

Theon didn’t even make a ribald comment about how she had touched him. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked up, his eyes brimming with misery.

But he gave an imperceptible nod, before turning back to the roaring hearth.

                                                                                  * * *

As she walked to the glass gardens, in the same route she’d walked two weeks ago, Liana’s insides were in knots. She had no idea she was going to tell Theon. She’d been building him up for the past two weeks, that yes, Sansa was The One, and everything would be swell, and he’d finally gotten the nerve to pop the question, and Sansa had actually accepted; and now, this.

She steeled herself before entering the hothouse. Theon was there, sitting on the bench by the potted lemon trees, playing with his dagger.

“Cousin,” he said as she approached him, her nerves jangling.

“Cousin,” she echoed.

His eyes stabbed into hers.

“The king is coming. He’s coming in two weeks.”

“Yes,” she said weakly. “So he is.”

“And the crown prince is going to be here too,” Theon continued. “From the way Lord Stark was looking at Sansa, it seems the prince hasn’t travelled all this way just to see the sights.”

“It seems to be that way.”

“Seems?” Theon snapped, jumping up. “I think you know very well. In fact, I think you know everything, don’t you?”

“I… don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Theon said coldly. “A week ago, you were telling me all about how you were going to teach Sansa all this Southron rhetoric. And when I asked you why, you said, ‘what else were you going to teach her for three weeks, fucking cross-stitch’?

“Well. At first I was just surprised to hear such a proper lady like you swearing. Then I wondered what a cross-stitch was. Then it finally occurred me tonight. Three weeks. That’s such a specific amount of time. You knew that was when the king was arriving, didn’t you?”

“I…” As her mouth went dry, Theon bared his teeth in a snarl.

“You rushed me and Sansa into this courtship even though you knew King Robert would be on our doorstep in three weeks. Three fucking weeks. You used me like a puppet… for what? Why? Some vision you had in the fire?”

His face darkened as he jabbed his dagger in the air towards her, so forcefully she jumped.

“It’s all been a fucking game to you, hasn’t it? You’ve been lying to me from the start. I even thought you were family.” A hurt look flashed across his face before it was again replaced by rage. “But you’re nothing but a lying, scheming, manipulating bitch.”

Anxious, fearful, wary of his dagger, Liana held out her hands placatingly. “My lord…”

“Gods, don’t fucking do it,” Theon said with disgust. “You’re going to try to talk your way out of this, aren’t you?” His eyes shuttered and his lips tightened. “Just get out of here,” he said, his voice flat. “Leave me alone. I never asked you to meddle in my life.”

All at once, Liana wanted to cry. No matter how much he strutted about and he crowed about his heritage, no matter how much he raged, deep down, her cousin not-cousin was still an unmothered and abandoned child, caught between a father who gave zero shits about his existence and a guardian who wouldn’t think twice about beheading him for honor’s sake. Upset despite herself, and pitying him even though he held a dagger, she steeled herself.

“It’s not just about you,” she said. “It’s about Sansa.”

Theon’s head jerked up. “What in the seven hells? Are you going to make this about Sansa now?”

“Because it is about her!” She wanted to scream, but she fought to keep her voice level and low. “She can’t marry Joffrey. She can’t.”

“Why not? It’s always been her dream. To get her handsome prince. To run away with him to his beautiful castle where she can be the queen.” His lip curled. “What can I give her? Some barren islands and subjects who will hate her?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Theon,” she snapped, balling her fists. “Don’t sell yourself short. You love her. You wouldn’t hurt her. Also, Joffrey is a fucking psychopath.”

“A what? What’s a…” He paused uneasily. “What did you say? What is that… word you used?”

“A psychopath. It means a depraved madman. The prince,” she whispered, “is well on his way to becoming the next Maegor the Cruel. Did you know he once cut open a pregnant cat so he could pull the unborn kittens out of her womb?”

“What?” Theon almost dropped his dagger; he looked like he might vomit. “Do you jest?”

“No.” That was one of the more disturbing details from the third volume of Song of the Starks. “He’s what, fourteen years old now? But he thinks himself a man.”

“And he likes to stab girls with his right royal prick,” Theon said bitterly.

“No.” Liana looked him in the eye. “He doesn’t get turned on by sex. I mean, ah, sexual intercourse. He is turned on by pain.”

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying. The prince is aroused only by pain, and I don’t mean kink or bondage either. He can only get hard when he sees women being tortured or killed. He is especially fond of injuries incurred by the crossbow. In fact, there is a crossbow maker named Chovin in Oldtown that likes to send the crown prince the latest models, gilded and embossed with his own crest, which is divided between the Lannister lion and the Baratheon stag. And the rumors are that he doesn’t just use them for hunting birds and beasts. One of the crossbows created by Chovin for his highness is so small that it can’t actually be used to kill. It can only successfully blind someone.” She paused, looking at Theon significantly. “I wonder why that would be?”

That particular company still existed—though now they made guns and pistols as well as the modern metal crossbows, and they had been bought out by a large conglomerate based up North called the Farhill Consortium. She recently had visited the company store, which had a little museum attached, which featured a Restoration era historical painting of Prince Joffrey menacing two women with a Chovin patented crossbow. (Of course, they were noble maidens and not whores, because it was a painting from over a hundred years ago, but it was a well done painting, and deliciously melodramatic, with Joffrey stroking his blond mustache as he trained his crossbow on the girls; one of them swooned in the arms of her friend, who looked at the mustachioed Joffrey with a blend of defiance and fear.)

But this wasn’t a silent movie melodrama with villains who tied girls to railroad tracks. This was reality, and she was stuck in it, and the heavy was a vicious kid with overwhelming power and no one who cared to tell him no. And this kid was only fourteen days away to the south.

At the thought, her stomach plummeted down to her knees.

Theon’s eyes widened with shock. “I… Gods.” Boneless, he collapsed on the bench.

“This is very specific information you have here,” he said after a moment. “Your friends must keep you well informed.” His jaw clenched. “So once again I ask you, cousin—who sent you?”

Should she tell him the truth? No, he wouldn’t believe her. He seemed convinced she was a superspy. An idea flashed in her mind.

“Olenna Tyrell,” she said.

“The Queen of Thorns!” His mouth dropped. “Of course. Your betrothed is her bannerman.” He scowled. “The Tyrells want Joffrey to marry one of their own.”

“The beautiful and clever Lady Margaery,” she said. “Trained by Lady Olenna herself. She is politically astute. She can manage evil men.”

Theon looked at her. “Unlike Sansa.”

“Yes.”

“So where do I fit in?” He sneered. “Did Lady Olenna suggest that I seduce Sansa so she would be out of the way? Were your visions in the fire just added color to that end?”

Liana sat down besides him on the bench, staring him straight in the eye.

“I might be a scheming bitch, but may the Great Other take me if I lied about the dreams sent to me by the Lord of Light. Whatever universe we find ourselves in—whatever timeline this is—wherever we are in the multiverse—I believe you two will find each other.”

At that, the blood drained from Theon’s face.

“Mistress Pyke, I’ve said this before, but you are a very strange woman. The strangest I’ve ever met.”

Kid, Liana thought, that’s an understatement.

Theon paused. He still regarded her with something close to fear, but his face contorted. “Am I even your cousin? Or was that a lie too?”

“Lord Theon,” she said, as gently as she could. “You were the one who suggested that Dagon Greyjoy might be my great-grandfather. I agreed, because it seemed plausible. I mean, why not?” She threw up her hands. “My grandfather had to have come from somewhere, and I doubt he came from a Harlaw, or a Botley, or a Goodbrother, or a fucking Codd for that matter.”

Theon managed to laugh at that. “That’s the most Greyjoy thing you’ve said yet.”

“Those stupid fucking Codds with their stupid fish sigil,” Liana said with a snarl. “I hate those inbred bastards.” She took a deep breath before she could continue ranting, because who didn’t hate the Codd family, even eight hundred years in the past? Even in the Age of the Sagas, they had the reputation as sea hillbillies who fucked their own sisters, and as most of the Codds she’d met were missing teeth— including the dishwasher her uncle Pelu had hired (against Aunt Jenny’s objections), and who had later run off with half the till— no doubt the rumors had some truth to them.

“Look,” she said, “I would like to be related to you. Maybe I am. But only my grandfather would know for sure, and he’s dead.”

Theon sighed. “I believe you. You certainly didn’t sound like a Tyrell just now.” He smirked. “If you had an axe, you would have thrown it.”

“I would have,” she said. “And it would have felt great.”

Theon raised his eyebrows. “Now, that’s the interesting thing about you… cousin. May I continue to call you that?”

“You may, my lord. It is an honor.”

“I find it interesting, cousin, that everyone takes you for a lady. Witty. Refined. Polite. That’s probably what Lady Olenna sees. But scratch the surface, and there’s iron.” He leaned in, his sea-colored eyes fixed on hers. “And rage.”

“Well, my lord,” Liana said. “You seem to have my number. Maybe that’s what we have in common. There’s a lot in this world that makes me very angry indeed.”

“Mayhaps,” he said, and he bared his teeth. “Like that cunt of a prince.”

“Yes.” She inhaled.

“Lord Theon,” she said. “You must protect Lady Sansa.You must keep her from Joffrey. If Sansa goes down to King’s Landing, he will insult her, he will beat her, he will try to rape her. She will be in constant danger. She must not go.”

Theon swallowed nervously; then he frowned. He lowered his voice. “Look, coz, if even half of what you’ve said is right, I wish I could riddle that royal bastard with so many arrows he’d look more like a porcupine than a prince. But he’s the king’s own heir. What can I do?”

“I don’t know.” She clutched her hands together. “But there has to be something.”

“I don’t know what.” Theon shook his head. “If you’re so concerned about Sansa, you should go to Lord and Lady Stark.”

“What am I going to tell them?” she demanded. “That Joffrey is a monster who kills cats and beats whores, whose own father loathes him, and the only reason Robert Baratheon doesn’t abdicate because he’s afraid of what his son might do on the throne—but at the same time, he’s too afraid of his bitch of a wife and her tyrannical father to actually disown him?” Her own lip curled. “And shall I then tell them how I actually know this? I am sure Lord Stark will be exceptionally pleased with me.”

Theon’s eyes narrowed. “It might help if we had more information, though.”

“It might. Do you have any ideas?”

He jumped up and began to pace.

“If they’re to be here in two weeks, then they’ve passed through the Riverlands quite some time ago. I’m sure they’ve been by the Inn of the Crossroads. If Prince Joffrey likes to kill cats and beat whores, I’m sure something has happened.” His gaze hardened as he stared into the mid-distance. “Men like that can’t stop themselves.”

“Do you know someone who might know something?” Liana asked.

Theon looked shifty. “Yes.”

“Wait,” said Liana, suddenly remembering. “That’s not the girl you mentioned earlier, right? The one you went down on?”

Theon’s eyebrows shot up; then he gave her one of his wide lecherous smirks.

“My, cousin, what a filthy mouth you have. And yes, it was the girl I ‘went down on.’ Ros. She’s almost as well connected as you.” He rubbed his chin. “Chances are good she knows something.”

“Excellent,” said Liana. “Let me know what she says.”

“I will.”

“One more thing,” she said. “If we need to tell each other anything, Jeyne Poole will help. She can be trusted.”

“Of course,” Theon said, amused. “Sansa’s very own henchwoman. Are you planning on training her to be a spy as well?”

“If she wants,” said Liana, adding pointedly: “At least she has some idea how to carry out an intrigue.”

“What!” said Theon, annoyed. “I can also carry out an intrigue!” As she gave him a pitying look, he glared at her. “I can!”

“You and Sansa have been so obvious,” she said. “I mean, the two of you are adorable, but you might want to not sigh or stare longingly so much.” As he reddened, she grinned. “Your idea with Ros isn’t a bad one. But don’t hesitate to bring Jeyne in. She can go places and do things and not be noticed, which is a useful skill.”

With that, she bid Theon good-night, leaving her cousin even more pensive than usual.

                                                                                  * * *

The next day, lessons with Sansa were fraught, to say the least.

“How can I concentrate on rhetoric when I’m to be married off to someone else?” Sansa exclaimed, wringing her hands. “I… I… love Theon, but now my lord father and lady mother will never let me marry him, not if the crown prince might make an offer. After all, King Robert is Father’s foster brother and oldest friend. And I would be a queen!”

Tears came to Sansa’s eyes.

“I always thought,” she said, her voice wobbling, “that was the only thing I wanted. I used to think that I wanted to ride off with a handsome prince, on a white horse, to a castle surrounded by golden light and rosy clouds.” Is she describing the end of an animated movie? Liana wondered with some incredulity, because it sure sounded like that. “But now I don’t want that. It doesn’t seem real. It seems as false as a dream. Or a mummer’s farce.”

She lowered her head, her hair hanging down like coppery skeins of silk.

“What I want is someone real. Someone who can hold me. Who will talk to me about everything. His hopes. My hopes. His dreams… my dreams. And our fears, too, whatever they are. I want someone who wants to learn everything about me. And I want to learn everything about him. And then, whenever we’re tired of talking, he’ll kiss me.” She blushed. “And we can do other things, once we’re married under the sight of the gods.” Her blush deepened. “And then we can plan for children and how to best rule his lands. Our lands.”

“That seems like a good basis for a marriage,” Liana said, beginning to think she might actually be getting through to her.

“I think so.” Sansa twisted the ends of her shift. “I’ve even started sneaking out books from the library about the Iron Islands. Did you know Theon’s grandfather, Quellon Greyjoy wanted to get away from reaving altogether—to start a new way for the Ironborn? And Great Wyk is still covered with forests, and has mines of iron, lead and tin and even copper. Copper!” Her eyes grew round. “I had no idea.”

“Great Wyk is a huge island, with a huge variety of landscapes,” said Liana. “It’s got mountains and wooded glens and rivers and even waterfalls. There’s proper sand beaches too. But it’s also the least populated of the islands. But I think most people think of Pyke and its rocky shores when they think of the Iron Islands, because that’s where the major city is.” Not that Lordsport would have been that impressive a burg in the Ice Age, but she decided to let that pass.  

“Yes. There’s a lot more there than I thought there was. And I’ve only looked at a few books. Imagine how much else there is to learn. Just about Great Wyk itself!”

“I imagine so, my lady,” Liana replied, but Sansa sighed.

“Oh, Mistress Pyke, only a month ago, I was such a child with my dreams about golden castles in the air. I’ve grown so much since then.”

You’re still a child, Liana thought, but said nothing. The younger girl gripped her hands together.

“I wish… I wish with all my heart that I could marry Theon, and go with him to live on Pyke. And to meet his mother and sister. I know they’d be skeptical since I’m a… a greenlander. And a Stark. But I could convince them. I know I could!” Liana noticed that Sansa didn’t mention Theon’s father, which was just as well. “But I don’t know if it’ll ever happen now, since the crown prince is coming to Winterfell, and Father and Mother have expectations…”

Her voice trailed away, and she began to quiver, looking on the verge of bursting into uncontrollable sobs.

Liana sat next to Sansa, placing her hands on his.

“My dear Lady Sansa,” she murmured. “I know this is a very hard time for you. But you must believe me that I will do everything in my power to help you. Mistress Poole will help too. As will Lord Theon. We’re all on your side.

“But you must concentrate on your studies. I know your nerves are sorely tried. But it is imperative that you focus. You must learn how to speak well and use persuasion, now more than ever. We still have yet to cover Kikyris’s six components of a successful speech.

“Here is another possibility, if you’d like to consider it. I’ve told you what an encomium is. Would you like to deliver a short one to the king and queen upon their arrival? Would you feel up to it?”

Sansa closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. After a moment she opened them again.

“Yes. “ Her jewel blue eyes were unwavering. “I would.”

                                                                            * * *

As soon as Liana departed the schoolroom, Septa Mordane approached her.

“Mistress Pyke,” she said. “Lady Stark would like to meet with you in the new bower, if you are available.”

“I am always available for her ladyship,” Liana replied, and Septa Mordane nodded approvingly. Liana paused. For a moment she feared it was about the septa’s (justified) suspicions about Sansa and Theon and Liana’s role in it; but she sensed the septa’s manner would become several degrees colder if that was the case.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Mordane—” she said, using the septa’s given name daringly—“what is this about?”

The septa’s eyes flickered about. Even the walls had ears, even in Winterfell.

“You said some things to me at dinner last night that were interesting,” she said. “I think Lady Stark would like to hear.”

Interesting, eh?

“Of course,” she said, and followed Septa Mordane up the winding stairs to the new bower, which lay to the other side of the solar.

As soon as the Septa shut the door, Liana glanced around. It was a charming room, and one that reminded her strongly of Sansa’s quarters; it featured a small bed, tapestries showing the hunting of the unicorn, several carved coffers and chests, and a birdcage where a goldfinch sang prettily. There also stood a large rectangular embroidery frame, which Lady Stark used as she sat embroidering near the window, calm and diligent, and looking very much like an older version of her daughter.

“Ah, Septa,” she said, glancing up from her stitchery. “I see you have brought our guest. Do sit down, Mistress Pyke.” She gestured to a nearby stool.

Liana sat, smoothing her skirts.

“Septa Mordane informs me you have some intelligence about the crown prince,” said Lady Stark. “She said it was interesting.”

“Yes, Lady Stark,” Liana said.

“What was it again? You mentioned his favorite colors. And a special diversion of his, I believe.”

“Prince Joffrey’s favorite colors are red and gold,” she said. “As far as I know, those are the only colors he wears.”

“Have you met him?”

“Never, my lady, but discussion of the royal family is a favorite pastime in Oldtown. Reachlanders love to gossip, as you know.”

“Yes.” Lady Stark smiled faintly. “Even at Riverrun, those from the Reach were notorious for their loose tongues. I mean no offense, Mistress Pyke.”

“None taken, Lady Stark.”

“If what you are saying is true, it is interesting that Prince Joffrey’s favorite colors are the colors of his mother’s house, House Lannister. And not his father’s house colors, yellow and black.” She raised an eyebrow. “I wonder what that signifies.”

Lady Stark glanced at Liana, as if hoping she would say something, but any speculation on just why the prince only favored his mother’s house colors and not his father’s could be possibly treasonous, so Liana said nothing.  

“And what was the other piece you mentioned, about his highness’s interests?” Lady Stark pressed.

“He’s extremely interested in crossbows, my lady.” Liana then described what she knew of the crossbows made by Chovin for the prince; it helped the company museum visit was fresh in her mind. She even described the miniature crossbow, though she refrained from any commentary.

“Well,” said Lady Stark, looking queasy as the goldfinch continued to twitter. “Those are both intriguing bits of information. What do you know about his highness’s character?” As Liana glanced about nervously, Lady Stark said, “I assure you, Mistress Pyke, nothing you say will leave this room.”

She couldn’t very well say that he was a psycho who killed cats and beat whores. She could be blunt, even crude, with Theon, and he would appreciate it; but Lady Stark would not care for such language. Also, she would probably think she was exaggerating. She might even wonder what her motives were.

“My lady,” she said. “I hear he is a handsome young man, with gold hair and eyes like emeralds. But the maidens of the Reach do not mention him longingly. They do not sigh when they mention his name. In general, they discuss him very little. The Tyrell young men are talked about with much frequency as charming, desirable young men. Or even Joffrey’s… uncle… Jaime Lannister. He comes up a lot.”

“But not the crown prince.” Lady Stark’s blue eyes were unwavering, like Sansa’s, when she said she would give the encomium. “Why do you think that’s so?”  

Liana licked her lips.

“My lady, I have heard he is not kind.”

“Not kind?”

“Yes. I hear that his highness can be gallant and courteous enough, and he dances well. But also that he can be…ah, high-handed and unpleasant, especially with those he thinks are beneath him, and that it usually falls to his uncle to keep him in line.”

Lady Stark frowned. “His uncle Jaime, you mean?”

“No,” said Liana. “The other one. His uncle Tyrion.”

Septa Mordane grimaced. “The dwarf? The one they call the Imp?”

Lady Stark glanced with annoyance at the septa, who had the grace to look abashed. “That surprises me that Lord Tyrion would feel such responsibility. I have heard… that his character was lacking.”

Liana sighed. Tyrion Lannister, oh boy. The kind-hearted and superficially clever but ultimately fucked up and incompetent Hand of the King who not only killed his father (with one of Joffrey’s crossbows), but whose bad advice had arguably led to the destruction of King’s Landing by the charismatic wild card Daenerys “Fire and Blood” Targaryen. Not only that, but he had chosen as next king the so-called “Bran the Broken,” which was probably the worst thing anyone could have done, as that led to centuries of instability and war, as the Iron Islands and Dorne had promptly seceded and proceeded to fight with the beleaguered South on every front. And as every child knew, from Oldtown to Qarth, the doomed prophet-king had then been assassinated by Tyrion’s friend, ex-sellsword Bronn of the Blackwater, with the connivance of Bronn’s new Hightower in-laws, and the capital had been moved from the gutted King’s Landing to Oldtown; and Bronn had Tyrion sent to the executioner with the words, “It’s nothing personal.”

Good times, thought Liana. She always wondered what Tyrion had thought in the final moments before his head had been separated from his neck for good.

“My lady, I’m not comfortable discussing Lord Tyrion in any detail,” Liana said finally. “He is a strange individual. But he does seem to have decent impulses upon occasion.”

“I suppose we shall see, as Lord Tyrion is coming here with the rest of the royal family,” said Lady Stark. She stood, stretching her back. “Thank you for your invaluable assistance, Mistress Pyke. I appreciate your insight and honesty.”

Her honesty. Inwardly, Liana squirmed. “Thank you, my lady.”

“I have some more news for you, in regards to your betrothed. It’s very odd. Lord Stark seems to think he is close.” She walked over to the chests nearest the bed, opening it. She pulled out a hat.

“My husband found this hat on the edge of the Wolfswood, nearest Winterfell.” She pressed the hat into Liana’s hands. “It is a very odd style, one I’ve never seen before. And I’m not sure what stuff it is knitted from either.”

Liana stared at it. It was a shapeless acrylic knit hat that she’d seen Brenn wear once or twice. She held it to her face. It didn’t smell like the pepper and bergamot of his aftershave, but it smelled faintly of tea tree oil. His shampoo?

She inspected it, smiling as she did so. This time, Brenn had the foresight to cut off the fabric care tag.

“He’s very close, my dear,” Lady Stark said, her eyes warm. “This means, I believe, that he is alive. I have hope that we shall find him before the king arrives!”

“That would be wonderful,” Liana whispered, though now a new worry consumed her. How much did Brenn know about politics and culture in the Age of the Sagas? Would he be able to fit in? It would be infinitely more dangerous once the royals arrived. Queen Cersei was a bloodthirsty monster in the guise of a pretty lady, and her precious crossbow-loving son was just as bad.

Well, she would have to cross that bridge when the time came. For now, she had his scarf and hat, and the assurance he would be coming soon.

Come on, Brenn, she thought. Lord of Light, Lady of Lotuses, keep him safe.

Keep me safe too, Liana prayed, and she tried not to tremble as she thought of the next two weeks.

Chapter Text

Later that night, Jeyne came to her room.

“Come with me, Mistress Pyke,” she said in a low voice, “and I’ll take you to Lord Theon’s room. His… um, friends… are there. Waiting for you.”

“Wait.” Liana gazed at Jeyne in amazement. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you, Mistress Poole? You know how improper this is, right?”

Jeyne rolled her eyes, putting her hands on her hips.

“Mistress Pyke, of course I know it’s improper!” she hissed. “You’re betrothed to one lord, but you’re meeting your cousin, another unmarried lord, in his private chambers, where two whores await you to give you pertinent information about the crown prince of the Seven Realms. And did I leave out the part where your cousin is secretly betrothed to the daughter of the Warden of the North? There’s absolutely nothing proper about this. That’s why I’m here to keep it secret, because if any of this got out…”

Jeyne let her voice trail away significantly.

“I’m sorry, Mistress Poole,” said Liana, annoyed with herself. “I can be quite dense sometimes.”

“I forgive you,” said Jeyne tartly. “You’re not the first person to underestimate me, and I imagine you won’t be the last.”

Mortified, Liana blushed. “What is your plan, exactly?”

“I will take you to Lord Theon’s rooms—making sure we are not caught—and I will wait outside in a niche behind a tapestry to see when the women depart. When they do, and it’s safe to come out, I will fetch you.”  

“Sounds like a plan, Stan,” said Liana, and Jeyne blinked in confusion.

“My name is not Stan,” she said with offended dignity, and Liana laughed.

“I know. It’s just a saying in… Qarth. It’s a sort of rhyming slang, like ‘see you later, alligator,’ to which the proper response is, ‘after a while, crocodile.’”

“What’s an alligator? What’s a crocodile?” Jeyne queried.

“Right.” Liana thought. “I suppose they’re what the Westerosi call ‘lizard-lions.’”

“Then why not just say that?”

“Say what? ‘After a while, lizard-lion?’ That doesn’t rhyme.”

“So that’s why you say something like, ‘Don’t be cryin,’ lizard-lion.’” Jeyne grinned, and Liana laughed.

“That’s good,” she said, but, while Jeyne smiled, she put her finger to her lips.

“The time for jests and japes is past, Mistress Pyke. We must be quiet. Or perhaps as they might say in Qarth, ‘do hush, little thrush.’”

                                                                                 * * *

Liana did her best to hush like a thrush when she was squired into Theon’s room, a spacious room almost as large as Sansa’s. There was a small bed covered with furs, a little writing desk built into the wall, with attendant pigeonholes and an inkstand lit by a shelf of candles, and two elaborate tapestried sectional screens propped up in front of the hearth. Meanwhile, window shutters were open, revealing sheer linen curtains. It was a bit of a mess, with dirty rushes on the floor and weapons scattered everywhere, like a sword and scabbard casually dropped on the writing desk, but at the same time, it was surprisingly debonair, what with the screens and fancy curtains—there was even a dressing table with a mirror.

Well, Theon, she thought, amused. I never took you for such a metrosexual!  

On the other side of the room, opposite from the dressing table, a woman perched on the window seat, her hands clutched in her lap, while another woman stood besides her, with a supportive hand on her shoulder. Theon paced, scowling.

“So you’re here finally,” he said to Liana. He looked towards the women. “Let’s get on with it.”

The sitting woman stood, moving towards Theon and Liana. She was a beautiful woman—probably in her late teens or early twenties—with long straight brown hair, large dark doe eyes, a broad face with delicate features and pale olive-toned skin. She was slender, and dressed elegantly but modestly, with a cote, a gathered shift, narrow scarf tied around her neck, and what looked to be a late third century Southron style wrap dress of olive-green wool cinched in place with a wide girdle of slubbed russet silk. She didn’t look like a Northerner, and much less like a whore, but appearances, as Liana well knew, could be deceiving.

The brunette curtsied.

“My lady,” she said, her eyes lowered. “Thank you for inviting me here this evening.”  

The other woman, a pale-skinned woman in a green gown laced low over her breasts and auburn curls falling over one shoulder, placed one hand on her hip, smirking. Unlike her friend, this one looked every inch a saucy wench out of a period drama.

“So this,” she said to Theon, every word heavy with meaning, “is your famous cousin.”

Theon’s eyes flicked back and forth between Liana and the auburn-haired woman. “Yes,” he said shortly. “She is.”

“Well,” said the other woman, “are you going to introduce us? Or has a cat got your tongue?”

Theon’s scowl grew deeper.

“This is Mistress Liana Pyke. This is… Ros. And her friend, Kenna.”

“Mistress Pyke,” said Ros, curtsying. Her eyes rested on her, bright, suspicious and yet curious. “I’m Roslin Cook’s daughter, and this is Kenna Snow of White Harbor. I’ve heard so much about you.”

At that, Liana glanced at Theon, who avoided her eyes.

Wait, she thought. The night she had told her story of Antun Haro, and Theon had come in, having spent all day at the Smoking Log—had he spent it with Ros? And had he told her everything? Perhaps he had. No… it was likely he had.

She sighed. After all, he didn’t have a lot of friends. And she’d really fucked with his head that day. She supposed she couldn’t blame him.

“I’ve heard a lot about you too,” Liana said, smiling as warmly as she could. “Thank you so much for coming up here tonight.” She turned to Kenna. “I understand this probably isn’t easy for you, but I do appreciate everything.”

“Yes, my lady,” Kenna murmured.

“Do we have any wine for our guests, cousin?” Liana asked, her voice as brittle as any midcentury housewife hosting a garden party, and Theon gestured towards towards two cups and an ewer of wine that lay on the dressing table, which meant, to her relief, that he had actually prepared a little for tonight’s meeting.

Without missing a beat Liana poured wine for Ros and Kenna, and gestured to the bed. “Would you please take a seat? Then we may start.”

Kenna sat down, clutching her wine, as Ros relaxed besides her, stretching, glancing in an amused way at the furs. No doubt this was where Sansa had seen Theon showing Ros “a good time” a few weeks before.

“I think my friend should like to be paid first,” said Ros. She looked at Theon. “One gold dragon.” She raised an eyebrow. “You agreed.”

Theon glared at her, looking trapped. “I did.” He pulled a coin from his purse, tossing it to Ros. She handed it to Kenna, who bit it, then slipped it into her belt.

“Very good! It’s time for a story now,” said Ros, looking at Liana. “You like stories, don’t you? Or so I hear.”

“Who doesn’t like stories?” Liana said lightly. She pulled up the chair from the writing desk. “Please proceed when you’re ready, Mistress Snow.”

“Very well.” Kenna glanced nervously at Ros, who gave her an encouraging smile.

“I’m not from here,” she said. “I’m from White Harbor. But I lived here for a time. I wanted to go south, when I had a chance. My mother was a mercer’s bastard, but my father was a Dornish sailor, and I always had a fancy to go down south when I could.

“So I saved up some coin and made it down as far as the Inn of the Crossroads. Mistress Heddle doesn’t allow whores at her inn, but there’s a brothel in the nearby village, and guests come over frequently from the Inn.”

Kenna chewed her lower lip, glancing anxiously at Theon and Liana before continuing.

"Well, one day, the king and the queen came to the Inn. The royal party was so big the inn couldn’t contain them all—there were hundreds and hundreds of them. They stayed in the village. They stayed in the fields. The girls had plenty of work.”

Sensing Theon was about to say something crass, Liana turned around and glared at him. Abashed, he closed his mouth.

“Well, Mistress,” Kenna said, “as you might have guessed, I’m not as young as I look. But I can often pass for younger. A green maid from the country. Sometimes this is the part I’m asked to play. Us whores are regular mummers,” she said, with more than a trace of bitterness.

“This rich lord came to me. You might have heard of him. The queen’s brother, Tyrion Lannister. The Imp, they call him. He’s a dwarf. Kind enough, I suppose, for a lord. He asked me to entertain his nephew. Be a sweet little maid for him, he said. He paid me with a pouch of silver, and I agreed.

“So his nephew came. The crown prince himself. He’s a pretty lad—thin as a willow branch with hair like brass. Not much like his father, who’s big and loud and black-haired.” Kenna raised an eyebrow. “I entertained him. Or rather, I started to entertain him. It only got as far as my taking off his doublet, when my little tabby kitten, Janny, began to play with a sleeve.

“The prince began to scream. ‘What is that damned cat doing! Get it out of here, you slut!’ So I tried to grab Janny—but you know kittens, Mistress. They’re slippery little things. She tumbled out of my hands, and before I knew it, the prince had grabbed this tiny crossbow—only as big as my hand—and began to fire bolt after bolt. At my cat.”

Kenna covered her hand with her mouth. “My poor kitten was filled with bolts, and it cried as it died. Oh Mistress, I thought I would die myself. My poor baby. I found her in a stable, fed her milk… and she didn’t do anything to anyone. She was just a kitten!” She burst into tears, as Ros hugged her.

“Is there any more wine?” Ros asked, and Liana leapt up to refill their cups. Ros patted Kenna on the back as her friend dried her tears and gulped down her drink.

“Is that all that happened?” Liana asked.

“No.” Kenna’s face twisted. “When I started to cry, the prince told me to shut up and lie back like the whore I was. But I couldn’t move. I just… froze. So he pushed me down… and he wrapped his hands around my throat… and he started to strangle me. And, forgive me, Mistress, but…” Her voice lowered to whisper. “But I could feel him growing hard. It excited him. And then… then he started to laugh. Gods, I think I’ll hear that laughter until the day I die.

“I tried to scream. But I couldn’t. I thought he was going to kill me, when I heard some shouts and someone pulling him of me. It was his uncle, the Imp. He was the only one not afraid to put hands on the prince… everyone else just watched from the doorway. Staring at him as he choked me. They were too afraid to come inside the room.”

As Ros and Theon looked at her in horror, Kenna drank again.

“You must have been so frightened,” Liana said gently. “But thank you so much for coming forward.”

She paused, wondering how best to ask this.

“Forgive me for asking, but is this why you keep yourself covered up?”

“Yes,” replied Kenna. Her delicate face grew grim as she pulled off her scarf. A row of mottled bruises, the color of a rainbow, ringed her throat.

Ros gasped, and Theon grew white.

“This wasn’t that long ago,” he said. “How did you get here ahead of the royal party?”

“My lord,” Kenna said, “the queen’s in a wheelhouse the size of a barn, and they have a half a hundred outriders. Lord Tyrion gave me another pouch of coin to buy my silence, and I used it to buy a horse. I came back to Winter Town as quickly as I could.” She looked squarely at Ros. “I was hoping to talk my friend here into coming to Braavos with me. Ships sail all the time from White Harbor.”

“Braavos!” Theon exclaimed, lurching forwards. “You’re leaving Westeros, Ros?”

“I—I don’t know,” Ros stammered. Her sensual, mocking, easy manner from earlier had disappeared, and she looked very young and very frightened. “This is all so sudden. I need to think about this.” She looked so queasy, that Liana wondered if this was the first time she’d heard the entire story. She doubted Kenna would have told anyone any details, after her flight from the Riverlands. She had probably had only told Ros the bare minimum before tonight. “It’s such a drastic step. Are you sure, Kenna?”

Kenna’s jaw set.

“I am. If any of the royal party sees me again, I’m good as dead.”

Ros nodded, wrapping her arms about herself. “You’re in danger too, now,” Kenna added. She looked at Theon and Liana. “All of you are.”

Theon glared at her—in his eyes rage mingled with fear. “You could have mentioned that before.”

“My lord, you were the one who wanted to know certain things about Prince Joffrey,” Kenna said coldly. “You asked Ros to know if he had ‘killed any cats or beat any whores.’ Well, my lord, I’m here to tell you that he not only killed my cat, but he tried to choke me to death. That was the story you paid for. And that is the story you got.”

Theon touched his throat. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

Ros finished her wine in haste. “We should go now,” she said, glancing about as if afraid that Kingsguard would start emerging in cartloads from the chimney itself.

“Thank you,” said Liana to Kenna. “Thank you again for coming to us. And telling us your story. You’re very brave.” She glanced at Theon. “I—we—really appreciate this. Don’t we, cousin?”

Distracted, Theon pushed pack his hair. “I—yes. Thank you. Kenna.” There was an awkward pause before he blurted: “We need to tell Sansa!”

“Lady Sansa?” Kenna said, confused. “Why? What does she have to do with this?”

At that, Ros peered at Theon, hesitant and uncomfortable. Oh God. No doubt Theon, when two sheets to the wind, had gone on and on about his “red lady” in front of Ros. Ros didn’t seem the jealous type—Theon, probably, was just a client—but this couldn’t be a fun position to be put in. Hey, Ros, she thought, your former john is now in love with the lady of the manor! If that wasn’t awkward, Liana didn’t know what was.

“There’s a rumor flying around,” said Ros, “that the prince is to be betrothed to Lady Sansa when he arrives.”

“Oh,” said Kenna softly. “Oh, that’s not good.”

“It’s not, is it?” Ros agreed, and even though her tone was sardonic, her lips thinned into a hard line.

“Very well,” said Kenna, straightening. “I’ll be here for another two days at the most. Then I’m leaving. I will not tell Lord and Lady Stark my story, before any of you asks. And if you tell them, I’ll deny it. I won’t put myself in danger that way. I won’t.

“But if Lady Sansa wishes to hear my story, you can reach me at the brothel in Winter Town. It’s next to the inn, the Smoking Log,” she said to Liana. “You might not know it, if you’re a stranger here, but it’s easy enough to figure out. Ask the procuress, Mag. Though we call her the Magpie. She’s a large woman with black hair, with eyes kohled like a Volantene’s. I’ll let her know I’m expecting you.”

“You can’t be serious,” Theon burst out. “You can’t expect my cousin to bring Lady Sansa to a whorehouse!”

Ros glowered at him, so fiercely Theon stepped back. “She’ll be perfectly safe there, my lord. And I trust Mistress Pyke and Mistress Poole to arrange everything with discretion. They’ve done well enough so far.”

“If she does come,” added Kenna, “it’ll be another dragon.” At Theon’s outraged glare, she shrugged. “Fares to Braavos are expensive.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Liana said. “Thank you again… Mistress Kenna, Mistress Ros. You’ve been very kind to make time for us, and to take the risk as well.”

Ros gave her a measuring look, but smiled a little. Kenna stood up, her grim expression unchanging.

“You needn’t thank me,” said Kenna. “If my story keeps Lady Sansa from marrying… that, I’ll thank the gods.”

“I think all of us will,” said Liana, and Ros and Kenna left the room, leaving her and Theon alone.

The fire crackled in the hearth, glowing through the tapestried screens. The curtains fluttered. Theon stared at Liana for a long moment before he could speak.  

“By Nagga’s bones,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You said it was bad. I think part of me didn’t believe you… or didn’t want to believe you. But you were right. Seven fucking hells.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Liana said with a sigh. “But I was.”

“I need a drink.” Theon glanced into the empty ewer, before dropping it on the floor with a clang. He kicked it in frustration, before beginning to pace again. “More than ever.”

“You’re headed out to the tavern, right?” Theon nodded. “I wish I could join you. But I should probably turn in.”

He gave her a tired smirk. “I don’t think Winter Town is ready for the sight of us drinking together.”

“That’s probably right.” She heard a soft tapping on the door. “That must be Jeyne. Good night, coz. Just one more thing…”

Theon glanced at her curiously. “What?”

“I too want to drink myself under a table. But… please, please, please…” She clasped her hands. “Be very careful who your drinking companions are, and what you tell them. I’m not saying that you talk too much or anything, but I don’t know what you’re like when you drink, and this whole business has me on edge, you know?”

“Yes.” Theon didn’t snap her head off; he just gave a gloomy nod. “I understand. I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Thank you.” She flashed a grateful yet weary smile. “Happy drinking. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with that, she opened the door, and was whisked back to her rooms by the ever efficient Jeyne.

                                                                         * * *

“Well?” Jeyne asked anxiously.

Liana collapsed on the bed. “It’s bad as I thought. Probably worse.” She looked at Jeyne. “Prince Joffrey is a monster.”

“Gods,” Jeyne exclaimed, paling. “What did you hear?”

Liana quickly sketched out Kenna’s story, and at the end of it Jeyne clutched her bedpost, swaying a little. She sat down, pushing her hair back with a trembling hand.

“By the old gods and the new,” Jeyne whispered. “We can’t let Lady Sansa marry him. He would kill her.”

“Yes.” Liana looked Jeyne straight in the eye. “He would.”

“Lord and Lady Stark need to hear Kenna Snow’s story,” Jeyne said. “Or Lady Sansa. Or everyone, really.”

“Kenna will not tell Lord and Lady Stark a thing,” Liana said. “She said she would deny it if we told them. But she said she would tell Lady Sansa. On the condition if we paid her another gold dragon, and brought Sansa to where she’s staying at the Winter Town brothel. She’s leaving for White Harbor in two days—she means to travel to Braavos— so time is of the essence.”

“A dragon?” exclaimed Jeyne. “Lady Sansa doesn’t have that kind of gold lying about. But…”

“But what?”

Jeyne tapped her chin. “She does indeed have plenty of jewelry. Much of it was left to her by her grandmother. Mayhaps Kenna would take a jewel?” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I must talk to her later.”

“Anything would help,” Liana said.

“It might at that. As for going to the brothel… it’ll be risky. But my lady did express some interest in going to the draper’s for some cloth and thread. If all three of us went…” She stared into space, and Liana thought she could see her brain almost whirring like clockwork. “You could take Lady Sansa to the brothel, and I could stay at the draper’s, distracting Jory. If Kenna’s story is as shocking as it sounds, her ladyship must hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. And the sooner, the better.”

“Yes,” said Liana. “Telling her about those bruises isn’t the same as seeing those bruises for herself.”

“I can imagine.” Jeyne took a deep breath. “Well, I shall tell Lady Sansa a little of our plans. I will tell you what she says in the morning.”

“Thank you,” said Liana, and she gave Jeyne a fierce hug. “Thank you for everything.”

“Thank you.” Jeyne squeezed her tight. “Thank you for telling us about the prince’s true nature. The idea of my lady marrying such a beast…”

She shuddered. “It’s not even worth considering.”

It wasn’t, thought Liana.

She only prayed that they could stop this betrothal before it was too late.

Chapter Text

The next morning, a yawning Liana was pulled from her bed by Jeyne.

“I thought you were going to tell me what Lady Sansa said later,” Liana mumbled as Jeyne helped her don her clothes.

“I changed my mind,” said Jeyne, as she picked up a platter that bore an ewer of water, some towels, a little flagon of small beer, along bread and an apple, wrapped in linen. “It’s better if you’re there too. You heard Kenna. I didn’t.”

Liana could see her point, though, even after two weeks here, she still wasn’t used to living in a world without caffeine. As she followed behind Jeyne, who bore her heavy platter as gracefully as an experienced waitress, she was practically hallucinating about coffine pots and tea bags, even though she had tried to wake herself up by splashing cold water on her face and stretching vigorously. She thanked God at least she wasn’t walking on the battlements, because she very well might fall off.

At least going cold turkey off of all caffeine meant she was sleeping amazingly well. Drinking exclusively small beer, ale and wine in a day, along with mountains of protein, meant by the time she was ready to go to bed she was out like a light.

At least Sansa was also yawning as Jeyne woke her up. “It’s too early,” she mumbled.

“My lady, it is the hour of the thrush. And there’s things we must discuss.”

“It’s too early,” said Sansa, or that’s what Liana thought Sansa said, but she put her head under a pillow, and her voice was muffled. “Go away.”

“No,” Jeyne said, exasperated. “It’s about Lord Theon, and your possible betrothal to the prince. Get up.” As she yanked the covers off, Sansa shrieked.

“Jeyne, I swear by the Seven I’ll—” She jumped up, but blinked in surprise as she saw Liana. “Mistress Pyke!”

“My lady,” Liana said. “Mistress Poole speaks truly. We have much to tell you.”

“Very well,” Sansa said, subdued, and Jeyne went about giving the younger girl her customary morning toilette, pouring water into a basin, washing her face, combing her hair, and giving her the small beer, bread and apple.

As Sansa drank her small beer (which seemed to be the default morning drink here, even more than herbal tea, which Liana could not get used to), Jeyne folded her ams.

“My lady,” she said. “I know you had plans to shopping in Winter Town today.”

“Yes?” Sansa said, puzzled. “And?”

“This is good, because there’s another reason we need to go to Winter Town today. There’s a woman there who has some very important information about Prince Joffrey.”

Sansa’s eyes grew round. “What is it? Do you two know?” She looked back and forth between a frowning Liana and a grim Jeyne. “You do! Please tell me. It’s not good, is it?” she said in a small voice.

“My lady,” said Liana. “It’s best if you hear Mistress Snow’s story for herself.”

“Mistress Snow?” A moue of distaste appeared on Sansa’s face as she pronounced the bastard surname. “I don’t know her, do I?”

Jeyne and Liana looked at each other. “My lady, I’m sure you don’t. She’s never been to Winterfell.”

At least, not that I know of, Liana thought, but it didn’t matter.

“Where is this woman? This… Mistress Snow? Is she some crofter’s wife?” Sansa grimaced. “Or does she work at the tavern?”

“Uh, actually,” said Liana, “she works at the brothel.”

Sansa paled. “The brothel?”

“Yes,” said Jeyne. “Never fear, my lady, we can figure this out.”

“You don’t have any gold dragons on hand, do you?” Liana asked.

Confusion crossed Sansa’s face. “No… why? I have ten moons and fifteen stags. Enough for cloth and any other sundries.”

“The woman had an… encounter with his highness earlier this month,” Liana said. “She is a friend of a friend of my cousin’s, which is how I heard of it. Lord Theon had her brought to the castle, where we interviewed her last night, and we ascertained the truth of her story. She is afraid, and for her story, she asked for a gold dragon, as she is leaving for White Harbor in two days. She means to set sail for Braavos.”

“Braavos,” Sansa breathed. “That’s far.”

“The reach of the royal family is long, my lady,” Liana replied.

Sansa wrung her hands. “I don’t have a dragon!”

“But you have jewelry, my lady,” Jeyne said softly.

Sansa lifted her chin and shot her an outraged look. “Are you suggesting that I give a… a… woman who works in a brothel… a Stark family heirloom? For some tale she comes bearing about the prince? Why should I do such a thing?”

Jeyne said nothing—she just glared at Sansa, her dark eyes blazing, angrier than Liana had ever seen her. Liana cleared her throat.

“Lady Sansa,” said Liana, “if you are to marry the prince, this means you will share his bed, and this means you will have to comply with all his most intimate requests, whether you like them or not.”

Sansa grew even paler. “But a gentleman would not ask a lady to… to…” She gulped.

“Not all men are gentle, my lady,” Liana continued. “For, even though you were to wed the prince, you would still be a woman, and most men prefer to have women do as they are bid, whether they are queens or whores. Yes, a whore is at the mercy of all of her customers, but a queen is still at the mercy of her king. This is a fact.

“My lady, I understand why you are reluctant to give up one of your grandmother’s jewels. But think of it this way. You are paying for information, which is always worth its weight in gold. Yet you are, moreover, paying another woman for information about the behavior of her future husband in the bedchamber. As you have already correctly surmised, this is not going to be happy information. However, it is information that is vital for you to know. We could tell you ourselves. But it will not have the weight or power of hearing this woman’s words and seeing her injuries in person.”

Sansa swallowed. “Her… injuries?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of monster injures a helpless woman?”

“There’s a lot of monsters in the world, Lady Sansa,” Liana said.

“But princes aren’t supposed to be monsters!” Sansa trembled in agitation. “They’re supposed to be handsome… and kind and gentle… and honorable and good. They’re supposed to help the innocent, not hurt them!”

“My lady, I heard that Aerys Targaryen was once a handsome and charming young man, before he devolved into madness,” Liana said. “These things are not always immediately obvious. Remember what I told you about the wolf inside. And how you must listen to it.”

“Yes, Mistress Pyke,” Sansa said meekly. “You did tell me that. I shall watch the prince very carefully when I am here. But…but…” She glanced helplessly at Jeyne. “In all of the songs we heard as children…”

“Bugger the songs!” Jeyne burst out. “This is real life, Sansa, not some ballad warbled by a troubadour. We must use our wits and investigate matters for ourselves, not imagine that life will nothing but lemon cakes handed to us on a golden platter!”

At first Sansa looked shocked that her lady-in-waiting would raise her voice to her. Then she raised her head. “Very well.”

She stood, clutching her dressing gown to her, as she walked to her coffer of jewels. She opened it, digging through the necklaces and brooches, frowning, until she pulled out a heavy round pendant of silver, ringed with moonstones, embossed with the Stark dire wolf.

“Grandmother Lyarra left me this,” she said. “But I have never worn it. I think Mother and Father have forgotten it exists. It should fetch more than one dragon, I think.”

“I think so,” said Jeyne. “Wear it under your gown, my lady.”

Sansa smiled a little. “It sounds like you have a plan already.”

“Of course I do,” Jeyne replied, looking smug.

“I can’t wait to hear,” said Sansa. “Your plans are always wonderful.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Jeyne replied, with no false modesty whatsoever, and proceeded to detail exactly everything they should do.

                                                                                    * * *

Later that morning, after they all properly broke their fast, Jory Cassel, the captain of the household guard, escorted them down the hill to Winter Town, along with a younger guardsman who looked fifteen at most. Sansa, all in dove grey, with a hooded cloak of charcoal wool, was mounted on her own dainty palfrey, but a pony was saddled up for Jeyne and Liana, who did her best not to fall off as she hoisted herself up into the stirrups. Jory, a fit, handsome man in his late twenties with shoulder length brown hair and the usual period Northern attire of studded leather and chainmail, looked wryly amused by her lack of equestrian skill, and how he had to push her up on the saddle in front of Jeyne. Liana was so embarrassed she could barely look at him for the rest of the short trip down to the town.

Even though she almost fell off the pony more than once, and she gripped the reins hard, she gazed around at the lush green hills around her with amazement. Clouds skidded in the wide blue sky, as hawks skimmed upon the westward wind. The fresh, herbal, earthy fragrance of the heathery turf, with stalks of cow parsley and powder-blue harebells fluttering in the breeze, hit her all at once in a joyous rush, and were especially sweet after being stuck in a smelly castle for weeks. For once, she felt as free as a hawk.

I’ll be gone from this place soon enough, she thought. Gone, and free.

But even though Liana wanted to escape Winterfell more than anything, when she rode past a coppice of elms and under a corbel arch that marked the boundaries of the Winter Town, she gasped.

A town from the Age of the Sagas, she thought with a thrill. This was the sort of thing she’d only read about in history books. God, if only she had her phone!

All right, it wasn’t much of a town, with its muddy market square with its well in the center, and its single street of modest shops and houses of undressed stone, steep, gabled roofs and squat chimneys. Still, it must have been market day, as it bustled, and the noise, after the peace of the castle, was astonishing. Peasants in rough brown tunics drove in lowing cattle and flocks of bleating sheep, while while other men whipped packhorses pulling carts filled with turnips and cabbages and crates of screeching chickens.

“I’ve haven’t seen it so busy in months,” Jeyne murmured in her ear as Jory helped Sansa down.

“It must be the royal visit,” Liana replied.

“No doubt,” Jeyne said, her face a neutral mask as the young guardsman offered his hand. She gracefully dismounted.

Liana dismounted much less gracefully, and Jeyne hid a smirk. “Not used to riding much in Qarth?”

“No,” Liana said coolly. Her backside and thighs were sore from the short ride, but she knew better than to complain. “It is considered more civilized to go about in a litter or a palanquin. In Oldtown, wheelhouses are more the fashion.”

“Oh,” said Sansa, tripping over. Liana noted the hem of Sansa’s long gown was getting soaked in mud. Liana looked at her own filthy hem, gritting her teeth. She really needed a change of clothes. “A wheelhouse! That sounds so elegant and southern. I should dearly love to see a proper Southron wheelhouse. I hear that even the wheels are trimmed with gold, and the inside is upholstered with velvet!”

“Ah yes,” said Jeyne sweetly. “Like what the queen has?”

Sansa paled. Liana thought of intervening, but she was distracted by a pimply-faced youth bearing a platter of cooked meats. “Mutton and beef and plenty o' pies at the Smoking Log!” he bellowed, as he wended his way past gruff mountain men bearing axes and a cluster of merchants in fur-trimmed doublets. Another stall sold lampreys, stockfish and mackerel from White Harbor, while other corners of the marketplace sold sacks of cereal, produce, and the noisiest of all, livestock. In one corner, a tinker mended pots; another sold tanned hides and sacks of raw wool; there were knife-sharpeners and rag-sellers and a scrivener had set up shop, writing a letter for a weeping girl; but by far the biggest audience was gathered around a dark-skinned juggler, Dornish by the looks of him, standing on an upended barrel, who juggled four daggers, the blades flashing as they whirled in a deadly circle. Smallfolk and shopkeepers and gentry alike gaped at the display of skill.

“Do you care to watch the juggler, my lady?” Jory asked with a wry smile. “People get a whiff of the king’s arrival, and it’s like the harvest festival has come early.”

“Isn’t it glorious?” Sansa said eagerly, stepping towards the juggler, but Jeyne laid her hand on her arm, giving her a warning look.

“To the draper’s first,” Sansa said, swallowing her disappointment. “Then we shall watch the juggler.”

If Jory was surprised, he hid it well. He inclined his head. “This way, my lady.”

The draper was housed in a solid little shop, next to the vintner, the chandler, the baker and the smith. Liana noted it was also next to the tavern—marked cleverly by a sign of a smoking log—and a building which had to be the brothel. It was not marked at all, but it seemed more riotous than the tavern, with the roaring of men and the tinkling laughter of women ringing from the open windows. In the front door hung a birdcage, where a magpie trilled, croaking “good day” to any man that entered. And there were a lot of men entering.

“Ask the procuress, Mag,” Kenna had said. “Though we call her the Magpie.” This had to be the place.

Jory hustled the three girls into the draper’s shop, while the young guardsman was stationed to mind the horses. Liana supposed it was good that the town was so crowded; it would make it easier for her and Sansa to sneak in and out unnoticed.

The draper’s shop itself was surprisingly elegant for Winter Town, with shelves piled with a dazzling array of fabrics, from shoddy hemp and worsted, to delicate camlet and dimity and lawn, to sturdy linsey-woolsey and fine scarlet and sleek broadcloth, with a few neat folded piles of silk-satin, velvet and discreetly gleaming tissue taking pride of place. In the midst of the shop lay a wide sturdy table meant for measurement and display, and a basket holding some very sharp, wicked looking shears.

As soon as they came in, a hearty red-cheeked man in a long russet tunic trimmed with squirrel fur swept his arms out.

“My lady Sansa!” he boomed. “My favorite customer. I was just thinking of you.”

“Master Draper!” said Sansa. “I have been so slow in coming here. But you know the king is to be visiting. And there are some gowns I wish to make, and silk and dyed and undyed linen thread to purchase as well.”

“Wonderful!” said the draper. “I know exactly what you would like. I have some fine woolen weaves, dyed the most charming azure color that matches your eyes. Allow me to show to you. Lyraine, if you please—” he spoke to a pretty blonde maiden in a fitted cote with braids wrapped around her head—“bring forth the azure broadcloth.”

And thus the next half hour or so was taken up with the display and inspection of half a dozen different cloths. Sansa was delighted, and carefully examined each piece, inquiring on where it originated and who made it; the draper answered in great detail, and although it was interesting to a certain extent, Liana fought the urge to yawn.

Next came the threads, of both the undyed and dyed linen and silk varieties, on spools that looked more like miniature spindles than the contemporary squat modern stools found at a drugstore. And then came the haggling. Oh God, the haggling. The older generation in Qarth still haggled at the bazaars, but Liana could never get the hang of it; it seemed less fun to her, and more tedious. But this was an age where everyone haggled. Liana wanted to curl up on a shelf and fall asleep.

At least she was not the only one bored out of her mind; Jory looked about to pass out, though he held himself tall and straight. Yet he kept staring with fascination at the blonde girl, who kept sneaking him admiring glances, brushing back tendrils and smiling with what Liana imagined to be appropriate maidenly shyness.

“Master Draper,” said Sansa, “what is this whole cloth worth? In short, so to speak, how much will you charge me for one ell?”

“My lady, for the love I bear you and your lordly father and your blessed lady mother, you shall have it good and cheap.”

“And how much is that, Master Draper?”

“Four stags for the ell, if it please you.”

“What!” Sansa feigned shock. “For so much I would have good scarlet cloth!”

“But I have some which is not of the best which I would not give for seven stags.”

“Yet if you will forgive me for my boldness, Master Draper, this cloth is not worth so much money.”

“Then, my lady, what is it worth?”

“I think, Master Draper, that it is worth three stags to me.”

“That bodes poorly, my lady, if I may have leave to say so.”

Sansa dimpled at him prettily. “But if you do not let it part for three stags, Master Draper, I am afraid you and I shall part without my purchasing this fine cloth, which I know would sadden you a great deal, for I plan to make gowns from it for the king’s visit to my father’s own hall.”

“You do me the greatest honor, my lady.”

“And, if it goes as well I hope it should, I would tell the Queen herself that I purchased this pretty cloth at your shop. I know she would be so much taken by it she would patronize you faster than a raven may fly from Winterfell to Winter Town.”

Master Draper let out an aggrieved sigh through his teeth. “My lady, how you wound me to the quick! Very well. Because of the love I bear you and your family, I shall sell you this broadcloth for three stags an ell. But you must agree to at least purchase five ells of it, or it shall be four stags or not at all.”

It was like that until all the cloth and all the thread was purchased, and it was piled into a basket. Then Jeyne shot Sansa a look.

“Oh,” Sansa said, blushing—as if they hadn’t discussed this maneuver already— and went over to the blonde girl. She whispered in her ear. The blonde smiled understandingly.

“There is a privy in the back room, my lady.” She nodded towards a back door. “Behind the stairs. May I show you?”

“No, thank you, that shall not be necessary. Mistress Pyke?”

“Coming, my lady,” Liana said hastily, and they went out the back to find a private passage, filled with bales of fabric, a rickety stair to their right, and a door going outside on their left. They were about to pass through the outside door when a small, sullen girl walked up to them. She had straw colored hair and brown eyes, and she looked a little like the blonde Lyraine, but lacking the other girl’s grace or glamor.

The girl stared at them, her expression unchanging. Was this the draper’s other daughter? Was she the Arya to Lyraine’s Sansa?

“Good morrow,” Sansa said in a low voice to the little girl. “What is your name?”

“Cress,” she mumbled.

“It is good to meet you, Cress.” She pressed a stag into the girl’s hand. “Will you be quiet for me? Don’t tell them we’ve gone.”

Quick as a blink, the little girl palmed the silver. Then she curtsied and darted away, leaving Liana and Sansa to go through the door and into a narrow, equally muddy side street that led past the back of the tavern and the brothel. Sansa pulled her hood up, hiding her distinctive hair, and fell back a step, letting Liana lead the way.

Outside the tavern, a man had fallen into the mud, puking his guts out. As Liana and Sansa went by, he leered at them. “Pretty—” he croaked, before he doubled over and began puking again.

“Just keep moving,” Liana muttered, steering the younger girl to the back door of the brothel. She pushed it open—it wasn’t locked. Well, maybe the people here weren’t so worried about security yet.

They walked into a small makeshift kitchen where a fat, sweating cook with greying hair bound up under a kerchief stirred something in a frying pan, shouting at a wan, stooped scullion who chopped onions as if her life depended on it. The aroma of fried garlic, rosemary and chickpeas filled the sweltering room, as a fire burned in the hearth, hot as the fires of hell itself.

“Get busy, you damned slut!” the cook bawled as she stirred a pot on the fire. “You’re too plain for the likes of Mistress Mag, so if you don’t want to find yourself out on the street, make haste! The gentlemen need their chickpeas.” She grimaced. “And their prunes.”

The cook turned and glared at Sansa and Liana. “Who in the Seven Hells are you?” she roared. “Out with you! This ain’t no cock-roost. To the front, you pair of bleeding whores!”

Liana heard Sansa gasp, but she grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

“We’re not whores,” Liana said coldly. “We’re here to see the Magpie. She’s expecting us.”

The cook wiped her face. “Is she now? Well, fancy that. Get out of here then. You should find her easy enough.” She nodded with her head to the far door. “Out!”

They went out, Sansa still holding Liana’s hand in a death grip.

They emerged from the kitchen into small hallway of sorts. A staircase led up to their right, and in front of them lay a large open room with mullioned windows, that seemed, more or less, a dining area. It was partitioned off into several sections; the main section, open to the front door, where the magpie hung in its cage, was taken up by several tables covered with white linen, where raucous men of all classes and women in low-cut gowns drank wine and feasted on rabbit, chickpea pottage, long, dark turnips, and stewed prunes. (Liana vaguely remembered that such foods were considered aphrodisiacs during this time period and were thus popular at establishments like this one.) A more private section had more of the same feasting, but the diners were only partly dressed, the men in unbuttoned doublets and shifts and no trousers, and women wearing only shifts, if that.

From upstairs came various gasps, sighs and moans; Sansa looked around, white, clearly about to panic.

“Calm down, my lady,” Liana murmured. “Mistress Mag should be around here somewhere.”

“And so I am,” a voice called down from the staircase. Liana started, but Sansa almost jumped out of her skin. The teenager stared up at the buxom, black-haired woman on the stairs with horror.

Mag padded down the stairs with a deft, cat-like grace, barely making a noise. She peered at Sansa, blanching.

“My lady,” she said in a low voice. “Kenna did warn me you might come. Never thought you would, but…”

She shook her head. “Thank the gods I found you just now. Come this way, if you please.”

Pale, remote, Sansa followed the madam upstairs. The grunting, moaning and squealing emerging behind various closed doors was overwhelming; but Liana did her best to tune it out.

They followed Mag into a little room where—much to her surprise—Kenna sat, writing a letter. A prostitute who could read and write? Well, she did mention during the first meeting that her mother was a mercer’s bastard. A mercer sold fine silks and velvets to the rich, so no doubt Kenna had had some education in her youth (as well as learning how to ride, given her recent purchase of a horse and quick return to Winter Town). She wore the same wrap dress as earlier, with the same slubbed silk belt.

“You made it,” Kenna said to Liana with amazement. She pushed her paper aside as she stood, turning to Sansa, while Mag closed the door behind her discreetly. “My lady.” She curtsied.

“Please,” said Sansa. “We don’t have time for courtesies. You are Mistress Snow?”

“I am.”

“I understand you have a story to tell, where you were… injured. By a certain person of high birth.”

“I was.” Kenna looked at Sansa uneasily. “I hate to ask, my lady, but… do you have that dragon? I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m going to Braavos, and I need the money.”

“I have something better than that.” Sansa pulled off the necklace, warn under her high-necked gown. She passed it to Kenna, who examined the moonstones and the heavy silver with wonder.

“My lady, this must have cost a fortune. You shouldn’t have…”

“It’s the only thing I had,” Sansa said tightly. “Please tell me what you know, Mistress Snow. I don’t have much time.”

“Right.” Kenna gulped. Clearly uncomfortable, she repeated the story that she had told Theon and Liana. When she got to the part where Joffrey filled her kitten (little Janny) with bolts, Sansa gasped, her eyes brimming with tears; and when Kenna told how Joffrey almost strangled her, revealing the bruises around her neck, Sansa covered her mouth, trembling. She looked like she was about to faint.

“Oh Mistress Snow,” Sansa said, her voice thick. “How horrible. I am… so sorry. I can’t…”

“It’s nothing you did, my lady,” Kenna said.

“No, but…” Sansa paused for a moment, then spoke all at once. “Mother and Father think that I should marry him. Him, the monster that killed your cat, and almost killed you. Mistress Snow, I beg of you, please come to Winterfell and tell my parents. They’ll reward you with plenty of gold. They’ll be grateful forever. You won’t even have to go to Braavos!”

Kenna looked at her wonderingly. She shook her head.

“No, my lady,” she said. “No, I’m sorry. If I did that… word would get out. Don’t you see?” Her dark eyes focused with a frightening intensity on Sansa’s. “The Lannisters… they own the king. If I came to the great hall, they would know.”

“How?” Sansa asked. “How would they know? My father is Lord Stark, the Warden of the North. His people are loyal to him. They would give their lives for him.”

You sweet summer child was a constant refrain of the Sagas, and boy, was it relevant now. Liana wondered if those words were running through Kenna’s head at this very moment. It sure looked like they might.

“That’s true,” said Kenna. “But the Lannisters are very, very, very rich. You don’t know who they’ve bought. Lady Sansa, can you guarantee that every single soul in Winterfell and Winter Town is not only completely loyal to your father, but also have not been bought and paid for the Lannisters? Can you make me this assurance for every man, woman and child who lives in this entire town and your entire keep?”

Tears trickled down Sansa’s white face. “No,” she said. “No. I can’t.”

“If I came to Winterfell and spoke to your parents,” said Kenna, “people would notice. People would talk. I know who I am, Lady Sansa. I’m only a whore. What would Lord Stark want with me?”

Her voice became a harsh whisper. “The Queen is not far. There’s a good chance she would find out—especially if Lord Stark listens to me and scuppers this promised match. You must think of her pride, my lady. She is a lioness, hard gold and nothing else. She would not take so well at having her precious son being shamed by a trollop.

“And if this comes to pass, my lady, Braavos wouldn’t be far enough way for the likes of me.” Her jaw set. “Where could I go? Lorath? Qohor? Mussovy?”

“I—I…” Sansa’s eyebrows canted up, her face crumbling in upon itself. “So you won’t do it? Not even for my sake?” Her voice rose, and she clasped her hands. “Mistress Snow, I beg of you. Talk to my parents. I… I would die if I married a man like that. And this marriage would never happen if you spoke to them!”

Kenna’s face contorted. “Please, Lady Sansa, you can’t ask that of me. I would die myself. I know it. In my bones.”

Before Sansa could reply, Kenna stood up abruptly, wrapping her arms about herself. “You should go now. They’ll be missing you.”

Sansa choked back a sob, throwing open the door, her bright red hair streaming behind her. Panicking, Liana drew the younger girl’s hood back up, before turning around.

“Thank you, Kenna Snow,” Liana said softly. “May God keep you safe.”

“Thank you, Liana Pyke,” Kenna replied, her eyes meeting hers, her expression grim. “May your God keep you safe as well.”

When they stumbled back downstairs, Mag was there to greet them.

“Your men at arms are close to my back door, asking everyone if they’ve seen you,” Mag murmured. “Best to go out the front door, my lady. The crowds are big enough you can blend in.”

Mag was a large, imposing woman, in a white shawl and a black dress that matched her hair, with her bodice lacings half undone, revealing an impressive bosom; and the men in the brothel ogled her, not noticing the two girls in grey cloaks that stole alongside her, between Mag and the wall. A group of young bucks surged into the brothel, and the girls slipped past them, and into a crowd of giggling peasant maids, eyeing the men and making arch comments about their wares.

The juggler was still there, and the crowd had grown even larger, for he now juggled four torches. The juggler’s assistant threw another torch to the juggler, which he caught deftly, so he juggled five torches in a whirl of smoke and flame. “This is one of Princess Gwyneth’s favorite tricks!” he called to the crowd, who cheered, even though they probably had no idea who Princess Gwyneth even was. Liana had no idea who Princess Gwyneth was. Someone Dornish, she would imagine.

The crowd ooh’ed and aah’ed at the dazzling display, and even whores leaned out the windows of Mistress Magpie’s brothel to marvel at the sight.

“Theon would love this,” Sansa whispered, lowering her hood, the sunlight burnishing her hair, so it almost blazed as brightly as one of the juggler’s torches.

“Would he?”

“Oh yes. We were at a fair a few years ago. There was a juggler—not as good as this one—who juggled a loop and two torches, and Theon thought the world of him. He threw him a couple of moons. Robb thought he was extravagant, and Theon said he sounded like a nagging old septa and laughed at him the entire way home.”

“He’d be sad he missed such a sight,” Liana replied.

“Yes.” Sansa lowered her eyes.

As the juggler continued his act, now invoking the favorite trick of a Prince Quentyn (Martell, right?), Sansa leaned in, taking Liana’s arm and resting her head on her shoulder. She probably imagines she’s with Theon, thought Liana, strangely moved. Poor Sansa. Poor Theon. Were they destined to be miserable and star-crossed in every timeline?

Hell, what could she do?  

This was where Jory Cassel at last found Liana and Sansa, in the crowds in the market square, watching the juggler.

He glared at her, out of breath and in a foul mood. “Lady Sansa, where have you been?”

Sansa smiled at him, brightly and sweetly as if nothing has occurred. “I’m sorry to have run off like that, captain, but the thought of watching the juggler was too tempting.”

“You gave us a fright,” he snapped. “We had no idea where you went! I have half a mind to tell Lady Stark what you did. She won’t think it such a jape.”

At that, Sansa’s eyes became blue as ice.

“I wouldn’t advise that, Captain Cassel. Or I’ll tell Mother you were too busy ogling the draper’s daughter to notice I’d gone.”

Jory’s mouth opened, and then shut. He nodded stiffly, turning to watch the rest of the performance.

Liana looked at the younger girl, marveling at her cool. Her little summer child, new to the ways of intrigue, was learning fast!

But would it be fast enough to survive this upcoming betrothal to a monster? How could it be avoided? And how could she possibly get Lord Stark to agree to a match between Theon and Sansa?

Liana prized herself of her quick thinking and her smarts, but for once, she was stumped.

She hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next.

Chapter Text

As soon as they returned to the castle, Sansa wanted to go the godswood, first thing. With Liana and Jeyne on either side of her, she made her way to the weirwood tree in a beeline and knelt before it, clasping her hands and closing her eyes in fervent prayer.

Jeyne closed her eyes as well; but Liana stood there awkwardly, fidgeting. She’d grown more used to the godswood over the past few weeks, but she still didn’t feel at home there, especially at such an overtly religious moment.

But the moment didn’t last long, as she heard the crunch of twigs behind her. She turned her head to see a pale Theon approaching, his bow in hand. He must have been practicing, as usual; no doubt when he saw the girls enter the godswood, he had decided to follow. Liana prayed to the Lord of Light (an odd thing here, in this place) that no one had witnessed this.

“Sansa,” he said, hoarsely, setting his bow down against a boulder, and Sansa jumped up.

“Theon!” she exclaimed, and she ran to him, stumbling into him, throwing her arms about him. For a split second, he looked stunned; then he closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her tightly, his face pained yet intense.

“I heard you went to Winter Town,” he said.

She looked at him. “Yes,” she said with a sob. “I talked to Mistress Snow. She told me everything.”

“I wish you didn’t need to hear that,” he said gruffly.

Sansa’s face twisted up. “But I had to.” She looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. “Oh, Theon, I can’t believe that anyone could do such a thing. How could anyone kill an innocent little kitten? How could anyone be so wicked… so cruel?”

A look of indescribable bitterness crossed Theon’s face. “There’s a lot of wicked and cruel men in the world, Sansa.”

“I suppose, but… the prince! Gods, how could he be such a man? I don’t understand!”

She pressed her head into his shoulder. “I’d rather die than marry him,” she mumbled. “I know a lady doesn’t have a choice into who she weds. I always knew I might have to marry someone distant or cool. But to marry someone evil… without a soul… I can’t.” She glanced up, her mouth setting. “I won’t.”

“But if the king wills it…” Theon’s voice trailed away, and he sighed. “We could always go to your father. He should know.”

Liana was surprised at how surprisingly adult Theon sounded for once, but Sansa shook her head.

“I wish we could. But Mistress Snow won’t speak to Father, and she’s leaving for Braavos tomorrow.”

“We could bribe her,” Theon suggested, but now it was Sansa’s turn to sigh, sounding far older than her thirteen years.

“It won’t make a difference.” She lowered her voice. “And she said if she went to Father, people would talk. When I said that people here were loyal, she told me how the Lannisters own the king. She asked me if I could guarantee there was not a single Lannister spy in all of Winter Town and Winterfell, and I couldn’t.

“She also said that if she talked to Father, and he changed his mind about the betrothal, the queen would be enraged, especially since she’s on her way here right now. She would find out who thwarted her will and dishonored her son, and she would take revenge on Mistress Snow, who is only… ah, a harlot.” Sansa blushed. “I tried to convince her otherwise, but she refused.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. Very much so. And I was thinking about this the entire way home. I think she’s right.”  

“Yes.” Theon looked glum. “I can see that.”

“Theon, what do you know about the queen?” Sansa asked. “You’ve been more places than I have.”

“Not that many,” Theon scoffed. “I’ve never met her. Never been to Lannisport or King’s Landing either.”

“Yes, but I’ve never left Winterfell!” Sansa exclaimed. “And you’re always in inns and alehouses. You must’ve heard rumors, at least!”

“Well,” said Theon. “I have at that. You know my family hates the Lannisters, don’t you? They played a key part in putting down my father’s rebellion.”

“So did my father,” she said in a low voice.

“Yes,” he said impatiently, “but everyone speaks of Ned Stark’s honor. And no one speaks poorly of you. The people of Winter Town love you. Didn’t you see that for yourself? I bet the whores treated you like you were made of glass.”

Sansa colored. “They were quite respectful, yes.”

“I’d wager that because they love and respect you and your father,” Theon said. “As far as I can tell, love doesn’t have much to do with how people feel about the Lannisters. Granted, I’ve never been south of Seagard, and I haven’t been there since I was eight. But people fear the Lannisters. You know about the ‘Rains of Castamere,’ right?”

“Yes.” Sansa looked disturbed. “It’s how Tywin Lannister put down the rebellion of the Reynes and the Tarbecks. I never liked that song.”

“It’s a depressing song,” Theon said. “But it’s there to remind everyone how Lord Tywin will destroy anyone who looks at him crossways. Did you know that the last refuge of the Reynes and Tarbecks—including three hundred men, women and children— was in an abandoned mine, and Tywin flooded it, drowning every one?”

Sansa closed her eyes, looking sick. “No, I didn’t.”

“Cersei is the daughter of the man who did this,” Theon said. “My father was a fool to cross him,” he added bitterly. “But everyone I’ve heard who’s spoken of Queen Cersei say that she’s a beautiful woman, but proud and cold and disagreeable. And darker things too.”

“What?” Sansa whispered. “What is it? Please tell me.”

“I will. But you must promise never to breath a word of this to anyone.”

“I promise.”

Theon clutched Sansa’s arms. “I once met a rope dancer from Lannisport, who told me a few tales about the queen that would make your blood run cold. I used to think nothing of it. I thought it was just Southron gossip falling from a mummer’s lips. But now…”

“What is it?” Sansa repeated numbly.

“According to the rope dancer, the queen—before she was the queen—had a little friend named… Melony? Melessa? Melantha? Something like that. The daughter of one of her father’s bannermen. Like Beth or Jeyne, here. Anyway, when Melony was thirteen or so, one night she fell into a crofter’s well in the woods and drowned. Her father was besides himself. But Lord Tywin said it was an accident. Or was it?”

“Was it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why would Melony be roaming about the woods by herself? The rope dancer was sister to one of the maids at Casterly Rock, who told her that Cersei’s gown and shoes were coated with mud. So Melony wasn’t alone. Cersei and her were in the woods together.”

Sansa shivered. “Why… why would Cersei kill her friend? Why would she possibly do such a thing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it amuses her.” Theon’s lips set into a grim line. “Maybe Joffrey takes after her in more ways than one. Kenna Snow is wise to be afraid of her.”

Liana and Jeyne glanced at each other with fear. She hoped to God no one else ever heard this conversation, because they would be dead as this Melony if it ever got out.

“Gods,” Sansa moaned. She wound her arms about Theon again. “I wish I could fly away from here. I don’t want to meet the Lannisters. How can I even look at the prince now?” She trembled. “Or the queen?”

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Theon murmured into Sansa’s hair. “I swear it.”

“I know you won’t.” Sansa looked at him, her brilliant eyes brimming with tears. “But she’s the queen. What can we do against someone like that?”

Theon’ green-blue-grey eyes stared into space for a moment; then they sharpened. He took a deep breath, straightening.

“There’s only one thing we can do. Like you said. Fly.”

Jeyne covered her mouth with her hands as Liana froze with horror, a sinking feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach.

Sansa gasped, her eyes wide. “What?”

“We can’t grow wings, of course.” A grim smirk crossed Theon’s face. “But I have a swift horse. We can make it to Seagard in a week if we make haste—we can ride down the King’s Road at night, and sleep during the day. We can sleep in stables or the woods if needs be. It won’t be easy. But it can be done. I’ll teach you how to use a dagger, to defend yourself.

“Once we get to Seagard, we can take passage on a ship to Harlaw. It’s best if we find a ship flying the silver scythe, the sigil of House Harlaw. My uncle is lord there...Rodrik the Reader. You’ll like him. He has the biggest library on all of the Isles.”

“And he lives with your mother,” Sansa added gently.

“Yes.” Theon’s eyes softened as he cupped her face in his hands. “They’ll be happy to have us. And once you’re there safely, I can go to Pyke and meet with my father.”

“He won’t be happy to see you’ve run away with a wolf,” Sansa murmured.  

“Do you think I care about that?” Theon said roughly. “As soon as we’re safe on Harlaw, I’ll marry you. Whether it’s a septon or a Drowned priest who does it, I don’t care. I love you, Sansa Stark.”

“And I love you too, Theon Greyjoy.” Her voice quivered. “I love you so much I can barely stand it. I can’t sleep at night, thinking of you.”

“Nor can I,” Theon rasped.

With her face still in his hands, he leaned down and kissed her, slowly, reverently. As supple as a willow branch, Sansa bent towards him with a sigh, her hands flying to his neck, clasping there, as if in prayer.

Yet it didn’t take long for the kiss to turn into something far less reverent. Theon’s kisses deepened, as he wrapped one arm around her, the other hand cupping the side of her breast, while her fingers entwined in his curls. Their bodies pressed together, and his mouth moved down her neck, kissing and biting, as she threw her head back with a gasp.

That’s going to leave a hickey or two, thought Liana, and she glanced at Jeyne, who grimaced.

“Maybe we should pour some cold water on them,” Liana muttered, and Jeyne gave the most unladylike snort.

“My lady…” Jeyne cleared her throat loudly. Sansa started, but she was panting, and her eyes were unfocused. Theon broke away, giving Jeyne a dirty look.

“We should go back inside, or Septa Mordane will wonder what’s happened to you,” Jeyne said. She straightened Sansa’s clothes, making sure her shift and hair hid the reddened marks on her neck. “We can go back to your rooms. I’ll say you have a headache, so you don’t have to talk to anyone.”

“All right,” Sansa said, looking longingly at Theon, who stared hungrily back.

“Come on,” Jeyne growled, grabbing Sansa’s hand and dragging her away. Sansa stumbled after her, glancing back at Theon, who looked half ready to run after her and drag her back so they could continue making out.

Liana clamped her hand on Theon’s shoulder. “So,” she said, as the two girls disappeared within the trees. “That happened.”

Theon jumped. He stared at her as if she’d fallen out of the sky. “What?” he said. “What happened?”

“That cockamamie plan of yours,” Liana said, and she knew she sounded just like Dad. “What are you thinking, Theon? You’re thinking of running away with Sansa?”

He glared at her. “I’m not just thinking it. I’m going to do it.”

“You’re crazy,” she snapped. “It’s too dangerous.”

“What of it?” he snapped back. “Is it less dangerous to stay here, and deal with that murderous bitch and her disgusting son? If I’m going to keep Sansa safe, I need to take her away from all of that, as soon as possible. If I can get us to the Iron Islands, no one can touch us, not even the King, and you know it!”

What he said had a certain logic to it, but Liana knew that Theon’s plans had a tendency to go pear-shaped. After all, back in the original timeline, it was his idea to take Winterfell to impress old Balon, and look what happened with that.

“You can’t do that!” Liana said in desperation. “You can’t just run off with Sansa. You need to talk to Lord and Lady Stark! If you explain to them all the circumstances, exactly… they might listen…”

Theon sneered. “Really? You think Lady Stark would listen? Her dearest wish is for Sansa to marry a prince and live all the seasons of the high life down in the capital. And if I come to her, telling her why this can’t happen, and that we found a whore who was attacked by Prince Joffrey, but she can’t actually talk to this whore because she’s run off to Braavos, do you think she’ll believe me, or rather she’ll think this was some mad scheme of mine to seduce and entrap her daughter?”

“I, um…” Liana’s voice trailed away.

“You know it would be the latter.” Theon glared at her. “And before you suggest that I bed Sansa and be ‘caught’ somehow, that would be even worse, because not only would Lady Stark cover it up, I’d be banished to another castle, and Sansa would be married off to the prince immediately.” He paused. “And that other castle would probably be Karhold of the Karstarks, and knowing my luck, I’d be dead before the moon passed in a mysterious ‘accident.’” His lips curved up in a tight smile. “The Karstarks are not as honorable as their cousins.”

“You’ve thought about this,” Liana said weakly.

“Of course I have!” Theon ran his fingers through his hair, scowling. “Sansa means everything to me. Everything. I can’t make a mess of this.”

“I know.” Liana found herself wringing her hands like Sansa. “I appreciate everything you’re doing. It’s just… running off… I can’t tell you how risky it is. Leaving the safety of Winterfell for the road! Who knows what could happen!” She took a deep breath. “We should talk to Lord Stark. Alone. He’ll be reasonable.”

“Oh will he?” Theon said darkly. “I know him better than you do, and I tell you, I am not doing that.”

“All right!” Liana exclaimed. “I’ll do it then, whether you like it or not!”

At that, Theon seized her wrist, gripping it so hard that Liana gasped in pain.

“Are you sure you want to do that, cousin?” he growled. She had often thought of him as young, stupid boy, but by the standards of the Age of the Sagas he was a man and a warrior. She had never seen him look so dangerous. All coiled rage, he looked like he might explode at any moment; and his eyes bore into hers like arrows of blue-green fire. “If you do that, I’ll tell Lord and Lady Stark that you’re Olenna Tyrell’s spy, and you’ve been lying to everyone. You’ll get to know the insides of the Winterfell dungeons very well.” 

Trembling, Liana tried to wrest her hand away, but couldn’t—his grip was too hard.

“I won’t,” she said.

“Promise me.” Theon ground out every word. “Swear by your god. Swear by the Lord of Light that you will not breathe a word of this to Lord or Lady Stark.”

“I swear by the Lord of Light that I will not say anything of your plans to Lord and Lady Stark,” Liana said, her voice quavering. “If I break this vow, may He strike me down as a liar and an oath-breaker and cast me into the eternal night. There. Does that please you?”

“It’s enough.” Theon let her go. She grasped her wrist, rubbing it.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “Maybe you should look in again on Sansa. She’s had quite a shock today.”

With that, he grabbed his bow and stalked off, his face dark, while Liana remained in the shadow of the weirwood tree.

Shit, she thought, covering her mouth with her hand. Shit, shit, shit.

What the hell was she going to do now?

                                                                                     * * *

 It was nuncheon time, but Liana didn’t have much of an appetite herself, and pled a headache as well. She gave her gown to Jessa for laundering, laying down on the bed in a ragged dressing gown Jessa had lent her, staring at the ceiling, trying not to feel nauseous and overwhelmed.

When a knock sounded on her door, she jumped. “Who’s there?” she called out.

“Jeyne,” a muffled voice said beind the door.

Liana unbolted the door, letting in Jeyne, who carried a loaded platter, with an ewer of wine, two cups, a hunk of bread and cheese, and smoked ham. “I heard you also had a headache,” she said lightly as she closed the door. “It’s amazing how contagious those headaches can be.”

She poured out the cups of wine, handed the food to Liana, and sat down on a nearby stool, waiting for her eat a bit. When Liana was done—feeling a bit better now that she’d eaten— Jeyne leaned forward, placing her chin on her folded hands.

“So,” she said. “I take it you had a fascinating conversation with Lord Theon after we left.”

“You could say that,” Liana said, and told her what happened—even Theon’s threat to out her as a Tyrell spy. Jeyne grew pale.

“Well,” she said, peering at her carefully. “That is fascinating indeed. He is a determined young man, I’ll give him that.”

“You could say that, yes.”

“Indeed.” Jeyne sipped her wine, her eyes narrowing. “You did try to talk sense into him. But it’s a complicated situation. I can see where he’s coming from.”

“I can too,” Liana said with a sigh. “But running away? I have a bad feeling about it, Jeyne. A really bad feeling.”

“I know.” Jeyne frowned. “It’s dangerous, as you say. But even if Theon had agreed to go to Lord Stark, how receptive would he be anyway? He is going to be so consumed by all the details of the royal visit, I doubt he would even listen. You’ve been here long enough to notice that Lord Stark is not very good at juggling multiple tasks. He works on one matter, until it’s done, and then he moves on to the next. He’s very… methodical.”

“Like a workhorse,” Liana said, and Jeyne gave a rueful laugh.

“I suppose so, yes. And if Lord Theon and Lady Sansa do manage to run off together... well, as the old saying goes, perhaps it is better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.”

“Yes. I get that. I’m just afraid…” Not wanting to say more, afraid to express the indescribable dread that filled her mind, Liana knocked on the wooden bedframe. An old superstitious tic, again courtesy of her father.

“Believe me, I understand,” Jeyne said. “But there’s no good solutions. Right now we’re looking for the least bad solution, and mayhaps this is it. I cannot say.”

“I don’t know either.”

“If you don’t know, Mistress Pyke, then truly we are in a fix!” Jeyne gave Liana a hard, searching look. “Now. Be honest with me. Is it true that you are Olenna Tyrell’s spy?”

“Yes.” Another lie. Lies upon lies. At this point, though, who would believe the actual truth—that she was from the future? She supposed she could tell her and show Jeyne her smartphone, paperback and wallet as proof, but she wasn’t sure what good that would do—it would probably just freak Jeyne out and muddy the waters. Right now she needed to focus on how to best help Theon and Sansa.

“Well, well. I can see that.” Jeyne tapped her winecup.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mention this earlier,” Liana said nervously.

Jeyne shot her a look. “Now, what sort of spy would you be if you went blabbing it to everyone?”

“One who would find herself short of a head very quickly,” Liana said.

Jeyne smirked. “True enough. In any case, there are far worse people to serve than the Tyrells. From what I’ve heard, you have the Queen of Thorns’ style.”

“Do you know much about the Tyrells?” Liana queried, curious, as she drank her own wine.

The younger girl raised her chin.

“I know you must think we’re a passel of rustics here, Mistress Pyke, but I have tried to talk to as many travelers as I could as to best broaden my horizons. It was always my dream,” she admitted, “that Lady Sansa should marry Willas Tyrell, and we could go down to Highgarden together.” She flushed. “I’ve heard it’s so beautiful down there.”

“It is,” Liana said with feeling. The palace of Goldbower, the lavish and more modern seat of the Velick kings, built by King Petyr I on the former site of Brightwater Keep as a center of government, culture and a home for all the feuding nobles of the land, had, in the early modern era, replaced Highgarden in terms of importance. However, Highgarden continued to be in use as a winter residence, although it had fallen out of style due to its distance from Oldtown and its lack of amenities. By the Age of Luminance, the old castle was in sad repair. But at least it had—along with Goldbower—avoided the destruction of the Revolutionary Wars because of its status as a cultural landmark, and, after its restoration over a century ago, was one of the Reach’s biggest tourist attractions and landmarks. Liana had been there any number of times, once with Brenn even.

“What’s it like?” Jeyne asked.

“Oh, it’s amazing,” Liana said warmly. “It’s built in terraces, three rings of white limestone, with a large labyrinth of thorns between the mid and outermost wall. Everyone has to go through it at some point. It’s great fun. Sometimes they station someone on a platform underneath a sunshade to shout directions for the visitors who get exceptionally lost.

“Then there’s the water features and the gardens—there’s a rose garden, an herb garden, a formal garden, an informal garden, a Yi Tish style garden, and a conservatory with exotic blooms from Sothoryos and Ulthos. There’s statues everywhere, and art by the great masters, with more modern abstract works too, and a portrait gallery too. And there’s plays in a local amphitheatre and concerts every summer weekend that really bring in the crowds, and a special rose festival in the spring too.” Okay, she needed to watch herself, as most of the stuff she was describing hadn’t happened yet. Not that Jeyne was likely to know, though. Her eyes shone in wonder.

“By the Seven,” Jeyne breathed. “It sounds magnificent. I’m so envious that you’ve been blessed to see the wonders of Highgarden.” She grimaced. “I wish I was there right now.”

To be honest, Liana wished she was in Highgarden too. Nothing against Winterfell, but it a bit boring here. “I forgot to mention you can rent a canoe or a rowboat and go boating down the Mander when the weather’s good. The sun shines golden on the rippling river waters, with willows and and reeds and irises lining the banks… There’s swans too. It’s really idyllic.”

Jeyne let out a groan. “Now you’re torturing me. Is there anything Highgarden doesn’t have?”

A really good shish kebob place, Liana thought, but didn’t mention it. Instead she said:

“I can’t think of anything it lacks. I hope you can go at some point. It’s marvelous.”

“It sounds like it. Oh well. Winterfell isn’t bad. It’s… warm, at least.” Jeyne looked glumly out the window. “And there’s a lot to eat. And the village is lively for the most part.”

“That’s the spirit!” Liana said encouragingly.

“I’m sure you must be eager to get back to the Reach and its glories once… we find your betrothed.” Jeyne looked at her with suspicion and anxiety. “By the way, is he also working for…?”

“No,” Liana said. “He has no interest in intrigue. That’s my job.”

“You must be so worried about him,” Jeyne said, her brown eyes large with concern.

“I am.” She lowered her eyes. “But Lady Stark gave me his scarf and hat, which were recovered only a few days ago. Lord Stark himself found the scarf in the woods near here, and he said looked like Brenn—I mean, Lord Brenn—had just lost it. I’m sure he must be out there, somewhere close.” She prayed he was close to opening the Chronoscope again. He’d thrown the hat through a few days ago. He had to be…

“May I see?” asked Jeyne, and Liana nodded. She opened her chest of clothes (which had almost nothing in it), and handed her the scarf and hat. Jeyne examined the scarf approvingly, commenting on the fineness of the wool; but the hat’s acrylic blend clearly puzzled her.

“They’re in such good condition!” said Jeyne. “Lord Stark must be right. Your lover must be very close indeed.” She smiled brightly, though Liana reddened at the reference to Brenn as her ‘lover.’ “All the better. I cannot wait to meet him. A proper Southron lord. He must know all the latest dances!”

Imagining Jeyne Poole and Brenn Fossoway actually sharing the same room—and having a conversation—almost made Liana go cross-eyed, but she smiled.

“I’m sure you too will get along splendidly.” God, now she was filled with a new source of anxiety. Once Brenn arrived—and once he was able to come up with a plausible excuse for being out in the woods for weeks—would he be able to fake being a lord from the Reach? She sure hoped so, for both their sakes. What were the latest dances of the era anyway? She racked her brain for the names. There was the carola. The basse dance. The falcon and the swallow. The dance of the morris-bells. And the Braavosi ball dance. She had no idea how to do any of those, but she told herself it didn’t matter. Her main concern was to reunite with Brenn, figure out how to get back home, and make sure Theon and Sansa were safe before they escaped back to their original timeline. “He’ll, ah, find you very… interesting.”

“I hope so,” Jeyne said gaily. “What a good marriage it shall be for you. Married into a lordly house!” She paused. “It is a lordly house, right?”

“The yellow-apple Fossoways an extremely minor lordly house, but is a lordly house,” Liana said, repeating the house words she had told Lady Stark: “Their words are high hangs the bough, and Orchard Hill—their seat— is about three days’ ride from Highgarden. Not that anyone from Highgarden would ever go there,” she added. Hell, even in her time, Orchard Hill was out in the middle of nowhere. There was fruit orchards for miles around, and almost nothing else. Brenn had showed her a few pictures on his phone.

Jeyne winked. “But who knows how things will change when you become its lady, Mistress Pyke?” She let out a peal of laughter. “Oh imagine what Dagon Greyjoy would say, knowing his bastard’s granddaughter would marry a Southron lord, and…” She lowered her voice. “Work for Lady Tyrell herself? The irony would be delicious!”

“Delicious as the apples grown at Orchard Hill,” said Liana, knowing full well as an alleged future wife of a Fossoway, she had to sneak as many apple references into her speech as humanly possible.

“Exactly!” Jeyne clapped her hands. She was having way too much fun with this, Liana thought. “Did you know that when your Lord Brenn arrives, you shall be seated at the high table with Lord and Lady Stark and the others? You may not be a lady yet, but Lady Stark will not deny you a place with the high and mighty if your betrothed is sitting there as well. Which brings me to another matter…”

“Yes?”

“Your clothes.” Jeyne folded her arms across her chest. “We must get you another gown and a change of linen. You’ve been wearing the same thing for weeks, and I’m sick of seeing you in it.”

“I’m lucky to have it at all,” Liana said.

“I suppose. But you’re the future lady of Orchard Hill. You shall be Lady Tyrell’s own bannerwoman! We must get you another proper gown. It’s a good thing Sansa just bought many ells of cloth.”

“I wouldn’t think of…”

“No, no, no.” Jeyne raised a hand. “I won’t hear of it. You’ve been our savior, Mistress Pyke. Procuring you new garments is the least that I can do!”

“All right. That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s not kindness, exactly.” Jeyne frowned thoughtfully. “Could you do me a favor, if you may?”

“Certainly. What is it?”

“For someone of her… profession, and who’s from the North, Kenna Snow seems to be quite sophisticated. Not only did Lady Sansa mention Mistress Snow was in her chambers writing a letter, but I saw her in the most intruiging style of gown. It’s Southron, isn’t it?”

“It is, yes.”

“I thought so. Could you write her a letter asking her to send us the pattern of her gown, if she has the time? I think it would be a fine thing to have when we make new gowns for the royal visit.”

“Certainly.” Now it was Liana’s turn to frown. She still had to get Sansa to write her encomium. Hell, was the encomium even happening if Sansa and Theon were going to run off together? “We have a lot to do.”

Jeyne smiled wearily. “Indeed there is. As Father tells me constantly. Well, as Septa Mordane is also fond of saying… there is no rest for the wicked. I have to help my Father around the castle. There's so much cleaning to do, and we have to make sure everything gets done.”

Liana nodded. “Should I send for you when I’m done with the letter?”

“Yes, please. I’ll make sure someone trustworthy runs it to the village.” Jeyne gulped the rest of her wine down. “I trust that you will word it in a way that is suitably oblique.”

“You don’t have to worry, Mistress Poole.”

“Thank you, Mistress Pyke. I will see you anon!”

And with that, the steward’s daughter was gone in a whirl of skirts.

The day had been hellish, Liana thought, as she poured herself another large glass of wine, and Theon had set one of his patented horrible Greyjoy plans into motion…

She drank, wiping her mouth as she gazed gloomily into the fire.

But at least she could look forward to a new gown. So there was that, at least.

Chapter Text

It took Liana a while to write the suitably oblique (and flattering) letter in the style of the period, but eventually she managed to come up with this:

To the gracious and beautiful Mistress Snow, from Mistress Pyke, I bid you greetings.

I should like to thank you for your time and attention regarding the care and feeding of magpies and other household pets. You are clever as well as gracious and wise; you have much valuable insight, and I was delighted to meet and discuss things with you.

My dear friend Mistress Poole was very much impressed by the style of your gown, and hoped you might be able to send us a pattern before your departure to White Harbor. If you would be able to do this, we would be very appreciative; yet if you do not have the time, I completely understand.

I bid you good fortune, and may the Lord of Light speed you on your journey.

With that, she scattered sand upon the wet ink, sent Jessa to find Jeyne, and then it was off.

Jessa returned with a spare gown of grey linsey-woolsey, and even though it wasn’t as nice as the one being cleaned, Liana donned it with relief. It was, she thought, like being stuck wearing your swimsuit to the laundromat when you were out of clean clothes, but she had only one dress to wear. Well, at least now she had two. Maybe she would have three soon, and that would be like hitting the sartorial jackpot!

It was a typical shapeless lower-class Northern gown, and it wasn’t terribly flattering, but at least it was clean. Liana wondered if Sansa would comment on it during their lesson, when she went over examples of encomia thoughout history, but Sansa said nothing. She seemed subdued, and stared off into space frequently, her expression melancholy and distracted.

“Lady Sansa,” Liana said gently. “It might behoove you to pay attention to Archmaester Gylford’s argument on the totalizing power of language.”

Sansa turned to Liana, wiping her eyes. “Mistress Pyke… Does all of this really matter if I’m going to escape to Pyke with Theon? Maybe I should be spending my time learning how to stab people instead,” she added bitterly.

Maybe she should, thought Liana, but she shook herself.

“Lady Sansa,” she said, “we don’t know what’s going to happen over the next two weeks. We must be prepared for any possibility. But you must remember that words are weapons, and can be used to parry or thrust. Or, as Gylford said, ‘speech is a powerful lord.’ Language creates and changes the opinions that are our only valuable knowledge.

“But let’s say Lord Theon’s, ah, plan is delayed, and you’re still here when the royal party arrives. If you say nothing and try to avoid them as much as possible, that would be suspicious. But if you are prepared with a short, sweet speech meant to impress and assuage, that would allay any possible suspicion, and it would mold their opinion of you in a way that would be to your advantage.”

At that, Sansa’s eyes grew wide.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes, Mistress Pyke, I see.”

“It would also give you some experience addressing an audience,” Liana said practically.

At that, Sansa nodded and applied herself back to her lessons, as Liana wondered, yet again, what the hell would happen next.

                                                                                   * * *

The rest of the day went as usual, and Liana was distracted by preparing for yet another story to be told in the Great Hall after dinner. The last story she’d told was the extremely gory Purplebeard, which Arya had loved, but Sansa had told her in private that she’d like something more romantic next time, and with fewer dead women, because it was reminding her too much of Joffrey. A guilty Liana told her she would do her best, and then racked her brain for stories she could tell.

At this point, her store of Qartheen tales, from the collection of Queen Sherazan, were running dry, and she found herself turning to traditional Westrian folk stories and tales written by salon hostesses during the Age of Luminance. One of these was The Maid and the Monster, the story of a beautiful maid who was forced to marry a hideous monster, who was really a prince in disguise. Written by the Duchess of Newtown three hundred years ago, the whole thing was an elaborate parable for arranged marriage, but it was a charming story in its own right.

Liana did her best, setting the story in an unnamed city in Essos, naming the maid Zamira and the monster Azor, after a popular operatic retelling of the story. She kept the plot beats the same, with Zamira the daughter of a merchant who’d fallen on hard times, who’d unluckily blundered into the palace of the enchanted prince after having been shipwrecked in a storm. Zamira was then sent to the castle in exchange for the merchant’s life, and she was showered with magnificent gifts, just like in the duchess’s original story, like a magical aviary and an enchanted window—something of a proto-television— which televised operas from Braavos and Myr, though it did take some explaining to the kids as to what an opera actually was.

“It’s a play,” Liana said, “but instead of speaking their parts, everyone sings.”

At that, everyone stared at her blankly, as if she had started talking about robotic probes flying into interstellar space rather than music. Good grief, Liana thought.

“Think of it as a series of songs, but it links together, and tells a story,” she went on. “It’s a narrative. But it’s all done with music. From start to finish.”

“That seems very strange to me, Mistress Pyke,” Robb said at last. “I didn’t think mummers could sing.”

“A good opera singer is someone who can sing and act,” Liana said. “One needs to be able to sing beautifully, and act convincingly as the character.”

“Are there many men and women who can do such things in Essos?” Septa Mordane asked, as everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“There’s a good amount of people who can do so,” Liana said. “It’s challenging but rewarding work.”

“This is all very interesting.” Robb crossed his arms. “I just have a hard time imagining what such music would be like, Mistress Pyke, and why anyone would want to sit for any length of time listening to mummers humming a farce.”

Liana sighed through gritted teeth. She knew she shouldn’t be so irritated—opera hadn’t even been invented yet—but still, it bothered the hell out of her that he should be so dismissive.

“Lord Robb,” she said, “I can’t sing any operatic airs for you, as I lack the skill, but the music of many operas is exquisite, is often beautifully performed, and can transport you in a way that is unsurpassed by any other art forms. It’s not just a farce, where a few people mouth ditties against cardboard sets. These are complex and intricate scores, with arias, duets, trios, quartets and choruses performing together with seasoned orchestral musicians. A good opera can be stirring in a way that no mummer’s play or bard can be, since you have musicians and singers and artists working with their combined talents to create a piece that is all of these things, yet somehow greater—more intense—more ecstatic—and something that can take you to the very heights of emotion!”

“Oh,” Sansa said, looking quite transported herself. “That sounds wonderful. I would love to see a… what did you call it again?”

“An opera,” Liana said, and Sansa repeated dreamily: “An op-er-a. I love songs.”

Arya looked skeptical but intrigued. “What are they like? Are they like long versions of Sansa’s songs, with all knights and flowers and pretty maidens?”

“Arya!” Sansa said, all indignation, and Lady—who was at her feet—gave a soft woof. God, that wolf was growing fast. It no longer looked like a stuffed toy that could gambol around on laps. Unfazed, however, Arya rolled her eyes.

“Operas can be anything,” Liana said soothingly. “They can be about knights and flowers and maidens, or they can be about murderers like Purplebeard. They can be fantasy or history, or modern dramas about poor people in slums. It can be anything. Anything.”

Arya rubbed her chin. “I’d like to see one of these song-plays of yours set in a slum.”

“Would anyone want to see anything like that?” Jon asked, intrigued, while Robb scoffed.

“No one would want to see it, Jon, unless it makes them laugh,” Robb said. “So none of these ‘operas’ are like mummer’s farces, Mistress Snow?”

“Operatic comedies do exist,” Liana said, “but even they have a somewhat serious tone. It’s not pratfalls and throwing pies.” She nodded at Jon. “As for whether anyone would want to see an opera about poor people, if the opera is good enough, and the composer and librettist can convince an opera house to put it on, and sell enough tickets…” Liana shrugged. “Why not? But I digress.”

“Yes. Do return to your story, Mistress Pyke,” Sansa said. She added: “I imagine Zamira loves opera as much as you do.”

“That’s entirely possible,” Liana said, and continued.

Usually, Theon would have chimed in after Robb, or made some kind of sarcastic comment, but instead she noted he was silent, gazing softly at Sansa. Occasionally, Sansa would glance back at him, and they would smile, small, secretive little smiles. Boy, they were not good at keeping their relationship hidden. Jeyne, besides Sansa as usual, shot Liana worried looks, but Liana did her best to concentrate on the story.

The original version of The Maid and the Monster featured the Maid’s two older sisters as the baddies, but Liana decided she was going to ditch that. There was a popular animated movie from the Iso company that came out when she was a kid, which also got rid of the evil sister plotline, making the bad guy a swaggering macho suitor who ended up trying to kill the Azor character, and she went with that instead, since there weren’t a lot of traditional folk tales that featured pretty boys as the villains. It turned out this was an inspired choice, as this gave more action for the boys (and Arya), and it upped the stakes for the leads. Liana even cynically lifted the end of the film for the climax of her own retelling, with Azor seeming to perish on the roof of his castle during a storm, and him being revived and turned back into his human form, wreathed in coils of golden light, once a sobbing Zamira declared that she loved him.

I can’t believe I’m stealing from a damned Iso movie, Liana thought, but as Sansa was weeping, Arya looked thrilled, Robb looked pleased, Jon and Septa Mordane looked amused, and even Theon was distracted enough from Sansa that he smiled, Liana decided she had another hit on her hands.

After Septa Mordane dragged Arya off to bed, kicking and screaming, Theon joined Robb, sitting to the left of Sansa while Robb sat on the right.

“You’d best be careful, Theon,” Robb warned him, glancing at Lady. “I know you and the wolves…”

“Don’t be such an old beldame, Robb,” Theon said, holding his hand out as Lady sniffed it. “Lady likes me well enough. Isn’t that right?”

Robb’s eyes widened as Lady began to lick Theon’s hand. “That’s a good girl,” said Theon, smiling a little as he exchanged glances with Sansa. He began to scritch behind Lady’s ears, and the wolf cub began to pant happily. “You like that, don’t you?”

Sansa giggled. “You are a dear,” she said to Lady, while gazing at Theon.

“She’s very gentle with her teeth, when she chooses to be,” Theon replied, and Liana wondered if he spoke of Lady or Sansa.

“She does has the very best manners,” Sansa responded, giving him an arch sidelong look. “She gets on with all sorts of people.”

“Even with krakens?”

“Only if they mind their tentacles,” Sansa said with a secretive smile, and Theon’s smile widened.

“I’ll try to mind my tentacles then, for your sake, my lady,” Theon drawled, and Sansa gave a throaty giggle. Jon scowled, looking as if he might strangle Theon right there and then.

But Robb chuckled, throwing his arm around Theon’s neck.

“By the Seven, Theon, you have changed! I never thought I’d see you get on with my little sister so well. I remember when you’d still pull her braids.”

Liana— who stood next to Jeyne, behind everyone, so they might observe— cringed. Theon winced. “I haven’t done that in ages, Robb.”

“No, because I would thump you,” Robb said cheerfully. Sansa placed her hand over her mouth, hiding a smile.

“I haven’t worn my hair in braids for so long. But perhaps I should plait my hair again, just for you, Lord Theon. You must miss pulling them so.”

“The sight of those thick braids was very tempting,” Theon replied, narrowing his eyes, and Liana wondered how Robb could be so deaf to all the double entendres, because the older boy laughed again.

“You two!” Robb stood. “It’s been a long day helping Father get the keep ready, so I have to be good and go to bed early. It shall be a long day tomorrow as well.”

At this reminder of the royal party’s approaching arrival, the smiles disappeared from Theon and Sansa’s faces. Lady gave a soft whine, and jumped up on Sansa’s lap, almost knocking the slender girl off the bench, but she managed to stay upright, and flung her arms around the wolf’s neck and buried her face within its fur.

“Oh, you don’t have to look so grim,” Robb went on. “I’m sure Father won’t ask you to do anything, Sansa. Or you, Theon. You can continue drinking at the Log as usual.”

Theon gave a hollow laugh. “Yes. You know me too well.”

“Of course! We’re like brothers!” Robb laughed as he pulled Theon up and gave him a bear hug. “Let’s go carousing at the Log one more time before the King comes. It’ll strengthen us so we can listen to Sansa’s pretty speech with happy smiles.”

“Robb!” Sansa cried. “You are so dreadful!”

“You can come too if you like, Jon,” Robb said to the other boy, who shifted from one foot to the other.

“If you like,” Jon said, looking uneasily at Sansa, Theon, Robb, and Lady. As insufferable and emo as he could be, he wasn’t stupid. He’d picked up on the extent of Sansa and Theon’s relationship; but what else did he know?

“Anyhow, good night, you lot. I’ll see you bright and early!” With a brilliant smile, Robb was off. Jeyne sighed.

“He’s so handsome,” she murmured in Liana’s ear. “The lady who marries him shall count herself fortunate indeed.”

“But if the lady in question is clever,” Liana murmured back, “she will be able to lead Lord Robb around by the nose.”

Jeyne choked back a laugh. “That’s true enough.”

With most everyone gone, the hall plunged into silence, the only noise the crackle of the flames on the hearth. Sansa and Theon said nothing, but sat in companionable but somewhat uneasy silence, as Jon glared at them, and Liana and Jeyne, at a safe distance, stared at Jon. Occasionally, Theon shot a death glare back at Jon, but after Liana gave him a warning look, he had the sense to hold his tongue. He satisfied himself by continuing to pet Lady, and the pup wagged her tail and panted happily, thrilled at all the attention.

“Gods!” Jeyne crossed her arms. It was a good thing Jon paid Jeyne no attention whatsoever, because she was looking at him as if she wanted to beat him to death with a poker and dump his body in the crypts. “Why is he still here?” she whispered in Liana’s ear. “Can’t he go off and… I don’t know. Drink? Go to the training yard? Stare gloomily out a window somewhere?”

Liana smothered a laugh. “He feels duty bound to act as chaperone, I think.”

“Well, can’t he be duty bound somewhere else? His gloom vexes me to no end.”

A mischievous impulse compelled Liana to ask: “Do you really want him to go? Don’t you think he’s quite as handsome as Robb? In a sad, pouting, melancholy sort of way, of course.”

At that, Jeyne started, flustered and blushing bright red.

“Mayhaps,” she mumbled. “But I like men who smile. I don’t find excessive melancholy attractive.”

“You don’t?” Liana said teasingly.

“No!” Jeyne frowned, tugging at her cuffs. “Life isn’t easy for many of us, but he acts as if he is the only one who ever suffered.”

“That’s true,” Liana said. “But he is quite handsome when he smiles.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever seen that,” Jeyne said stiffly.

“Haven’t you ever seen him smile around Arya?”

“Mayhaps,” Jeyne admitted. “But I find her so annoying. And spoiled! And Jon dotes on her, the way all the men here do. Arya could set Septa Mordane’s gown on fire and all the men would just chuckle and beam at her like she was the most adorable little moppet.” She scowled. “Gods, I hate men sometimes.”

“They are often clueless idiots,” Liana said. “But Jon isn’t that bad, as men go.” Even though he would end up being worshipped as a savior-god by deluded and horrible people in future centuries. But not, perhaps, in this timeline. “Maybe,” she added, wondering at her daring, “he just hasn’t met the right girl yet.”

“I feel sorry for her, whoever she is,” Jeyne said tartly. “Jon Snow is such a tiresome killjoy that he could make an onion weep!”  

Before Liana could respond, when a serving girl walked up, whispering into Jeyne’s ear.

“Well,” Jeyne said, taking Liana’s hand, and nodding towards the door. As Jon continued his watch over Theon and Sansa, Jeyne and Liana stole away to the great oaken doors at the hall’s entrance, which were ajar. Who should be standing there, but Ros, her hood up, clutching a packet in her hands.

“Good evening, Mistress Poole, Mistress Pyke,” said Ros. “Mistress Pyke, my friend received your letter, and bid me to bring you this.”

She handed Jeyne the packet, and she unwrapped the burlap and twine quickly to reveal a bundle of pages. The first had a drawing of a Southron wrap gown; and the others showed how one could cut out the pieces from an ell of fabric in the most economic way, with dense notes on proper assemblage. Liana looked at this with fascination. When Jeyne had asked for a “pattern,” she’d pictured a full-size pattern done in paper; but of course, in a world with nothing but parchment (though there might be some rag paper coming in from Essos at this point), paper would be far too costly to waste on such trivial matters. Any clothing patterns would look more like this, of course.

Jeyne’s eyes glowed. “Thank you so much! This is exactly what I need. You must thank Mistress Snow for me!”  

“I shall.” Ros gave an easy laugh. “I had the most trouble coming in. You wouldn’t think it, would you? Most of the guards know me by name.” She winked. “But one of them—this big strapping redhead—made a show of asking who I’d come to see. I think he wanted me to say your cousin, Mistress Pyke.”

“What did you say?” Liana asked.

“The truth!” Ros put one hand on her hip. “I said I came to see Mistress Poole about some patterns. ‘I never took you much for fashion,’ says our friend the guard. Well, I say. There’s much you don’t know about me, Master Alyn. So I start nattering on upon how my good friend Pansy went south of the Neck and knows all about the latest wrap gowns and how she can assemble them, and so on and so forth. His eyes glazed over, and he waved me through so quickly.” She laughed so hard her bosom shook. Jeyne giggled and Liana chuckled too, but she glanced towards Jon, afraid he might notice. The last Liana wanted was Mr. Emo to come horning in and making a scene.

When Ros didn’t move after a minute or so, Jeyne gave her a sideways glance. “Is anything the matter?” Jeyne asked. “Does Mistress Snow need any more coin?”

“No,” Ros said. “She’s got everything sorted. She’s headed out to White Harbor tomorrow, as a matter of fact. But…” She glanced nervously at Liana. “I would like to, ah, confer with Mistress Pyke here.”

“And why should you wish to confer with me?” Liana asked.

Ros paled. “Begging your pardon, my lady. But Lord Theon mentioned… you have certain powers. That you can see things in the flames.”

“Is that what Lord Theon told you?” Liana said coolly.

“He did.” Ros glanced at Theon on the bench with Sansa. An unreadable expression crossed her face. “Begging your pardon, my lady. Is that, ah, something you can do?”

“I can—a little,” Liana admitted, as Jeyne’s eyebrows went up.

“Good,” Ros mumbled. “I need to ask you something. If I may, your ladyship. I mean, Mistress Pyke,” she said hesitantly, her brash air fading. “If you would be so kind.”

“I can’t promise you anything,” Liana said. “But I can try.”

“That’s all a body can ask for, isn’t it?” Ros said, pasting a cheerful smile on her face. “Oh, seven hells,” she muttered, glancing behind Liana and Jeyne.

Liana glanced behind her, to see Jon, his face stormy, striding towards the three of them. And at that very moment, Theon and Sansa, seeing an opportunity, tip-toed out of the back entrance of the hall, with Lady on their heels. Why, those little squirrels! Liana’s mouth dropped open at their audacity.

Meanwhile, Ros backed away, pulling her hood up even farther, clearly not wanting to be seen. She must’ve had some dealings with Jon before; but this was Winterfell. Everybody knew everybody, and everyone knew each other’s business. But the last thing she wanted was for Jon Snow to know her business, and she imagined Ros felt the same way.

Liana gestured to Jeyne. “Distract him,” she hissed.

Jeyne’s eyes grew huge. “How?”

“Make him laugh. I know how.”

“But I’m not you!”

“It’s easy. Just go to him, look at him sweetly and seriously, and say, ‘puppyfish.’”

“Puppyfish?” Jeyne looked at her askance. “Wait. Didn’t he once describe seals looking like…”

“Yes. Like puppyfish. Do it.”

“You’re mad, you know,” Jeyne said, but without missing a beat, she walked up to Jon, squaring her shoulders. As Liana snuck out the door with Ros, she heard Jon say: “What is going on, Mistress Poole? What manner of cabal are you forming here?”

“No cabal, Master Snow,” Jeyne said sweetly and seriously. “I was merely thinking of…of… ”

“Of what, Mistress Poole?”

“Puppyfish,” she said, and just as Liana expected, Jon gave a surprised bark of laughter. Rather like a seal’s, she thought, the door closing with a dull creak behind her.

                                                                                      * * *

 “Well,” Ros drawled, throwing back her cloak and smoothing her low-cut green gown as she sat down on Liana’s bed. “You are quite the little mistress of whisperers, Mistress Pyke. I was quite impressed with how you sent Mistress Poole to intercept Lord Snow. Very neatly too.”

“Thank you.” Liana paced for a moment, then, not knowing what else to do with herself, sat on a stool in front of the roaring hearth. It was hot, but the intense heat soothed her. It reminded her of Qarth on a summer day.

“Perhaps,” said Ros, “you should travel back to King’s Landing with the court and try to find employment there.”

“Believe me… Mistress Ros… that’s the last thing I want to do.” Liana smiled tightly. “Now, what was it you wanted to ask of me?”

“I…” Ros wrapped her arms about herself, and suddenly she looked much younger and unsure of herself. Why, she’s my age, Liana thought with shock. “I’ve been thinking a lot about King’s Landing lately myself. You know that Kenna’s going to Braavos. She wants me to come with her. But… it’s so far… and it’s Essos…” She grimaced, before realizing with a horrified start who she spoke to. Her eyes grew big. “Begging your pardon, Mistress Pyke.”

“Don’t think of it,” Liana said dryly, but Ros shook her head.

“I’m sorry, milady. I don’t mean to slander your home. It’s just that I’ve travelled so little, and I don’t know half as much as Kenna. But you… you’ve traveled all over the world. I can’t even imagine…” Her voice trailed off.

“My cousin told you of the visions I saw in the flames,” Liana said.

“Yes,” Ros said in a small voice. “Don’t take it amiss, Mistress Pyke. He was drunk. Theon— Lord Theon— loves his drink.”

“So he does.”

“He mentioned that you saw… his future in the flames. His future with Lady Sansa. You saw them together, but it was also a warning.”

“Yes.”

Ros licked her lips. “I don’t know much about the Red God. I grew up with the Old Gods. But… they never spoke to me. Not the way your god speaks to you.”

“The ways of the Lord of Light are mysterious,” said Liana. “He showed me the many futures of Lord Theon and Lady Sansa. They might be happy. They might not be. I don’t know.” She looked earnestly at Ros. “I want them to be happy.”

“Lady Sansa deserves it,” Ros said. “I was a little girl when the bells rang for her birth… everyone in town was overjoyed. Old Karl—he used to run the tavern—even had a bottle of Arbor Gold that he broke out for the occasion.” She sighed. “I never thought that she and Theon Greyjoy, of all people…” She shrugged. “Well, the ways of love are as mysterious as the Lord of Light.”

“That’s true.” Liana paused. “Would you like to ask the Lord of Light something, Ros?”

“Yes.” Ros bit her lip. “I know I’m only a whore. But I want to know if I should go to Braavos with Kenna, or strike out on my own to King’s Landing. Maybe… your god might have some advice.”

“He’s not just my god,” said Liana, and the crackle of the flames sang like music in her ears. “He’s everybody’s god. He cares about everyone, man or woman, rich or poor, slave or free. If you ask, Roslin Cook’s Daughter, He will answer.”

“You… seem very sure of yourself,” Ros said hesitantly.

All at once, Liana knew what to do. “Hand me your brooch.”

Ros gaped at her, but undid her cheap copper cloak pin and handed it to her. Liana turned to the fire.

“Lord of Light,” Liana whispered, raising her hands. “You who are the fire of knowledge and the sun of truth—you who drive back the darkness. Tell me, O Lord, where your daughter Ros, should go. Should she sail over the waters to Braavos with her friend Kenna, or travel down to King’s Landing? I beg of you, my lord, my god, to light our paths and show us the way.”

With that, she jammed the pin into her index finger and squeezed out blood. One drop, two drops—three.

As the third drop of blood fell into the fire, the flames leapt high as a man, almost bursting out of the hearth. Despite herself, Liana gasped. Long, long ago, after human sacrifice was outlawed, a ritual was devised, that a worshipper who wished to see God’s truth must offer their own blood. The old saw went that king’s blood was most effective, but what was a king but another man? And most people had some kind of royal ancestry in their DNA. It wasn’t guaranteed to work, but Liana had read enough stories when studying for her confirmation.

But now the fire burned so fierce and hot that Liana wondered if she really was descended from Dagon Greyjoy. Or—was this because this was an age where the sorcerous principle was still active? In any case, God was waiting. She leaned as close as she could dare, staring into the flame’s heart, asking for a glimpse into Ros’s future.

She stared until she thought she might go blind. But then—as white and saffron and amber whirled together in a kaleidoscope of color and light— she saw.

A slim boy, in a gaudy doublet, with hair as yellow as brass, fondled a crossbow, smirking, as he looked over the corpse of a scantily clad woman tied to an enormous four-poster bed. Her body was riddled with bolts, and her body twitched, blood trickled from her mouth. It took a moment to recognize her—but it was Ros herself, her bright eyes now lifeless, her shining chestnut curls now matted and dull.

She blinked, the colors melting together into the blaze. A new picture formed.

There was Ros again—alive—her hair tousled by the wind and lit a bright red-gold by the morning sun. She walked alongside Kenna, by a quay in some seaside city, sailors and urchins and other townsfolk milling about. She looked happy and carefree, her cheeks were pink, and she laughed at some sort of joke.

Liana blinked again, and she saw nothing but fire. The flames receded. Sweat poured down her face, and she felt a crick in her neck. She leaned back, rubbing it.

Ros gazed at her with horror.

“What did you see?” she said, her voice hoarse. “You saw something. What was it?”

Liana shook her head, dazed. “I saw… two futures. Both were very different.”

“Tell me.”

Liana nodded. As she described the first vision, the blood drained from Ros’s face. Her lips quivered.

“That’s Prince Joffrey, just as Kenna described him,” she croaked. “Slim as a willow, with hair like brass. And a love of crossbows. By the gods!”

After Liana described the second vision, Ros stared into the hearth for a long moment.

“That’s it,” she said. Her fists clenched, and her jaw set. “I’m going to Braavos with Kenna. I’m packing tonight. The message couldn’t be more clear.”

It was clear. Even Liana felt shaken.

“There is a temple of the Lord of Light there.” Liana stood up, stretching her back. “You must stop by and give Him thanks.” She handed Ros back her brooch. “And you must give this to them as an offering. As your thanks.”

Ros took the brooch back, her fingers trembling. “I will. And thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Liana. “Thank the Lord of Light.”

“I will,” said Ros. Her mouth twisted. “Though he came because of your blood, Lady. I doubt he’d care one way or the other if I asked him.”

“Don’t ever say that,” Liana said fiercely, stepping forwards. She hardly felt like herself. The fire continued to crackle behind her, and she felt tendrils of white heat simmer through her blood and bones, until she thought she might burst into flames like the sun itself. “You are a child of God, Roslin Cook’s Daughter, as much any lord or lady in this damned country. Why do you think he showed me the two paths you might take? He loves you, and does not want to see you fall to the darkness. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Ros whispered, gazing up at her, her eyes as blue as lotus petals, her gown as green as lotus leaves. Did the Lady herself once kneel at the foot of a priestess, hearing the word of R’hllor, before departing on her own path? “I hear you.”

“Now go,” Liana said. She took the other woman’s hands, giving them a squeeze. “Go, and walk in the light.”

Ros nodded, her eyes brimming with emotion, and fled.

With that, Liana collapsed. She stared into the fire. What had happened? What had possessed her to say such things?

But she already knew the answer to that. It was R’hllor Himself. In this age of dragons and ice demons, His voice was so clear it was as if she heard him shouting.

Thank you, God, she thought. Thank you for helping Ros.

As the flames popped in an almost self-satisfied way, she thought: There’s another change to this timeline. Instead of being murdered by Joffrey, Ros will go to Braavos… and chances are she’ll become a faithful worshipper of the Lord of Light.

Of course. The ways of God were mysterious, but perhaps in some ways they weren’t that mysterious.

Now, she thought, as she washed her face and disorobed for bed, if you can bring Brenn here posthaste, I’ll be forever grateful.

Be patient, a voice echoed in her mind, and Liana sighed, flinging back the furs and curling up in a ball on the linen coverlets.

“Oh, Brenn,” she murmured hazily, the heat of the fire gathering over her like a blanket, and she thought of his long face, hazel eyes and gentle smile as she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.  

Chapter Text

After breakfast, Liana was able to track down Jeyne easily. The steward’s daughter was down by a nearby river, cutting fresh rushes with the other maids. Happy for some fresh air, Liana strolled through the gatehouse and set off down the hill, though the red-haired guard who gave her the directions to the river (perhaps the same one who was giving Ros the third-degree last night) gaped at her as she did so.

She had some idea where the river was earlier, as they passed over it on a crude bridge on the way to town the other day. It seemed like a sleepy, undistinguished river, thick with sedge and cattails and populated by ducks; but now it bustled with activity. A horse grazed near a rustic high-sided two-wheeled cart, while girls sorted and organized huge rushes the height of a man, stacking them and bundling them up with cords. A number of other girls stood within the river itself, methodically cutting down rushes with sharp, wicked-looking scythes that made her own penknife seem like a joke. Jeyne was in the midst of them, skirts tucked through her legs and caught up in her belt, water up to her waist, reaching down into the river, slicing stalk after stalk of sweet flag as ducks quacked and mosquitoes buzzed. The smell of green sap filled the air, and Jeyne’s face dripped with sweat, and there were wet patches under her arms. She pushed back the broad-brimmed straw hat, scratching her head, grimacing.

“Mistress Poole?” Liana called out hesitantly.

Jeyne did a double-take. “What are you doing here, Mistress Pyke?”

Liana had really come to ask Jeyne what happened with Jon, but she felt stupid butting in when there was clearly work to be done. “I, uh… wanted to see if I could help,” she said feebly.

“Do you know how to use a scythe?” Jeyne asked, and when Liana stared at her, she said, “Never mind. Perhaps you can help us load up the cart when we’re done.”

Liana, who had no clue how to use a scythe or sort rushes, did her best to stay out of everyone’s way, though she helped one of the older servants brew mint tea over a portable brazier, pour it into clay cups and pass them out to the workers during one of the breaks, along with hunks of bread in a communal basket that was passed around.

The old woman who brewed the tea was pleasant enough, but a few of the other servants gave her the side-eye as she handed them their cups. Liana wondered uneasily what the rumor mill now said about her, and how it would change after today. Ros and Kenna would be leaving for White Harbor today, and dollars to donuts Ros would tell some juicy story about the visions of the “fire witch,” though she doubted Ros would tell the entire truth. How long would it take the new stories to get around? And what would people think of her then?

Anxious and glum, she sat down with Jeyne, and they drank their tea in silence, as the women around them cracked jokes, gossiped, and made bawdy comments about many of the men back in the castle. However, Jeyne said nothing; dark circles ringed her eyes. Liana remembered how she’d told her only yesterday that there was so much cleaning to be done, and there was no rest for the wicked. That seemed to be the case. Poor Jeyne. When Liana had first arrived at Winterfell, she’d thought of her as a silly, giggling girl who did nothing but chatter and embroider, but nothing could have been farther from the truth. She was capable and clever, and she knew how to handle a scythe. In fact, she cut a daunting figure wielding it. If Jon had done anything to piss off Jeyne, Liana hoped her new friend would go after him with that very same scythe.

Man, she hoped she didn’t piss Jeyne off, because Jeyne could probably kick her ass.

She didn’t have a chance to talk to Jeyne about Jon until after they’d bundled all the reeds and stacked them in the cart. As the one supervising this operation, Jeyne had the honor of driving the cart back to Winterfell, and Liana sat besides her. Sitting on a small ledge on the top of the cart, the westerly breeze felt lovely against her skin, and Jeyne, whose skirts were still damp, sighed with pleasure as she pulled the reins, the elderly mare whickering.

Once back at Winterfell, the serving women—who’d walked behind the cart, singing a loud, ribald ballad about a lusty young smith— began to unload the cart. As the stable boy unharnessed the mare, Jeyne pushed her hat back, so it fell against her back.

“Now,” she said to Liana, “to make sure that all the rushes are strewn properly—not like a hayloft. Like a proper keep. With the right herbs. Lady Stark is very particular about such things.”

“I’m sure she is,” said Liana, bracing herself to clamber downwards. “Don’t move. I can help you down.”

“Allow me,” a deep male voice interjected, and Liana and Jeyne gasped as Jon Snow strode forwards. Without another word, he reached up, took Jeyne by the waist and swung her down as if she weighed nothing at all.

They stood for a moment, only inches apart, as Jeyne stared up at him, still, unmoving, caught like a butterfly on a pin. Tendrils of dark hair clung to her forehead, her skin was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and her skirts were still damp and molded to her legs, thighs and behind as if they were a second skin. Jon blushed, but he didn’t remove his hands. In fact, as he gazed down into her eyes, he seemed unable to breathe.

Jeyne broke away, to help Liana climb down from the cart. “You are too kind, Master Snow.” As Liana clambered down, she saw how Jeyne avoided his eyes. “I was only out getting rushes.”

“Rushes to keep the castle smelling sweet,” Jon said, still red-faced. “It’s important business. Lady Stark’s business. I would not want you twisting your ankle.”

“It’s not like I’ve never dismounted from a cart before,” Jeyne snapped, but then her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Master Snow. You are thoughtful, but I repay you with shrewish words.” She tugged at her damp skirts, wanting to curtsy like a proper lady, but clearly vexed that she was caught out looking like a drowned rat.

“No shrewish words those,” he said. “But… plain sense. You are a busy and capable woman, Mistress Poole.” He said these last words as if this was a new realization, and he looked, for some reason, distraught. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Jeyne caught her lower lip between her teeth, lowering her eyes. “I must thank you for your courtesy.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “You are truly a gentleman, Jon Snow.”

The breeze ruffled Jon’s black curls, and he gazed at the steward’s daughter, his expression unreadable, before nodding shortly. “Mistress Jeyne.”

He then walked away, leaving a flustered Jeyne, in an attempt to gather her composure, to go about directing the girls to take the rushes to the guest house, to all the various bedrooms, and, most importantly, to the Great Hall itself. Jeyne muttered that she should supervise them—it was of the utmost importance that lavender, chamomile, fleabane, wormwood, and shepherd’s bane be scattered on top— but she scratched her hands in irritation.

“Seven hells!” she exclaimed, then glanced at Liana guiltily. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t swear. But I rubbed myself with wild rosemary, and I still get bitten by those horrid midges. I almost look forward to the winter years, just so I don’t get eaten alive.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps I should go to Maester Luwin for a salve for my bites.”

“No,” said Liana, remembering something in her purse. “I have something better.”

“What?” Jeyne said, intrigued.

“A special cream,” she said. “It’s back in my rooms. Do you want to come?”

“Only if it doesn’t take too long,” Jeyne said. “I shall meet you in the Great Hall, Gitta,” she called out to one of the older women, and followed Liana back to her chambers.

“Do they make some sort of magical ointment for insect bites in Qarth?” Jeyne asked, as the door closed.

“Something like that,” Liana said, wondering how to get her purse—still underneath the loose flagstone near the hearth—when she got an idea.

“First, we need to get you out of those wet clothes,” Liana said, throwing open her clothes chest. “Fortunately, thanks to some mysterious benefactor—” and she winked at Jeyne—“I happen to have just the thing.”

She pulled out the spare grey gown and a change of linen, passing it to Jeyne. The steward’s daughter was slimmer, shorter and flatter chested than Liana, and the gown would be baggy on her, but, as Dad would say, it was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

“Are you sure?” Jeyne asked, and Liana nodded.

“Best to do it now,” Liana said. “We wouldn’t want you to catch your death, would we?”

“That’s sensible,” said Jeyne. As she unfastened the front of her gown, she raised an eyebrow. “You know, when I think on it, it astonishes me that a Greyjoy relation would have any sense whatsoever. What happened?”

Liana laughed. “I’m not sure. I must gotten my sense from my mother’s side.”

“Mayhaps.” Jeyne giggled. “I think that is the only explanation.”

As the younger girl became preoccupied with changing out of her wet things (luckily she wasn’t wearing a corset or jumps, or she might have needed help), Liana hastily pushed the flagstone aside and pulled out a tube of anti-itch allergy cream out of her purse. While Jeyne still wrestled with her wet shift, Liana came back and lent a hand.

“Thank you,” Jeyne said, smiling gratefully, adjusting the cote and gown. “I should have gone straight back to my chamber to change, but I’ve had my mind pulled into a thousand different directions with… everything.” She waved her hand in the air and sighed.

“It’s been a lot to deal with,” Liana said. Concealing the tube, she squeezed out some in her hand and offered it to Jeyne. Puzzled, Jeyne took the cream and rubbed onto her hands.

“It… tingles,” she said. “And it doesn’t smell. My goodness, it’s itching less already. What is this miraculous salve made from?”

“Antihistamine and zinc,” Liana said.

Jeyne blinked. “What is… anti… anti—”

“Antihistamine. It’s used to treat symptoms of allergy, but it also works for insect bites,” Liana said, thinking quickly. “There’s a lot of mosquitoes in Qarth, because of the heat, and they’ve made all kind of advanced treatments for them because of it.”

Before Jeyne could respond, Liana moved on. “Anyway, so what’s going on between you and Jon Snow? What happened between you two last night?”

Jeyne’s cheeks flooded with heat. “Nothing!”

“I don’t believe that,” Liana said. “When he brought you down from the cart, that didn’t seem like nothing, now did it?”

“It is nothing!” Jeyne retorted. “I don’t know why he’s being so gallant all of a sudden. He’s never looked at me before. And he was impossible last night. Impossible!”

The more she said ‘impossible,’ the more possible it sounded, but Liana knew better than to say so. “Why don’t you just tell me what happened last night?”

“Very well.” Jeyne began to pace. “You were right about the word ‘puppyfish.’ That did make him laugh.”

“And?” Liana said.

“And what?”

“Don’t you think he’s handsome when he smiles?”

Jeyne fiddled with her cuffs, her breath quickening. Her blush deepened.

“Yes, I suppose he looks well enough,” she said stiffly. “But it hardly lasted, once he saw Lady Sansa and Lord Theon had removed themselves from the hall. In fact, he blamed me when he saw they were gone!”

“What did you do?”

“I told him I had no idea what they were planning. And I didn’t!” She placed her hands on her hips in indignation. “I didn’t know she was going to run off like that. And I protested my innocence vehemently.”

“You must have got into his face,” Liana said with sly amusement.

“An odd turn of phrase. I suppose I did.” Jeyne pushed her hair back, frowning. “He was taken aback… but to be fair, he did come around to believing me right quick. And he swore by the gods he would find them. I asked to go with him, but he just shrugged and said to suit myself.

“So I told him he was being quite rude and he actually… apologized. And it wasn’t one of those ‘I’m sorry you didn’t like what I said’ nonsense apologies either. He actually did apologize.”

“What did he say?” Liana asked.

“He said, ‘I was rude to you, Mistress Poole, and I should not have been. I am sorry. I will not be so short with you again.’” Jeyne even did a fair imitation of Jon Snow, down to his glum demeanour and accent, and Liana grinned.

“Well, that was nice.”

“I suppose it was,” Jeyne mumbled. “Anyway, we went to the glass gardens… and we saw nothing and no-one. Then the hot springs, and then the heart tree… still nothing. He was becoming very agitated and he said perhaps he should wake up Lord Stark and I told him, not yet, I doubt they would have run off in the middle of the night.”

Liana raised an eyebrow.

“Let us not think about my lady’s upcoming travel plans just yet,” Jeyne said darkly. “Anyway, as we tarried in the woods… we began to talk. Properly. And oh, Mistress Pyke… Liana…”

“What is it?” Liana’s voice grew gentle.

Jeyne wrapped her arms about herself, worrying the cloth of her sleeves. “I admit I never thought too much of Jon Snow. I always thought he was just a by-blow… that some Dornish serving wench seduced Lord Stark, and he was daft enough to keep the child. As you’ve probably seen, Lady Stark hates him. Lady Sansa has always been cool.”

“That does seem to be the case,” Liana said.

“Yes. I know that…ah, bastards… are supposed to be corrupt and hateful and lustful, but… but… he was very kind to me… and gentle.” She reddened again. “He opened doors for me, like I was a real lady, and he asked me where I thought we should go next, and he wasn’t charging all over the place and making rude comments the way Lord Theon would be. And when we were at the weirwood, and I saw the stars peeking through the branches, and the moonlight shone on the red leaves, and they looked like rubies, trembling in the air…” She looked towards the window, a dreamy look appearing on her face. “It was so beautiful. Master Snow said that he would miss it so much when he joined the Night’s Watch, and I said, whyever would you do that, and he said, you work for Lady Stark, don’t you know?

“I said he should think about it very carefully before he took a step so drastic, since he could never get married or have children, and that decision would have to stand for the rest of his life, and would he feel that way in ten years, and how about twenty or thirty? And he asked me why I should care, and I said I was only being sensible, and he should be sensible too. Then he asked what was I going to do, and I said I would go wherever Lady Sansa went, and her ladyship would arrange a proper marriage for me.

“Then he said, was that being sensible? Hanging so much on the whims of a young girl? And I asked him why he should care, and he said he was just being sensible. And I said, ‘Jon Snow, you are impossible.’ And he laughed. There’s a man who never laughs, but he actually laughed at me!” Her fists clenched. “Oh, he’s so… so vexing! I don’t know how anyone puts up with him, I don’t!

“So I suggested we should go back to Lady Sansa’s bedroom, and lo and behold, she was there! After we’d been rushing around all over Winterfell like headless chickens, her ladyship was sitting amongst her furs, combing her hair and smiling.” Jeyne sighed. “Oh, I wanted to slap her, Mistress Pyke, I did.”

“Liana,” said Liana, placing her hand on Jeyne’s arm. “You must call me Liana.”

“All right,” said Jeyne with a smile, her dark eyes lighting up. “But you must call me Jeyne.”

“I will. So, did you find out where Lady Sansa and Lord Theon had been all this time?”

“Yes. I finally got it out of her. It turned out our turtledoves had been cooing in the old bower the entire time. Doing… well, I don’t want to imagine how far they’d gone.”

“How far did they go?” Liana looked at Jeyne uneasily.

“A lot of heavy kissing, I gather,” said Jeyne. “But I’d wager no farther. As soon as Jon… I mean, ah, Master Snow was gone… I asked Lady Sansa right then and there if Lord Theon had taken her virginity, and she was so appalled I thought she might hide under her bed. She actually squeaked out the most terrified no I’ve ever heard, and said that they were going to wait until they were married. And she swore by the Maiden that she still had her maidenhead. ‘She just likes it when he kisses her.’ So she said.” Jeyne rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet she does. He’s had so much practice.”

“That’s a relief,” Liana said.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“You know,” Liana said, changing the subject, “you looked quite intimidating with that scythe today. I think you could threaten anyone with it.”

Jeyne looked thoughtful. “You’re right. I think I could.”

“You seem to know how to use it.”

“Not enough to reap a field, but I can handle one well enough. I’ve been harvesting rushes as long as I can remember.”

Am I giving her ideas? Liana wondered, then decided, why the hell not? “If scythes come in different sizes, you might be able to hide a small one under your cloak.”

“There’s an interesting thought.” Jeyne glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “Are you planning something?”

“No, but it’s always good to be prepared...” Liana lowered her voice. “Especially if those of a murderous bent are coming to visit.”

“That’s true.” Jeyne gave a melancholy smile. “I’ve always dreamed I had a brave knight to protect me, like Florian, or the Rainbow Knight, or Aemon the Dragonknight, but… well, I see that the chances of a handsome warrior galloping up to rescue me are not terribly good, are they?”

“Jon’s brave,” Liana said daringly.

Jeyne looked away. “I suppose he is. But,” she added, with more bitterness than Liana thought a fifteen year old could possess, “he’s bound and determined to die freezing at the Wall, so what does it matter?”

“Jeyne…”

The other girl lifted her chin. “It doesn’t matter. Lady Sansa has found her true love, and I will help her to the best of my abilities. Lord Theon might seem a fool sometimes, but brave Florian wore actual motley, and he was one of the greatest heroes of the Golden Age. I will not fail her ladyship!”

She was about to say more, when a knock sounded on the door. Both girls jumped.

“Mistress Pyke?” a voice said on the other side of the door. “Mistress Pyke? Are you there?”

Liana opened the door to see Jessa standing there, pale and sweating.

“What is it, Jessa?” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”

“M-mistress…” Jessa stammered. “Lady Stark says you must come down to the Great Hall. At once.”

“At once?” Liana echoed.

“At once!”

Liana shared a horrified glance with Jeyne, and the two girls walked as quickly as dignity allowed them down to the Hall. As they walked through the front entrance, they passed by Robb, Jon, and Theon. Robb and Jon conferred in low tones, while Theon stepped towards Liana, trying to catch her eye, but she was far too distracted to pay him much attention.

There was quite a crowd gathering, as Lord and Lady Stark awaited at the the main table, the lord in his customary cross-strapped cloak and thick furs, and the lady in her usual sweeping teal gown with silver trout pinned at her breast.

“Lord Stark… Lady Stark,” Liana said after she curtsied. “You summoned me?”

Lord Stark looked at Lady Stark, and Lady Stark flashed a brilliant smile that took her aback.

“I have excellent news for you, Mistress Pyke,” Lady Stark said, spreading out her arms.

“What news is that, Lady Stark?” Liana asked, dumbfounded.

Lady Stark raised her eyebrows. “You do not see? I thought you an observant young woman, Mistress Pyke.”

Puzzled, Liana looked around the hall—but it looked much the same as the last time she was there, only sunnier, with a low fire in the hearth, and Maester Luwin and Jory Cassel and the usual servants scattered about. Her mouth opened, as she was about to profess ignorance…

But Jory Cassel stepped aside, and she caught a glimpse of a familiar head with straight brown hair.

This person turned around, and she saw him, with his long, thin face, outsize nose, and hazel eyes.

“Liana?”

His voice broke. She trembled. Suddenly she could barely see, with the tears that clouded her vision.

“Brenn,” she replied, her voice a hoarse croak. But as she stepped towards him, her damned heel caught on some uneven paving, and she stumbled, falling to her knees, the soft flesh of her palms scraping against the stone floor.

It took all her willpower not to burst into tears then and there, and she had no idea why. Was it because of the emotion of the moment? Or that when Brenn finally saw her again, she proved herself to be once more a stupid klutz, humiliating herself in front of Lord and Lady Stark?

She struggled to stand up, when a pair of hands drew her up slowly, and she found herself standing within the circle of his arms. Dressed in a decent approximation of Southron costume during this period, in a brown hooded cloak, an ochre doublet and a long fitted coat of deep forest green with ornate clasps, he was as gangly as ever, and his face looked as horsey as Lindey said it was, but perhaps she was perverse—for she found him not only attractive, but somehow beautiful. The sunlight that filled the hall shone off his hair, revealing glints of chestnut, and his irises were rimmed a dark walnut brown, and flecked with gold. But he looked haggard and ashen, and he hadn’t shaved in a week or so, and there were deep smudges underneath his eyes.

Oh God, was this because of her? Was she the reason he hadn’t slept at all?

“Brenn,” she said, and despite herself, her voice shook. “You’re here. You made it.”

“I did,” he said, gazing down at her with such intensity she wondered how she could even breathe. She thought of Jeyne pinned by Jon’s gaze, and she knew, that second, exactly how she felt. “I’m glad you’re safe. Your uncle would have killed me if anything had happened to you.”

She gasped, almost choking from the grief and relief that flooded though her. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I’m such a klutz. If only I hadn’t tripped…”

“Sssh,” he said. “It’s okay.” He hugged her, and she sank into him, letting her tears soak into his shoulder. His cloak, doublet and coat had dirt had been tastefully distressed, with dirt ground in, some sensible weathering no doubt Uncle Xandros had thought of, because he likely realized how suspicious it would be if Brenn strolled in to Winterfell, dressed in shiny new clothes off the rack. Or maybe it had been Brenn’s idea. How had he got here to this alternate timeline? How much did he know about her situation? And how would they ever get home?

She also noticed, vaguely, that he carried a modern messenger bag, distressed and faux-period enough that it blended in with the rest of his clothes. She wondered what was in it.

A thousand questions flew through her mind, and then flew out again. She nestled into him, inhaling the pepper and bergamot of his aftershave. As she pressed her hands into his back, she squeezed her eyes shut, thinking that she never wanted to let go.

But she as much as she wanted to stay there, she became conscious of Lord and Lady Stark’s gaze—and Jeyne’s—and every one else as well. She couldn’t see Theon; someone was standing in front of him. But Lord Stark looked somber, though Lady Stark smiled in approval, and Jeyne had her hands on her breast, tears in her eyes, clearly overcome with emotion.

As they parted awkwardly, Lord Stark said: “It is good to see you freed from the brigands, Lord Brenn, and reunited with your betrothed.”

Brenn’s eyebrows flew up. “My be—” He glanced at Liana, who stared at him pleadingly. He cleared his throat. “Yes. My, ah, betrothed. The fair… ah, Miss Pyke.”

“Mistress,” Liana whispered.

“Mistress Pyke. Yes. Um.” He clutched Liana’s hand. “Thank you for taking care of her, Lord Stark. I owe you a lot.”

“We have combed the woods and the surrounding countryside for weeks looking for you, Lord Brenn,” Lord Stark said gruffly. “We were afraid the brigands that almost raped and murdered your betrothed had succeeded in murdering you.” At that, Brenn’s eyebrows almost flew off his face, but the Warden of the North continued as if he had said nothing out of the ordinary. “I am sad to say Lord Xandros’s whereabouts has not been discovered yet. I am afraid,” Lord Stark finished, “he might no longer be in the land of the living.”

Brenn opened and closed his mouth.

“Lord Xandros is a man of many talents,” he managed eventually. “So, uh, I think he might be okay.”

“Okay?” Lord Stark rumbled. “Forgive me, Lord Brenn, but I am not familiar with Southron vernacular.”

Brenn flushed. “I mean, he might be safe.” He paused. “My lord.”

Liana winced. Brenn had clearly read up a little bit on Late Archaic Common—so he could speak well enough to be understood—yet he wasn’t up to speed on the conventions of speech in the third century. She stepped forwards.

“What my betrothed means to say, Lord Stark,” said Liana, “is that he is overwhelmed with gratitude at your hospitality, and due to my uncle’s well-deserved reputation as a powerful mage, he has some confidence that he might still be safe. Is that not correct, my dear lord?”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, yes. Miss… Mistress Pyke’s right. I mean, yea verily, she speaketh truly.”

No, no! Liana glared at Brenn. Don’t overdo it! She laid a hand on his arm.

“My dear Lord Brenn,” she said. “My heart rejoices to see you once again restored to me. But… what a time you must have had of it. Losing your scarf, and then your hat! You must have been hit on the head, to lose your hat so!”

Catching Liana’s eyes again, Brenn nodded infinitesimally.

“I must have. I… don’t remember much…” He clasped his hand to his head. “Wow, ugh. I think I’ve got to lay down.”

Liana sent an appealing look towards Jeyne, who stepped forwards eagerly.

“If your lordship and ladyship do approve, I shall send for the servants to prepare a chamber for Lord Brenn,” Jeyne said. “He has been through such trials… yet to be once more reunited with his promised wife! Surely the Old Gods and the New have been safeguarding him during this time of trial and tribulation. I am sure that to be tended by her gentle hands will be the restorative physic that he needs.”

Maester Luwin cleared his throat. “Mistress Poole,” he said. “That idea has some merit, but if his lordship has been abducted by robbers and thieves, and he has been hit over the head, I should look him over to ascertain his injuries.”

Jeyne looked at Liana, and Liana knew that if she were to object, it would make her and Brenn look very suspicious indeed.

“Thank you, maester,” Liana said. “I appreciate your hard work and dedication to the ideals of the Citadel.”

“We shall prepare his lordship’s chamber, to make it ready for his arrival,” Jeyne said. Lord Stark nodded, and Lady Stark smiled again.

“Very good, Mistress Poole!” the lady said. “I know I can always depend upon you.”

Liana stepped forward, stood on her tip-toes, and kissed Brenn on the cheek. “I told them we were lost on an expedition to the Northern Mountains looking for malignite, and we would be heading back to Oldtown through Deepwood Motte,” she breathed in his ear. “Tell Luwin as little as possible. I’ll catch you up.”

He blinked in assent, and—even though this might not have been entirely respectable-- Liana kissed him on the mouth, light and quick. His lips were soft, and the stubble tickled her. He turned pink.

“I’ll see you soon,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “I promise I won’t trip and fall over anything else.”

“If you do, just wait until I’m back, because I want to be the one to catch you,” he replied, and now it was Liana’s turn to blush. She stepped back, pushing her hair back behind her ears, flustered and embarrassed, as Maester Luwin whisked him off for the usual examinations. She hoped Brenn’s introduction to Ice Age medicine would be an easy one, with no leeches involved.  

As Jeyne took her hand, to lead her out of the room, Liana saw Theon, glaring at Brenn’s retreating back. His look was not a friendly one. In fact, there was some of that patent Greyjoy rage brimming in his face, with his mouth twisted, and his pale eyes blazing.

Despite the joy of the occasion, her heart sank.

Chapter Text

Not very coincidentally, Jeyne chose a room for Brenn very close to Liana’s, and the servants cleaned it with impressive speed and efficiency. Even a jar with winter roses, tightly furled buds of sapphire blue, complemented by wild carrot blossom and several fronds of ferns, was left on a table.

“If Lord Brenn is used to the beauties and sophistication of the Reach, I want him to see that the denizens of Winterfell are also fond of beauty as well,” Jeyne explained. When Liana thanked her for her thoughtfulness, she made an elegant gesture that looked copied from Lady Stark.

“Do not think of it, Mistress Pyke. It is merely my duty to one of his lordship’s guests, a lord of the realm himself.”

“He’s only a very minor lord,” Liana said. Even if he had lived before the Revolution, before the abolition of all fiefs and titles, Brenn’s father would only have been Baron Fossoway, while the other Fossoways had ascended to viscounties and duchies. The green-apple Fossoways possessed the title of Viscount of Newbarell, while the red-apples, some the richest and most arrogant nobles in the realm, were the Dukes of Manderleigh. The last Lord Manderleigh, the hated advisor to King Ludovic XIII (also known as Ludovic the Last, or Ludovic the Unlucky), was torn to pieces by enraged peasants when trying to flee the revolutionaries in an ornate coach-and-six. His family was summarily shot by firing squads. The green-apple Fossoways tried to flee on a ship, but were captured and imprisoned, where they all died of typhus.

Meanwhile, the modest yellow-apple Baron Fossoway, meanwhile, had fled with his family in a swift two-wheeled gig over the Prince’s Pass into Dorne, and was thus saved, making his family the lone surviving Fossoway branch to this day.  

But that was all far in the future. This far back, even baronies didn’t exist. Titles were extremely rudimentary; one was either a lord, a knight, or a peasant. The greatest of all were the Lords Paramount; and beneath that, one was only distinguished, among other things, by how great one’s lands were. Liana could imagine that the yellow-apple Fossoways were down near the bottom. The bottom of the barrel, so to speak.

However, the Reach—moreover, the Dornish Marches, one of the southernmost regions of the Reach, where Orchard Hill stood—was over a thousand miles away. Someone like Jeyne wouldn’t know how obscure and unimportant the yellow-apple Fossoways were. Hell, the Starks probably didn’t even know. Westeros was a big place.

“Minor a lord he might be, he’s still a Fossoway, and he belongs to one of the greatest houses in the Seven Kingdoms,” Jeyne said, as she arranged a bowl of fruit near the flowers. “Lady Sansa is certainly very impressed.”

“How is Lady Sansa?” Liana asked. “She must be vexed she missed Lord Brenn’s arrival.”

Jeyne smiled. “Vexed isn’t the word. She and Arya were working on their stitches with Septa Mordane when your betrothed returned, and her ladyship was very put out she should have missed a scene so touching. I described it in full detail, of course. She wept in sympathy. She bids me to tell you that she cannot wait to greet the two of you. She was very close to running over now, but I said you would wish a little bit of privacy for your reunion.”

Jeyne’s smile became a knowing grin. Liana wasn’t sure if her friend was expecting she and Brenn to fall upon each other like rabbits, or if she was expecting her to brief her “betrothed” on her alleged spy work for Olenna Tyrell, but both possibilities were… disturbing, to say the least.

“Thank you,” Liana said. “You excel at anticipating one’s needs, Mistress Poole.”

“It’s what I do for her ladyship,” Jeyne said, inspecting her nails with a nonchalant air. “And I’m very good at it too.”

“You are good,” Liana said. “Disturbingly so—”

The door creaked open, as Jessa appeared, Brenn peeking over her shoulder. “What’s disturbing?” he said, his eyes bright.

“Good day to you, Mistress Poole,” said Jessa. “Mistress Pyke.” She nodded.

Liana grinned. “It’s good to see you back, Br—Lord Brenn.” She glanced at Jessa, who quivered, ready to speak. “Jessa, what does Maester Luwin say about our patient here?”

“Well,” said Jessa. “The maester has examined his lordship, and says, for all his trials and ordeals, he’s in excellent health. There’s not even a bump on his head. He just needs long rest and special wholesome meals to revive his memory and balance his humors.”

“What sort of meals?” Jeyne asked.

“The maester will speak to the cook,” Jessa said. “In regards to Lord Brenn’s memory, he recommends the meat of young turtledoves, served at dinner, and garlands of rosemary draped upon his lordship’s headboard, with bunches of rosemary burned in the hearth to create a healthful and cleansing smoke.”

Well, that sounded more pleasant than leeches, at least. “I shall let Gitta and Marya know,” Jeyne said. “And the rest of it?”

“The maester diagnosed his lordship with unbalanced humors,” Jessa continued. “He says he possesses an atra… atra… atrabiliary tendency, grown worse by his time outdoors amidst the earth and roots.” As Brenn rolled his eyes, Liana hid a smile. “He said his lordship was ‘surfeit with cold and dry humors.’ He suggests hot, moist food, like blood sausage, veal, and red wine.”

“Excellent!” said Jeyne. “Please send a bottle of Dornish Red to Lord Brenn’s quarters immediately.”

Jessa’s eyebrows flew up. “The Dornish Red, mistress?”

“Yes!” Jeyne said sharply. “Tell them Lord Brenn needs it to balance his humors, on Maester Luwin’s orders.”

When Jessa was gone, Jeyne turned to Brenn with a gracious smile.

“My lord. It warms my heart to see you reunited with your betrothed. I have heard so much about you.” She sank into a deep curtsy, giving Liana a significant look.

“Lord Brenn,” said Liana, flushing at Brenn’s bemused expression. “This is my dear friend, Mistress Jeyne Poole. She is the daughter of Master Vayon Poole, the steward here at Winterfell. She has made my stay here a joy and a delight, and I owe her much.”

She turned to Jeyne. “And this is my betrothed, Lord Brenn Fossoway of Orchard Hill.”

“Lord Brenn,” said Jeyne, lowering her eyes.

“Mistress Poole.” Brenn bowed. It was a bit stiff and not terribly graceful, but it was respectable enough. “I am happy to make your, um, acquaintance. Any friend of my… uh… betrothed… is a friend of mine.”

“My lord,” Jeyne cooed as she lifted her hand, while Brenn stood there, blank, the wheels in his head visibly turning. Then something clicked in his brain, and he took her hand.

“Mistress Poole,” he said, bowing over her fingers. For a moment he looked as if he might burst out laughing, but he managed to keep a straight face. He didn’t kiss her hand, which relieved Liana, as that would be overdoing it, as Jeyne wasn’t a great lady like Sansa. But he managed to be gallant enough that Jeyne, in her plain pigeon-grey borrowed gown, fluttered like a dove.

Jeyne was in fact so pleased that Liana grit her teeth in annoyance. She wasn’t flirting with him, was she? She knew they were supposed to be married… Calm down, girl, Liana told herself. No need to be jealous of a fifteen year old. Jeyne is cool. Be cool, too.

“My lord,” said Jeyne as Brenn released her hand. “I will do everything in my power to make your stay as comfortable as at the Tyrell demesne of Highgarden.” She paused, putting special weight on the name Tyrell. “Your Dornish red will be here shortly. I hope you will find it as delicious as the wines found closer to your home in the Reach.”

“Yeah,” Brenn said. “I mean, of course, yes. Mistress Poole. That sounds… wonderful. I really appreciate it. This is—uh—a real special place, this castle.”

“Winterfell is the jewel of the North,” Jeyne said proudly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my lord. Mistress Pyke. I will leave you two alone.” At Liana’s alarmed look—for who knew what Septa Mordane would say if she found an unmarried couple (even a supposedly betrothed couple) were in a room with the door closed—Jeyne gave her a reassuring nod.

“The door will be open,” she said. “I shall be outside darning. I shall be your chaperone, in a sense.” She leaned closer to Liana. “I’ll make sure no one lingers. Sometimes Septa Mordane or Maester Luwin like to stop by unexpectedly.”

“Thank you,” said Liana with a grateful smile.

Jeyne squeezed her hand, smiled back, and swept out the door, leaving the door slightly ajar. With once last teasing glance, she backed away, leaving Liana alone—or mostly alone—with Brenn.

Liana looked at Brenn, and Brenn looked back. He shifted from foot to foot.

“Wow,” he said. His eyes flickered about, as if he thought he might wake up at any moment. “Imagine finding you here. In an honest to God castle. Holy—”

Before he could swear, Liana swooped in, grabbing his arm. “Shush,” she whispered. She steered him to a window seat on the opposite side of the room. “You don’t want Jeyne to hear you, do you?”

Brenn paled, shaking his head. He collapsed on the window seat, leaning his head against the mullioned glass.

“Oh my God, Liana,” he whispered. “I’m so glad to see you. But—this place. It’s fucking with my mind. Ancient Winterfell! It’s like something out of a storybook. And here you are!”

“Here I am,” she said, gesturing to herself with a rueful smile.

“Yeah!” He waved at her. “I mean… wow. You look like a queen or something. Even your hair’s done up. You look great. I mean…you’ve always looked great. I, ah…” He reddened. “Never mind,” he mumbled.

He sounded so awkward and perplexed Liana couldn’t help but smile. “It’s just one of Lady Stark’s hand-me-downs.”

“Lady Stark,” Brenn said. “The redheaded lady. She seems... nice. But formidable.”

“She is. She’s brought me on as a teacher of rhetoric. For her daughter Sansa.”

“Sansa,” Brenn said. His eyes narrowed. “Wait. You’re teaching the young Queen Sansa the First rhetoric? That’s crazy.”

“It kind of is, isn’t it?”

“How did you do it?”

“A lot of fast talking and tap dancing. So to speak. But yeah. Education in the third century, even for the noble classes, isn’t that great. So once I wowed them with my oratory and debating skills, I was asked to stay on as a tutor until you arrived.”

“That is impressive,” said Brenn. “I wouldn’t have made out Lord Stark as a big fan of rhetoric.”

“He’s not. This is more something that Lady Stark wants.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. It’s been a lot of work to get them to accept me. So we have to be careful, Brenn.”

“Yeah. I know…” He looked at her anxiously. “I know I’m not the best guy for this situation. I’m not… that smooth. I’m sorry.”

“No,” she said with more force than she intended. “Don’t apologize. You’re here. You’ve done very well so far.”

She placed her hand on his arm. He was so tall and rangy that even her mitt of a hand looked dainty in comparison.

“I’m so glad to see you, Brenn. More than I can say. I’m so happy you’re safe.”

“Me too.” He gazed at her, his face intent and still. “After you disappeared… your uncle and I thought the worse. We thought you might be hurt. Or dead. It was… scary. Terrifying, actually.”

“Well,” she said, coloring a little. “I’m not hurt or dead.”

“I’m glad,” he said, his heavy-lidded hazel eyes not wavering once from hers. “Liana, I…” His voice trailed away.

Unsure of what to say herself, Liana glanced out the window. She cleared her throat.

“You must tell me how you were able to get here. I believe I, ah, created an alternate timeline. It couldn’t have been easy, getting from there… to, ah, here.”

“It wasn’t.” Brenn unbuckled his messenger bag. “It was a bitch and a half. But I figured it out.”

“How?”

“Well, after you fell through the Chronoscope, it was knocked out of commission for a week. Once Doc and I got it up and running again, I volunteered to step through the portal. I went into the Wolfswood for a bit.”

“And?” Liana breathed.

“But here’s the thing,” Brenn said. “There was no track of you. No crushed branches. No footprints. Not even a hair. It looked like the wrong time entirely, but we had the exact coordinates. Hell, at one point I even saw that stupid wildcat, eating the last of your sandwich meat and licking its chops.” He threw his hands up. “Your uncle and I had no idea what to do.

“But then I realized something. We didn’t go back to the exact moment you had arrived, because we didn’t want to run into a duplicate Chronoscope portal or duplicate versions of ourselves. But I had a hunch, and I convinced Professor H to let me program the coordinates to the exact time, down to the millisecond, that you had been sent. We moved the location coordinates by a few feet so we wouldn’t trip over ourselves, just to be safe. We were still in the same clearing.

“So we opened the ‘Scope to that moment. And still nothing. Shouldn’t we have seen an identical portal opening up, with you falling into the underbrush? But nothing. Zero. Mih. Daorun.”  

“What did you do next?” Liana exclaimed.

“Remember what I told you about the multiverse?” When Liana nodded, he said, “There’s an infinite number of universes. Why not an infinite number of timelines? Since you had been dropped into the third century AC, your presence would have had some kind of ripple effect, perhaps strong enough for the timeline to branch off. That would explain why the wildcat was there, but you weren’t. Not even for a second. So it seemed clear to me that the timeline had diverged as soon as you entered the past.”

He shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “So I knew then I had to think outside the box—way, way outside the box, because the box was a tesseract, and in comparison, I was a two-dimensional cut-out.

“Anyway. I went through the ‘Scope several times to look for you, and Doc as well. Remember the gold mesh of light that forms when anything passes through it?”

Liana thought of the searing light that almost blinded her retinas. “As if could I could forget.”

“Well, I noticed that it actually formed a pattern, slightly different for me than it was for Doc. Of course, keep in mind that what we call a portal now is the pseudo-gravity field that harnesses and visualizes the neutrino stream. As you said, it was only supposed to be a webcam—recording and interpreting the neutrinos. But keep in mind that malignite is from another dimension… the home of the alien beings that colonized Erthe two hundred thousand years ago.”

“Yes,” Liana whispered. “The Old Ones.”

“Yes.” Brenn shook his head. “We underestimated how powerful it is. We underestimated the force of the sorcerous principle.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a lot of theories about malignite. There are some veins of a malignite-type plutonic igneous rock that naturally occur. But I agree with Dr. H that the most powerful stuff—what was called ‘oily black stone’ in the Age of the Sagas—has been brought here from another dimension. It would explain all the weird events that have have happened around it, historically. Even now there are stories of tourists who go missing in Yeen or Asshai. Both Yeen and Asshai are built of malignite.” He lowered his voice. “Where do all those missing people go?”

Liana felt cold. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“My guess is that they go back to the dimension where malignite originates. The home of the Old Ones. And they’re almost certainly dead.” Brenn paused. “But sometimes people go back to Yeen or Asshai to look for the missing persons. And sometimes, under the right circumstances, when they touch the stone, they hear their voices—what they were saying—what they were thinking—at the time they vanished.”

Goosebumps prickled up and down Liana’s arms.

“Where did you read this stuff?” she exclaimed. “I’ve never heard that!”

Brenn shrugged sheepishly. “I read a lot of these crazy stories online on forums about alien abductions. A lot of crazy shit, but some of it is worthwhile.

“But yeah.” His eyes narrowed. “It got me thinking. This is one powerful rock that remembers people somehow. I didn’t think you’d been zapped off to the alien homeworld—after all, the cat was okay, and so were me and Doc. I figured you were shuffled off into an alternate timeline. But how could I prove it?” His voice lowered so it became almost husky. “And how could I ever find you again?”

Liana flushed again, embarrassed from his attention. “What did you do next?”

Now it was Brenn’s turn to flush.

“This’ll sound silly. But I put my hand to the stone. At first I heard nothing. I felt nothing. It only felt… cold. A cold burning. Like ice at sub-zero temperatures.

“But then I got your backpack—the one you left in my car. I pulled out one of your shirts. I wrapped it around my hand, and then I touched the stone. I concentrated. And I… heard you. Loud and clear. As if you speaking into my ear.”

“You heard me?” Liana blinked. “What did I say?”

“‘I didn’t know Uncle Xandros had a cat,’” Brenn said.

Liana’s jaw dropped. “That’s what I thought right before I fell through!”

“That’s what I thought. I also heard ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’”

Her last ignominious words before tripping and pitching through the Chronoscope. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, grimacing. “So, it seemed that the malignite remembered you. If your shirt was able to trigger it, what more could your DNA do? I told Doc and he told me to go for it.

“So I got a strand of your hair from your hairbrush, with an intact root, and I sent it to the university forensics lab. I got the entire genome sequenced, in a few days.”

“A few days? That’s fast,” Liana said. Ordinarily the idea that her DNA would be sequenced without her permission would make her incandescent with rage, but honestly she had bigger fish to fry at the moment. She just traveled back in time eight centuries. What were a few ethical mishaps between friends, after all?

“Yeah.” Brenn squirmed. “Doc knows who runs it, and I think she must owe him a huge favor, because the turnaround was super fast.” Even though Liana nodded, he clutched his hands anxiously.

“God, Liana, I’m sorry,” he burst out. “This is all pretty sketch. We should have gotten your permission first. But… you were here…”

Liana waved her hand. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, as they say. What did you do next?”

The tips of his ears turned bright red. “Well, I put your deets on a flash drive…” She had no idea why, but Brenn’s awkward use of slang made him even more endearing to her. “…And then I jerry-rigged a Strawberry tablet that I spliced with some bits of malignite that I shaved off with a titanium knife from the ‘Scope base. Then I modified an open-source monitoring program to track your DNA. I didn’t know if it would work or not—the whole thing just seemed like a goof. But I had to try.”  

His eyebrows angled down, and he seemed so absolutely intent and focused he practically vibrated. Like a tuning fork, she thought, feeling a bit dizzy. “Go on,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse to her ears.  

“I took the tablet through the ‘Scope. I turned it on, and… the program started pinging like crazy. It said you were behind the tree… and then behind a bush… and then down in the forest. I kept calling your name, and I swear I was this close to crashing through the underbrush to find you, but Professor H called me back. He said that it was interference—‘random factors affecting the neutrino stream’—that was making the signal erratic. But…and here’s the really crazy part. For a second, I could swear I heard you.”

At once, Liana felt very hot, then very cold. “Did you?”

“I did. Barely. Did you… hear me?”

She stared into his eyes, unable to look away. “I dreamed about you, at the Oldtown Opera House. We sat together, watching a performance of Sansa and Theon. And then the lights went out. I wandered through the opera house, and I heard you call my name…”

“I had the same dream too,” Brenn said, gazing at her with wonder. “The night after I looked for you with the tablet. You sat next to me. You wore a black dress and you had this…. gauzy thing on your arms that was also black, and it had stars on it. It was really pretty.”

Despite the awe she felt—that they shared the same dream— she smirked a little at that. “That’s called a stole, Brenn.”

“A stole,” he mumbled. “Yeah. Well, everything went dark, like you said. And when the lights came up… I stood on an empty stage. On a set of an empty forest.”

“An empty forest?” she echoed.

“Yes.” A haunted, faraway look came into his eyes. “I called your name. Over and over again. My voice rang out through the auditorium. I was beginning to panic, but then…I heard you, but it was like a radio cutting out.”

“Like something heard on an AM station with a bad signal,” she said, and he nodded.

“Exactly. But I could hear you, somewhere. Answering me. I just didn’t know where you were—”

“I was wondering where you were too,” she said. “Oh God, Brenn—I—” Her throat closed, and she stopped, overwhelmed with emotions she could barely quantify or even name.

Brenn leaned closer. “What does the hell does all this mean?”

R’hllor, Liana thought, clutching her lotus necklace, as flames filled her mind. He wants you here too. But she knew better than to say it. Brenn was not especially religious.

Yet she didn’t want to lie, either. Not to Brenn.

“You were meant to find me,” she murmured. “That’s clear.” She took his hands. As large as her hands were, his were much larger, with long, muscular, tapering fingers, and the back of his hands dusted with pale brown hair. Her hands looked small and dainty in comparison, which she thought she’d never see. “And you did.”

Blood rushed to Brenn’s face. Then he paled. “I—I—” He cleared his throat. “Your uncle helped too. He was the one who said that the weird signal skips indicated that my hypothesis was correct—that you were in an alternate timeline.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. He said the only reason that so much random factors or noise would affect the neutrinos is either you’d gone further into the past—or you were in a different timestream altogether. He suggested building a subportal in the past to see where the malignite would lead us.”

“Wait—what?” Puzzled, she released his hands, and he pushed his hair back.

“Yeah. You see, the Chonoscope was designed to see into the past via neutrinics—and powered by malignite. The malignite turned out to pack more of a whammy than we thought, and it turned our webcam into a door…”

“As I discovered,” Liana said dryly.

“Uh, yeah. But yeah, it’s still designed to go backwards and forwards along one single timeline.” He moved his finger back and forth. “Not sideways. And you’ve gone backward… and sideways. So that made it tricky.

“So Dr. H thought if we went to your departure point in the past, and put up another Chronoscope, that would allow us to enter the timeline you created.”

“Another Chronoscope?” Liana’s eyes widened. “How would that work?”

“Well, in theory, it would detect and record the oscillation of the neutrinos created by your arrival and the creation of a new timeline. But…I think it was really more the malignite remembering you.” He paused uncomfortably. “Yeah, I know that sounds creepy. It is.”

Liana didn’t want to think about that. “And you guys had another Chronoscope lying around?”

“Well, your uncle wanted to go to Oldtown with the ‘Scope, but what we have can’t be moved too easily, so he was experimenting on a more portable model with fewer parts.”

“Go on.”

“The experimental model in question we have has most of the implementation in the base. No console, no lever, no ring, no wire. It’s operated by a remote control… which I have here.” He pulled what indeed looked to be a remote control out of his bag. Half of it was plastic and metal; the other half was backed with slick, ink-black malignite that sucked in all light. It lay in Brenn’s hand like negative space. Liana looked at it uneasily.

“So we went through the ‘Scope, made sure the coast was clear, and we set up the experimental model in the clearing. When we fired up the subportal, I turned on the tablet, plugged it in to the subportal base, and the program started pinging again. But it wasn’t erratic this time—it was steady as a heartbeat. And the coordinates on the subportal just set themselves.” Brenn shook his head. “The malignite seemed to be looking for you.”

“Oh,” Liana said faintly. “How nice.”

“Well, it’s nice for us,” said Brenn with feeling. “I was ready to go running after you, but Doc stopped me. He said I needed to make sure all my gear was together, and to get myself ready for the culture of the third century before I tripped and fell and got my head cut off.”

“Good thinking,” Liana said.

“Yeah. It was a bit tricky. I watched a bunch of vid tutorials on how to speak Late Archaic Common and a few docs about the period. I looked at some kid’s books about the castle life in the Ice Age to get some ideas too.” He flashed a lopsided abashed smile that she found adorable. “And this costume. The professor got it for me.”

“I like it,” she said. “It’s nice. You blend right in.”

“Courtesy of the UW drama department,” Brenn said. He pushed his cloak back, revealing a cloak pin that looked like a plain brass circle that had, with painstaking care, been painted with Brenn’s house sigil of the three apples. When he saw her looking at it, he unpinned it, handing it to her. “Do you like it? I made it. High hangs the bough, and all that.”

“Enamel paints, right?” Liana asked, turning the pin over in her hands, and Brenn nodded. “It looks great.”

As she handed it back to him, Brenn grinned, tossing the pin and cloak on the bed. “Thanks. People are crazy about all that lineage and crap in this time period, so I figured I should gird my loins for it.” He blushed. “So to speak. I’m not actually going to be doing any girding or anything—”

“Lady Stark asked me a lot about your family,” Liana said, changing the subject before she thought too much about Brenn’s loins herself. “It’s a good thing I picked your brain about them when I could. She’s going to have a lot of questions for you. Everyone’s fascinated by Southron nobility in these parts.”

At that, Brenn looked like he had swallowed a live cockroach. “Really? Seven hells!”

“Yup.” She patted his arm. “You’re a Fossoway. Get ready for the avalanche of apple references.”

“Oh boy.” Brenn scowled. “I can’t wait.”

“I don’t know how much your documentaries prepared you,” she said, wondering how she might say this tactfully, then deciding to just plunge in. “But you’ve got to act like a lord. You’ve got to talk well. You have to act the part.”

“You mean, don’t be a stammering dork who seems like he was the last guy chosen in gym class back in high school?” Brenn said bluntly.

“Brenn,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay. I haven’t been to finishing school or anything, but Gran always thought me, Addam and Avery should be future dukes and viscounts, since we’re the last Fossoways standing. She had these vague, unformulated plans to throw us out into society. It never happened, of course. But I know some stuff, at least. Plus Avery has made me watch every old movie ever made—” Avery was his little sister, and big into theatre—“so I can channel Lord Downford of Downford Downs at least.”

“Okay,” Liana said, a little relieved. “Good.”

“Aye, aye, captain!” Brenn saluted her smartly. “Lieutenant Fossoway won’t let you down!”

“You’d better not,” Liana replied. “Or I shall have to discipline you—duck you from the yardarm, ye damned Southron!”

Brenn quirked his brows. “Discipline, eh? Is that a threat or a promise, Captain Pyke?”

The very idea of disciplining Brenn made her cheeks heat, and she looked down, smoothing her skirts. He cleared his throat.

“So, uh… what happened to you when you arrived?” His smile vanished. “Lord Stark mentioned you had almost been raped and murdered by brigands. Is that true?”

“It is,” Liana said quietly.

Brenn’s eyes widened with horror, as leaned forward, placing his hand on her left shoulder. “Oh my God, Liana. Are you okay?”

His hand was warm, reassuring and strong; she could feel it through the wool of her gown. She lifted her right hand, brushing the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers. It was such a casual, intimate gesture that he blushed again.

“Yes,” she said. “I fought them off—I had pepper spray—and Robb Stark and his friend Theon Greyjoy appeared just in time to stop them. I was brought back to the castle, and I told them you and I and Uncle Xandros had been waylaid by robbers while on an expedition to the Northern Mountains to find malignite.”

She quickly filled in the rest of her story, with Brenn nodding all the while.

“Thanks for warning me about the old guy who treated me,” he said. “Maester Luwin, right? He was pretty pushy. Kept asking me questions about our ‘expedition’ and ‘Lord Xandros’s’ relationship with Marwyn the Mage. That was something you told him, right?”

“Yes,” Liana said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Nah, it’s cool. Marwyn was a cool guy. The first physicist, some think. Anyway, it sounds good.”

“Good.”

“Yeah. Luwin also wanted to see into my bag. I wouldn’t let him.”

“Speaking of which, what is in your bag?” Liana asked.

“Oh, just the essentials,” he said, pulling out gadgets one by one. “The remote. The tablet. A taser for self-defense. A portable charger.”

“Ooh!” Liana exclaimed. “Maybe I could charge up my own phone!”

“Well, you could. I guess. You could teach all the Stark kids to play Candy Crunch.”

“I could,” Liana said. “I think Arya would love it.”

“God,” said Brenn, giving her a long look as he repacked his bag. “It’s so weird to see you talking about these legends like you were besties with them. It’s hard to wrap my mind around it!” He paused. “But if anyone could do it, it would be you.” He peered at her, as if she were an obscure physics problem he couldn’t quite crack. “You’re… amazing, Liana. I mean it.”

Liana lowered her eyes, her heart speeding up. “Thank you.”

“No. Don’t thank me. It’s the truth. Your uncle… man, he’s so worried, Liana. He told the head of the lit department down at the U of O you were staying with him in Winterton for a little bit longer because of a family emergency. Your dad doesn’t know yet. But I don’t know how much longer he can keep it under wraps. We need to leave now.”

Dad. Lady, what would he do if he had any idea she’d disappeared? Liana froze, torn between her longing for home and everything she had to sort out here.

“I’m sorry, Brenn,” she said at last. “I wish I could. But I can’t.”

“Why?” Brenn blurted. “I don’t get it. What’s keeping you here? Would something explode if you left?”

“Um… sort of,” Liana said.

And she told him the story of Sansa and Theon, and what had happened with them since she arrived. It came out of her in a flood as she told him everything, including Theon’s initial flirtation with Liana, how she squelched that, and the growing fascination that Theon and Sansa had with each other, encouraged by Liana and then by Jeyne. She included their attempts to gather intel on Sansa’s future husband Joffrey, and how they met with Kenna and learned her horrible story, and how the two young star-crossed lovers had become determined to elope, and how her and Jeyne were at a loss at what to do next, especially with the upcoming royal progress about to stop by in a week.    

However, she didn’t include her visions with the fire vis-à-vis Ros. No sense in freaking him out. Poor Brenn already had enough on his plate already.

“Theon and Sansa may be kids now, but they love each other deeply,” she finished. “No matter what timeline they’re in, they always come back to each other. It’s like they’re moths, drawn to flame.” She gave Brenn an imploring look. “You understand, right? I can’t let them down. I can’t let them be destroyed!”

“Destroyed,” Brenn said numbly. “Yeah. I know what happened.”

“So you know what happened with Ramsay Bolton…”

“Yeah.” His mouth twisted in disgust. “That piece of shit. You know that opera we were watching… in the dream?”

“Yes?”

“Gran loved that opera. She took my sister to see it once. Avery is obsessed with Queen Sansa. She’s wanted to play her in The Wolf and the Kraken since she got passed over in high school drama.

“Anyway, every Yule, Avery would always get me to watch The Adventures of Princess Sansa with her. When we were little, we would take out the old fondue forks and pretend to be dueling like in the final scene. She always made me play the bad guy, and she played Sansa.”

“Sansa’s not really into dueling,” Liana said. “That’s more Arya’s thing.”

“Whatever. We were kids.” Brenn shook his head. “So, it’s easy for me to remember Sansa’s name. She’s the famous redheaded queen that everyone either loves or hates. But I could never could get the guy’s name straight. Taran Greyiron? Torrhen Squidjoy? I just thought of him as the queen’s archer boyfriend.”  

Holy shit. Torrhen Squidjoy. She imagined calling Theon that, and how he would react, and she almost fell off the window seat with repressed laughter. “Don’t ever call him that, or he almost certainly kill you.”

“You’d know that, as his ‘cousin,’ right?” Brenn joked.

Liana raised her eyebrow. “Well, I do know lots about Theon because he’s all over the Sagas. And because of my job at the Ten Towers. And who the hell knows. I might be descended from some Greyjoy somewhere.”

“See?” Brenn teased. “I always knew you were a pirate!”

“Arrr, matey. A pirate with a taste for Southern fruit,” she said, the double entendre escaping from her mouth before she could think, and Brenn coughed.

“I didn’t bring any apples with me, I’m afraid. We’ll have to wait for proper fruit when we get back.” He paused. “What is your plan, anyway? You have one, right?”

“Well,” she said. “I just know that we should stay until we can make sure Theon and Sansa get away safely. If we leave when they’re still here, I have a bad feeling about it. Sansa can’t marry Joffrey. She can’t!”

“Yeah. Fuck that kid.” Brenn shook his head. “What a cat-killing psycho. I wouldn’t wish him on my worst enemy.”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah. If you feel this strongly about it, we should stay.” He gazed down at her earnestly. “I trust you, Liana.”

As she gazed back up at him, she felt a rush of happiness that he not only believed her, but he would be at her side, helping her every step of the way. “And I trust you, Brenn.”

He seemed to have trouble breathing. “There’s something I have to give you.”

Liana thought of what she would like him to give her, and she felt herself blushing down to her breasts. “What’s that?”

Brenn dug into one of the pockets of his messenger back, pulling out two little leather pouches, hanging off a leather thong. “Some shavings of malignite. It’s just a hunch. But I think it could help link us to the subportal and the main ‘Scope.”

“All right.”

Her stomach did an acrobatic pirouette as she turned around and he tied the thong around the back of her neck. He lifted her hair, and his fingers tickled the sensitive skin of her nape. She shivered.

As she tucked the pouch under her neckline, he turned around. Then she did the same for him. As she knotted the thong, her fingers felt strange and clumsy. She stared at his back, admiring, even all the layers of clothes, his tall, lanky body, from the breadth of his shoulders and how his torso narrowed down to his waist.

He swivelled around, tucking the pouch under his doublet as well. “Yeah. So… I guess we’ll play everything by ear, huh?”

“Yeah.” She pushed back a tendril of hair. “It’s a developing situation.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, I’m glad I found you. And you’re safe. Even if we’re supposed to be ‘betrothed.’”

She blushed. “I hope you don’t mind I said that.”

“I don’t mind at all.” Brenn gave her a small, shy smile that made her heart skip a beat. “I think… I could get used to it.”

“Me too.” To hell with it. Marvelling at her nerve, Liana draped her arms around his shoulders, clasping her hands behind his long, muscular neck. “I think I could get very used to it.”

Brenn froze. “Liana… I…”

For a second, he looked so torn and miserable she was afraid she had misread things—that he wasn’t that into her. “What is it, Brenn?” she replied anxiously. “I thought you liked me.”

“I do. God, yes, I do. I just… I mean, there’s all these dudes in the past who are kings or knights or whatever, and I’m just this guy…”

No. She hadn’t misread things. Thank God.

“I don’t want kings or knights,” she whispered, and the flames of R’hllor seared her from head to toe. “I want you.”

His chest rose and fell quickly. The sun, filtered through the thick bubbly mullioned panes of glass, made his irises look like amber.

“That’s funny,” he said, and his voice took on a rough burr she found surprisingly thrilling. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Then why are we still talking?”

“Maybe I don’t know when to shut up,” he said, and he leaned down, placing his lips gently on hers.

He was hesitant at first, clearly unsure of whether he should be doing this. There was that awkward moment where they angled their noses as to not bump into each other, and Liana was reminded of her first kiss back at Lasiray High in Qarth, when she and a guy on the debating team snuck behind the bleachers and made out for a bit. But then she relaxed, and Brenn relaxed, and she opened her mouth a bit more. She thought of lotuses and fiery suns, before she was lost to sensation, and her last coherent thought was an astonished oh.

Once he got warmed up, Brenn was a surprisingly good kisser. He started out slowly, pressing his lips into hers, but gradually deepened his kisses until she panted into his mouth. He ran his tongue over her lips, and she opened it, meeting his tongue with hers, caressing it, exploring his mouth with a languid ease that took her a bit aback, because it had been a while since she’d kissed anybody. But it was so easy with Brenn, it was as if she had known him forever…

Then she bit his underlip, hearing him gasp, and his arms tightened around her, and she felt her breasts push against his chest.

His stubble scraped her face, leaving what she knew would be red marks, but somehow that excited her. As she inhaled the spice of his aftershave, bergamot and pepper, she tasted the coffine on his lips. Coffine, oh God, coffine, and he used the vanilla creamer he loved so much, the one he always used whenever they stopped at diners on the way up North. She missed coffine so much… and Brenn. Brenn. God, he was here, and she never wanted to let him go. He’d crossed eight centuries to find her. God, God…

She buckled against him, as he pressed her against the wall of the nook, the stone scraping across her shoulderblades. As he clutched her close, he kissed her more frantically, and she responded, their tongues darting back and forth as they consumed each other with an increasing urgency. Her blood grew hot, and her body became sheathed in fire as he moved down her neck, to the collarbone, nipping, licking, biting, and she wondered if he would stop, if she even wanted him to stop. No, she didn’t. She wanted—she wanted—

Then a knocking came on the door. She was so startled she almost fell off the window seat, but he grabbed her just in time.

“What is it?” Liana called, her voice wavering.

“Mistress Pyke… Liana… May I come in?”

“One moment!” They straightened their clothes with haste, until Liana called: “Come in!”

Jeyne stepped in, giving the two of them an arch, amused glance. She didn’t look at all surprised.

“I’m sorry to bother you during your… reunion,” she said, “but I’ve just received a message from Lady Sansa. She is waiting for your arrival in the new bower.”

Brenn gaped at Liana, as she squeezed his hand.

“We’ll be there,” she said. “By the way, is there a safe place that Brenn—I mean, his lordship—may keep his bag?” She lowered her voice. “The good maester was fascinated by it.”

“The chest,” said Jeyne, gesturing to the one against the wall. “Here you go, my lord,” she said, pulling a key off a ring of keys hanging from her belt. “You may be rest assured in the security of your belongings. Only my father possesses the master key, and I wish to assure you, no one else will touch it.”

Brenn took the key. “Thank you, Mistress Poole,” he said with a nod, and he quickly locked his bag away. When it was out of sight, Liana found herself being able to breathe more easily.

“Now, we must away,” said Jeyne. “I am sorry to spoil your idyll, Lord Brenn, Mistress Poole, but… her ladyship waxes impatient. She wishes to meet your betrothed, as his situation and your reunion gives joy to her sentimental heart.”

Liana glanced at Brenn. “Uh, yeah. I mean… yes. I will be delighted to meet Lady Sansa.” He paused, then flung out one hand like some old-timey actor. “Tales of her beauty have flown down to the Dornish Marches, where my family resides.”

Oh God. That had to be straight from one of the movies he’d watched with Avery. It was hammy but surprisingly affective, as Jeyne clasped her hands and made another dove-like cooing noise of appreciation.

“Come this way,” Jeyne said. “Her ladyship awaits.”

Brenn glanced at her one more time as he followed Jeyne out the door, and Liana wondered just what the hell was in store for her and Brenn next.

She couldn’t imagine it would be easy, but even so, she thanked God that Brenn was once more at her side.

Whatever happened, they could face it—together.

Chapter Text

“My dear Lord Brenn,” Sansa said, pushing aside the tall embroidery frame. “How delightful to see you at last.”

As the goldfinch sang in its cage, Sansa’s blue eyes sparkled, as she stood and curtsied prettily. Once again, Liana marveled at how pretty she was, with her delicate features, high cheekbones and wavy red-gold hair tumbling over her shoulders—not to mention her tall and slender build. Yet as tall as Sansa was, though, she had to crane her head up to look at Brenn, who towered over everyone in the new bower.

“Lady Sansa…” Brenn stood, fidgeting, staring at one of the most famous women in Westrian history. Well, girl. And at her feet sat the amber-eyed wolf cub Lady, who was now as big as a full-sized husky. To her relief, Lady didn’t growl; she merely stood with her mistress and inspected Brenn’s hand with a sniff.

“I, ah… am delighted to meet you as well,” Brenn continued, as Lady tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look. “I’ve heard about you. Even down in Orchard Hill. Word has spread far of your beauty and your… um… charm.”

Seeing, belatedly, that Sansa had extended her hand, Brenn took it, and brought it close to his lips, though Liana was relieved to see he didn’t actually kiss it. But it was a pretty gesture, all the same. Sansa dimpled.

“Oh,” she said, a touch breathless, once Brenn had released her hand. “How chivalrous you are, Lord Brenn. That must be the trait of a Reachman. Though, if I may be honest, you are the first Reachman I have ever met.”

“Wow,” Brenn said, still looking about as if he thought he might be dreaming. “I mean, uh, that’s a pity, Lady Sansa. I’m sure you’d be very popular in the Reach, if you can ever make it down for a visit. It’s a great place.”

“Oh, I would imagine! I would love to visit,” Sansa gushed, and as Jeyne nodded, she introduced Septa Mordane, Arya, and Beth Cassel. Brenn greeted them with such enthusiasm—telling Septa Mordane that he was pleased to see a lady so devoted to the Seven, Arya that he was happy to meet her, and Beth that her blue gown looked very nice— that Septa Mordane smiled approvingly, Arya looked less disgruntled, and little Beth blushed as she pushed her unruly brown hair back and gazed at him with starstruck adoration.

Oh boy, Brenn, Liana thought. You’re already breaking hearts, and you’ve been here only a few hours…

“I hope we all can visit the Reach someday,” Sansa continued. “I’ve heard so many stories about the wonders of Highgarden. Please do sit, my lord.” She gestured to a chair, not a stool; Liana wondered if Brenn realized what an honor this was. Only Sansa sat in her mother’s chair, while Jeyne, Septa Mordane and Liana were allotted stools, and Beth was given a cushion on the floor by Sansa’s feet, next to Lady, who panted happily, thrilled to get all the pets and scritches from Sansa and Beth. “I take it you’ve been?”

“Oh yeah,” Brenn said, sitting down, while Jeyne served everyone wine. Liana sipped; it was thick and rich and sour. Dornish Red? As she shot Jeyne a quizzical look, her friend winked. “I mean, yes. Several times.”

In fact, after Liana had met Brenn for the first time at a university party, when she’d gone up to him and introduced herself because she recognized him in some photos her uncle had posted to his social media profile. She was there with her roommate Lindey, who thought he looked like a horse as soon as she saw him, but she had the hots for Brenn’s friend… Collin? Yeah, Collin. And so she’d insisted on inviting herself and Liana along for a trip to Highgarden when Collin had mentioned it. She’d had a good time, and she and Brenn had a lot of time to talk while Lindey and Collin had snuck off to make out in the maze.

She sighed. God, she missed everyone. Dad. Uncle Xandros. Aunt Jenny. Uncle Pelu. Lindey. Hell, she’d happily deal with Lindey blasting her stereo at all hours when Liana was trying to sleep.

“I can see your betrothed is already dreaming when she may see Highgarden next,” Sansa teased. “You must describe its wonders to me, Lord Brenn. What is Highgarden like?”

As Brenn drank his cup of Dornish Red, he described Highgarden, much in the same way Liana had described it to Jeyne, though he lingered less lovingly on the gardens and art galleries. But Sansa still looked enthralled. She clapped her hands when he was done.

“Oh, how glorious! The Tyrells are a fortunate family indeed, to rule over such a bountiful country. You must spend a great deal of time with them! You must go hunting and hawking with them, and you must go boating with them upon the River Mander. Oh, and the swans! Jeyne mentioned that there were swans.”

“Yes,” said Brenn, and Liana could recognize the glazed, mildly panicky expression on his face—he looked the same way when Lindey started rattling on about people at her father’s country club she thought Brenn should know. “Yes, there’s swans.”

“I thought so.” Sansa sighed. “Swans are so beautiful and graceful. Swans don’t come often to the White Knife, but I’ve seen them fly by occasionally on the way south… their feathers shine as white as the moon. It always makes me think of the swan maidens from the songs.”

“Like the one that the troubadour from Sevenstreams sang during the last harvest festival?” Beth said eagerly. “You remember that one, don’t you, Jeyne? It’s almost good as one of your stories, Mistress Pyke!”

Liana murmured her thanks as Jeyne nodded, pouring more wine into Brenn’s cup.

“Yes, that one,” Sansa said. “The story of the swan maiden and the hunter who stole her feathery gown is such a lovely story. It reminds me of other things…”

“Like my cousin Lord Theon’s tale of the selkie bride,” Liana said daringly.

Sansa’s cheeks suffused with pink. “Yes,” she said. “A little. But the tale of the swan maiden and the hunter is softer. Gentler. Less mad and intent. Truly a tale from my mother’s homeland.” She leaned her face on her hand and gazed into the distance, smiling a little. Liana knew she thought of Theon. “Swans sit upon the banks of the Tumblestone the way seals sit upon the rocks of Pyke. I wonder if every region in Westeros has their own version of that story. By the gods, it’s so romantic.”

At that, Arya’s eyes rolled up in her head, and she made a gagging noise. Septa Mordane glared at her, and Arya sank back into her seat, staring longingly at the window as if she could fly away like a swan herself.

“Well,” said Brenn, “I don’t know if you’d still find swans romantic, if you’d ever been attacked by one.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Swans attack people?”

“Sure,” Brenn said. “Swans are bad tempered, especially if you think you’re getting close to their nest. They’re very protective of their eggs or their cygnets. Male mute swans are especially aggressive.”

“I can’t believe something as beautiful and innocent as a swan could ever be bad tempered!” Sansa exclaimed, and as the words left her lips, a cloud crossed her face.

“Oh sure, they can be plenty bad tempered, given the circumstances,” Brenn said, grinning. “Once I was on a bridge over the Mander, and I looked down and I saw this swan resting near the bank. Well, I tried to keep my distance, but I guess it thought I was threatening its young, because it came out of the water and started charging towards me. It was spreading its wings and hissing and lashing its long, snake-like neck, and I swear its bill was ready to tear off my face.” He spread out his arms, stretched out his neck and even hissed.

Oh God—the wine must have already gone to his head. Liana wanted to hide under a chair, but then she noticed how all the girls leaned forwards, fascinated rather than disdainful. Wow, was Brenn’s goofball charm going to work in the macho and ultra-violent Age of the Sagas?

“What did you do?” Arya breathed.

“Well, seeing as I was unarmed, I beat a quick retreat,” Brenn said. “The lesson is, don’t ever mess with a swan, or a swan will mess with you. I’ve seen them drown ducks. I’ve heard they can break arms and legs, though this is probably an exaggeration. Though there are documented accounts where they’ve overturned boats and drowned swimmers.”

Arya flashed a savage grin, as Sansa frowned, her pretty brow furrowed. “That’s not how I imagined swans from the songs.”

“Well, as the poem goes, nature is red in tooth and claw,” Brenn replied. “I doubt swans listen to songs anyway.”

“If swans listened to songs, what would they be?” Beth asked dreamily, as Brenn chuckled.

“Those are depths, Mistress Cassel, that my mind dares not plumb.”

“I doubt a swan would attack the Tyrells,” Sansa said. “They wouldn’t dare.”

“If they did dare, I doubt I’d hear about it,” Brenn said.

Sansa’s eyes grew round. “Why not? You’re a Fossoway, aren’t you?”

“A yellow-apple Fossoway,” Brenn corrected cheerfully, as Jeyne poured him more wine. She topped up Liana’s cup as well, and as Liana drank, the rich, fragrant wine filled her with a palpable glow. “We’re the poorest and least important Fossoways in all the Reach.”

“But Mother said you were a noble house,” Sansa exclaimed.

“We are nobles, but you could fit fifty Orchard Hills into Winterfell,” Brenn said. “It’s a nice place, but as manors go, I guess you could describe it as ‘cozy.’”

“Do tell us about your home, Lord Brenn,” Septa Mordane said. “I should love to hear.”

“I should love to hear it too,” Sansa said. “I am sure it is perfectly charming.”

“I like it,” said Brenn. “So, um, I don’t know how well you know the area, Lady Sansa, but Orchard Hill is about halfway between Ashford and the Prince’s Pass—so on the edge of the Dornish Marches, which makes us technically Marcher Lords, though to be honest we’re the least important of all of them. Orchard Hill is up on a hill, obviously, and there’s a nearby village. There’s a valley beneath us, Orchard Valley, where there’s a bigger town.

“As for the house itself, it’s three stories tall—not including the garret—and made of roughly dressed stone. The roof is steeply gabled with slate tiles, and we have vaulted ceilings and big old hearths. It’s about fifteen rooms. It’s old, but it’s simple. We have a vegetable garden that my mother loves to tend. She’s got the green thumb in the family.”

“It sounds beautiful,” said Liana, smiling at him.

“It is,” said Brenn, smiling back, and at the sight of his warm hazel eyes she nearly melted. She cursed Sansa for interrupting their time alone, but she told herself there would always be later. Later, that night. Their rooms, after all, were very close… “But you would know.”

Liana had never been to Orchard Hill, but he’d shown her plenty of pictures. It was a lush place, on top of a wooded hill and surrounded by gardens and a pond filled with ducks (and thankfully, no swans). When Brenn’s parents were young, they’d converted it to a B&B, much to Brenn’s grandmother’s horror; but it took a lot of money to keep a house with fifteen rooms, and that was the best way to make ends meet and make sure the historic property stayed in good shape. Brenn had told her that he’d grown up helping his parents run, in essence, a hotel; he’d stayed in the garret, because even though there was no central heat or air there, there was lots of privacy and old junk to rummage through, which was perfect for a teenage boy who loved reading and making gadgets.

“It sounds charming indeed,” said Sansa. She turned to Liana. “Just imagine, you shall be the lady of Orchard Hill someday!”

“Uh, about that,” Liana said. “Lord Brenn is actually a younger son. The manor and its lands will go to his brother, Lord Addam.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, her face falling. “I thought…” She shot an annoyed glance at Jeyne, who looked embarrassed.

“Forgive me, Mistress Pyke,” Jeyne said. “I did not know about Lord Addam. I shouldn’t have assumed the lordship would devolve upon Lord Brenn.”

“It’s all right, Mistress Poole,” said Brenn, shrugging. “Being a younger son means that I’m free to pursue my studies. I’m fine with that.”

“But you do not belong to the Citadel,” Septa Mordane said cautiously.

Brenn’s open smile froze. He paused a moment, as if searching for the right words. Many other modern academics didn’t hate the maesters as much as Liana did, on account of her belief in the Lotus Way, but the reputation of the ancient order had never really recovered, given how they fancied themselves “knights of the mind” and fought with tooth and nail the foundation of universities and the modern public school system under the Velick kings. The maesterhood had eventually fractured into various orders—the New Citadel and Order of the Quill, among others—with the pro-education maesters becoming the ancestors of modern professors and doctors, eventually abandoning the soubriquet of “maester” altogether. In fact, the Conclave, after some of the archmaesters were implicated in an attempted coup against Queen Kitrin, was disbanded, with the grounds of the Citadel given over to the University of Oldtown, which turned it into their main campus, expanding until it became the internationally famous institution that Liana knew and loved (and to be honest, occasionally loathed).

“No,” said Brenn at last. “I made the decision to pursue my studies… independently. Lord Xandros has encouraged me in these goals, and it’s my wish to help him pursue his research into the properties of malignite and applied neutrinics.”

“Oh,” said Septa Mordane, and after there was an awkward pause, Sansa asked: “How is your brother, Lord Brenn? Is he much like you? Interested in his studies, I mean.”

“Oh no,” said Brenn, relaxing a little again. “Addam is as different from me as possible. He’s serious and responsible and he does everything Mom and Dad… I mean Mother and Father ask him him to do. I’m the younger brother, so I, um, get more leeway.”

“I don’t know what that could be like,” Arya said smartly, and Brenn laughed.

“Maybe. He thinks a lot about… money. And efficiency. And being polite. And doing everything in the right order. I tell him he has the soul of a seventy year old in a thirty year old’s body. He doesn’t like that.”

“You are a bit mean to him,” Liana said, remembering how Addam would text Brenn late at night to pester him about calling their parents or writing thank you notes to various aging relatives or coming back home to get his things out of the garret once and for all. Sometimes Brenn would get so frustrated Liana was afraid he’d throw his phone out the window, but instead he’d reply snarkily with memes or various gifs, most of which seemed to go over Addam’s head. “He’s not malicious. He… means well.”

“You know what they say about the road to hell and good intentions,” Brenn replied.

“You don’t mean that Addam is going to hell for being a nag!” Liana exclaimed.

“Of course not,” Brenn said. “I’m just worried he’s going to wake up one day and have the worst mid-life crisis you can imagine.”

Both Beth and Septa Mordane looked at sea during this conversation, but Jeyne cocked her head curiously while Sansa and Arya both leaned forward with keen fascination.

“Excuse me, Lord Brenn,” the redhead asked, her brow wrinkling. “What’s a ‘mid-life crisis’?”

Brenn scratched his head. “Oh… um… well, it’s a crisis of identity and self-confidence that occurs to certain individuals during their forties or fifties. This can often be triggered by large events like… children leaving the home, or a career change, or menopause.”

Everyone stared at him as if he’d sprouted another head. Utter silence descended upon the bower. “Um, I guess it’s more of a Reacher thing,” Brenn mumbled.

“Wait,” said Arya, folding her arms. “Let me see if I understand you. Is it where an older man or woman wakes up one day and feels regret? That life has passed them by?”

“That’s about right,” said Brenn, and Liana noticed the most indescribable expression flickering on Septa Mordane’s face. But then it was gone.

“How does that sound to you, Sansa?” Arya said.

“Why are you asking me that?” Sansa asked, her voice going up an octave as she gripped her hands together.

“I don’t know,” Arya said in a sing-song voice. “I just don’t want you to wake up when you’re an old woman and regret any missed oppurtunities.”

As Sansa gasped, Septa Mordane frowned as if she had bit into a quince. “Lady Arya,” the older woman said. “May I remind you that one is not old when one turns forty.”

Arya shrugged, but Sansa turned the color of wax, and she began to quiver. She rather looked as if she were about to have a heart attack. Lady began to whine.

“You are so rude, you know,” Sansa said tightly. “I won’t be old and staid. I won’t. I won’t regret anything!”

Liana and Jeyne shared an alarmed look. “Lady Sansa,” Septa Mordane said warningly. “Remember your manners…”

Sansa took a deep breath. “My lord Brenn. I am sorry. I… forgot myself. I was unforgivably rude. I hope you will forgive me.” Lady licked Sansa’s fingers, as if to reassure her. “Oh, you are so sweet,” Sansa whispered to her wolf. “The sweetest.”  

“There is nothing to forgive, my lady,” Brenn said. “I hope you will forgive me by bringing up something so tedious and incomprehensible.” He glanced at Liana, as if to say, Hey look, I can play the game too. Liana nodded, fighting the urge to give him the thumbs up. He really was a quick learner.

“I know a less tedious subject,” Jeyne interjected. “Dances from the Reach. I trust your lordship knows a few sprightly steps?”

Brenn blinked. “Uh… yes. Dancing. Yes. I know a bit about that.”

“Wonderful!” said Sansa, standing up, her skirts falling about her in graceful folds as Arya grimaced and Beth gazed at her her usual dazzled admiration. “Let us go down into the Great Hall. Would you mind if you showed us a dance or two, Lord Brenn? Of course,” she added graciously, “only if you are sufficiently recovered.”

Brenn shot Liana a concerned look, but she flashed a reassuring smile. For a moment, he looked conflicted; but a determined expression crossed his face, and he straightened his shoulders.

“It would be my honor, Lady Sansa.”

“How glorious!” Sansa cried. “Lead the way, Lord Brenn, we are all agog to learn the latest steps danced by the lords and ladies who dwell upon the Rose Road.”

As if to second Sansa’s decision, Lady woofed, and everyone in the bower laughed, except Brenn and Liana.

                                                                                 * * *

 “So you’re saying I shouldn’t teach everyone how to twerk,” Brenn murmured in Liana’s ear once they reached the Great Hall.

Liana almost choked on her laughter. “Brenn!” Wondering if the wine had completely gone to her head, she tapped him on the chest, feeling a small thrill at the contact. “No. Absolutely no twerking. Don’t you know anything respectable?”

“Me? Respectable?” Brenn placed his hand on his heart, trying to look innocent and trustworthy, but instead snickering. “I’m the most respectable guy you can imagine. Didn’t I tell Collin that taking Lindey to Nightmare on Oak Lane would be a date night winner?”

“That’s cute,” said Liana. “You realize your suggestion led to Lindey sleeping with the lights on for the next week, right?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault Collin thought it was just some cheesy old ‘80s horror movie!” Brenn protested. “That shit might be old, but it still packs a punch—” His voice trailed away when he realized that everyone was watching him. He reddened.

“Lord Brenn,” Sansa said, sweeping out her hand, gesturing to Robb, Theon and Jon, who approached; and Lady barked joyously to see them all. “May I introduce my brother, Lord Robb Stark, my father’s ward Lord Theon Greyjoy, and Jon Snow. Robb, Jon, Lord Theon, I should like introduce Lord Brenn Fossoway of Orchard Hill to you.”

A pretty introduction. However, Liana noticed how Sansa said nothing about Jon being Lord Stark’s alleged love child, and Brenn quirked an eyebrow at her. He wasn’t an Essian, and he might not know the full extent of the bullshit of the Prince’s Path, but like any educated modern person he knew the trajectory of Jon Snow’s unfortunately dramatic life. But of course, it wasn’t as if Robb or Theon’s life were lacking in drama, tragedy or horror. She was used to this by now—seeing them as lively, normal young men of their era—but Brenn was new to this.

To him, their pitch-black futures would loom overhead like the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb.

“I am so pleased to see you here in one piece, Lord Brenn!” Robb exclaimed, grinning as he scratched behind Lady’s ears. “Your betrothed was so concerned. We rescued her from filthy bandits nearly a moon ago, but she couldn’t rest knowing you were lost out in the forest. Thank the Seven you have been returned to her!”

“Thank the Seven,” Brenn echoed, staring at the young men with a slack-jawed expression that didn’t make him look too intelligent. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “It’s nice to meet you all. Lord Robb. Master Snow. Lord Torrhen.”

Behind her, Arya giggled, and Liana cringed. Theon’s grey-blue-green eyes bulged.

“It’s Theon,” he growled. “Theon. A simple enough name for even a greenlander to remember.”

The height difference between the two was remarkable. Theon was practically a munchkin next to Brenn, a lanky giant; but as Theon tensed and bared his teeth, beads of sweat popped up on Brenn’s forehead. For a moment Liana was afraid he would bolt from the hall. But he steeled himself and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Lord Theon. I have no memory for names.”

“Perhaps all the apples you eat, Fossoway, have blocked your brain as well as your bowels,” Theon snapped.

There was collective inhale of breath; Jeyne’s eyes had gone round, as had Robb’s; and Septa Mordane looked appalled. But before she could say anything, Sansa stepped forward.

“Lord Theon!” she hissed, her eyes as cold as glacier ice. “Lord Brenn has just returned from the most horrific ordeal today—and he has only been reunited with his dearest love only in the past two hours. Have you so little heart that you do not feel pity for his plight? Or do you only think of your own wounded pride and arrogance?”

Robb gaped at Sansa, amazed that his baby sister could even say such things, but Theon winced as if he’d been physically struck. “Sansa, I—”

“No!” Sansa annunciated every syllable with a brittle precision. “Don’t apologize to me. You must apologize to my guest, who you have insulted in my own hall.”

Theon gazed at her hopelessly; then, as Robb and the others continued to gawp, he turned to Brenn.

“Lord Brenn,” he said, his voice sounding rough and unused. “I spoke in haste. I was rude. I am… sorry.”

Brenn sighed. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have borked your name. The Greyjoys are super famous, even down in Oldtown.” This was clearly the right thing to say, as Theon’s miserable expression became somewhat less miserable. “It’s just that I’m an airhead sometimes.”

“An airhead,” Theon said blankly.

“You know, a head filled with air. That’s me. Figuratively speaking. Hey, Mistress Poole!”

“Yes?” Jeyne chirped up.

“Can you bring us all something to drink? Something stronger than wine, ideally.”

“Mulled wine?” Sansa asked.

“Pepperwine?” put in Robb.

“Good Northern ale?” Jon said.

“Nah. Something… distilled. Do they have distilled drinks here?” Brenn scratched his head with an absent-minded air. “They should have something. They have alembics. Surely some distillation exists… ”

“Do you mean boiled wine?” Jeyne asked, as everyone glanced around in confusion. “That’s partially boiled in an alembic. We have some bottles sent to us from White Harbor, that originally came from Tyrosh. Lord Manderly is quite fond of it.”

“Yes, that’s it!” Brenn snapped his fingers. “Boiled wine. And peanuts.”

“What is a peanut?” Sansa asked, her nose wrinkling.

“It’s a nut from, uh… overseas.” Well, that was a quick save. Liana sighed in relief. Like chocolate, tomatoes, potatoes, chili peppers, maize and tobacco, peanuts were a crop originally domesticated in Nymerios, and wouldn’t be common in Westeros for centuries. “It’s very tasty. But guess you guys don’t have it up here yet. Anything fried would be good.”

Sensing a way to break the ice, Jeyne jumped to it, ordering several servants to fetch boiled wine, fried bread and chickpea pottage for the young lords and ladies.

But wait… Liana’s eyes narrowed. Wasn’t chickpea pottage supposed to be an aphrodisiac? Wasn’t that what they ate at the brothel in Winter Town? Did Jeyne order this on purpose?

Not wanting to dwell too much on the issue, and to pass the time before the arrival of the booze and snacks, Liana—as they all gathered around a nearby table— retold the short yet deliciously dark tale of the Leper Prince and the Wise Councillor.

This was one of the shorter stories from the collection of Queen Sherazan, and it was about a leprous Qartheen prince of Pureborn blood who called forth a mage to help heal him of his foul ailment. The mage did his best to help the nobleman, but the sickness was too far advanced, and the mage could not restore the prince to his former youth and beauty; for this, the mage was hung on a cross outside the city gates and left to die an excruciating death, without even a proper burial, with the carrion birds picking his bones.

Yet, when the mage’s will was read, it was noticed, to the surprise of all the city, that the mage’s most valuable grimoire was left to the prince, with a note from the mage saying the prince, once he read the grimoire, would gain everything he deserved.

The prince, greedy to discover the mage’s secrets, and ecstatic at the thought of receiving everything he he deserved, was thrilled to receive the grimoire, and immediately set to reading it. As was his habit, the prince sat up late reading, licking his fingers before he turned each page. A habit (said Liana) that the mage had previously observed.

And, as the prince succumbed to cramps and bloating, weeping blood, and his bowels and belly eaten away, he finally realized the mage’s last gift: the pages of the book were poisoned with the Tears of Lys.

And thus, the mage’s note came true. The prince had read the grimoire. And he did get everything he deserved.

“I love it,” said Arya, rubbing her hands with glee when the story was done. “That prince should have known better than to tangle with a powerful mage.”

“You would like a tale of bloody revenge,” Sansa said with a sniff, and Arya stuck her tongue out.

“The way you like soppy stories of handsome knights charging up hillsides and ladies weeping prettily in their bowers?” Arya retorted, just as Jessa and a younger girl brought in a jar of boiled wine and a plates of fried bread and pottage.

“That’s quite enough.” Septa Mordane rose. “Arya, you’re too young for boiled wine. It’s time for us to join Bran and Rickon in the nursery.”

“The nursery!” Arya wailed. “I’m eleven years old, not a baby! Septa, let me stay. I’ll be good. I promise!”

“It warms my heart to hear this, Lady Arya, but the fact remains you are too young.”

“But Beth is staying here. Beth! She’s only a year older than me. Why is she staying, while I must go? Why?”

“Because Beth Cassel is a young lady, and she behaves as one.” As Mordane said this, Beth visibly straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, presumably to look all the more lady-like. “Once you behave like a young lady, than you will be treated as one.”

“But I don’t want to be a lady! I won’t! You can’t make me!”

“And that’s why you’re not staying with your sister and brothers and their friends,” Septa Mordane responded, and Liana thought, Snap. With a professional ease no doubt coming from long practice, the septa guided a squalling Arya out of the Great Hall, and Brenn murmured into her ear:

“I think that lady deserves a medal.”

“I think you’re right,” Liana said, and a glass of boiled wine was placed in front of her by a pink-cheeked Jessa. “Thank you, Jessa,” she said, before imbibing, and grimacing.

“So how is it?” Brenn asked.

“It tastes like a cross between the worst brandy you can imagine and the six dollar quart of vodka from the liquor store near my old apartment in the Flatlands,” Liana muttered. As Brenn quaffed it, he made a face, and said, “I’d agree with your assessment. It also seems to have a distinct whiff of… flowers?”

“Elderflowers,” said Jeyne, sitting near them. “The Tyroshi also call this decoction ‘the ghosts of flowers.’”

“Well, it’s good and strong,” Brenn said. “That’s fine with me. I salute you, Mistress Poole, for getting the drink and the food. You are a true heroine.”

Jeyne smiled and blushed in such a way, that Liana began to feel annoyed all over again, and she glanced covertly at Jon, who was sitting at the corner of the table, wreathed in his usual gloom. But for once, he seemed a touch less gloomy than Theon, who sat next to him, head on his hand, while Lady snuffled against him.

God, Theon looks like such a sad sack, Liana thought. I have to do something about that.

“My friends,” Liana proclaimed as she stood. “may I suggest a toast?”

“A toast!” Robb cried. “Hear hear!”

“To what?” Sansa asked.

“Why, to what else?” Liana said. As she flung out her arm, she thought of Violante from The Fallen Woman, and the famous “drinking” duet, and inspiration struck. “I propose a toast to joy—to friendship— to the fleeting hours adorned with pleasure—but most of all, I wish to toast to love—and to the secret raptures that love excites. My friends, to love!”

“To love!” Brenn echoed, his eyes shining, raising his cup.

“To love!” Jeyne exclaimed, glancing shyly at Jon, who stared at the brunette, tongue-tied.

“To love!” Robb said with a grin, while Sansa whispered, “To love,” gazing over her cup’s edge at Theon.

“To love,” Theon said hoarsely, before he upended the cup and drank a deep draught, wiping his mouth with a flourish that managed to be simultaneously crude, sensual and despairing. Sansa continued to stare, moistening her lips a little with her tongue, and all at once Theon’s eyes blazed so that Liana realized that if they were alone, the chances were good that Sansa’s maidenhead wouldn’t last out the hour.

“To love,” little Beth said with a giggle, looking around, her plump cheeks red as beets. Liana could hardly believe she was drinking and toasting with people barely old enough to be in high school—Beth herself was barely old enough to be in junior high—but her stay at Winterfell had been surreal from the beginning. She sat down again, and Brenn took her hand.

“That was a hell of a toast,” he said in a low voice.

“Wasn’t it?” She flushed as his fingers cradled her own. “I cribbed it from Verdyon.”

“That’s the opera guy, right? I couldn’t tell.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t expect other people to like opera like I do.”

“I could learn,” Brenn said, tightening his grasp on her hand. “After all, you have such amazing taste. I should look into it.”

“I don’t know if my taste is that amazing. You might hate it.”

“Do you think so? I’m not so sure. After all, you orchestrated all this.” He waved around the table as everyone continued to drink and nosh on bread and pottage. “Everyone was at each other’s throats earlier. But your toast worked like a charm.”

Liana squirmed. “Is ‘orchestrated’ the right word?”

“I think it’s the perfect word.” Brenn gave her a lopsided grin. “If I may be so bold. But we are betrothéd after all.” He placed an exaggerated accent on the last syllable, so it sounded like be-troth-ed.

“Betrothed.” She blinked. “Sorry, I mean be-troth-ed. We are. Allegedly.”

“Yes. Allegedly. Betrothedly?”

“Is betrothedly a word?” Liana mused.

“It is now. Or should I say, it is now, my lady?”

“See, you’re fitting in already! Using the proper lingo and everything.”

“Hey, I’ve seen enough old movies. With all the hand-kissing and swashbuckling and putting fists on hips and throwing your head back and laughing like Errill Flint.”

Liana imagined Brenn laughing like Errill Flint in The Adventures of Princess Sansa and she almost went cross-eyed. “I really hope you’re not going to put your fists on your hips and laugh like that.”

“No,” Brenn murmured. “But I was thinking of trying the hand-kissing part. You see, Mistress Pyke? I’m a fast learner.”

And with that, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

It was, technically, far more chaste than the kiss they’d shared back in his rooms, but the sensation of his mouth pressing slowly into the back of her hand made her shiver with pleasure. He began to stroke the soft mound of her palm, and he kissed her knuckles lightly, the warmth of his breath skimming in the most tantalizing way across her skin.

“Brenn,” she whispered, and her heart thudded so fast in her chest she thought it might burst free at any moment.

His hazel eyes darkened. “Liana, I—”

“Lord Brenn!” Sansa lurched up. “You promised to teach us a dance from the Reach. Can you teach us the steps? Please?”

“What my sister means to say is that she wants to be taught a pretty southron dance before we get too drunk to execute the steps,” Robb said, and Theon, relaxing from the copious amounts of crude liquor, laughed.

“I don’t know about you, Robb, but I can dance a reel even when I’m reeling ripe. As a Greyjoy, I can hold my wine. I take pride in it.”

“Oh, I know you do. Good thing you’re not wearing your boots, is it? How can you execute any pretty steps if you’re lumbering around like a drunken sailor?”

“I trust you will not lumber around like a drunken sailor,” Sansa retorted. “Even shod in your choicest footwear.”

Theon pressed his hand to his breast. “For you, my lady, I will dance as lightly as a thrush. Isn’t that right, Lady?” Lady wagged her tail. “See?” Theon patted the wolf’s head. “Your loyal wolf agrees. I shall not embarrass you further. I give my most solemn oath. By salt. By stone. By steel.”

“Oh, Theon,” Sansa said, turning away, her cheeks burning as Robb laughed, clueless as ever. Jeyne raised her eyebrows so high Liana thought they might fall off her face.

“All right,” Brenn said, rising. “Enough chit-chat. It’s dancing time!”

Oh God, Liana wondered, what was Brenn going to show off? But he gestured to Liana to join him.

“What are you going to do?” she said.

“Nothing crazy. The basic foxtrot. Do you know it?”

“My parents did meet at salsa dancing lessons,” Liana said, putting a hand on her hip. “So I’m not a complete klutz.”

“Okay.” Brenn placed his right hand on her waist, while she placed her left hand on his shoulder, and they extended their other arms out the side. Her stomach fluttered at his closeness.

“Be sure to keep it simple, though,” she said. “I don’t want to step on your feet.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “This is the simplest, most klutz-proof dance out there.”

“What are you showing us, Lord Brenn?” Sansa asked, her eyes widening. “I’ve never seen a dance like this before.”

Of course. Partner dancing like this didn’t become popular until the Revolution, when the Rhoynelandish valzan (or waltz as it came to be called) took society by storm. Before that, Westrians danced in promenades or group dances. Liana remembered reading about one dance called The Falcon and the Swallow, where a youth would dance in long falcon-like circles, pursuing a maiden, who would turn in fast, darting circles like a swallow; they would approach closely, only to pass speedily; they would then float and circle more, as a harpist played a delicate melody. Probably Sansa excelled at such dances, but fortunately Liana hadn’t been asked to dance in such a way, or she would probably trip on her hem and fall on her face.  

“It’s called a foxtrot,” said Brenn.

“A fox trot,” said Robb, his brow furrowing. “Is this a dance invented on Florent lands?” At Brenn’s blank look, Robb added gently: “The sigil of their house is a fox, Lord Brenn.”

“Oh, sure,” said Brenn hastily. “I knew that. Uh, maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, this is simple enough. So, for the men, you start on your left foot. Walk forward—step, step, then side, side. Slow, slow—quick, quick.”

Liana, having taken one ballroom dancing class in college, had some idea what to do next. “And for the ladies,” said Liana, “you start on your right foot and go backwards. Step, step, side, side. Or—slow, slow—quick, quick.”

Fortunately, it was a klutz-proof dance, and Brenn moved slowly, as they turned in circles, demonstrating the four-count steps. This was probably the safest dance Brenn could have chosen to demonstrate, and Liana thought that they danced like a sedate middle-aged couple in old film footage of the Coconut Derby, but Robb, Sansa, Theon, Jon, Jeyne and Beth watched their dance moves with open mouths, as if they had just invented rock and roll.

“So it’s simple enough, right?” Brenn said. “Lord Robb, why don’t you give it a try?”

“Yes,” Liana said, suddenly inspired. “Beth, I hear you’re a wonderful dancer.” Actually, she had heard nothing of the sort, but if Robb danced with Beth, Theon and Sansa and Jon and Jeyne could pair up. But Beth bounced up, her cheeks glowing.

“Oh yes!” she said proudly. “I can dance the falcon and the swallow, and the dance of the bells, and the reel of three, the sixsome reel, and strip the birch, and many others.” She curtsied to Robb. “My lord.”

“My lady,” Robb said with a grin as he bowed. He put his arms about her, very gentlemanly, but Beth blushed even more. “Don’t be shy, little Beth,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. I haven’t stepped on anyone’s feet during a dance since the harvest feast two years ago.”

“All right,” said Brenn, interrupting to spare Beth more blushes, and they demonstrated the steps again. Robb and Beth danced well, if awkwardly, though after a moment they stopped. Robb turned back to the table.

“Theon, Jon,” he said. “I’m not going to dance while you two lummoxes gawk. Come, join me!”

Theon, with alacrity, jumped up, grabbing Sansa, while Jon glared at him, before turning to Jeyne, who fiddled anxiously with her fingers before taking his hand. As Jon gingerly took Jeyne into a gentle embrace, an appalled yet fascinated expression came over Jeyne’s countenance, as Jon, with a hooded, intense gaze, took her right hand and held it out stiffly from their bodies. However, Theon—never one to be careful— swept Sansa into his arms, and Sansa gazed at him, starry-eyed, enthralled, her bosom heaving, as Robb gave them a surprised glance. Light dawns over Marblehead, thought Liana, suddenly queasy. By the Lady…

“I’m sure you’re wondering what we’re going to do for music,” Liana said loudly, hoping to distract Robb from putting two and two together. “Well, I shall sing, if you don’t mind. In fact, I know just the song.”

“Just remember the steps,” Brenn said. “Step, step, quick, quick. Step, step, quick, quick…”

And Liana, as she and Brenn slowly went through the paces of the foxtrot, began to sing one of her mother’s favorite songs, a classic from the golden age of cinema, hoping she wouldn’t be horribly off key.

Heaven… I’m in heaven...

And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak

And I seem to find the happiness I seek

When we’re out together dancing, cheek to cheek.

Heaven… I’m in heaven…

And the cares that hang around me through the week

Seem to vanish like a gambler’s lucky streak

When we’re out together dancing, cheek to cheek.

Oh! I love to climb a mountain,

And to reach the highest peak,

But it doesn’t thrill me half as much

As dancing cheek to cheek.

Oh! I love to go out fishing

In a river or a creek,

But I don’t enjoy it half as much

As dancing cheek to cheek.

Brenn smiled at her, his hand tightening about her waist. “You have a lovely voice,” he whispered into her ear, his cheek in fact brushing hers. His stubble tickled. “I think I am in heaven.”

“That’s a hell of a line, Brenn,” Liana whispered back.

“How can it be a line, when it’s the truth?” Brenn murmured, and as he swept her around, her heart raced, and she suddenly felt woozy from all the wine and brandy she’d drunk.

“Shush,” she said. “Don’t talk too much, or I’ll lose my place.”

Dance with me

I want my arm about you

The charm about you

Will carry me through to… heaven…

I’m in heaven…

And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak

And I seem to find the happiness I seek

When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.

After she ran out of verses, she hummed as she and Brenn circled around, checking in on the progress of their students. Robb and Beth, once they’d relaxed, were possibly the best dancers, hoofing about ably, while Jon and Jeyne danced in an adequate but stiff and self-conscious fashion, like clockwork figures, as Jon tried to avoid staring at Jeyne, who was by now in a permanent state of blush.

Meanwhile, Sansa and Theon were barely trying, just wrapped in each other’s arms, moving in slow, pendulous circles, gazing raptly into each other’s eyes, like the drunkest couple on prom night.

Whoa boy, thought Liana. If Robb doesn’t know now…

But there was nothing she could do. All she could hope was that Theon would fob Robb off later with some convincing excuse. God, it had been such a long day already. Had she really been out with Jeyne earlier, watching the rush harvest?

All at once exhausted, Liana collapsed back down by the bench, wishing for water, as Lady nosed up to her hand, sniffling and licking. Brenn sat besides her, experimentally scratching Lady’s head, who didn’t seem to mind the extra attention.

“We really could use some musicians about now,” Liana said to Brenn, and someone said behind her: “Milord, milady, if I may be of service?”

Brenn and Liana swivelled around to see a dark-skinned gentleman in a gaudy yellow patterned tunic sweeping a low bow. He looked oddly familiar; and it took her a moment to realize who he was.

“I know you,” Liana said. “You’re the Dornish juggler I saw in town… yesterday morning.” Good God, she thought with shock, she had sneaked Sansa into the brothel only yesterday morning! She really needed a day where she could do nothing but sleep. The amount of crap she had to do every day was getting ridiculous.

“Milady,” said the juggler as he brandished a flute. “I am Garin of Yronwood. I have some musical inclination myself, and I know some fine musicians willing to perform for such distinguished company.”

There were several men behind him, dressed less gaudily, bearing viols, citterns, a small bagpipe, and a portable snare drum. As she glanced behind him, wondering who let them in, the juggler added: “The guardsman Alyn admitted us, when we asked if we could play for the castle folk. He told us our music would be welcomed by the little lords and ladies—he said that Lady Sansa herself adores all types of music.”

“That’s true enough,” she said.

“I should love to hear a reel,” Lord Robb said, circling around with Beth. “No offense, Mistress Pyke, but this is the North, and I itch when I dance too many Southron styles.”

“I do love a reel!” Beth exclaimed, and Garin the juggler bowed again.

“The young Lord Stark! I am honored by your interest. Your wish is my command.”

Robb clapped his hands. “Listen, everyone! We shall have some real music. A sixsome reel.” He gestured to a few guards. “If you could move the tables to make some space…”

As the guards jumped to moving a few tables to the side, Jon, Jeyne, Theon and Sansa broke away, all, in their own ways, like the old song said, bewitched, bothered and bewildered.

“Everyone, get into place!” Robb ordered, and meekly, everyone obeyed the future Lord of Winterfell, who apparently had his heart set on a reel. Liana wasn’t about to argue. Maybe the exercise would drive the thought of his sister wrapped in Theon Greyjoy’s arms out of Robb’s mind.

The couples formed a rough circle, and as the music struck up a lively reel, they danced in a ring; first clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then weaving through, women first, and then men. And then, one by one, a girl would go into the middle of the circle, dancing a reel, flinging her hands up, stepping high, before rejoining her partner, who swung her around with their arms linked.

When Sansa first trotted out into the middle, she flung her head back, her coiffure dissolving, her rose-copper hair flying in tendrils about her face, her steps both wild and graceful as she danced before Theon, smiling flirtatiously, one arm up, the other on her hip, her slippered feet flashing as she danced on her toes. But instead of swinging her around, Theon picked her up by the waist and swung her bodily through the air, her skirts swirling as she shrieked in surprise and joy. The rest of the circle moved on, Jeyne doing her solo dance—holding her skirts up as she trod her measure, revealing a goodly amount of leg, which made Jon’s eyes almost pop out— and then Beth, who placed her hands behind her back and whirled around like a top. But Sansa’s joy was contagious, and even Jon laughed and picked up Jeyne, who gasped. Not to be outdone, Robb did the same for Beth, who squealed happily.  

The dance became louder and faster and rowdier, and Liana could see their sweat and the flash of their teeth as they all laughed in their exertions. As the boys did their own solo dances, leaping and flinging their arms about, Theon and Robb and even Jon trying to outdo each other in grace and athleticism, guards and servants gathered around, clapping and whooping, as the musicians played faster and faster, the flutes and bagpipe ululating wildly, the high notes piercing the afternoon air like cries, the tabor beating in a savage uneven beat, thrumming in her very bones, and Liana could not help but tap her feet. The other servants began to dance their own reels, and the Hall now thronged with dancers, and Liana was this close to jumping up and seizing Brenn by the hands and dancing a reel of her own, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She whirled around to see Lord and Lady Stark standing behind her. “Did you two do this?” Lord Stark said, his eyes twinkling.

“Such wild northern dancing,” said Lady Stark. “So different from what I grew up with at Riverrun.”

“But you dance the reel as well as anyone,” said Lord Stark, and Lady Stark smiled shyly at him. “I had a good teacher,” she said, and they beamed at each other with such obvious affection that Liana felt a little like she was intruding.

“Lord Brenn, if you could come with me,” said Lord Stark, gesturing politely to the back door. “I should like to discuss the matter of the message to send to your family regarding your safe return.”

“Uh, of course,” Brenn said, clambering up, glancing at Liana nervously.

“We shall watch the dancing together,” said Lady Stark to Liana, smiling at her with such warmth Liana began to feel ashamed. Soon, Sansa would be running off with Theon, and Liana was sworn to secrecy; God, how Lady Stark would suffer at her daughter’s disappearance! But it was for own good, she told herself. Best for her to suffer for a little while, and have Sansa whisked off to safety, rather than have her fall into Lannister clutches, and the entire family destroyed.

But somehow, she didn’t feel much better. The more Lady Stark smiled at her, the more she wanted to hide under the table.

“We shall be back soon,” Lord Stark promised, and he was off with Brenn.

Liana pasted a smile on her face, and continued to watch the dancing, and Lady Stark began to clap in time to the rhythm, and so did Liana, and she tried to lose herself in the music, and not think at all.

She didn’t want to think…

For soon enough, the world would come crashing down around them.

Chapter Text

When Lord Stark returned later to the Great Hall, it was without Brenn. But as Liana gazed at his lordship with trepidation, he explained kindly that the young man was exhausted and needed to lie down for a few hours.

Then he took his wife by the hand, and they both danced a lively rendition of strip-the-birch. It was a remarkable sight, to see the two with their arms linked, spinning like tops, with Lord Stark’s long face wreathed in a bright smile, and Lady Stark’s eyes sparkling auburn hair flying like a skein of coppery silk, as Robb, Jon, Theon, Sansa and Jeyne and others whooped and clapped to the beat. She was tempted to watch further, but it was no fun without Brenn, and she kept worrying about him besides. As everyone continued to dance, Liana went back to her own room to lie down herself.

At first, as she lay on her bed, all she could think about was Brenn, and everything that had happened today. But soon, her exhaustion—the activity—and the alcohol—at last caught up with her, and she found herself sinking into a blessed oblivion.

                                                                               * * *

 Dinner was a subdued affair. Robb, Theon and Sansa were all pale and in the throes of what looked to be incipient hangovers. She couldn’t see Jon, but Jeyne, just as pale as the rest of them, waved feebly to Liana from her usual place at the lower table, since Liana was now, wonder of wonders, seated at the high table with the Starks, at Brenn’s right hand.

When she entered the Great Hall, Brenn sat slumped with his head propped up on his hand, her heart leapt at the sight of him. As Jessa gestured to her new seat, Liana wanted to drape her arms about him, and lay her head on his shoulder, but clearly this had to wait.

“Are you all right?” she whispered in his ear, as she slid into the seat next to him.

“I’m fine,” he whispered back. “Just a bit tired. I needed some rest.”

“What did you talk about with—?”

He shook his head a little. “Come to my room later. I can tell you then.”

Since everyone was under a pall after all the excessive celebrating earlier, the only ones who had any energy were Bran, Rickon, and Arya, which made for a rather one-sided conversation. Since this was the first time Bran had met Brenn—also the first Reachman he’d ever been introduced to—the little boy was especially curious, and once he’d eaten his fill of braised pheasant with wild mushrooms, kept bubbling up with questions.

“So, my Lord Brenn,” Bran began eagerly, “I am told that you’re a Fossoway, of the yellow apple branch.”

Brenn nodded, picking at the remains of his special dish of whole turtledoves, which Maester Luwin had recommend for a memory aid. “Yes, I am, Lord Bran.” His eyes darted between Bran and Liana. Liana knew he was thinking of Bran’s miserable future… in the original timeline. God willing, it would be averted here.

“Then you must know Daeron Fossoway!” Bran exclaimed. “He was Rhaegar Targaryen’s last squire. He knew all the great knights, like Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy!”

“And Marro Zarro vo Narro!” cried Rickon. Arya giggled, but Bran rolled his eyes impatiently.

“That’s not a real name, Rickon,” the little boy said. “Forgive my brother, Lord Brenn. He likes to make up names sometimes. You were saying?”

“No worries, Lord Bran,” Brenn said. “Daeron Fossoway was—is—my great-uncle.” Liana noticed how he then shared an uneasy glance with Ned Stark. Had this been one of the subjects they’d discussed? “I never met him, though.”

“Oh.” Bran sounded disappointed, but quickly bounced back. “But you must have known many members of the Kingsguard yourself. And you must have seen many tourneys—with all the wonderful horses—and the shining armor—and the silk banners flying in the wind—”

“My son is quite taken by the idea of tournaments and feats of knightly valor,” Lady Stark said fondly. “You must give him some allowance for childish enthusiasm, Lord Brenn. He’s never yet seen one himself. They’re not much for tourneys in the North,” she added, giving her husband a pointed stare.

Lord Stark’s face froze, as if he were remembering something he’d rather forget. “Tourneys are Southron mummeries,” he muttered at last. “There’s no need for that here.”

At that, Lady Stark grew quiet. Her expression became closed off, as she became very preoccupied with pushing a mushroom around her plate with her knife. Liana suddenly wanted to throw something at Lord Stark. He was a good man, but so dense.

Brenn coughed.

“Unfortunately, Lady Stark— my lord Bran—my father’s seat is far out in the country, and I’ve never spent much time in Kingsp… King’s Landing. There aren’t a lot of Kingsguard knights in Oldtown. As for tourneys, I’ve only seen one.”

Brenn’s speech had become, since the afternoon, more measured and mannered. Liana remembered how it had taken her a few days to get the hang of courtly Late Archaic Common, and she winced recalling how she had, when first arriving, talked about hanging out on the beach in the Summer Isles, and how Arya had said she was “funny.”

“It must have been very exciting,” Bran said, gazing into the distance. “I’d love to see a tourney. It must be the most wonderful thing on earth.”

“It was… interesting,” Brenn said evasively, and Liana wondered just what kind of tourney he had seen. “But to be honest, my lord Bran, I’m not much for tourneys.”

“Bran,” Lord Stark broke in before his son could ask any more questions about knights, “his lordship here is the apprentice to an Essosi mage. The customs of Westerosi knighthood are not in his area of his study.”

“Oh,” Bran said again, this time thoughtfully. “But you must have travelled a great deal then.”

Brenn nodded. “Yes, I have.”

“You must have seen very many exciting places. Like Volantis. Have you seen an elephant?”

“Oh yes.” Brenn smiled. “I have been to Volantis, and I’ve seen lots of elephants.”

“You have?” Bran waved his hands in excitement. “Were they as big as a tower? Were their tusks sheathed in gold and jewels? Did they have houses on their backs made of ivory?”

“Ella-fant! Ella-fant!” Baby Rickon chanted, waving his fist in the air, as Lady Stark laughed, as she wiped the sauce off his face, before waving the nurse over to take him back to the nursery.

“Well,” said Brenn, after Rickon and the nurse had gone, “the ones I saw were as big as a cottage, so I’d say they’re about a little less than twice my height? None of them have gilded tusks, and as for a house of ivory, I would never put that on an elephant, because ivory comes from dead elephants, and elephants are very intelligent. I’ve heard that elephants can sense when people wear ivory jewelry. They’ll touch the jewelry with their trunks—elephants are very curious animals—and become visibly distressed.”

“But they’re merely mute beasts!” Bran objected. “How would they know?”

“Elephants are one of the most intelligent species in the world,” Brenn said. “They do abstract paintings for fun. They have elaborate mourning rituals. Calves even weep when their mothers die.”

Bran’s eyes grew round. “They do?”

“Yes. They have proper funerals, and they bury their dead family members. They touch their trunks upon the dead body, and they rumble, and after standing vigil for many hours, they’ll cover their loved one with branches and leaves. It’s very sad.”

“I had no idea,” Bran said in awe. “I never thought about elephants being sad before. I always thought of them as being big… and frightening… and going into battle.”

“Well, they are big, and they can be frightening,” said Brenn. “And they have been traditionally used for battle. But elephants have highly developed family units, and they grieve the way humans would.”

“So would an elephant child miss his mother… like a human child?” Bran glanced fearfully at Lady Stark, who smiled warmly at him. Liana felt tears rising to her eyes.

“He definitely would. Unfortunately, poachers kill elephants for ivory all the time in Essos. Thousands upon thousands of Volantian, Moraqi and Sothoryian elephants are butchered every year for the jewelry trade, and many elephant calves are orphaned in the process.” Brenn’s face darkened. “I hate it.”

“Oh,” Bran said again, but this time, his own eyes shone with tears. “Poor little calves. I swear, Lord Brenn, I shall never wear ivory. I promise you.”

“Thank you,” said Brenn.

“I’m not surprised Southron vanity should be so destructive,” Lord Stark said gruffly. “Forgive me, Lord Brenn. But it grieves me that such gentle beasts should suffer for the follies of man.” He toyed with his goblet, frowning. “I heard that the Lannisters once kept an elephant in captivity. They have a menagerie, of sorts, at Casterly Rock. Lord Tywin once told me of it. He seemed very fond of the idea of keeping animals in cages.”

“Perhaps… the elephant is still alive, Ned?” Lady Stark said hopefully.

“An elephant can live up to seventy years,” said Brenn. “But it really depends on the environment and the diet.”

“In that case,” Lord Stark said in darkling tones, “I doubt the poor creature still breathes.”

This was a damning indictment, especially coming from Lord Stark’s lips, and Lady Stark paled. Liana shot a covert glance at Sansa, who swayed a little; Theon looked as if he wanted to rush to her side and hold her, but clearly this was not an option. He bit his lower lip in agony as Sansa straightened herself, gripping the edge of the table as she did so.  

“Your tales of Essos are fascinating, Lord Brenn,” Sansa said faintly.

“Thanks,” said Brenn. “I mean, ah, thank you, my lady. I’ve spent some time there. And animals interest me.”

Sansa smiled a little. “First swans, now elephants! Perhaps you should have your own sigil, Lord Brenn. Rather than three apples, perhaps three animals. So a swan, an elephant, and… what should the third creature be?”

“A wyvern,” Brenn said immediately. “They’re fascinating, but they’re complete assh… I mean, little monsters.”

Wyverns were assholes, and Liana grinned. “They’re monsters, all right,” she said.

Arya’s eyes widened. “You’ve seen wyverns?”

“Yes, my lady,” Brenn said. “I’ve been to Sothoryos. They’re still pretty common there. Brownbellies as well as well as shadow-wings, green swamp wyverns as well as the brindled variety.” He paused. Liana knew he’d been to Yeen once with her uncle, on a field mission to harvest malignite; she’d seen the photos on them posing next to an overgrown temple on their social media pages. But she could perceive he was reluctant to mention it, as it might lead to uncomfortable questions and a general sense of horror. Yeen, unfortunately, often had that effect on people.

He continued hastily: “I’ve also seen them in the marketplace in Old Volantis, dead and alive. Parts of them are popular in Yi Tish traditional medicine, and some deluded people like to keep baby wyverns as pets.”

Ah yes—the black market wyvern trade, which Liana had seen a little of back in Qarth. Northern Sothoryos was, without a doubt, the most wild, lawless place on the planet. Not only was wildlife smuggled to black market buyers all over the globe, but modern-day pirates took shelter in the thousands of miles of unpoliced coastline and terrorists had training camps deep in the jungle. That part of the southern continent was still largely uninhabited, unlike the more hospitable Further South beneath the Green Hell and the Great Desert, but large swathes of it had been claimed by Volantia, Ghiscaria, and Yi Ti, with most of the native flora and fauna exterminated to make space for huge coffine, palm oil and rubber plantations, with local populations of brindled men (or robust australopicines, to use a more modern and less problematic phrase) working in the fields.

But this was only the northern tip of the continent. The Green Hell was still the Green Hell, and a no-man’s land, and too dangerous for none but the most desperate criminals. There had been some talk by various countries to use contained wildfires to try to convert the jungle to agriculture. But it was, according to some environmental activists, best left alone, as it was vital to carbon emission strategies, and absorbed fifteen percent of Erthe’s carbon dioxide.

“Oooh,” said Arya. “Have you ever seen a dragon?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Brenn with a sigh. “I’d like to, but it’s not going to happen.” The last dragons disappeared with Daenerys Targaryen; and even though various scientists over the eras (including men under the monstrous Chancellor Kroe of Rhoyneland, the man who single-handedly started the second Great War) had tried to breed wyverns into dragons, like the Valyrian bloodmages of old, it went nowhere.  

“Speaking of dragons,” said Sansa. “The name of your great-uncle… Daeron… is a Targaryen name, and not one I’ve heard before, outside the Targaryen line.”

“Oh yeah. I mean, um, yes, my lady. Lady Sansa.” Brenn pressed his large hands together, as if concentrating on what he would say next.

“My house,” he began, “was a knightly house until the beginning of the third century, when an earlier Addam Fossoway joined Lords Dondarrion and Caron to bear arms against the rapacious brigand of the Red Mountains of Dorne, the so-called Vulture King. My ancestor so distinguished himself by his valor that King Daeron, the second of his name, elevated our house to noble status, and thus forward, fourth-born sons in our line were given the name of Daeron, to commemorate the king who had honored us.”

It was a rather stilted recitation, and one Brenn had clearly memorized and rehearsed, but the language was perfect. As Liana smiled at him, Sansa asked:

“Why only fourth-born sons, Lord Brenn? That seems a very particular detail.”

“It is particular,” Brenn said. “You see, there is a reason why there are three apples on my family crest.”

“What is that, Lord Brenn?” Lady Stark queried. “I do love hearing family histories, and I admit my knowledge of the Reach is not as strong as it could be.”

“Of course, my lady.” Brenn cleared his throat. “Back in the days of Viserys I, Lord Orchard of Orchard Hill died, leaving behind his only heir, his daughter, Rowena. My distant ancestor, Ser Addam Fossoway, from the lowliest and most obscure cadet branch of House Fossoway, came riding to Orchard Hill—accompanied by his brothers Brenn and Corin—to woo the young heiress. We don’t have a lot of details how the suit went, but legend goes that Rowena was charmed by Addam, as well as by his brothers. So Rowena married Addam. And when he died in battle, she married Brenn— and when he died in battle, she married Corin. Her eldest son by Addam became the next lord of Orchard Hill, though they were, technically, only a knightly house until Daeron II’s reign.

“You see, the three apples represent the three knights who rode to Orchard Hill. Addam, Brenn, and Corin. A, B, and C. So for some reason we have this tradition that only first-born sons are named Addam—the second-born are named Brenn—and third-born are named Corin. Daeron starts with D, so family tradition holds that only fourth-born sons may carry that name. It’s not very original, and it’s really repetitive, and it makes for very confusing geneaology,” Brenn finished apologetically.

“I think it’s charming,” said Lady Stark. “Many families have their own peculiarities, is that not so, Lord Brenn?”

Brenn bowed his head. “It is so, Lady Stark.”

“Your house words-- high hangs the bough,” Lord Stark interjected. “That is in part, I believe, due to the height of your family?” He paused. “When I met your great-uncle at the Tourney of Harrenhal, I noticed that immediately. It was said he rivaled a full-grown apple tree for height.”

Liana glanced with amusement towards Brenn. There’s your apple references, she thought, and he reddened.

“Yes, my lord. That is what I have heard.”

“At certain angles, he really did look like you…” Lord Stark sipped thoughtfully at his wine, as he stared into the distance. “He was only a youth when I met him, your great-uncle Daeron, but he had a way about him, that charmed even Prince Rhaegar. He could make the prince laugh, a gift that not many men had.”

His face clouded, and everybody became wan and still. Liana reminded herself that Prince Rhaegar, at this date, was still considered to be the rapist and abductor of Lyanna Stark. Only Lord Stark knew the truth, because… she racked her brain… he had made a promise to his sister to keep her son secret. God. Jon Snow. The Maguffin Targaryen of the Sagas.

“So,” Liana exclaimed after a long, exceedingly awkward pause. “My dear Lord Brenn. Do you have any interesting stories about your Orchard lineage? I’m sure you must know something interesting.”

“Uh, yes.” Brenn scratched the back of his neck. “We’re called the yellow-apple Fossoways because House Orchard was supposedly descended from Rowan Gold-Tree, who was famous for her apples of gold. But golden apples don’t exist, of course. It’s just a fancy way of saying yellow. Hence, the yellow-apple Fossoways.”

“And Rowan Gold-Tree was the daughter of Garth Greenhand, the legendary king—some say god—of the ancient Reach,” Lady Stark said, her eyes dancing with keen interest.

“Yes, Lady Stark.” Brenn squirmed. “That’s the story.”

Theon, who’d been watching Brenn with thinly disguised hostility, narrowed his eyes. “So,” he said, an edge to his voice. “You really are a greenlander.”

“That’s right,” agreed Brenn with a smile. “There’s none more green than me.”

“Indeed.” Theon smirked, and his voice dripped with sarcasm. “If those family legends are correct, you’re descended from Garth Greenhand himself. What an honor.”

Sansa glared at him—but before she could say anything, her mother stepped in.

“It is an honor,” Lady Stark snapped. “Being a ‘greenlander’ is nothing to be ashamed of, Theon Greyjoy. As opposed to being the abandoned son of a lawless rebel punished by our king!”

At that, Theon looked as if he’d been slapped, and shrank down into his seat. He looked as if he wished to sink into the earth itself.

Oh Theon! Liana thought with a rush of compassion. Don’t you know when to keep your mouth shut? She could tell that Brenn was a little shocked by Lady Stark’s dressing-down; he even gazed at the Greyjoy prince with such unalloyed pity that Theon sensed his eyes upon him. He glanced up.

Brenn tried to wipe away all emotion from his face, but it was too late. Theon paled. His mortified expression disappeared, replaced by his lips curling into a snarl.

Before she could think of saying anything, Theon slammed his chair back, jumped up, and headed out of the hall, clenching his fists. Sansa covered her mouth with her hand, clearly wanting to run after him; but Robb, muttering apologies, rushed after his friend instead.

“I wish to apologize for my ward, Lord Brenn,” Lord Stark said, his posture becoming rigid. “His behavior is inexcusable, especially to one who has partaken bread and salt within my own hall. I will make him apologize to you immediately.”

“Oh, no, it’s—all right,” said Brenn. “Please. I don’t need any apologies. Think nothing of it.”

“It is a matter of honor,” Lord Stark said, raising his voice. “I insist he should apologize to you.”

If Lord Stark thought Brenn would easily capitulate, he was wrong. Brenn’s chin rased, and his gaze hardened; and for a moment, to Liana’s amazement, the lanky, easy-going grad student transformed into a lord of the Age of the Sagas.

“My lord,” Brenn said coolly. “While I appreciate your honorable nature, I insist, for whatever peace might exist between me and my future cousin-by-marriage, that you not make Lord Theon apologize if he does not expressly wish it. With all due respect, my lord.”

“My betrothed clearly wishes to keep goodwill and understanding between our families, Lord Stark,” Liana said demurely, laying her hand on Brenn’s. “I hope your lordship understands his predicament.”

Brenn glanced at her, smiling gratefully; and Liana nodded back, also with a slight smile.

At the sight of the united couple, Lord Stark shook his head.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall not insist on an apology, for your sake, Lord Brenn. But if the boy acts up again, I will not let him off quite so easily.”

And with that, the subject, for the time being, was over.

But Brenn didn’t move his hand. Instead, he curled it over, capturing Liana’s fingers.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Think nothing of it,” she whispered back. “I’m sorry Theon is such a hotheaded mess.”

“We’ll sort it out later.” Brenn’s eyes shone. “I believe in you, Liana. You can sort out anything.”

“I wish I had your belief in me,” she said with a sigh.

“I’ll believe in you enough for the both of us,” he said, and he raised her hand to his mouth.

As the sensation of his lips pressing against the back of her hand sent shivers up her spine, she sighed again, and she found herself wishing the night would come faster, so she might go to his rooms, and find out exactly what he had discussed with Ned Stark that afternoon.

Of course, perhaps there were other things she wanted to do as well—

But she couldn’t dwell on those things now, not at dinner, in front of the entire Stark clan. Though she did catch Jeyne’s eyes. If it had been eight hundred years later, she would have sworn Jeyne would have given her the thumbs up.

Instead, Jeyne’s face was wreathed in a cheeky grin, and she winked.

At that, Liana started to blush, and as Brenn looked at her curiously, she felt her entire body blushing, down to her toes, and her heart thrummed and her blood pounded in her ears.    

Tonight, when the moon rose, she would find out what was going on with Brenn.

Tonight, she thought.

Chapter Text

When Liana tapped on Brenn’s door later that night, he ushered her in, his eyes flickering about nervously.

“Come on in,” he said, placing his hand on hers.

As she tip-toed in, her heart sped up. Moonlight from the newly risen moon poured through the window, the cool light contrasting with the crackling warmth of the fire. His bed, with tousled blankets, lay out before her, somehow beckoning, with the headboard garlanded with rosemary.

“How are you doing?” she asked. She couldn’t dwell on the bed. Not just yet.

Brenn sat down on the bed, amidst the tousled blankets, expelling a long held sigh. His doublet and coat were unfastened a little, revealing the length of his neck, and the laces of his shirt were untied, falling loose on his chest. The leather thong that tied the shavings of malignite intertwined with his shirt laces, and for a moment she wanted to reach forward and untangle everything. Not to mention unfasten his clothes even further. “To be honest? Not so hot.”

“Yeah?” She sat next to him.

He gave her a grim look. “Yeah.”

After a long pause, she gave him an encouraging smile. “You can tell me. What’s up?”

“Oh man.” He pushed his hair back. “Fucking hell, Liana, I don’t know how you’ve been doing it so long!”

“Doing what?” she asked, though she already had an idea.

“You know.” Brenn made a sweeping gesture. “Being here. Being lordly and ancient-y. I read a bunch of books, but I still have no idea what I’m doing. I know I came across like a total dingbat today. And a tool. I shouldn’t have drank all that wine.” He sighed. “Drinking wine on an empty stomach… not one of my better ideas.”

Liana leaned closer, fighting the desire to run her fingers through his hair.

“Well,” she said, “you made some mistakes, but I did too, on my first day.”

“Yeah, but did you fuck up somebody’s name, like I fucked up Theon’s?” Brenn asked gloomily.

“No, but I did say a lot of dumb shit early on, and you did apologize,” Liana pointed out. “You’d come through the Chronoscope and the subportal only a few hours earlier… which is enough to fuck with anybody’s brain… and you were a bit drunk. We were all drinking. The important thing is, almost everyone likes you.”

“Almost being the operative word here,” said Brenn. “Theon still hates my guts.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” said Liana, “but Theon hates a lot of people.”

“I can see that,” Brenn said. “A lot of people seem to to hate him too. Like Lady Stark. Which is weird, because she’s pretty much his foster mom…”

Lady Stark was, wasn’t she? And she’d had custody of Theon since he’d been ten. Liana winced. “Yes, that’s true.”

“Man, that’s so fucked up.” Brenn rubbed his chin. “I’d feel more sorry for him, if I didn’t know he wanted to cut out my liver and eat it.”

Liana laughed. “Don’t mention that to him, or he might start getting ideas!”

“If he starts following me around with a knife and fork, I’ll know to head for the hills,” Brenn cracked.

At the image, she began to giggle uncontrollably, falling down on the bed. Her smartphone then fell out of the bodice of her gown with a dull thump. Her giggles subsiding, she gave him a lopsided smile. “I hate how these stupid dresses don’t have any pockets.”

“Trust me, I’ve been noticing that,” Brenn said, indicating his pocketless breeches. “Let me recharge that for you.”

Quickly, his lanky body unfurling, he unlocked the chest, pulled put his battery charger, plugging the phone in with a spare USB cord. Her phone—which had been dead as a rock for weeks—came to life, beeping softly, the glass screen lighting up with a charging icon.

Liana started, tears coming to her eyes. Then she wiped them away, feeling silly. Imagining getting emotional over a stupid phone.

“Someone’s prepared,” she said with a watery smile.

Brenn smiled at her gently, but then his eyes hardened.

“There’s enough juice to last for a week or so, as long as we’re careful about it,” he said. “The most important thing is we can keep the remote control charged, so we can make a quick escape if we have to.” He rubbed his chin. “I hope you know what you’re doing with Theon and Sansa.”

“Me too.” She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling all at once very young, and stupid, and small. What was she going to do? How could she make sure they escaped from the clutches of the king and the Lannisters? How could she make sure they didn’t die? How could she make sure that she didn’t die? What the fuck was she even thinking? She might playact the part of a great lady and a rhetorician, but deep down, she was just a kid—

“Hey,” Brenn said. “Hey, hey, hey. We’ll get through this, okay? We’ve gotten this far.” He picked up a bottle of wine from his bedside table. “I’ve got this.”

“Is that more Dornish Red?” Liana said.

“Yup! Your friend brought me some more. Plus… uh, two cups. She got the idea we’d be, um… hanging out.” He blushed.

Hanging out. Well, that was one way of putting it.

“Nothing gets past Jeyne,” Liana said, her cheeks growing hot as Brenn poured her a glass.

“Yeah,” Brenn said. “I think she has eyes in the back of her head. Tell me when to stop.”

“Stop,” Liana said, as the wine wobbled perilously close to the brim of the glass. As she took the glass, and their fingers brushed. Brenn’s face flushed.

“You’ll be okay,” he said, sitting down next to her. “We’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” she said, suddenly shy. “We should toast.”

He nodded. “Here’s to going home.”

“Home,” she said, her voice filled with longing.

“Home,” Brenn said softly, his hazel eyes lighting up, and their glasses clinked. She tipped her glass back, savoring the rich, dark complexity of the Dornish Red, and she noticed how he did the same, closing his eyes. He lowered the glass, smiling a little at her, his hair haloed red-gold by firelight, and she smiled back, suffused with the wine’s warm glow.

“So,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Should I be concerned?” Liana said, grinning.

“Yeah, maybe. Tell me if you think this is stupid or not.” He paused. “I’m thinking we should tell Jeyne the truth.”

Liana’s eyes widened. “The truth? That we’re from the future?”

Brenn squirmed. “Uh… yeah.”

“How is that a good idea?” Liana’s voice went up an octave. “I’ve already told her that I’m Lady Olenna’s spy. Now I’ll go to her and say, actually, that was a lie, I’m really from the future and here’s this convoluted story to prove my point? She’ll think we’re insane!”

“She might,” Brenn said. “But we’ve got the tech to prove it. And I can back you up. She can’t dismiss the two of us so easily.”

“I don’t know, Brenn,” Liana said, her stomach churning in uneasiness. “It seems like a big risk. What’s the upside of all of this?”

“Well,” said Brenn, “the way I look at it, you two are planning the escape of Theon and Sansa. So you’ve been working together—and you have to continue to work together to achieve your goal. So now you’re at a crossroads. And you have a choice to make.

“Choice A.” He held up one finger. “You do what you’ve been doing. You don’t tell the truth. You continue to pretend to be Lady Olenna’s spy. You’ll be juggling this, as you and Jeyne work on getting your friends out. I mean, it could work. But it makes things a lot more complicated. And stressful. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” she said, squirming herself. “It hasn’t been easy.”

“That brings us to Choice B.” He held up another finger. “You tell her the truth. We get together with her and lay out the facts. I think we have a good chance to make her believe us—she’s in so deep with the intrigue, that I don’t think it’s likely she would narc on us.

“And the benefit of this is that, with the truth out, it gives you guys a better shot at arranging the escape.”

“How’s that?” Liana asked.

“Well, you can tell her everything you know about the situation. You can lay it all out—you won’t have to hedge with the ‘well I know this because I heard it from Lady Olenna’ or whatever. Also, she’ll know all the tools we have available. Like, I have a taser.”

“Are you thinking of tasing somebody, Brenn?” Liana asked with a skeptical raised eyebrow.

“You never know!” Brenn grinned. “But yeah. Another thing. If you tell her the truth, then you can then devote 100% of your brain power to busting our star-crossed lovers out of the big house. You don’t have to worry about continuing a masquerade, which is just going to get exponentially harder once King Fatso and Queen Bitch get here.”

Liana almost choked on her wine at that. “I call it like I see it,” said Brenn. “Anyway, Jeyne is pretty smart. She’s going to figure out something’s up sooner rather than later.”

She sighed. “Yeah… You have a point.” And the idea of finally telling Jeyne everything—being completely open with her—was very appealing. But she tried to imagine showing the younger girl her smartphone, which was now happily recharging, and her mind went blank. How would Jeyne react? She had no idea, and just that terrified her.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, pouring herself more wine.

“That’s fair,” said Brenn. “This isn’t something you can decide in a split second.”

“Maybe if I had vodka,” Liana said, and Brenn laughed.

“Vodka,” he said. “That would be good. Or maybe a nice blunt.”

“What?” Liana squeaked, as a mischievous smile crossed Brenn’s face.

“Sure. Something potent.” He stretched. “Or more potent than wine, at any rate, I sure could use some semi-legal drugs after I met with Lord Stark this afternoon.”

Liana shook her head, amused. And here she’d thought Brenn was so conservative and straitlaced. Once, long ago (before she’d fallen through the Chronoscope) she’d even thought him prissy. God, she’d been such an idiot. “I was wondering about that.” She leaned forward. “How did that go?”

“Interesting,” Brenn said. He poured another glass of wine.

Liana blinked. “Interesting good or…?”

“I don’t know.” He looked uneasy. “Lord Stark seemed to think I might know something.”

“Know something?” Liana exclaimed. “Know what?”

“I’m not totally sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story.” Brenn scratched his forehead. “So, um, let me begin from the beginning.

“Okay. So, I know a bit about my ‘great-uncle’—Daeron Fossoway. He was featured in this hundred year old book I found in my garret bedroom back when I was a kid—The Fossoways of Orchard Hill. It was this thick genealogical history. Daeron was—is—one of the more notable men in our family, because he squired for Rhaegar Targaryen, even if he didn’t do much else. Anyway, he had three pages dedicated to his life story. To prepare for this, ah, trip, I had my sister take some pics of the Daeron chapter and send them to me so I could refresh my memory.”

“What did it say?” Liana asked, sipping her wine.

“It was pretty dry. It just said Daeron Fossoway was, and I quote… ‘valiant and dutiful, and he excelled at the quintain and all aspects of his training; he, who was a marvel of chivalry and devoted to the Seven, served the gracious silver prince at the height of his abilities; but for all his considerable virtues and the skills derived from his knightly apprenticeship, he could not save Rhaegar from the bloody hammer of Robert the Usurper at the Battle of the Trident.’”

“Boy, that’s some overstuffed prose right there,” Liana said. “And… there were Targ loyalists in your family up to the turn of the century?”

“Old habits die hard.” Brenn shrugged. “Anyway, after Rhaegar died, it says Daeron fled to Essos and became part of the Windblown mercenary company, served under the Tattered Prince, and later died in a battle in the Disputed Lands.”

“Sounds about right,” Liana said. “What was your millionth-great uncle’s role in the abduction of Lord Stark’s sister, Lyanna?”

“The book got kind of weaselly there,” Brenn said. “Just that Daeron kept the secrets and honor of the prince and the honor and the secrets of his lady.” He scowled. “I mean, I don’t know how letting everyone think that none of this was consensual, and that it was an abduction but it wasn’t, and this teenage girl was being raped by this older married guy was ‘keeping her honor,’ but whatever. I guess the book meant to say in its old-fashioned way that Daeron didn’t blab about Lyanna getting knocked up?”

“Probably,” Liana said. “Though—” and she snapped her fingers—“keeping ‘the honor and the secrets of his lady’ might also refer to the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

“The Knight of the Laughing Tree?” Brenn blinked. “What’s that?”

“You don’t know about the Knight of the Laughing Tree?”

“No. Sorry. You’re the big Sagas expert. I just know the basics.”

“This really isn’t in the Song of the Starks per se,” Lyanna said. “This is just background, and I think it’s in one of the appendices. Anyway.

“The story,” she continued, “is, at the tourney of Harrenhal—which was about twenty-five years ago, I think—one of Lord Stark’s bannermen from the Neck was getting his ass beat by three teenage squires, but Lyanna Stark ran in with a blunt tourney sword and saved the day. The guy from the Neck told her at dinner who the squires were, and what knights they served, and what do you know, a few days later, some patchwork knight shows up, his visor down, and with a shield depicting a laughing weirwood tree--”

“Now that,” Brenn interrupted, “is making me picture one of the monster trees from The Wizard of Ev, doing finger guns with its branches.”

Liana laughed. “Yes, kind of. So this mystery knight shows up, beats the pants off the three knights, reads them the riot act about how their squires suck, and as everyone in the peanut gallery is waving pennants and screaming their heads off, he rides off into the sunset.” She paused. “Or should I say… she rides off into the sunset?”

Brenn didn’t look surprised. “So that’s the twist, right? Lyanna was the mystery knight?”

“Yeah. Somehow, though, even though it was pretty obvious, no one could figure it out… except Rhaegar. They’d met earlier when his crazy father, King Aerys, demanded that he uncover the truth of the mystery knight. That’s why Rhaegar laid the wreath of winter roses in Lyanna’s lap when he became the champion of the tourney, and he helped Lyanna cover up the truth. And, while all this was going on, they’d fallen in love at the tourney—that’s why they ran off together.” She shrugged. “That’s the popular theory, anyway.”

Brenn nodded thoughtfully. “That explains why Lord Stark was telling me this long-ass story about how he met Uncle Daeron on the first day of the tourney because one of Daeron’s friends from home squired for a Ser Morton Waynwood in the Vale, and together the two of them ran into some guy named Howland Reed getting bullied by these squires…” He paused. “That’s the guy from the Neck, right?”

Liana nodded.

“Yeah, thought so. Anyway, they were about to put a stop to it, when Lord Stark tells me he saw his sister run in before he could and drive the bullies off, and that she was a proper ‘she-wolf’ at the moment. And that even Daeron, ‘a Southron from the depths of the Reach,’ had been impressed.

“And then Lord Stark gave me this look. This significant look. That guy can do significant looks like nobody else.” Brenn shook his head. “I didn’t know what to think.”

“He was implying that your great-uncle knew about Lyanna’s secret—that she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree,” Liana said. “And he wanted to suss out if you knew what your uncle knew.”

“Well, it’s good I had no idea what he was talking about, because I just gave him this blank, uncomprehending stare,” Brenn said. “Then he went on, reminiscing about the tourney, and how Daeron was a merry companion, but not a fool, and he thought that drinking contests were ridiculous too, and even Lyanna spent one night with him talking about how the Dornish Marches differed from the North, and how she hoped one day see the Red Mountains…”

“That’s ironic because that’s where she died,” Liana said, feeling a chill, even in the bedroom’s cozy warmth.

Brenn squirmed. “Yeah, I knew that much.”

“You probably learned it in school, right?”

“Sort of.” He shifted on the bed, frowning. “Me and my parents once went on a road trip to Dorne, and when we were going down Highway 131 we stopped at this ruin to read the marker. It was an old tower where Lyanna Stark died, and it was called ‘The Tower of Joy.’ It didn’t seem that joyful to me. It was this pile of rubble on an outcropping, in the middle of this isolated mountain plateau. I was a kid, so it didn’t mean that much to me, but Mom talked about how this prince and a princess ran off together, but the prince was married, and the princess was engaged to someone else, and the princess’s future husband tore the country apart because he wanted his fiancée back. The prince died in battle, and the princess died in childbirth, alone. It was really sad to think about. Avery even cried. Mom felt so bad about that that she bought her a raccoon plushie at the next truck stop.”

“Yeah,” said Liana with a sigh. “The whole Rhaegar and Lyanna thing was a massive trainwreck.”

“Sure seems that way.” Brenn lowered his voice. “Lord Stark made sure to tell me that Robert Baratheon noticed how Uncle Daeron and Lyanna Stark conversed at length, and though he made a jape of it, he would shoot ‘darkling looks’ at my great-uncle during the rest of the Tourney. It sounds like the future King Robert was a jealous guy.”

“Sounds about right,” Lyanna said, thinking anxiously of the king’s arrival. She was not looking forward to it.

“And then Lord Stark commented again how much I looked like Uncle Daeron…” Brenn’s eyes flickered. “But this time, it didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“That’s because it was a warning,” Liana said quietly. “I’d stay out of King Robert’s way. He was the sort to hold a grudge for decades.”

“Fabulous,” Brenn said. “Just my luck. Lord Stark said something else about how he had a hard time believing a man as honorable as my great-uncle could serve someone who turned out to be as vicious and dishonorable as Prince Rhaegar, but loyalty was a strange beast, and after all, Daeron had sworn oaths to the Seven to serve his knight and prince.

“Then… he started asking me about my trips to Volantis, and if I’d ever met my great-uncle there. I said no, he had been disowned by my family for his treason, and we had nothing more to do with him, for we were faithful to the Crown. I swore by the light of the Seven that I had never laid eyes on him, and that satisfied Lord Stark, and he dismissed me.”

“Well,” said Liana.

“I know, right?” Brenn pushed his hair back. “It was all so nerve-wracking, Liana. I’m glad I didn’t know about that Knight of the Laughing Tree business so I could play dumb, but I know Lord Stark was trying to find out if I’d met up with Uncle Daeron, and we’d talked, and if he’d spilled the beans about Rhaegar and Lyanna’s kid.”

“Jon Snow,” Liana said, and Brenn nodded.

“Yeah,” Brenn said. “The dark-haired dude. He seems nice enough, though he didn’t talk much.”

“That makes sense,” Liana said. “You’re a lord, and he’s just a bastard. Allegedly.”

“Allegedly being the key word here,” said Brenn. “I’ve heard so many conflicting stories about him.”

If there was anything Jon Snow was, he was a magnet for conflicting stories. “Like what?” Liana asked.

“Oh, there’s too many to count. I checked out the Jon Snow stub on Aderipedia before I came here, and there was so much in the ‘historicity of Jon Snow’ section and so many pages on conflicting sources I thought my brain would explode.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Yeah. Anyway, do you think Rhaegar married Lyanna after annulling his first marriage… making Jon the one true Targaryen heir? That what the Prince’s Path believes, or so Aderi tells me, anyway.”

Lyanna bristled at the mention of the Prince’s Path, but she downed more wine before answering.

“I think that’s rubbish, personally,” she said. “I think Rhaegar was all about the prophecy of the three heads of the dragon—and if he annulled his marriage with Elia Martell, that would make his first two kids, Aegon and Rhaenys, bastards. I think it’s more likely that he bribed a septon so if he could officially wed a second wife, in the tradition of Aegon I. Another possibility is that whole septon story was a complete fabrication, and Jon was still a bastard—but he would have been Rhaegar’s bastard… and he would have been Jon Sand, rather than Jon Snow.”

“I never got why Jon was called Aegon, if Rhaegar already had a son named Aegon,” Brenn said. “It seems weird.”

“The whole thing sounds fishy as hell,” Lyanna said, staring into her wine. “Oh well. In the end, it didn’t really matter. Jon did his part in the Cataclysm, he killed Daenerys Targaryen, and then he was sent off to Far North to do whatever he did there before he died, and a bunch of genocidal assholes took over his legacy.” She shrugged and drank.

“But that’s our timeline,” Brenn said. “Not this timeline. In this timeline, who knows what’s going to happen?”

“That’s true...” Liana said thoughtfully.

“Maybe in this timeline, Jon will marry Jeyne, and they’ll ride off into the sunset together,” Brenn said, his eyes twinkling. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Liana’s mouth dropped a little at that. The Lotus Way didn’t believe Jon was the Azor Ahai; the Lady had preached against it, which was another reason why the Path hated her so much. But still, Jon had played a pivotal role in the Cataclysm, even though no one seemed to agree exactly how pivotal.

Still, it seemed vaguely blasphemous to suggest an alternate fate for Jon Snow. Wasn’t he prophesized to be one of the key figures in the fight against the Great Other?

But on the other hand, she was living proof that they lived in a multiverse, with a million billion different possibilities for everything on the planet. R’hllor Himself had shown her a few. Didn’t that mean the very idea of prophecy was bogus?

She touched her white jade necklace, glancing at the fire. The fire continued to crackle, almost reassuringly.

“It would be,” Liana said, rubbing her chin. “Maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

Maybe, she thought, telling some of the truth to Jeyne could light a fire (pardon the pun) underneath her posterior vis-à-vis Jon. But that was something to think about tomorrow.

“I don’t know,” Liana said. “I wish we had some peanuts.”

“I don’t have peanuts,” Brenn said. “But your friend Jeyne did bring more of that stuff we ate this afternoon.”

“Fried bread and chickpea pottage?”

“Yup!” He stood up, stretching his long arms, and went to fetch a tray, resting on a small table. Then, with a flourish, he pulled off the linen that covered the food, got down on one knee, proffering the tray to Liana like a page at a feast. “My lady!” he said with plummy accents, suitable for Downford Downs.

“You’re ridiculous,” Liana giggled, as she took a piece of bread and dipped it into the pottage.

“For you? I’ll always be ridiculous, if you asked me to,” Brenn said, and he gazed up at her so sincerely Liana found herself tongue-tied.

“Get off your knees,” she said, taking the tray and putting it on his bedside table, and pulling him up. “Don’t you want to eat with me?”

“I’d love to,” Brenn said, and his voice grew husky.

Liana could feel her face heating, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. “Then eat.”

He wasn’t moving, so she dipped a piece of bread into the pottage and extended it towards him. He took it.

“It’s delicious,” he said, biting down into the bread. “Though I do miss peanuts.”

“Don’t you think this is better than peanuts?” Liana said, and she licked the sauce off her lips.

“I’m beginning to think so,” he said, his eyes growing hooded.

“Did you know,” Liana said, feeling more than a touch breathless, “that in this era, chickpeas were considered aphrodisiacs?”

“Why is that?” Brenn asked, reaching for another piece of bread.

“Well,” said Liana, “it was the only foodstuff with the three properties that the scholar Constantio Efranis considered to be conducive to drawing out semen. It was nourishing—it drew out, ah, ‘wind’—and it was warm and moist.”

Brenn threw back his head and laughed. “Sexy!”

“Ice Age dietetics, man,” Liana said. “It’s goofy.”

“You are a treasure trove of random facts, Liana Pyke,” Brenn said. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“I don’t know how I do it either,” Liana admitted. “My brain is stuffed with all these things and occasionally I feel the need to blurt them out. It makes half the people I meet think I’m incredibly smart and the other half incredibly tedious.”

“Hashtag relatable,” Brenn said, and Liana exclaimed, inspired:

“Can you imagine if we could put this entire trip on social media? Can you imagine mugging and taking selfies in the Great Hall while everyone stares at us?”

“Or taking videos in the courtyard with narration and posting them?” Brenn said. “’Loving Winterfell. Living the dream. Hashtag sagas hashtag ice age hashtag YOLO… Wouldn’t that go over like a lead balloon!”

They both giggled like schoolchildren, until they collapsed on the bed, breathless, gasping. After a minute of listening to him breathing, and the popping and snapping of the flames, Liana propped herself up on one elbow.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” She gazed into his eyes, noticing how his eyelashes curled, and the firelight played across the elongated planes of his face. “I’ve missed you, Brenn.”

He smiled—a slow, crooked smile that made her heart flutter. “I’ve missed you too.”

“You’re not going to disappear back into the future without me, are you?” she said teasingly.

Brenn sat up with a jolt. “No way, Liana. I’d never leave without you.”

“That’s good.” She leaned in, cradling his cheek. “I’ll hold you to it.”

His chest rose and fell. He didn’t move; he just looked at her with such intense longing she could hardly breathe. She felt the heat of the fire roaring at her back.

“Go right ahead,” he said, his voice ragged. “You can hold me to anything.”

“All right,” she murmured. “Since I have your permission.”

“You don’t need my permission…”

“I don’t?” Liana traced the edge of his lower lip with the tip of her thumb. He shivered a little, and his pupils dilated. “So that means I can do anything?”

“Anything,” Brenn echoed, mesmerized.

“Whatever you say.” Liana smiled, slowly and wickedly. She hardly felt like herself. “You’re the scientist.”

Then she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

Because the flames roared at her back, and she was half drunk, the kiss was much less tentative than last time. They surged into each other, and as their lips met, she tasted chickpeas and bread and the dark, heady spice of Dornish wine. And yet, even now, after almost a day in the past, a whiff of pepper and bergamot. She pressed her fingers into his shoulderblades and opened her mouth, breathing in his scent, his essence, his being… In return, he gripped her, biting down on her mouth with a groan. Their teeth clicked and their tongues clashed, and she was flush against him, her breasts pushed up against his chest in a way that almost hurt.

Her fingers unclasped his coat and doublet, and the thong with the malignite shavings fell out. He pulled off his boots, then his coat. As he stood, his doublet hung open.

“No fair,” she said, standing up besides him, and she fumbled with the laces of his breeches. He stayed her hand, looking her in the eye. His long face grew serious, taut.

“Liana,” Brenn said. “Is this what you want? I don’t have any… protection.”

“Who needs condoms?” She grinned at him, undoing the laces further. “We have moon tea.”

“Moon tea?”

“Moon tea is a reliable herbal contraceptive of the period,” she replied primly, pulling the last laces out, then yanking out his shirt.

“I… oh.”

“You want this… right?”

“Oh, yeah. Liana, I… you’re amazing.” He swallowed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

She cocked her head with a teasing smile. “My brave lord. My sweet betrothed.”

“I’d call you my lady, but I’m afraid that would make me sound like a fedora-wearing jackass.” Brenn pulled off his shirt, revealing the trim, flat planes of his chest, dusted with brown hair. Raising an eyebrow, Liana ran her fingers down his sternum and down past his navel. She eyed the growing bulge in his breeches with fascination.

“Oh Brenn.” She leaned into his ear, when a sudden impulse moved her. “Take off your pants.”  

His chest began to rise and fall raggedly, but he managed a carefree smile.

“Anything for you, my lady.” He shucked off his breeches and hose, leaving him entirely naked.

She stepped away, taking everything in. His body, though pale and untanned from his years up North, was lanky, long and rangy, with broad shoulders, defined calf muscles (he did mention he loved to hike the trails around Winterton), a narrow waist, and a taut ass. Most notably of all, he was visibly aroused, and his length quivered.

Liana quivered herself, from nape to neck, a slow heat building between her legs. She moistened her lips. She must take pity on him… or he might literally explode. She yearned to touch him down there, but she was not that experienced, as things went. This was bravado. Acting. What the fuck did she know?

At her inspection, he blushed down to his toes.

“What are you doing, just standing there? Undress me,” she said, and he gave a rough laugh.

“Somehow, Liana, I’m not surprised you can be a bit bossy.”

“Haven’t you heard that the word bossy is sexist?” she asked smartly, as he untied her gown and cote, unlaced her jumps and pulled off her shift. The discarded garments pooled at her feet, and soon she was as naked as he was, flesh bathed in flame, save for her necklace of white jade, and the thong of malignite from another world, which matched his. He eyed her, as he stroked her breasts, teasing one nipple, then the other. His hazel eyes grew more hooded, shadowed, changing from pools of amber to dragonglass.

“Is it?” He placed his hands in the small of her back, pulling her towards him, so close that she felt his member pressing against her thigh. He kissed her mouth again, then down to the hollow of her throat, then her collarbone, scattering kisses on her breasts as she gasped. “I shouldn’t have said it then. Assertive, perhaps.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Assertive. I like that.”

“I like it too,” he said, as he ran his long, large, tapered fingers down her thighs, twirling the hair between her legs until she squeaked.  

“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk—”

He chuckled. “I did tell you I didn’t know when to shut up.”

As her nipples stiffened, he licked the aureole on her left breast, with an experimental air, while lightly fondling her ass with his right hand. She could barely even stand straight as he pushed her down into the bed, continuing his thorough examination of her body from her nape to her spine to her thighs to her toes. She felt his fingers toying with her everywhere and the ubiquity of his mouth, licking, biting, sucking, leaving love-bites every place she could imagine and some she couldn’t. The fire from the hearth rustled and hissed in her ears, as if God himself was telling her something very important. But she couldn’t think. In quick succession, she heard herself sigh, whimper and whine; her entire body shook; she was undone. Her brain flooded with light. Heat. Desire—

“Brenn…”

As he captured her lips with his, his fingers teased between the hollow of her thighs, playing with the folds and the nub. She moaned. She felt slick and wet. She ached. She couldn’t bear it anymore.

“What… what are you doing,” she said, as her breath stuttered. “Just… please…”

“I love you,” Brenn whispered, and she melted into his arms.

“I love you too,” she said, gazing up, and his eyes blazed, his lashes trembled, and his hands tightened about her.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said into her ear.

Inexperienced as she was, she wasn’t a virgin either, but his concern touched her.

“I know you will,” she said.

As she wrapped her legs about him, he arranged himself between her thighs. At first he entered her slowly, carefully; but the pace quickened, and he rolled his hips as she tightened around him with every thrust. Breast to breast, he never broke eye contact, and she saw how the red-gold of the fire limned his hair and burned in his eyes, as if blessed by R’hllor himself. Overwhelmed, Liana trembled in his arms, a moan escaping her lips; she felt newly baptized herself, as the room beat with her blood and flame seared her veins. The fire grew higher and higher as he surged into her, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, until her nerves screamed and every inch of her body was consumed by a thousand flames of silver and gold and incandescent white; and as he came within her, throwing his head back, she fell back, limp, boneless, mouthing a wordless cry. At last, they collapsed together on the bed, panting, lifeless, their flesh burned to ashes and soot.

They lay together, watching the fire together in companionable silence, before Brenn turned to her.

“Wow,” he said, in the most anti-climatic way possible, and Liana giggled.

“Wow’s right,” she said, propping herself on her elbow. “That was something.”

“A good something, right?” Brenn said.

“It was the best something!” Liana replied, standing up and pouring more wine. She offered it to him, and he took it from her, almost shyly.

“Ah, thanks.” He looked at her, wide-eyed. “I meant it, you know.”

“Meant what?” she asked, though she already knew.

“I love you,” he said.  

“I know,” Liana said, touching his cheek again. She not only felt sated; her head spun. Was this what being in love felt like? She’d been so busy since her mother’s death, and leaving Qarth, and moving back and forth between Oldtown and Pyke and back again, and getting her degree—and working… Oh, she’d dated a bit here and there, but nothing memorable. Until this—until Brenn—

Tenderness flooded through her as she traced her fingers along the stubble of his jaw.

“I meant it too,” she breathed. “I love you too, Brenn Fossoway.”

With his spare hand, he seized her fingers and kissed them passionately, sloshing the wine over the sheets. She choked back a laugh. “Be careful.”

“It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?” he said, gazing at her as if he never wanted to look away.

Perhaps he didn’t. She stared back. “Perhaps we should toast again, then.”

“To what?”

“To us,” Liana said. “To survival.”

Brenn’s mouth tightened. “Yes. To us. And survival.”

They clinked their glasses again, and drank.

Please, God, Liana thought as she set her glass down. All of a sudden she understood Sansa’s passion for Theon so much more, and her willingness to go to the ends of Erthe with him. Tears came to her eyes. I’ve been parted from Brenn before, and I couldn’t bear it again.

Please protect all of us, God, she prayed. Lord of Light, Lady of Lotuses. Look after not just me—and Brenn—but Sansa. Theon. Jeyne, Jon, and all the Starks. Take care of us. Protect us from evil.

And may all of us survive what is to come…

Chapter Text

“So,” Jeyne said, cocking her head. “It’s moon tea now, is it?”

Liana choked on her normal non-lunar mint tea as Jeyne hovered over her. The younger girl had put aside the ewer and bowl that usually lived on the small side table, having set down a breakfast plate brimming with fried sausages, mushrooms and bread. This was the sort of service usually only accorded to the ladies of the keep; but Liana supposed that she was now semi-officially a lady as well, not to mention Jeyne looked about to explode with curiosity. “What?”

“You’ll be needing moon tea, is that right?” Jeyne said, patiently, as if explaining things to a toddler. “Those are bites on your neck.”

Liana set her tea down, her cheeks growing hot. “Yes. I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

“Of course you can’t!” Jeyne said. “But it stands to reason. You and your betrothed were torn so cruelly from each other by those vile brigands, that as soon as you are reunited you would…ahem… take comfort in each other,” she finished with admirable delicacy.

“Is that why you sent extra wine with two glasses to Brenn’s rooms last night?” Liana asked.

“Yes,” Jeyne said, putting one hand on her hip. “And was I wrong?”

“No.” Brenn was right, Liana realized. Jeyne did have eyes in the back of her head. He was probably right that they were going to have to tell her the truth, because the chances were good she would figure it out on her own. Sooner or later, as Brenn had said.

But when would she tell Jeyne? When would be the right moment?

God, help me, she thought helplessly. She had no idea.

After she ate her breakfast, Jeyne sat next to her, her eyes dancing. “So, tell me,” she said in conspiratorial tones. “How was it?”

As Liana wiped her mouth with her napkin, she found herself at a loss for words. “It was…”

Her brain whirled with images. Fire. Heat. Wine. Flesh. Brenn holding her in his arms, whispering in her ear, his eyes lambent flames. She grew limp again. “It was intense,” she said. “He was… thorough.”

“As thorough as the young smith?” Jeyne said with a saucy grin.

“The young… what?”

“You know. The young smith. Like the song!”

And without waiting a moment for Liana to react, Jeyne broke into song. In fact, it was the same exact tune the maids had been singing yesterday morning when returning to the castle after cutting the rushes. Liana had not paid much attention to the lyrics then, but now, she heard them in full; and Jeyne’s sweet, pure, and cherubic soprano, emerging from her rosy young lips, made the risqué lyrics sound somehow even filthier.

A lusty young smith at his vice stood a-filing,

Rub rub rub, rub rub rub, in and out, in and out, ho!

When to him a buxom young damsel came smiling,

And asked if to work at her forge he would go,

With a rub rub rub, rub rub rub, in and out, in and out, ho!

“A match!” quoth the smith so away they went thither,

Rub rub rub, rub rub rub, in and out, in and out, ho!

They stripped to go to’t, ‘twas hot work and hot weather,

She kindled a fire and soon made him blow,

With a rub rub rub, rub rub rub, in and out, in and out, ho!

Red hot grew his iron, as both did desire,

And he was too wise not to strike, not to strike while ‘twas so!

Quoth she, “What I get, I get out of the fire,

Then prithee, strike home and redouble the blow!”

With a rub rub rub, rub rub rub, in and out, in and out, ho!

When Jeyne was done after a few more similar verses—the song finishing up with the girl imploring the smith to use his “hammer once more e’re you go,” Liana’s entire face was scarlet, as if she’d been working at a forge herself.

Us moderns, she thought, like to think ourselves so sexually free and with no hang-ups whatsoever, but people in the Age of the Sagas are far raunchier than modern people could ever hope to be.

“So,” said Jeyne with a wicked smirk. “Was your sweet lord as thorough as the young smith?”

The obvious answer was ‘yes,’ but she didn’t want to give Jeyne the satisfaction. “Perhaps,” Liana retorted. “Perhaps he was. But don’t you wish Jon Snow could work at your forge?”

At that, Jeyne’s mouth dropped. “Oh!” she said with a gasp, her face and neck turning a mottled crimson. “I…”

“He’s a worthy young man, and I bet he could wield his hammer beautifully,” Liana said, who was done with being subtle.

Jeyne jumped up, flustered beyond all measure. “I—I must tend to my errands,” she stammered. “Don’t worry about going to Maester Luwin for the moon tea. I’ll bring it myself in a little while.”

And she scampered off, leaving Liana, who threw herself on her bed with a sigh.

                                                                        * * *

Even though Jeyne brought her the moon tea, as promised, and Liana wrapped her throat in Brenn’s scarf, hiding the hickeys as best she could, nuncheon was a distracting affair. She was, again, back to dining with the Starks, with Brenn at her side, which was distracting enough.

As soon as he looked up at her, smiling, brushing her hand as she sat down, his leg pressing against hers, she thought she would die from a mixture of embarrassment and desire. She knew it was illogical— she tried her best be calm, cool and collected— but she somehow feared that, unconsciously, she would give away the fact they’d slept together last night. Would it be the way she looked at him too long? The way he stared back? Or the way she would blush at his slow smiles? She couldn’t help but feel she was being horrifically obvious, but for the life of her she had no idea what else to do. Even the scarf itched. She yearned to tear it off, but she didn’t dare.

She mostly stared down into her ale, and responded with single syllables.

For the most part, no one seemed to notice. But from the disgusted look on Theon’s face, she knew he guessed the real reason for her silence.

Liana didn’t have any time to talk to Brenn himself, as his time was almost completely monopolized by all the various Stark children asking him questions about his adventures abroad. Lord and Lady Stark had left the meal early to see to their affairs, and after they’d gone, Arya had managed to winkle out of Brenn the fact that he’d been to Yeen.

With the adults gone, Brenn felt somewhat more comfortable in expounding on his travels. As everyone hung on to his words, he described the vistas of Yeen, with the cyclopean buildings made of lightless black stone, shrouded by lush jungle canopies, so thick and dense even the light couldn’t pierce through the foliage. Everyone hung onto his every last word— with the exception of Theon, who had his arms crossed, and wore a surly, unimpressed expression.

“How did you make it out alive?” Arya exclaimed, her eyes bright. “Nymeria herself tried to start a colony there… and every man, women and child disappeared!”

Brenn and Liana shared an uneasy glance.

“That’s true,” Brenn said. “But the ruins are fascinating. There’s something about the dimensions. Like the size of the doors. They clearly weren’t made for people, you know? Everything about the architecture seems built on a very different scale and… geometrical system… than anything human.”

“Wait,” said Robb. “Are you saying Yeen wasn’t built by men?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Brenn said.

Robb opened his mouth, but no words emerged for a moment. “So…” he said weakly. “You mean giants?”

“Probably not giants either,” Brenn said. “I don’t think humanoids build it.”

Robb sank back on the bench. Theon said nothing, but nodded, as if this somehow didn’t surprise him.

“That doesn’t answer my question, though,” Arya said sharply. “How did you make it out alive?”

“That’s easy,” Brenn said. “We hired a guide.”

“Where could you hire a guide in Sothoryos?” Theon snapped, as if Brenn was trying to trick him. Sansa shot him an indignant glare, but Theon was glaring at Brenn so fixedly Liana didn’t think he even noticed.

“That’s a good question, Lord Theon,” Brenn replied. “There’s a small colony in Zamettar down on the delta. It’s the nearest settlement. But it’s important to go to New Ghis and hire the guides there first— you get the best deal that way. Then with the right paperwork in hand, you’re set up with the right guides at the office in Zamettar. If you just go to Zamettar and try to wing it, you might be okay—but then you might not be. Sometimes tourists go off with so-called ‘guides’ they hire off the street. The next thing you know, they’re found in the jungle decapitated, with all their money gone. Not a good idea.”

“Decapitated?” Sansa squeaked.

Brenn shrugged. “Yeah, traveling Sothoryos is risky. You have to be careful. Always go in a group.”

Theon scowled. “Sounds like you know your way around Sothoryos as much as a corsair, Lord Brenn.”

“Well, I’ve been to Yeen once or twice,” Brenn said. “And the Isle of Toads. But I haven’t been to the Green Hell or anything. That’s, uh, on another level, you know?”

“I don’t know why anyone would want to go to such a place,” Sansa said, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled something foul. “It sounds horrid.”

“Well, it’s not comfortable, Lady Sansa,” Brenn said. “But it’s very interesting. The jungle is quite beautiful, in its way, and Yeen has a strange, weird grandeur to it. It’s compelling. It’s not nice… it’s not even pretty… but it’s compelling.

“Just keep an eye out for the wyverns, or they’ll eat you,” he added.

Arya grinned savagely. “I’d love to see it! I’d love to see wyverns!”

“A fine meal you’d make for a wyvern!” Sansa scoffed, and Arya stuck her tongue out.

Usually that sort of response would garner only a haughty look from Sansa, but this time, she glanced at Brenn, mortified; then she wheeled about and sent a ferocious glare in her sister’s direction.

“Look at you,” said Sansa coldly. “Such fine manners. Our first guest from the Reach ever, with the king himself due in a week, and you must act like that!”

At that, Arya’s nostrils flared. She crumpled her napkin, throwing it to the ground.

“I’d be all right!” the little girl retorted. “Not like you, Lady Prim and Proper. You don’t have a single adventurous bone in your body!”

“That’s not true,” Sansa protested. “I want adventure…”

Arya put her fist on her hip. “That’s a jape. I doubt you’d ever leave a castle. If you were ever on a boat, you wouldn’t even want to get off. You’d want to stay on your feather bed looking into your looking glass, eating your stupid lemon cakes or having Jeyne fix your hair!”

With an unreadable expression, Sansa’s eyes flicked towards Theon. Theon frowned. “It’s not a boat, brat. They’re called ships.”

Arya jumped up, her face red. “Don’t call me brat, Greyjoy. And it’s not like you’ve ever set foot on a boat yourself! Not since you came here, anyway!”

Theon paled. He said nothing. But Liana noticed how Sansa snuck a hand under the table, squeezing his. He threw her a grateful look.

Robb frowned. “That’s enough, Arya. How dare you throw a tantrum in front of our guest? Sansa’s right. You do need learn proper manners. Come with me, and I’ll take to the nursery. Septa shall hear of this.”

“Robb—” Arya began, but Robb glared at her. With his eyes darkening, and his brows drawing close, he looked genuinely angry for the first time Liana could remember, and Arya, for once, seemed to sense that she had gone too far; she grew silent and still, her eyes growing wide with distress and a realization that she had, indeed, fucked up.

As Robb glared at her, she shuffled her feet. “I’m sorry, Lord Brenn,” she mumbled. “I should not have lost my temper so.”

Brenn nodded graciously, while Robb, still thunderous, indicated Sansa and Theon. A look of horror crossed Arya’s face; but Robb didn’t move. Arya sighed.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. And I’m sorry, Theon.”

Theon frowned, while Sansa lifted her head.

“I accept your apology, sister. But next time, I trust you will pay attention to Septa’s lessons on courtesy. And guest right too. When you have provided someone with bread and salt, you must also provide him with respect. And respect includes not insulting his future goodcousin to his very face.” Her delicate brows furrowed as she glared at her little sister. “Do I make myself clear?”

Arya looked ready to stick her tongue out at Sansa again, but with Robb glaring at her, she just looked down at her feet, shuffling them.

“Yes, Sansa,” she muttered.

“What was that?” Sansa said. “You must speak up. I cannot hear you.”

“I said, yes, Sansa,” Arya barked. “I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” Sansa said with a honeyed sweetness that made Arya grind her teeth, and soon the two were soon off.

Sansa let out a deep breath.

“My lord Brenn,” she said, “I wish to apologize for my sister’s discourtesy. She is very young and… impetuous.”

“It’s all right, Lady Sansa,” Brenn said, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s of no importance. She is, after all, very young...”

“No, my lord, it’s not all right,” Sansa heatedly. “She’s eleven. Before we know it, she shall be a woman flowered— and she cannot speak as she pleases to just anyone. She must think of others. She must think of her station!”

She turned to Theon, her big blue eyes wide with appeal. “Don’t you think so, Th—I mean. Lord Theon?” She blushed a little, as Theon shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

“Yes, I suppose so, Sa—Lady Sansa,” he muttered. “She’s a right handful, your sister. Why if this were the Iron Islands, she’d—” His voice trailed away.

“She’d what?” Liana asked, curious. “What were you going to say, cousin?”

“Never mind.” His eyes shuttered. “It’s not important.”

There was an awkward pause, before Sansa clutched her hands together.

“Unfortunately, I must join my lady mother in a little while—I promised her I would help her supervise the soap-making. But perhaps you all might join me in the new bower, where I might sing you a song. I have not yet played the harp for you, Lord Brenn…”

“I would love to hear,” Brenn replied gallantly, and Sansa continued:

“Perhaps you might be able to sing another song for us, Mistress Pyke. The last one you sang was so pretty. What was it called? I’m in Heaven?”

“Cheek to Cheek, actually,” Liana said.

“I would be so delighted to hear another,” Sansa said, her cheeks dimpling as she smiled, and Brenn nodded.

“My betrothed has a lovely voice,” he said. “Lovelier than mine, in any case. You didn’t like the song I was singing, traveling up the Neck, isn’t that right?”

Liana swallowed back undignified laughter as she thought of the heavy metal song he’d butchered over and over again. She’d found it so annoying at the time—but in retrospect, it was rather funny. “I think you were practically ‘breaking the law,’ your voice is so bad, Brenn Fossoway!”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he said slyly. “I’m pretty sure I was breaking something.”

Was that a double entendre? From Brenn? Blushing, Liana pushed back her hair, glancing away, hoping her face wasn’t too red. As Theon scowled, she cleared her throat.

“As much I appreciate your invitation, Lady Sansa,” Liana said, “I’m afraid I must decline. I should go to the library to browse for samples of encomia. If I know we haven’t talked much about this lately… but if we’re going to do it, we should decide today. We’re running out of time.”

“I understand,” Sansa said quietly.

“Yes. Shall we meet in the schoolroom at the usual place and time?”

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea,” Sansa replied, and she started twisting her small silver ring around her finger. “Theo—Lord Theon—perhaps… you may join me? Please?”

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” Theon said, and he did sound very sorry indeed. “I would love to hear you sing—you have the most beautiful voice. But the new bower…” He didn’t add is where your mother is, but Liana could practically hear him thinking it. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” He hooked his thumbs to his belt. “But trust me. I shall find you… later.”

“Later,” Sansa said, her blue eyes huge with yearning.

“Yes,” Theon said, his voice rough. The two stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time, as Liana fidgeted. God, she thought, they really need to elope sooner rather than later, though she had no idea how she was going to arrange the logistics of this. She felt nauseous, as well as a dizzying sort of vertigo. What the hell was she going to do? She had to talk to Brenn, stat. Surely he would have some ideas…

At last, Brenn coughed, and the two youngsters started, as if waking up.

“I guess we’ll see you later,” he said. “It was a pleasant lunch—I mean, ah, nuncheon. The food was delicious, Lady Sansa. Thank you for your very pleasant companionship. Thank you also for your company, Lord Theon. I’m sorry it didn’t go as smoothly as I would have liked, but you know…” He shrugged. “What can you do, right?”

Sansa curtsied. “It was delightful to further your acquaintance, Lord Brenn. I trust I shall see you anon?”

“Anon!” Brenn said. “Yes. Definitely anon.”

“Are you also going to the library?” Theon said sharply. “I didn’t know you also had an interest in… what was it…”

“Encomia,” Liana supplied.

“If you will forgive my departure, Lord Theon, I’m just going to escort my betrothed to the library,” Brenn said, as he took her arm.

“What a pity.” Theon bared his teeth. “I thought the two of us could go sparring later, near the armory.”

“Sounds nice,” Brenn said vaguely. “Anyhoo, we’ll see the you two later. Pip pip, tallyho and all that!”

With that, he whisked Liana away, and they walked at such a brisk jog that she grew breathless.

“Brenn!” she hissed after a few minutes. “Could you slow down? We’re not being chased by wolves.”

“Nah, just by Mr. Squid,” Brenn said under his breath.

At that, Liana stopped, not knowing whether she should roll her eyes or laugh. “What was that?”

“That guy who you may or may not be related to still hates my guts,” Brenn said. “I think he’s looking forward to sparring with me so I can accidentally brutally stab myself in the stomach.”

“I think he really wants to do the finger dance with you, and just throw axes at your head while you try to roll a D20 for dodge,” Liana said with a grin.

“Dammit! And I left my dice at home!” Brenn said with a grin that crinkled his hazel eyes so appealingly that Liana’s stomach fluttered. “Well, knowing me, I’d roll a crit fail.”

“Don’t worry.” Liana glanced up at him with a slow smirk. “If he tries to throw an axe at you, I’ll take care of him.”

“You’ll fight Theon Greyjoy on my behalf?” Brenn raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Yes. I’ll argue him to death.” Liana curled a fist. “No one can fight off the persuasive abilities of a debate team master!”

“You’re scary when you’re all riled up.” As Brenn placed a hand around her waist, she moved away, flustered despite herself. It was too easy to think of all the places those fingers had explored last night, and everywhere they had gone—

“The library’s just down there,” she murmured.

“All right,” he said awkwardly, and they ducked into the library.

She managed to glance around quickly to see if anyone was in there, in the split second before she and Brenn fell on each other. Part of her been expecting to chat and discuss her concerns in a civilized way; but with his arms around her, in a room where they were very much alone, all thoughts of civilization vanished from her head, and she found herself pushed against a bookshelf, locked in his arms, his lips ravaging hers as if there was no tomorrow.

Of course, the ravaging was more than mutual. As she sighed into his mouth, and their tongues lashed, she found herself falling into a haze of lust, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. He pulled off her scarf, and he pressed his teeth against the soft skin of her throat’s hollow, his hot tongue curling against her pulse. As her hands flew up, she gasped.

“Brenn—we shouldn’t—”

He jerked. “Yeah…” He stood. “Liana, I’m sorry, I just—” His face had grown stained with carmine. “I’m crazy about you, you know that.”

Emotion rushed through her as she fought the desire to fling her arms back around him. But they had to talk. She had to be rational. She couldn’t get carried away.

Liana chuckled, trying to sound casual, but her voice sounded raw to her ears. “So I gathered. But—not here. Anyone could walk in—Maester Luwin—”

“Yeah.” He pushed his hair back. “I know. I’m a horny idiot.”

“We’re both horny idiots,” she said. She took a deep breath as she rearranged her scarf, tucking it back into her bodice. “I’ve just been thinking about how… what I’m going to do about Theon and Sansa. I’m so confused. I have no idea. There’s so much to do…”

“Well,” Brenn said. He started to pace, rubbing his hands. “I was thinking about it too.”

“Yeah?” Her breast filled with hope. Maybe Brenn would have some ideas out of her predicament. “Do you have any ideas? I’m just so stuck—and it’s beginning to make me feel sick—”

“It’s okay,” he said, putting his hand on his arm. “We can do this. First of all, let’s look at this logically. You—we—have three options.

“Okay. Theon and Sansa can either escape A. before the king’s visit— B. during the king’s visit— or C. after the king’s visit. Obviously, B is out. Which leaves us with A or C.

“The benefits of waiting until after the king leaves is that it gives us more time to figure out what to do. The drawbacks of waiting is that there’s more factors to take into consideration. Not only will we have to figure out an excuse as to why Sansa isn’t going with the royal party, but she’s going to have to pretend she’s into Joffrey, and pretend she doesn’t like Theon, and that’s a lot to put on a thirteen year old.”

“I’ll also need to coach Theon not to flip out and antagonize people in the royal party, thereby drawing attention to himself,” Liana added, and Brenn nodded.

“Yeah. Also, if we wait until after they all pack up and leave, there’s going to be a fuckton of rested and well-provisioned king’s men filing through on the one and only north-south arterial road in this region, escorted by Northrons who know the area. I mean, it could work, but it seems dicey, you know?

“We’ll also need to cover for our own asses, and that’s going to be harder with a bunch of people who have probably been to the Reach, and might know my family. So yeah. There’s that.”

Liana winced. “That’s true.”

“So the other realistic option is leaving before the king comes. The advantage of this is that we’ll have surprise on our side. The royal party is still on the road—they’ll be cranky and tired of traveling by now— and they don’t know the area. We can route the kids around the procession—”

“Wait,” Liana said. “Isn’t there any other roads in the North? What about Barrowton?” Her knowledge of Northern geography was hazy at best, but in modern times, that was the fourth major town in the North, asides from Winterton, White Harbor and Lonley. She’d never been there, but she recalled seeing signs for it going up the freeway from South Westria. Barrowton was a smallish city on the Goldgrass and Barrowdown rivers that flowed directly to Saltspear Inlet, on the west coast of the North.  

“There’s a narrow highway from Cerwynvale to Barrowton,” Brenn said. “I’m sure there’s something like that in this time too. In theory, they could travel there and try to hire a riverman to take them down to Saltbarrow—in our time, that’s a fishing town on the Saltspear. Dunno if it exists in this time, though. Anyway, I suppose once they were in Saltbarrow they could hire a fishing boat to take them around Cape Kraken and to Harlaw, but that seems dicey as well.”

“It sounds like it,” Liana said, grimacing as she tried to imagine such a route.

“A more likely route would be taking the King’s Road straight down to Seagard in the Riverlands, and booking a voyage there to Harlaw. Lots of maritime traffic between the Islands and Seagard, even in this era. It wouldn’t be that hard.

“But the problem,” said Brenn, “is that’s exactly the route that everyone would expect them to take.”

“Yeah.” Liana frowned, thinking of Kenna and Ros, and how Kenna wanted to get so quickly away from the Lannisters. And how she was able to do so…

“You know,” she said, “I wonder if it would be better to just take the road down to White Harbor. It would be fast, and nobody would expect them to go that way. Once in White Harbor, they could sail to Braavos, and once in Braavos, they could book a ship to the Iron Islands. It would be twice as long and expensive, but the chances of them getting caught become much less.”

“Yeah.” Brenn tapped his jaw. “There’s a thought. I don’t know if your ‘cousin’ would go for it, though. He doesn’t seem the type to appreciate an elaborate feint.”

“That’s true,” Liana said. “But Sansa would probably like it. She’s mentioned wanting to see the titan in Braavos. ”

“I guess you could talk to them about it,” Brenn said. “Anyway, if we do go with escaping before the king arrives, we need to start planning this ASAP. We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Yes,” Liana said gloomily. “That’s definitely true.”

“I suppose then the entire idea for the encomium is off,” Brenn said. “Perhaps you can find some maps in here instead? That would be good for reference.”

“I should.” Liana nodded, thinking. “But… I think I should still read up on encomia.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well,” said Liana. “What if something happens, and we’re stuck until after the king leaves? It would seem fishy to Lady Stark if we dropped the idea of the speech after prepping for it for weeks.”

Brenn cocked his head. “You’ve got a point.” He took her hands, smiling at her fondly. “You think of everything.”

Liana flushed. “Not really. You’ve helped a lot. My brain was about to explode earlier. Your logical approach helped.”

“I have a hard time remembering to be logical around you,” Brenn murmured, and his hands snaked around her waist, settling on her hips. “Somehow, around you, my brain stops working altogether.”

“But not another part?” Liana whispered, leaning in, pressing her breasts against his chest.

“No, that part seems to work quite well as far as you’re concerned,” Brenn said into her ear, his breath tickling her in the most delicious way.

Liana never thought herself one for innuendo, but she found herself smiling like a cat.

“That’s good, because I might have use for it later.” And she stood on her tiptoes, looped her hands around his neck, craned her own neck up, and kissed him soundly.

He responded with no dearth of enthusiasm, and soon she deepened her kiss, excitement blooming over her in little electric shocks as she sucked on his mouth, nipping a little with her teeth. He moaned a little—but then he disentangled himself from her arms, stepping away.

“Liana, I would love to—stay here with you—but I have to go out.”

“I understand,” she said. She did. She didn’t want to, but she did. “We have to be grown-ups, not… horny idiots.”

“Trust me,” said Brenn with a grin. “I would love to stay and be a horny idiot with you. But I don’t think Maester Luwin wants us baptizing his bookshelves in such a way. That might be… ah… problematic.”

The very image of poor old Maester Luwin stumbling upon them while they were in the throes of passion made her blush and giggle at the same time. “You’re right. Well, later.”

“That’s a promise I will hold you to,” said Brenn, his voice growing smoky and dark, and his eyes becoming hooded again in that way that excited her. “You did get your moon tea, right?”

“There was no issue. I don’t suppose it will be one tomorrow either,” Liana said with a slow smile. She played with the top clasp of his coat, undoing it. “When the moon rises?”

“When the moon rises,” he whispered, and some romantic impulse made him take her hand and brush her knuckles with his lips. She let out a breathy laugh.

“I never dreamed you were such a romantic, Brenn Fossoway.”

“It’s all those old movies,” he said. “Being here… it’s like I’m in an old movie.” He looked around with a sort of puzzled wonder. “Something that’s exciting and romantic, but also really violent and smelly and gross.”

A laugh burbled from her throat. That was Brenn. One second, he was dashing as Errill Flint from The Adventures of Princess Sansa; the next, he was making goofy comments. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“You’re the best thing about this whole place,” he said, fingering a tendril of her hair. He kissed her lightly. “I’m going to walk around and get a sense of the lay of the land. See you later, alligator.”

Liana smiled at him. “After a while, crocodile.”

When he was gone, she sighed. With Brenn gone, the room seemed so empty, so lifeless…

Then she shook herself. No sense in moping. Rubbing her hands together, she headed into the stacks, searching for useful tomes.

First Liana found a collection of maps, or an atlas as it would be called in a later age. She took it into the privacy of the little scriptorium, going over the Northern maps with an assessing eye. Unlike later maps, these maps were lavish and illustrated, with extensive notes in the margin about curious features and cultural practices and houses of note.

She thought of Brenn’s suggested routes. There was indeed, a small fishing village called Saltbarrow at the mouth of the Barrowdown river, but it didn’t look like the sort of place where you could book any sort of ocean-going vessel.

She well knew Seagard, of course. Even eight hundred years in the past, Seagard was depicted as a large and impressive city, complete with septs and shops and gilded, high-towered manors (the Ironborn had always loved to plunder it, or attempt to plunder it), and it was very close to Harlaw and the safety of the Ten Towers, but it was literally a thousand miles away. Liana tried to imagine Theon and Sansa making the journey, with the Kingsguard and the Stark men-at-arms hot on their heels, but her imagination fell short.  

Which left the third option. She zeroed in on White Harbor, and tapped it thoughtfully with the quill knife. It was less than three hundred miles away… down a wide and impressive river, ironically called (as she held a knife in her hand) the White Knife. She wondered what was white about it. Was it a reference to the rapids? The mountains? Or the people who lived here? She smirked.

At any rate, ships were shown sailing up the river at the point to where the river forked into two, near a town called Wolf’s Knife. The western fork, picturesquely called the River Wolf, was the river that wended through Cerwynvale, the Wolfswood, and Winterfell; and the eastern fork, still dubbed the White Knife, became a narrow and treacherous river where bearded mountainmen were depicted piloting kayak-like boats the mapmaker called “river runners.”

As for the road to White Harbor, it seemed that there was two options. There was a road that ran perpendicular to the King’s Road, bisecting the King’s Road and going due west to Barrowton. In order to travel that way, though, that would require going south down the King’s Road for three hundred miles.

But there was another way. One could also take the King’s Road only down as far to Castle Cerwyn, and then travel parallel to the River Wolf until they reached Wolf’s Knife, where they could hire a barge down to White Harbor.

All in all, it seemed that traveling down the river to White Harbor would only take a few days. And once they boarded a ship to Braavos, Sansa and Theon could be free as birds.

And she and Brenn could go home.

Liana closed the atlas with a satisfied thud, and was about to go looking for examples of encomia, when she heard the thud of booted feet on the flagstones. Her head jerked up.

Theon stood there in the threshold of the scriptorium, glowering at her.

“Good afternoon, cousin,” she said as pleasantly as she was able. “Have you been enjoying your afternoon?”

“No.” Theon glared at her. “Not with Sansa off doing chores with Lady Stark. Not with you simpering and giggling over that fool of a Southron.”

Liana stood up. “Excuse me?” she snapped.

“You heard me. What do you see in that man? I don’t care what he says about his adventures in Sothoryos. He’s a spindle-shanked fop who wouldn’t know one end of a sword from another.” Theon’s mouth pressed together. “Though you seem to fancy his sword enough, running off with him like a maid eager to be tupped by the groom in the hayloft. Is his member exceptionally long? Does he swive better than he talks?” His pale eyes jabbed at her as Liana gasped.

“How dare you!” she managed after a moment where her mind reeled at the sheer offensiveness of his language. “Lord Brenn is my betrothed, and our private business is none of your affair!”

“It certainly is my affair. I’m your cousin!” He pointed his finger at her, his full lips twisted in a scowl. “Your uncle was butchered by brigands, and your father is off somewhere sailing the Jade Sea. I’m one of the only male relatives you’ve got, so you’d best listen, Mistress Pyke.

“That hapless apple lordling might seem like a maiden’s dream, but he’s going to get you killed,” Theon said bluntly. “You serve Olenna Tyrell. You have fingers in a thousand pies. You’re the scheming Essosi woman that Westerosi mothers warn their sons about. Do you know the story of Serala of Myr?”

The name seemed tantalizingly familiar but she could not place it. “No,” she said.

“Well, fancy that!” Theon crowed. “I know something you don’t. Well, let me tell you a story. Unlike yours, though, coz, this one doesn’t have a happy ending.

“Back in old King Aerys’s day, when my father was a lad, Lord Darklyn wanted a charter for the town of Duskendale. But the king, for whatever reason, refused to grant it. So Lord Darklyn’s wife, Serala of Myr—called the Lace Serpent—whispered into his ear. She was a crafty one, this Serala. Beautiful as the night, with the Myrish love of lace, she could talk a maester into believing day was night, and night was day. With her poisonous words, she convinced her husband to seize the king, when he came to treat with Lord Darklyn over the lord’s refusal to pay his taxes.”

He paused, tapping his feet, already impatient with his retelling. “But you know how this all turned out, don’t you? I’m sure even Qarth talked of the Defiance of Duskendale. I imagine they even spoke of it in Asshai!”

Theon was really overestimating the interest people in eastern Essos had for Westerosi political shenanigans, but Liana said nothing. She only nodded.

“It was a disaster of course,” Theon continued. “A disaster from beginning to end. Tywin Lannister besieged the town, Aerys was rescued, and House Darklyn was ripped out, root and stem, every single man, woman and child sent to the headsman. As for Serala of Myr, her tongue was torn out, as well as her quim, and then she was burned alive.” His face grew dark. “I’ve heard plenty of such stories. Aerys was very fond of executing men and women in that fashion.”

And this happened only thirty years before. A chill ran down Liana’s spine, but she did her best to keep her composure.

“Thank you for the story, cousin,” she said coldly. “But I do know the outline of the story of the Defiance.”

“I should hope so,” Theon said. “If you’re not careful, cousin, you shall end up just like Serala.”

“And how is that, pray tell?”

Theon rolled his eyes. “Need I paint a picture for you? A clever, beautiful, scheming woman married to a blundering ass from some minor Southron noble house, who is foiling the schemes of the Lannisters, all by herself. How do you think it’s going to end? Do you think the Queen of Thorns would hesitate for one moment at throwing even her most loyal servant to the lions if it was convenient for her?”

“She would not,” she protested, but Theon barked a humorless laugh.

“For someone as worldly as you, cousin, you can be quite naïve. The Tyrells aren’t to be trusted. You’re only of use to the lady as long as you are a means to the end. Once she’s used you up, it’s out to the midden with you. You’re a fool to trust her even an inch.”

Liana gritted her teeth. “So what would you suggest I do, my lord Theon?”

Theon leaned against the writing desk.“Why, flee to the Islands with Sansa and me, of course. Your aunt lives in Lordsport, doesn’t she? You have family there. More than in Oldtown, to be sure.”

“And what would I do in Lordsport?” Liana demanded. “Tend the bar? Serve patrons? Take up brewing as a hobby? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Your uncle is dead, and you’re his heir. He’s filthy rich, so you said. You can have almost any man in the world.”

“What? Like who?” she asked, bemused. “Like…” She tried to remember the most eligible bachelors of this time period. “Like Loras Tyrell? Or Quentyn Martell? Or Lady Stark’s brother? Come on.”

“No.” He gave her an insouciant grin. “I mean like my nuncle Victarion.”

Liana gaped. Was he seriously suggesting marriage with—not crazy uncle Euron—but the other uncle—the captain? Theon had compared this Victarion to a bullock earlier, though she imagined him as a big angry barbarian in a horned helmet going berserk on a longship. But if he was a Greyjoy, and Euron and Balon’s brother, he no doubt had a horrifically dark and bloodstained history. No doubt with lots of killing and lots and lots of rape. Goody.

And Theon wanted this guy to be her husband.

“Victarion Greyjoy!” she sputtered. “Are you insane? Why the fuck would I marry Victarion Greyjoy?”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you?” Theon snapped. “He’s handsome. Brave. A true Greyjoy. All right, he’s something of a dull bullock. But he’s more than a suitable match. He needs a proper wife. He needs sons. You have your beauty, and your wits, and enough of the Ironborn blood and spirit to make a true rock wife. You would be not just my cousin—but my goodaunt.” For a split second, his eyes softened, before he continued, as heedless as ever. “I think it’s a wonderful idea!”

It was, of course, a terrible idea, but good luck convincing Theon of that. Her head spun with horror. “But what about Brenn?”

“What about him? Good riddance!”  

“We can’t just run off, leaving him holding the bag. What is he going to tell the king and queen?”

Theon’s face grew cold. “He’s going to tell them everything we want him to tell them, if he knows what’s good for him.”

Liana stared at him with disgust. “Are you threatening my betrothed, Theon Greyjoy?”

He made a scornful moue with his mouth. “He shouldn’t be your betrothed. He let your uncle die. He was lost in the woods for almost an entire month. He’s a useless stammering scarecrow. Once we make our plans to escape, I can take care of him, if you like. He won’t be any trouble to anyone.”

“Don’t you touch a hair on his head!” Liana snarled.

“What!” Theon stepped back. “Why in the seven hells should you care?” He eyed her sharply. “You’re not with child, are you?”

“Of course not!”

“That’s good. I shouldn’t want my nuncle’s bride to be heavy with another man’s babe on her wedding day. Victarion deserves a chaste wife.” He said this in such a smug way Liana yearned to punch him in the face.

“For the last time, I am not marrying your uncle!”

“You’ll change your mind once you meet him,” Theon said wisely. “Dullard he might be, he’s as handsome as any us krakens. With a mighty axe too.” And most infuriatingly, he winked.  

Liana curled her fists. “Has it even occurred to you that I might be in love with Brenn?”

“What?” Theon laughed. “Why? That mewling dunderwhelp? I think he would faint at the sight of blood. I should cut off his little finger, to see how he weeps.”

Liana gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

That was exactly the wrong thing to say. At that, Theon’s grey-blue eyes bulged.

“You would say that to a Greyjoy?” He gave a wild laugh. “I’d dare anything. Is that what it would take, cousin, to make you fall out of love with this Fossoway fool? To see him sob like a woman at the sight of a missing digit? I’d dare it—I’d dare more—if that’s what it would take to remove that sickly sweet infatuated expression from your face whenever you gaze in his direction!” And he pulled out his dagger.

Something exploded in Liana—and all she saw was blood and fire. She bared her teeth. “I said—don’t you dare touch him!” And she grabbed the quill knife and flung it in his direction.

It almost hit his shoulder, but Theon twisted out of the way just in time, and instead it plunged into the door frame, quivering, with a sharp metallic ping. As he dropped his own dagger with a clatter, gaping at her, she swooped in, grabbing it, holding it to the soft flesh of his throat.

“If you fucking touch a hair on Brenn’s head I’ll chop off your fingers myself,” she said with a snarl. As she gripped the dagger, her knuckles grew white. “Do you understand?”

Theon, his eyes blown wide, swallowed with difficulty. “Y—yes. Yes, I understand.”

“And you won’t hurt him. You swear it. By salt. By stone. By steel.” She clenched her teeth. “Say it.”

“I swear it,” Theon whispered. “By salt, stone and steel. I will not hurt Brenn Fossoway.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Good.”

The fire of rage receded, and she removed the dagger, breathing heavily. Theon gazed at her with sudden fear, backing away.

Then he bolted.

Liana sat down, heavily. By the Lady, she thought with horror. A numbness stole through her, and Theon’s dagger dropped from her fingers. She heard it clang upon the floor, and it sounded like it came from a thousand miles away. As far as Seagard…

Fuck, she thought. Fuck me.

Now what?

Chapter Text

“Mistress Pyke, is everything well with you?” Sansa’s eyes were wide with concern as she entered the schoolroom. She hovered, visibly uncertain at the sight of her schoolmistress sitting at the table with her head in her hands. “You seem… not quite like your usual self.”

Liana sighed, smoothing her head back. “To be honest, Lady Sansa, I’ve been better.”

“If I am not being too forward, Mistress… would you mind telling me about it?” The girl approached her shyly. “Is it about Theon? He seemed so troubled at nuncheon. And afterwards.”

“Troubled, yes.” Liana tapped the table with her fingernails, giving a sardonic laugh, aware she sounded much like Theon herself. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“What happened, Mistress Pyke?” Sansa wrung her hands. “I would offer you wine, but I have none.”

“Well, I am supposed to be teaching you, so I’m not surprised at the lack of alcohol.” Liana gestured to a stool besides her. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you. Your, ah, swain is a very interesting person.”

“Don’t I know it!” Sansa exclaimed, sitting down gracefully.

Liana proceeded to tell her of the confrontation in the library. She didn’t omit much; perhaps some of the obscenities, because Sansa didn’t have to hear that. But she kept the gist of it. She mentioned the story she was working for Olenna Tyrell, which did not seem to surprise Sansa (as no doubt Theon or Jeyne had already told her). Liana also included Theon’s threats; and how she’d held a dagger to his throat and made him swear an oath that he would not hurt Brenn.

When she was done, her student’s mouth dropped.

“By the light of the Seven!” Sansa said with a squeak. “That’s… oh, Mistress Pyke, words cannot express how sorry I feel!”

“It’s nothing to do with you, Lady Sansa,” Liana said. “It’s my cousin who chose to act this way. It’s on him.”

“Yes, but that Theon should even think of suggesting something so… violent and dishonorable… and that he would even think of hurting your poor betrothed, when he’s been nothing but friendly and gallant! Oh!” Sansa curled her fists. “I am so ashamed!”

“My lady,” Liana said, “it is within the culture of the Islands and his family—our family, I suppose—to be, ah, less than nice. So, I am not terribly surprised he would find such actions to be necessary. For whatever reason.”

“But they are abhorrent!” said Sansa, and she jumped up and began to pace. “Oh, Mistress Pyke… I don’t know what to do. I love him so much, and then he goes and does things like this!”

Agitated, she went to the window, pressing her forehead against the stone. “Mistress Pyke, whatever shall I do?”

Liana went to her, putting her hand on her shoulder. “Talk to him, I guess. I don’t think he’s used to talking to people. He doesn’t,” she said gently, “have many friends.”

Sansa wiped her eyes. “He has Robb.”

“I don’t think Theon and Robb are very good about talking about their feelings,” Liana said.

“That’s true. I think boys like to pretend they don’t have any feelings,” Sansa said, and Liana was struck by how true that was. Wisdom out of the mouths of babes indeed. “Theon has so many feelings. I don’t think he realizes how many he has.”

“I think that’s very true,” Liana said.

“He’ll never say it, in so many words, but it’s been very hard for him, not to have his mother around,” Sansa said. “My own mother…” Her face crumpled. “She doesn’t like him at all. And she’s not very good at hiding it.”

Perhaps it was impertinent to hug the daughter of the Lord Paramount, but Liana hugged her anyway. Sansa leaned her head on her shoulder.

“He suggested that you marry his own uncle,” the younger girl murmured. “I think he meant you a great honor. Even if he was very stupid about it.”

Liana sighed. Now that she’d had the chance to cool down, she could see the sense in Sansa’s words. “I think so too.”

“I think…” Sansa grappled finding the right words. “I think he’s concerned about you. I think he brought up a good point about Serala of Myr.”

“What’s that?”

“Well… you’re a wealthy woman from Essos, are you not? And wealthy Essosi women sometimes marry Westerosi lords. Serala of Myr was one. I hear the wife of the prince of Dorne is another. And Larra Rogare was yet another.”

Boy, her knowledge of ancient Westeros was not as great as she thought it was. “Who’s Larra Rogare?” The name Rogare was familiar from her old high school history classes. “Was she the member of the old Lysenian banking family?”

Sansa nodded, twirling a lock of her hair.

“Yes, she was from Lys. Like the song says, she was ‘Larra of the white-gold hair,’ the beautiful wife of King Viserys II, who was very handsome and clever himself, and they were very much in love. But everyone in King’s Landing was so hateful to her, claiming she made human sacrifices to her gods… and just because she loved cats and had many in her apartments, they said she talked to cats, and shape-shifted into cats too. People are so silly!” Sansa’s lips pursed. “I love cats. There’s nothing magical about liking cats.

“Anyway. So poor Queen Larra was so sad and alone that she ended up going back to Lys, breaking her husband’s heart when she left. And once she was gone, their son grew up to be a disgusting beast, abusing his own sister, who was a very gentle and beautiful soul. I want to cry, thinking about it sometimes.”

“That is very sad,” Liana said, and Sansa continued:

“Yes. Wealthy Essosi women like Serala and Larra are often very alone in Westeros, because… well, they’re foreign. And they’re women.” She paused, clearly uncomfortable. “It seems to me they’re easy to blame if anything that goes wrong. Larra was able to escape before anyone laid hands on her, but Serala… well, she didn’t.

“So that’s what Theon is afraid of. You might serve Lady Olenna, but… can you really trust any of the great Southron families? They have a reputation for treachery. That’s not what I think, necessarily,” Sansa put in hastily, “but that’s what Theon thinks. I don’t know enough to judge.”

“The Lannisters are certainly treacherous,” Liana muttered, and Sansa glanced at her in alarm.

“See?’ she exclaimed. “That’s what Theon was getting at. Serala of Myr ended up taking on Tywin Lannister himself. And you might too. It’s dangerous. Except for Lord Brenn, you are alone and friendless in Westeros, which is a frightening situation to be in.

“But you do have family in the Iron Islands. You have your aunt. And soon Theon and me,” Sansa added, blushing. “I think… that’s why Theon wanted you to marry his uncle.”

It was… rather sweet, now that Sansa explained it. Liana began to feel a little ashamed that she had lost her temper so quickly. And she had, in a way, like everyone else in his life, assumed the worst of Theon, without thinking out things from his perspective. He’d been a stupid asshole, yes… but he meant, well, in his way. If only he hadn’t threatened Brenn. God, why were boys such fucking morons!

“You’re right.” Liana tugged at her necklace. “I realize that now, but at the time I was so angry…”

“He went about it very badly, and he wasn’t taking your feelings into account either,” Sansa said. “But I can see why he would think such a marriage is a good idea. Not only would it be a good match because it would strengthen the blood tie, but your dowry would be a worthy exchange for a princely name, and you’re young enough to bear plenty of healthy babes, yet not too young to be poorly suited for a man of Lord Victarion’s age.”  

The idea of marrying Victarion was sill repellant to her, but Sansa laid it out so clearly and logically and persuasively that Liana thought, in another life, she’d almost be convinced. At first, she felt a rush of pride in her student’s newfound rhetorical abilities; then she was overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all.

A perfect match in every way except I’m not even from this time period, thought Liana, and my aunt lives eight hundred years in the future. Good grief, Brenn is right! We really need to tell Jeyne everything. This is getting way too complicated.

“I see that, but… I love Brenn,” Liana said. “We’ve known each other for years. If my own uncle is truly dead, Brenn would take over his laboratory, and continue his studies. We’re not going to settle down on the family farm. We’re going to travel the world together.”

Sansa gave a dreamy sigh. “Oh, that sounds so glorious. So romantic! Sailing the world… to the gigantic palaces of Yi Ti to the Summer Islands with their enormous trees that cover the sky… and even to the lost Targaryen Islands themselves. I would be almost jealous if I did not have my own Theon…”

She colored very much at that, and gazed down at her floor to recover herself. She cleared her throat.

“I think it is admirable that you and Lord Brenn are so much in love, and you know your hearts so well. But what if, the gods forfend, Lord Addam dies, and his younger brother must become lord of the manor? What then? How would you fare as the Lady of Orchard Hill, isolated in the middle of the Reach, so far from your kin?”

“I don’t know. What if horses learn to talk? What if pigs can fly?” Liana threw her hands up. “Who knows what’s going to happen. I just know what’s right for me.”

“That’s all any of us can do,” said Sansa, clasping Liana’s fingers. “But I think Theon, in his way, loves you, and wants what’s best for you. He wants you to be a real member of his family.” She blinked back tears. “As do I.”

Overwhelmed with sudden emotion, Liana looked at Sansa incredulously. Then she wrapped her arms about her, squeezing the willowy girl hard.

“Thank you so much,” she murmured. “You’ve been so good to me.”

“You’ve been such a wonderful friend,” Sansa said, sniffling. “I just want to see you happy… and safe.”

“Brenn and I can take care of ourselves.” Liana handed Sansa a handkerchief Jeyne had given her. “I’m just worried about you two.”

“I worry about us too,” Sansa said frankly, as she wiped her nose. “But I’m sure you have a plan.”

“Yes. I actually do now. I discussed it with Brenn. He had some ideas.”

“I can’t wait to hear them,” said Sansa, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. But she paused.

“But… I should talk to Theon first. He needs to properly apologize.”

“Thank you,” said Liana. “I appreciate it.”

Sansa tugged at her hair again. “I suppose this means I don’t have to continue studying rhetoric?”

“Well,” Liana hedged, “I want to say no. But let me tell you and Theon the plan first, and then we can discuss.”  

“All right.” Sansa smiled. “I look forward to hearing it. But first, I must talk to Theon. Until later, my friend.”

                                                                           * * *         

As was her usual habit, Liana walked on the battlements, to get some fresh air, and to think. It was a beautiful day, the smell of pine needles crisp in the breeze, with the sun shining, brilliant and white, in a quartz-clear sky. However, she noted there were clouds piling up in the distance. It looked like a storm front was moving in quickly in from the Northern Mountains.

There shall be rain soon, she thought, wrapping her arms about her.

Some time later, after Liana went back to the library to look at more maps and read up on various encomia, Jeyne escorted Liana to the godswood, where she said Theon and Sansa awaited her.

Once again, she cursed her lack of pockets. Lacking even a scabbard or a purse, she carried with her Theon’s dagger, wrapped in her handkerchief. It looked odd, and Jeyne gave her the side-eye more than once, but she didn’t press the issue, for which Liana was grateful.

For once, the meeting place was not near the hot springs, or the weirwood tree; it was, in fact, a small cave underneath a limestone overhang, carpeted with ferns, wildflowers and undergrowth. If she hadn’t been led to it by Jeyne, she would have missed it altogether, as it was obscured even further from sight by more trees and bushes.

Stepping with care, and holding up her skirt with one hand while clutching the dagger with another, Liana followed Jeyne through a small path, which snaked around several boulders into the cave itself.

Liana had to stoop to enter, but she could stand up once within. It was cozy enough, though small. It smelled strongly of earth and verdure and life. Sansa, dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak, sat upon a stone, weaving a crown of white gillyflowers, while Theon paced with his usual impatience.

“Mistress Pyke!” Sansa cried out. “I’m so happy you’ve made it. Welcome to the Wolf’s Lair.”

Liana peered around, her eyes adjusting to the green darkness. “What is this place?”

“It was a hideaway Robb discovered when he was little,” Theon said, his eyes cast aside, as if he were too ashamed to meet her gaze. “The Wolf’s Lair is what he called it. A silly name, I always thought. But Robb loved it so.”

“See,” said Sansa. “He made his mark.” She gestured to the wall near her, where a crude wolf had beem daubed upon the wall with some sort of red oxide paint. Next to it, there was a blobby kraken, rendered in yellow ochre, with more enthusiasm than precision.

“And I see you made yours,” Liana said to Theon.

It was hard to tell in the dim cave light, but she thought he reddened. “I was young and stupid. I wanted to make my mark everywhere. I wanted to show Robb I was his equal,” he muttered.

“You are!” Sansa exclaimed, touching his hand, and Theon shot her such a look of naked adoration that Liana and Jeyne shared a discomfited glance. Liana cleared her throat.

“So, I’m here,” Liana said. “What would you like to talk about?”

As Theon shuffled his feet for a moment, Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Theon has something to tell you, Mistress Pyke.”

“Yes?” Liana said to Theon. “What is it, cousin?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’re sorry?” Liana echoed, hoping he would say more. “Why is that?”

“You know very well,” he said, a touch of his old surliness entering his voice, and Sansa’s encouraging smile turned into a glare that made her, for a moment, look very much like Lady Stark.

At that, Theon sighed, running his hands through his curly hair. “I’m sorry for threatening your betrothed. It was stupid. And cruel. I only meant… to do you the honor of offering you a place in our family. That is, if Nuncle Vic wasn’t enough of a thickheaded bullock to refuse you,” he added with a helpless shrug.

“I accept your apology,” Liana said, amused, but also moved despite herself. “I shouldn’t have overreacted. I’m sorry I threw a knife.”

“Yara would have done much worse,” Theon said, and Liana laughed.

“She would have had better aim, I’m sure,” she said. “By the way, I wanted to make sure you got this back.”

She handed the dagger to Theon, who pulled it from the handkerchief. He grinned at her sheepishly, handing the cloth back to her and slipping the dagger back into the scabbard. “Thank you, coz,” he said. “You took good care of it, I see, even without a proper sheath.”

Liana shrugged. “Well, it is yours.”

“Yes, well.” Theon gazed at her, his sea-colored eyes anxious. “It is, yes. But not many people would take such care of it. Not after what I said.”

“You meant well,” Liana said. “Sansa explained it to me. I understand what you wanted. I should have thought more about… what was motivating you, rather than immediately losing my temper. I really wish you hadn’t threatened Brenn, though.”

“Yes. I shouldn’t have done that.” Theon bit his lip. “It was… badly done.”

She nodded, but it looked like he wasn’t done speaking. She waited patiently.

“I think… you see…” There was an agonizing pause as Theon struggled with words. “I’m not very good with people.”

As soon as these words had escaped his mouth he glanced away with mortification. Liana could just imagine how it must have cost him to admit this most secret of fears; for didn’t Theon like to pretend to the world and to himself he was the most charming man in the world? “Not the way Sansa is, at least. I only wanted to help you, coz. I hope… you can forgive me.”

“Of course I forgive you!” she exclaimed. “Your concerns are understandable. More than understandable. But you see, I’ve known Brenn for years. I trust him. And my uncle trusted him. Explicitly,” she added with emphasis. “We’re going to travel the world. Not settle down in Westeros.”

Theon nodded. “Very well. You seem to have good sense, cousin, so— well, if you trust this Fossoway, I suppose—” He grimaced. “I suppose I will too.”

She cocked her head. “Will you?”

He raised his chin. “Yes. I will.”

“No bloodshed? No cutting off any bits?”

“Not unless he betrays you, coz.” He bared his teeth. “And if that happens, all bets are off.”

Liana smiled fondly at the scruffy, chaotic, live-wire boy in front of her. To think he’d been the epic romance hero of her childhood—the protagonist of one of the greatest and most tragic love stories in literature. He’d been immortalized in Sansa and Theon. The Wolf and the Kraken. And dozens of other novels, movies and plays. And here he was, with his dusty clothes and flushed cheeks and messy brown curls. “You’re too good to me.”

“That’s not true,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not good to anyone.”

“You are. You’re a good man, Theon Greyjoy, even if you don’t believe it yourself.”

He swallowed, his eyes growing bright and tremulous. “You don’t mean that, do you?”

She stretched out her arms. “I do.” She stepped towards him, giving him a fierce hug. “I do,” she repeated softly, and he shook a little in her arms, as if he wanted to cry but was doing everything in his power to restrain himself. Finally, he wept a little, quietly, and she felt his tears hot on her neck.

Liana said nothing. She only held him for another moment until he broke away, furtively wiping his eyes—no doubt grateful for the darkness of the cave. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sansa wiping her face as well, and she thought she was very close to weeping herself.

“Well,” Liana said loudly. “So the plan. I was talking to Brenn, and he had some ideas.”

“I should love to hear them, Mistress Pyke,” Sansa said, patting the place next to her, and Theon, with alacrity, sat down next to her, slinging his arm over her shoulders. The sweetest smile crossed her face then, as she placed the gillyflower crown over his head, and kissed him on the cheek. Theon glanced back at her, his expression filled with gratitude and an inexpressible tenderness.

“Anyway, we’re ready to hear it,” he said, arranging the crown at a rakish angle as he winked at Sansa. “If he’s been to Asshai, does he have any dragons that can fly us out of here?”

“That would be awfully convenient, but no,” Liana said. As quickly and thoroughly as she could, at first she outlined the three options of when to leave—before, during and after the king’s visit.

“Clearly,” she finished, “leaving before the king arrives would be the best option. Let’s call that Plan A. But I think we should be prepared for a speedy exit after the king leaves, in case something happens, because we don’t have a lot of time to prepare, and anything could go wrong. Let’s call that Plan B.”

“So that’s why you haven’t ruled out my giving the encomium,” Sansa exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Liana. “You’ll still have to give the speech if we go with Plan B, or your parents might get suspicious that something is up.”

“Your mother would definitely suspect,” Theon said, and Sansa nodded, worrying her lower lip.

“Do you have any thoughts on what routes my lord and lady should take?” Jeyne said, leaning against the cave wall. “Lord Brenn seems a well-travelled sort of gentleman. I’m sure he had much insight into that too.”

“He did,” Liana said. As the three youngsters listened intently, she then described the three potential routes, calling the westerly route through Barrowton Option 1, the southern route down the King’s Road Option 2, and the easterly route to White Harbor Option 3. (She further elaborated on Option 3, mentioning the land route to White Harbor—calling that 3a—and the river route—calling that 3b.)

“I’ve been thinking about this, and looking at all the local maps in the library,” Liana said. “I really think the two of you should take the river route to White Harbor, and then on to Braavos. The faster you guys get out of the North, the better, and that’s the fastest route— no ifs, ands or buts.”

“Braavos,” Sansa breathed, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Braavos?” Jeyne asked skeptically.

“Braavos!” Theon scowled.

“You don’t approve?” Sansa asked.

“No, I don’t!” Theon said. “Seven hells, do you know how much it would take to hire a ship from Braavos to the Iron Islands? You’d have to sail down the entire Narrow Sea and all around Dorne. The cost would be absurd!”

“It won’t be cheap,” Liana admitted. “But the only alternative is to travel a thousand miles to Seagard. That’s the nearest port you can board a vessel to Harlaw. A thousand miles, cousin! That’s a lot of road to cover, especially with the hounds of the king at your tail.”

Theon blanched.

“Yes,” he said. “There’s that.”

“There’s a reason Kenna was so focused on going to White Harbor, to escape the Lannisters,” Liana said. “Once you get to Wolf’s Knife, you can go downriver to White Harbor pretty quickly. It’ll be harder to nab you, once you’re on the river. And once you find passage to Braavos, you’ll be free and clear.”

“They won’t be expecting you to go east, to be sure,” said Jeyne. “They’ll expect you to go south, though I can talk them into thinking you’ve gone west.”

“You’re so clever, Jeyne,” Sansa said warmly, and Jeyne grinned.

“Yes,” Theon said, tapping his chin. “I think that might work.”

“Do you think so?” Sansa asked.

“Oh yes,” Theon said. “I’ve hunted between here and Castle Cerwyn plenty of times. If we keep to the woods, and circle about Cerwynvale when we see the towers, we can travel the hills to the north of the River Wolf and, and ah… find us a boat when we hit the White Knife. Then we just row downriver to White Harbor, and hey go now! The next thing you know, we’re in Essos!”

“That sounds like a plan,” Liana said, nodding in approval. She gestured to Sansa’s pretty gown. “You’re probably going to have to wear a jerkin and breeches while traveling.”

Sansa’s face wrinkled, as if she smelled something foul. “Breeches! Do you think I’m Arya?”

“Well, no,” Liana said, “but it’s damned hard to hike around the wilderness in a long dress.”

Theon threw back his head and laughed. “Stop laughing at me!” Sansa said with a pout.

“She has a point, my love,” he said with an easy grin. “You’d be much slower in a gown. But I do think you’d look fetching in tight breeches.” And he winked.

“Oh, you troublemaker!” Sansa said, hitting him lightly on the chest. “Hush!”

“You can always pack away a gown for later,” Liana said. “Though dressing as a boy would have some other advantages, I think.”

“Yes,” said Jeyne. “No one would imagine that Lady Sansa Stark would be looking like a grubby urchin, now would they? Everyone shall be running around, looking for a young man with brown hair and a redhaired maiden. But if the maiden did not look like a maiden...”

“That’s true,” Sansa said.

“You could braid up your hair and wear it under a cap, to be even less obvious,” Liana suggested. “Ideally, we would dye it, but then everyone would notice.”

Theon gave a lopsided grin. “If you like, I can even teach you to walk and curse and spit like a boy too. By the time I’m done with you, no one would believe you were a lady at all.”

“Why do I have such an easy time believing that?” Sansa said, placing her hands primly on her lap. “Theon Greyjoy, I think you can spit and curse well enough for the both of us. I have no interest in learning do any of those things.”

“I don’t think you really need to do much acting anyway,” Liana pointed out, while Theon guffawed. “You’ll be out in the wilderness most of the time. The tricky part is making sure you’re ahead of all the men-at-arms who are going to be sent out to hunt you down.”

At that, Theon stopped laughing. He removed his flower crown, placing it gently down on a nearby rock. His merry face sobered.

“Yes,” he said. “If time is of the essence, we might have to take a horse. A good horse. But one we’ll have to leave behind when we find a boat in Wolf’s Knife. I don’t want to do it, but… it’ll be necessary.”

He looked at Sansa, her face pale yet set. She brushed a petal out of his hair.

“I agree,” she said. “That’s the best way to make haste. Two people on foot would be chased down pretty quickly by mounted soldiers. Think of that runaway from the Night’s Watch,” she added in a small voice. “They practically rode him into the earth, before Father beheaded him.”

Theon nodded with a grim air.

“I’ll start getting provisions and money together,” he said. “There’s some fellows down in Winter Town who owe me quite a bit. I think I might have to pay them a call.”

“Be careful.” Sansa touched his sleeve. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Theon took her hand, kissing it tenderly. “I’ll be careful, my love. Don’t worry on my behalf.”

“How can I not?” Sansa leaned towards him, pressing her forehead against Theon’s. She gazed into his eyes. For all the chill and damp in the air, the yearning and tension and emotion between the two seemed to shimmer like desert heat. “Someone has to.”

Now it was Jeyne’s turn to clear her throat. The two young lovers jumped.

“We should be heading back to the keep, then,” Jeyne said pointedly. “We can’t be seen together, remember…”

“Yes,” Sansa said, pained, as Theon stood, offering his hand. She clasped it, standing with her usual fluid grace. “I know what I have to do too. I shall gather jewels together I can pawn in White Harbor.” Her jaw set. “And in Braavos.”

“A good idea,” Liana said.

“I thought of another thing!” Sansa exclaimed. “Kenna Snow… and Roslin Cook’s Daughter. Perhaps we may be able to find them in Braavos. If they won’t mind our company, of course.”

“Yes, that might be a good idea,” Liana said, thinking that Ros would probably be delighted to see Sansa and Theon again, but Kenna would be probably less than thrilled. But they would cross that bridge when they got to it. Theon looked less than thrilled himself at the idea of his current love becoming friends with his former mistress, but he was becoming wise enough in the ways of women that he said nothing.

Good for you, Theon, Liana thought wryly. You’re learning!

Sansa shook out her skirts, looking at them with a rueful air. “I will have to get used to wearing breeches, at least for the time being.” She turned to Theon. “I will see you soon… my love,” she added shyly.

“Soon,” said Theon, and he wrapped his hands about her, pulling her towards him. They gazed at each other for a long, heartfelt moment, their eyes gleaming in the cave’s dim light.

It was utterly silent in the Wolf’s Lair, except for breeze whistling through the crevices, and the slow drip of water somewhere. The fragrance of peat and dampness and greenery grew overwhelming; it seemed to fill her eyes, her mouth, her lungs. Liana touched her pendant. Oh, Lady, she thought, overwhelmed. R’hllor—the sun—the fire— couldn’t be farther away. She was truly in the old gods’ kingdom now.

Theon had taken off his gloves, and now he trailed one bare finger down Sansa’s cheek. The younger girl’s breathing had grown shallow, as he lifted her chin. Then he kissed her, softly, quietly, with a prayerful grace.

But, as always, Theon’s reverence did not last long. His kisses deepened, and he soon consumed her lips with a bruising force that left her gasping. Sansa, unabashed, kissed him back, deep and sure, running her hands through his curls, before finally breaking away, her cheeks flushed and her breasts heaving. Theon’s eyes had grown dark, and his own chest heaved as well. He looked more than a little wild—for a moment, Liana could picture him on the deck of a longship, gazing out over the storm-tossed waters, as if somewhere he heard the sound of mermaids singing.

Blushing, straightening her own dress, Sansa turned to follow Jeyne and Liana out of the cave. Liana glanced back behind her, to see Theon still staring in a fixed way at Sansa.

As she moved down the path back into the sunshine, he receded into the shadows, his eyes large and dark and his face white as bone, or a scrap of driftwood, stripped of life.

                                                                                     * * *

When they emerged, the sky had darkened, and the wind blew. Rain began to sprinkle down on their heads, and as they pull up the hoods of their cloaks, they all hustled back to the warmth and security of the keep.

“We should go to my room,” said Sansa, as the guards bowed, and she stepped into the Great Hall, shaking the droplets from her cloak.

Jeyne nodded. “I’ll get Megga to send some mulled wine.” She went to a passing servant, whispering in her ear. The steward’s daughter returned. “It’ll be sent soon,” she said. “Let’s move along, in case Septa Mordane intecepts us to read to read from the Seven-Pointed Star. And takes us to the sept.”

“The sept?” Sansa said, distracted, looking towards the door, clearly still thinking of Theon.

“Oh yes. I think she thinks you’ve been spending so much time in the godswood, my lady, she’s afraid you might become a greenseer.”

Jeyne turned to Liana. “Or,” she added with a raised eyebrow, “that Mistress Pyke might be converting you to her faith.”

Liana raised an eyebrow as well. She couldn’t even picture Sansa worshipping R’hllor in the severe practices of the third century; though it was easier to imagine the girl at one of the Lotus Way shrines of her time, with their emphasis on gardens and pools and flowers. Not that it mattered, she thought cynically. It was hardly as if Sansa was even going to ever see a proper shrine in the first place. They wouldn’t exist for centuries. (And, she thought with a shudder, might not even come to being in this timeline at all. God, time fuckery was the worst.)

Sansa smiled wanly. “Well, that’s an interesting idea. Come along, Jeyne. Mistress Pyke. I am eager to drink some mulled wine.”

With a single-minded swiftness, they walked through the halls, reaching Sansa’s chambers in record time.

Sansa didn’t even look at the finery of her room. She sat down on her bed, burying her face with her hands. Lady, who was curled before the hearth, woofed, trotting up to her mistress and nuzzling her knees with a wet nose.

“Oh, Lady,” Sansa said, throwing her arms around her pup. “Lady,” she said again, and burst into tears.

“My lady,” Jeyne said, sitting besides her mistress.

Still holding her pet, Sansa leaned against the older girl.

“Oh, Jeyne,” she said. “I can’t bring Lady with me. It’ll be hard enough to escape with just the two of us. And a horse. But with the two of us, a horse, and a wolf? No. It can’t be done. I’ll have to leave her behind.” And she started to cry again, and Lady licked her face. “Oh,” she said, her voice thickening. “Sweetling. I love you so much.”

“My lady,” Jeyne said, pressing a handkerchief on her (Jeyne must have had a large stash of handkerchiefs somewhere). “I know it will be hard. But Lady will have Robb. And Arya. And Bran and Rickon. And—Jon too,” she added, her cheeks reddening.

“Yes,” Liana added. “She won’t be alone. She’ll be well taken care of.”

“And who knows!” Jeyne interjected hopefully. “Maybe one day, she’ll be reunited with you!”

Lady barked again, as if she agreed that must be the case. Sansa ran her fingers through the wolf’s fur, laughing through her tears.

“Yes. I do hope so, Jeyne. Liana. You must be right. You’re both so clever and wise.”

Jeyne grimaced, and Liana smothered an embarrassed laugh. “That is kind of you to say so, Lady Sansa,” Liana said.

“It’s not just being kind. You’re so good to me. You’re both such marvelous friends,” Sansa burst out. “Helping me… and Theon,” she added in a lower voice.

“We just want you to be happy,” Jeyne said, looking at Liana with a smile.

“And safe,” Liana said.

“I hope Theon will be safe, going to Winter Town…” Sansa mumbled. “He has some rough friends. And the weather is so poor…”

They sat for a moment, listening to the rain. It began to pound on the roof. Sansa stood up, wringing her hands.

“I shall be leaving this place soon. Soon, I shall be a woman. A wife. An exile…”

“Not an exile, if you make a home with your husband,” Jeyne said urgently. “If you come to live with his people.”

Sansa turned to her friend, her sea-blue eyes haunted. “Yes. But we must survive the journey first.”

Liana and Jeyne shared a distressed look, as Sansa walked around her room, Lady padding delicately behind her. She touched her tapestries, the carved clothing chests, her embroidery frame, and her work table, where a gown in the Southron style, cut from the azure broadcloth purchased at the draper’s, currently lay. At last, she touched her coffer of jewels.

“I hope there shall be enough to pay for everything,” Sansa murmured. “I do not wish to be stranded in Braavos…”

“I’m sure there will be enough,” said Jeyne, but Liana said nothing. Once, please God, Theon and Sansa had safely embarked from White Harbor, she and Brenn would be going back through the portal—not only to the future—but to their own timeline. Once they left, she would never see Sansa again. She would never find out if they could leave Braavos safely.

Liana sighed. What else could she do? As Dad said, life was a gamble. Who the fuck would know what would happen next?

At that moment, the door knocked, and a red-cheeked older woman peeped in, bearing a tray of mulled wine. Jeyne thanked her, gracious yet quick, taking the tray and closing the door.

Jeyne poured the wine, fragrant steam emerging from the cups. As the other girls drank, Liana sipped. It was very sweet, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, and thick with raisins, berries and lemons. It was far too sweet for her—Sansa’s sweet tooth was notorious—but it would be rude not to drink as well, so she drank.

“Perhaps you might sing another song, Mistress Pyke,” Jeyne said. “Would that not please you, Lady Sansa?”

“I would love to hear another song from your homeland, Mistress,” Sansa said, scratching Lady’s back as her tail wagged. “Or from the Reach. Either would be lovely.”

Liana racked her brain for something appropriate that the girls might like. There were precious few songs that she’d memorized, and most were show tunes, that would not be appropriate. At all. She tried to imagine singing Anything More or My Heart of Stone, Melissa Blackwood’s big power ballad from Nine, and her brain went blank. Of course, there was opera, like Verdyon’s drinking duet from The Fallen Woman, but that would be even worse.

At last, she thought of something. It was a neo-folk song, written a few years before she was born. It wasn’t old, per se, but it seemed old; it was written in the ‘80s by a prolific songwriter from the Riverlands, and was inspired by an older poem about a highwayman in the Age of Luminance. Her mother loved it, and had it on a record. It was sung by a folk group of three women who harmonized beautifully.

She used to sing it, walking along the rocky beaches of Lordsport, the waves crashing about her. Not only was it catchy and in her range, but there was something haunting about it… like the sound of mermaids singing.

Anyway, she couldn’t think of anything else, and the two girls were staring at her.

Nervously, Liana cleared her throat and began.

Oh once I loved an outlaw

He came and stole my heart

Oh how I count the hours…

Since we were torn apart

While traveling to Seagard

I spied a highwayman

He wanted all my money

My heart beat like a drum

I gave him all my money

And sweet he smiled at me

His beauty eye took pity

Beneath the weirwood tree

We kissed but for an hour

The sun was newly warm

The clouds were as the flowers

That bloom but for a morn

He gave back all my money

And bowed most gallantly

He promised for to meet me

That night beneath the tree

We’d flee to some far island

And there we would be wed

And freely we would live there

With no price upon his head

At this point in the original recording, the three women began to harmonize richly and exquisitely, with the most heightened emotion— but Liana had no idea how to do that, so she just continued.

That night I went to meet him

With my inheritance

He kissed me ‘neath the half moon

And joyful we did dance

O love betrays all secrets

It whispers in the breeze

The sheriff he did follow

With all his deputies

Like hounds rushing to slaughter

The fox whose luck is run

And he stood erect and cursed them

“God damn you every one!”

At the curse, Sansa and Jeyne started.

They seized him in a fury

And heeding not my plea

They hung him from the heart tree

Where he made love to me…

As her voice faded away on the final verse, tears began to trickle down Sansa’s cheeks. Liana froze.

“My lady, I’m so sorry.”

“No…” Sansa wiped her eyes as she smiled waveringly at Liana. “Don’t apologize. It’s so beautiful. It’s so sad. But the melody… I’ve never heard anything like it. Perhaps you can teach it to me.”

The rain lashed against the windows as she and Sansa started to sing. Liana knew her voice was serviceable, but Sansa outmatched her in every way. The younger girl might be untrained by modern standards, but she had an exquisite coluratura soprano voice, rising to the roof with pure, silvery tones. Like a mermaid, combing her blood-red hair on a mossy rock, pounded by the waves…

Oh once I loved an outlaw

He came and stole my heart

Oh how I count the hours

Since we were torn apart…

For a moment, Liana lost herself in the pleasure of singing, but she glanced at Jeyne, whose brows were knit. The rain made her think of waves, crashing white and black, foam spraying in her eyes, the salt making them sting.

And the king would arrive from over the ocean, like the Storm God in Theon’s story, demanding his mermaid bride.

Liana trembled.

She hoped she knew what she was doing. Indeed, if life was a gamble, she was gambling with life and death.

Chapter Text

Hey guys-- thanks so much for your patience. I have not forgotten Age of the Sagas. Unfortunately, the mild creative block that started over the holidays has only got worse because of the pandemic, and all the financial stress that comes with getting laid off. At least (knock on wood) I have my health, and that's the important thing.

Anyway, I'm trying to work through my creative block by drawing (as I do freelance illustration), and that's helping me a little. You can see my work on Instagram and Twitter @suburbanbeatnik, on Tumblr at https://suburbanbeatnik.tumblr.com/ and DeviantArt at https://www.deviantart.com/suburbanbeatnik. 

Drop me a line if you like, I always like talking to people. Please everyone, practice social distancing, wash your hands, and stay safe!

Thanks again! 

Chapter Text

As soon as they stepped into Liana’s chamber, Sansa shut the door behind her.

Even though her delicate face was wan and drawn, deep shadows were carved underneath her usually luminous eyes, and lately she quivered with a tension that never seemed to go away, a mischievous smile still flickered across her face. As she swept across the room to the window, she took the mysterious cloth-wrapped parcel that was under her arm and placed it on the ledge.

“Now that your betrothed has so cleverly convinced Septa Mordane to show him the sept,” Sansa said, “we have a few minutes to talk.”

Liana smiled back at her, thinking of how Brenn was able to distract Mordane from a portentious reading of the Seven-Pointed Star—a sermon no doubt aimed at Liana herself—with a deft suggestion to see the sept, which was the first sept built at Winterfell, and the farthest north a sept had ever been built. “He is occasionally useful,” she said wryly. “What did you want to show me, my lady?”

“What makes you think I want to show you something, Mistress Pyke?” Sansa tapped her fingers on the parcel.

“Maybe it’s the parcel in your ladyship’s hands,” Liana said, glad that Sansa could keep her sense of humor, even when the royal caravan was less than a week away at this point. In fact, a few hours before, Jeyne had been sent on an errand to meet Mistress Magpie for a suggestion for a pawnbroker in White Harbor, with maybe some other names in Braavos. Not only that, Theon had come back from Winter Town—after spending the night at the tavern—with all the money owed him. Before leaving on her errands, Jeyne had even muttered to her that their “conjugally destined turtledoves” were planning on flying from Winterfell within two days.

Two days. They had only two days left. Liana felt like quivering with tension herself.

Yet even with these huge plans brewing, it was of the utmost importance that they pretended everything was normal. That Brenn was just a minor Southron lordling, that Liana was his scholarly Essosi fiancée, that Theon was thrilled to meet the king and queen, and Sansa was even more thrilled to be engaged to the crown prince. That they didn’t know the crown prince was a cat-killing psycho, that Theon would rather murder the Lannisters than sup with them, that he and Sansa were madly in love and on the verge of running away to Braavos, and moreover Liana and Brenn were time travelers from eight hundred years in the future. It was exhausting to smile and nod and make endless courtesies and study up on encomia when all she wanted to do was sleep, hide or make love to Brenn—or best of all, cuddle with him in bed, her face burying into the crook of his neck, as the winds keened outside and the fire crackled low on the hearth.

It also didn’t change the fact that she needed to tell Jeyne the truth, sooner rather than later. But she wouldn’t think about that now, not when Sansa had a surprise for her.

“I have no idea what you could possibly mean, Mistress Pyke!” Sansa exclaimed with almost convincing innocence.

“Oh, come on. I’m sure you’re as eager to show it to me as I am to see it,” Liana said, adding a belated “my lady” after a second.

Sansa quirked an eyebrow. “You aren’t easily fooled, are you, Mistress Pyke? Very well.”

With elegant fingers, she untied the parcel, revealing a gown of azure broadcloth she’d last seen on Sansa’s worktable. Liana gasped. “Is that for me?”

The younger girl dimpled. “Of course. You have done so much for me, Mistress Pyke, that I wanted to repay you in kind. What better than to get you a new gown, worthy to greet a king…” Her voice lowered. “If that is indeed necessary for you.”

“All right.” Liana’s breath caught in her throat. “It is exceedingly generous of you, my lady.”

“Nothing is too generous for one who has saved one’s life,” Sansa replied, looking as serious as her father. “Come, disrobe. No need to call Jessa. I will be your tiring woman.”

“Your ladyship honors me—”

“Nonsense. I want to see my new creation on you.” She smiled again as she peeled off Liana’s teal dress. “I am not the most skilled of seamstresses. I pricked my finger so often whilst sewing this I swear I thought I would fall into an enchanted sleep like that princess from one of your Qartheen tales.” She picked up the new gown and began to wrap it around Liana, similar to a Yi Tish hanfu. “It was such a pleasure to sew something sophisticated and regal, and not with a knotted front like I was some little girl!” She grimaced, her lower lip jutting out in childish pout that quickly disappeared as she arranged the new gown’s massive hanging sleeves.

“But you’ll be a woman flowered soon,” Liana said.

“Yes, and a woman married too,” Sansa murmured.

“When you get to Braavos.”

“Yes.” The redhaired girl trembled, her fingers dancing as she tied the gown’s laces and cinched a sash around Liana’s waist. “Braavos.” The word sounded like both a song and prayer.

Reminded of prayer, Liana closed her eyes and silently uttered a quick prayer herself. She thought of the Lord of Light and the Lady of Lotuses. She thought of flowers curling up around her feet, twining up her legs and thighs and breasts, craning their petaled heads towards an uncomfortably close and blazing star. Her body felt half divided between the cool of a garden and a searing flame; but this was the Lotus Way, was it not? Je Taara. Mother Yeshi, Star of Wisdom, Jewel of Compassion, I know you haven’t been born yet, but look after me, please—

“Right. It’s done. Now look!” Sansa held up a mirror, pushing it into Liana’s face eagerly. Liana stepped back, gaping at herself.

Despite Sansa’s protests, she had outdone herself. The blue cloth draped itself beautifully over Liana’s figure, looking as regal and sophisticated as she could have wished. The ruched sash was made out of a bronze-gold raw silk, the same fabric trimming the edges of the chest and sleeves, which were so long and deep her hands were practically hidden. And, most cunningly, on the shoulder was embroidered a sunburst of yellow, with a black kraken waving its tentacles, tangled in a lotus sea.

The symbolism was perfect—the Greyjoy sigil was a gold kraken against black, and the classic heraldry of a noble bastard was to reverse the colors of the house in question. But to combine that with her mother’s family’s sigil… Well, it was both brilliant and subtle, turning a gown into a political and personal statement. Liana ran her fingers over the stitches. The attention to detail astonished her. Even the tentacles were well-made, with each suction cup delicately picked out with black thread.

“My God!” she gasped. “This is amazing, Sansa! I mean… my lady. Forgive me.”

Sansa blushed. “I shall forgive you for taking such liberties, Mistress Pyke, if I might call you Liana.”

“I’d be honored, my l—I mean, Sansa. I’m sorry. I’m just not used to such informality.” Perhaps she’d been in the Ice Ages for too long. Back in Oldtown, especially at university, everyone went by first names almost exclusively, though that wasn’t the fashion in Qarth, of course, which was so formal and riddled with etiquette that her family back there almost seemed a relic of the Restoration age.

“We can keep our first names for use only in private, then,” Sansa said. “We wouldn’t want to shock anyone, of course.”

“Of course.” Warmth filled Liana as she gave the younger girl a quick, fierce hug. “Thank you so much for this. It means so much to me.”

“I must thank you, Liana.” Her eyes grew wide. “Through your valiant efforts, you’ve brought us together.” She looked down shyly, her cheeks heating up. “If it hadn’t been for you… I don’t know what I would have done. Marry the prince, I suppose.”

“God forbid,” Liana said grimly.

“Yes.” Sansa squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “If it weren’t for you, I would have known nothing about his true character. I would have followed him like a besotted kitten. A kitten,” she repeated, an expression of horror coming over her features.

“Yes.” Liana felt a chill. “But that’s not going to happen, my l—I mean, Sansa. I swear it, by the Lord of—”

The door flew open with a bang, and both girls jumped. Jeyne rushed in, her cloak flying behind her and her usually neat braided hairstyle coming down in tendrils and wisps. “I just got back from Winter Town,” she said with a gasp. “You’ve got to come with me, quick!”

Liana and Sansa shared a horrified glance, and followed Jeyne down to the main courtyard, Liana’s booted heels clattering all the way. As they rushed into the late afternoon sunshine, a huge procession came through the gates, men-at-arms in boiled leather and morions riding behind a stern balding middle-aged man wrapped in a fur cloak. Close behind him rode a younger bearded man in steel greaves, an equally grim expression on his broad, ruddy, no-nonsense face. Whip-thin, bright-eyed hounds of some extinct breed ran along the horses, barking excitedly. And banners billowed behind them, cold black emblazoned with a white cross, with a flayed pink man hanging upside down.

The Boltons.

Liana froze, staring at the men like a deer in the headlights of a semi. She heard Sansa saying softly to her: “Liana? Mistress Pyke?” But she could not utter a sound.

A sharp whistle kept the hounds at bay, as the younger man wheeled his horse about, suspiciously eying the denizens of Winterfell, who were now all hanging out windows and balconies, gaping at the new arrivals. As the older man dismounted, Lord Stark strode out to meet him, his lady wife right besides him.

“Lord Bolton,” Ned Stark said, loudly and coolly. “This is unexpected. What business brings you to Winterfell?”

“Lord Stark,” the other man said, executing the slightest of bows. “It pleases me to see you in such good health.” He turned infinitesimally to Catelyn. “Lady Stark, it is a pleasure to look upon you again, though I am afraid I cannot tarry.” His voice was so soft Liana had to strain to hear him. “I was on my way to Barrowton to visit my goodsister, Lady Dustin, who has sadly taken ill.”

Lady Stark blinked, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Good morrow to you as well, Lord Bolton. You have not come to see the king?” Her well-modulated voice, sounding ever so slightly strained, rose in the chill northern air. It was a long ways away from the epic multi-year winters this era was afflicted with, but even in the middle of summer, the North was hardly as balmy and pleasant as the Reach. Clad as she was in her thin cloth Southron-style gown, Liana shivered, wrapping her arms about herself.

“The royal party is so close?” Lord Bolton asked demurely, as Liana stared. This had to be Roose Bolton. By the Lady! It was Roose fucking Bolton, the Leach Lord himself, standing right in front of her. The head of House Bolton, one of the antagonists of the Song of the Starks, the man who betrayed and murdered Robb Stark and Catelyn Stark and whose bastard son Ramsay tortured Sansa and Theon. Her knees almost buckled.

In her time, no one could agree what the Boltons looked like. Archmaester Tarly was the main primary source for the period, and he had never met any of the Boltons. Queen Sansa never spoke of her time with that family, and the remaining Bolton heiress, a bastard daughter named Lonna later legitimized by the queen, did not leave behind any primary source material. In her various literature and history fandom circles, Liana had seen many a social media post bemoaning how no survivors after the Cataclysm had seen fit to record more aspects of pre-Cataclysm life, like what either of the Boltons had looked like. But she could imagine that neither Sansa nor Lonna had cared to remember.

“Lord Stark, this is indeed an honor. You are truly blessed by the King’s presence,” Lord Bolton said in such a dry way that she wasn’t sure if he was trolling Ned or not. He probably was. You could say a lot of things about Roose Bolton, but you couldn’t say he was stupid.

At first glance, the Lord of the Dreadfort was dressed like any other late third century Northern nobleman, with a brown leather jerkin worn over a quilted gambeson, with a full-length cape, made of tiers of animal skin, sporting a thick fur pelt collar with the Bolton insignia stamped on wide leather cross straps. His clothes were a monochromatic dark brown, but the lining of his cape was a bright pink—calling to mind the flayed man, a reminder of the (alleged) ancient Bolton practice.

But his face took her aback. If she pictured him as anything, it was Ruffo Cafierys, the great Braavosi baritone who sang the part of Roose in Verdyon’s Sansa and Theon, filmed right after the second Great War. But the actual Roose Bolton was nothing like the short, olive-skinned, full-lipped Braavosi opera singer: instead he was tall, pale, and with the sort of haggard features that called to mind a world-weary private detective from an old film noir, with salt and pepper hair, high forehead and long ski-slope nose.

At first, he almost seemed like he could be sympathetic. But when you really looked, his lips were thin and his eyes were the color of frost. They looked… empty. Soulless. Liana knew she should look away. Every atom of her screamed at her to look away. But she felt as if her feet had been nailed to the spot.

And the strangest thing? She’d seen that face before. She knew it. But where? Where in all the seven hells could she have seen Roose Bolton, of all people? Was she losing her mind?

“He is only days away,” Lord Stark replied stiffly. “If you wish to stay, Lord Bolton, I will arrange accomodations for you, Captain Walton—” the younger bearded man with the steel greaves nodded— “and all other your men.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, Lord Stark,” Bolton said. “I am only passing through. I am pleased to see your children, though…” and he turned around, fastening his unsettling gaze on Sansa.

Sansa froze herself, clutching Liana with one hand and Jeyne with the other. Lady Stark glanced at Lord Bolton anxiously, then pasted a warm smile on her face, gesturing to her eldest daughter.

“Come here, Sansa. Lord Bolton has just arrived from the Dreadfort. He wishes to pay you his respects.”

As stiffly as a doll, Sansa smoothed her skirts and walked up to Lord Bolton. She curtsied deeply. “My lord. It is an honor to meet you again.”

There was a long moment where Bolton’s unnerving eyes studied Sansa, from her loose coiffure to her slippered toes, as Lord Stark shifted and Lady Stark’s jaw clenched. “You have grown much since I last saw you, Lady Sansa. You are as beautiful as they say.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She gave her prettiest smile. “I trust your health is good?”

“It is excellent, my lady.” He tucked his arms behind his back, gazing about with a mild air. “The restorative power of leeches has never failed me.”

“I am happy to hear that, my lord. But I am sorely grieved to hear Lady Dustin is ill. May I inquire to the nature of her ailment?”

“A distemper of catarrh. I think hippocras and the draining of bad blood will aid her recovery. The Ryswells—” Lady Dustin was a Ryswell of the Rills by birth— “have always been a healthy family, so I expect her to recover eventually. Of course, when she does, perhaps she might consider revising her will.” He bestowed a bland, fatherly smile upon Sansa. Liana thought of what he would put Sansa through in a few years—at least, what he would do in the original timeline—and her skin crawled.

“Will you be staying long, my lord?” Lady Stark asked.

“Not very long at all. I would like to leave the day after tomorrow. I would not want to compete with the royal party for the guesthouse. And my goodsister awaits me.”

“I will pray to the Seven for her health,” Sansa said.

“Pray, if you excuse me, my lord,” Lady Stark exclaimed, “as time is of the essence, I should like to prepare a cough remedy for her ladyship. Storax, mastic, and bayberries mixed with honey is something I believe is most effective. If you may send it with my compliments.”

“Of course, Lady Stark.” Lord Bolton bowed. “I am sure that Lady Dustin will be delighted to receive anything you prepare.”

“I’m sure,” Lady Stark said, a tight, bright smile on her face. “Come, Sansa. Let us go to the stillroom. Good afternoon, my lord husband. Lord Bolton.”

With that, with two curtsies, the ladies made their exit. Yet, for all that, Liana couldn’t move. Jeyne tugged at her arm.

“Liana,” she hissed. “Come—we need to go!”

Finally Jeyne pinched her, hard. “Ouch!” Liana exclaimed.

“We’ve got to go,” the younger girl whispered in her ear. “We should go to the sept—tell Lord Brenn what’s going on—”

She yanked Liana’s arm again, and Liana finally moved. They headed back into the keep, when Liana felt the back of her neck prickle. Goosebumps raised over the length and breadth of her arms, as if she’d been plunged into ice water.

She glanced back, to see Roose Bolton staring at her as fixedly as she’d been staring at him a minute ago.

Jeyne glanced back as well, paled, and practically dragged Liana though the doors, as she wondered, once again, why his face was so damned familiar.

Chapter Text

It was still bugging her, later that night at dinner.

Because there were guests, but at a very short notice, there was a slightly more elaborate and varied bill of fare from the usual pork, venison or mutton, including pigeon pies, spinach tarts, larks bound in leeks and basted in a red wine sauce, and capons studded with cloves and served over salad greens, presented promiscuously with custards, gooseberry pies and spit-roast apples slathered in cinnamon and honey. Once again Brenn and Liana sat at the high table, eating off fine stoneware plates.

When Brenn had met her back at her rooms so he could escort her in for dinner, his face lit up. “You look amazing. Like a million dollars! No,” he’d said then, cocking his head. “It’s not dollars. It’s dragons, right?”

“Yeah,” she’d said. “It’s dragons.”

“Cool. Good to know I remembered something right for once. Wait, I’ve got to do something period appropriate.” And then he’d showily kissed her hand. “Come, my lady, let us not tally. Let us go hither to yon hall to sup amongst the Northrons, so they might admire your, ah, threads. Forsooth!”

She’d started giggling madly then, and found it hard to stop, though she managed to keep a straight face once Theon, slinking into the Hall only a little ahead of her, scowled at her in annoyance.

Indeed, even when walking into the Great Hall, Liana did catch many admiring glances. Ordinarily she would enjoy it. But Roose Bolton was there, waiting with everyone else. Even though he wasn’t rowdy, or rude, and he ate as elegantly and quietly as a Southron lord, using his silver-handled dagger set with pink sapphires to cut up his capons and pies with a surgical precision, his cold presence and unblinking gaze was a damper on everything. Robb said nothing, only nodding seriously as if he were attending a council meeting, while Arya shrunk into her seat as she speared the morsels from the serving bowls. Even the usual boisterous Rickon, who had gobbled up several spit-roast apples and whose face was covered with honey despite Lady Stark and his nurse’s best efforts, stared at Lord Bolton with a wide-eyed unease.

Only Bran seemed unaffected by the general malaise, and at one point waved merrily at Brenn. Ever since Brenn’s discussion of elephants and wyverns, the little boy seemed very taken with her “betrothed.” Over the past week or so, Bran had even started following Brenn around, asking him questions about other exotic beasts like tigers, manticores and lizard-men, what animals the Sealord of Braavos had in his menagerie, if there were truly basilisks in the Basilisk Isles, and had he ever ridden on an elephant. At one point, when they’d been alone, Brenn had asked her if Bran was really truly the same guy as “Bran the Broken,” or as he put it, “that creepy telepathic brain in a wheelchair.” She remembered how his face fell when she said that he was one and the same.

As the noise and aromas of dinner whirled around her, Liana stared into her wine. They were less than a week from the action of Song of the Starks truly kicking off. When Ned Stark would accept a position as King’s Hand, when Sansa would be betrothed to Prince Joffrey, when Jon would go off to join Night’s Watch, and Bran would climb a half-ruined tower and and be pushed off it by Jaime Lannister. The entire family’s lives would be changed forever—as would Theon Greyjoy’s life. And Jeyne Poole’s. Everyone. The Cataclysm would come, and the world of magic would come to its catastrophic demise, leaving in its wake hundreds of thousands dead and millions of lives ruined forever.  

So…why was Roose Bolton here? There had been no word of him coming to Winterfell at any point. Was this something… new? Had the ripples of all the things she’d changed fanned out to affect him too?

Liana drank deeply from her cup, eying the mysterious Lord Bolton over the rim. He was was seated next to Lord and Lady Stark at the center of the high table, and while he and Ned discussed the king’s visit, Black Bartram’s brigands, wildling attacks and other assorted lordly business, he also took considerable interest in talking softly to Lady Stark, to the extent that Liana wondered if he were trying to flirt with her. Lord Stark watched his guest closely, but his wife remained as calm as if they were all discussing the weather, though every once in a while Liana thought she saw a strained smile or a nervous microexpression fleetingly cross Lady Stark’s elegant face.

She felt sorry for Lady Stark, but at least Bolton wasn’t paying any attention to her. Thank God for small favors.

All in all, she did her best to ignore him. Yet still, in the back of her mind, she couldn’t remember where she’d seen that face before. Was it Qarth? Pyke? Oldtown? In the newspaper? On the TV? On the internet? Where?

Liana couldn’t help but also notice that Sansa was dead white and anxious, while Theon, fiddling with his own dagger, looked ready to bolt or punch somebody. Roose Bolton was going to be here for two days. Two days. This had thrown a huge monkey wrench into their plans. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Sansa yet, as she had accompanied her mother to the stillroom and then to the kitchens to plan dinner, but she knew she needed to talk to her. As soon as possible.

She also had to talk to Jeyne as well, but Captain Walton, the broad-faced ruddy young man with the steel greaves who’d entered Winterfell at Lord Bolton’s side, sat right next to the steward’s daughter, conversing gravely with her as her father watched them with no small amount of anxiety. Jeyne gave him a sweet smile and nodded all the while, but her eyes met Liana’s more than once. Liana gave her a slight nod, hoping this conveyed “hang in there—we’ll talk soon,” but Jeyne’s discomfort, though well hidden, seemed to reflect her own.

“Lord Bolton’s henchman seems to be into your pal Jeyne,” Brenn murmured softly into her ear. As always, her skin prickled at his nearness.

“He does, doesn’t he? Look at Jon Snow.” Jon was glaring daggers across the room at Captain Walton, his fist clenched around his goblet, which looked ready to snap in two. “If looks could kill, Captain Walton there would be dead twice over.”

“Wait.” Brenn paused. “Did you say—Captain Walton?”

“Yes.”

“Steelshanks Walton?”

“Do you know him?”

“Well, we’re not besties, but I’ve heard of him.” Brenn gave her an exasperated look. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Walton River?” Liana stared at him. "The one that runs through Lonley?”

Liana nodded. “Oh that river! Oh, sure. It used to be called the Weeping Water in the Ice Age.”

She’d never been to Lonley, and knew almost nothing about its modern history, but Lonley was the third biggest city in North Westria after Winterton and White Harbor. It used to be called Bothyltown, with the unexciting meaning of “settlement with a dwelling,” and there was some speculation this settlement was where the Boltons originated, as the chiefs of a village often took the name of the village itself. Bothyltown became the surname Bolton, and old Bothyltown was renamed Bolton’s Lea, or simply “Dreadlea,” for the Dreadfort itself.

At some point the Dreadfort was abandoned, and the village was renamed “Lonna’s Lea,” after Lady Lonna Bolton, and it eventually became “Lonley.” It seemed a normal enough place, with a thriving port, several colleges and factories, including several knife manufacturers—after all, to quote the old Bolton house words, “Our knives are sharp.” She remembered an ad she’d often seen on late night TV back in Oldtown. Our patented Bolton steel blades will cut through soup cans, bread, meat and frozen vegetables! Only 29.99, we repeat, only 29.99! The only knife offer with a fifty year guarantee! Don’t accept imitations, order now!

Of course the Boltons were a long extinct house by their time, but some savvy entrepreneur had appropriated the name for his business. She wondered if any of its citizens paid any attention whatsoever to their city’s bloodsoaked history. Probably not.

“Yeah. It was renamed the Walton after that guy.” Brenn’s voice was still low, and he gazed at her as romantically as if they were discussing their future wedding. “Good thing too. ‘The Weeping Water’ is a lot of syllables.”

“Right.” She did her best to keep a straight face. “He ends up marrying Lonna Bolton, I believe.”

“Was this the same Lonna Bolton that the Lady Bolton Memorial Medical School was named after?”

“I think so.” Liana wracked her brain trying to remember what she knew about the future Mr. Lonna Bolton. “They were both in The Red Kings of the Dreadfort.”

That particular opera, composed by the Rhoynelandish Rickard Saroy, was about Domeric and Ramsay. In it, Ramsay murdered Domeric over Steelshanks Walton’s sister, who later threw herself off the castle battlements in grief over Domeric’s death. Meanwhile Walton himself was in love with the woods-witch and healer Lonna, Ramsay and Domeric’s half-sister, a bastard by the local blacksmith’s wife, but Lonna knew Ramsay killed their brother and she was afraid what he would do next, while Roose, as usual, refused to do anything. After Ramsay forced Sansa to marry him, killed his father, proclaimed himself King of the North, and then tried to rape his own sister while chaining up Walton and threatening to flay him “as he did Reek” in a dramatic aria, Ramsay was dragged away by demons in the end as Sansa sang a song of vengeance and ennobled Lonna and Walton, now Lord Walton Steel.

“Let me guess. Is that an opera?”

“How did you guess?”

Brenn touched her hand, his long fingers covering hers. His long-lashed hazel eyes lowered, growing intense, almost burnished in the firelight, like tiger’s eye. “Call it a lucky guess.”

As Liana’s cheeks heated up, she looked down, smiling a little herself. “I guess you know me too well.”

“At this point, yeah,” Brenn said with an intimate smile. “But it seems like a lot of these guys end up in operas. I wish they’d solve their problems in something like Westria’s Got Talent, but that would be hoping for too much—”

“Lord Brenn, you and your betrothed are very deep in conversation,” Lady Stark exclaimed with forced gaity. “Are you discussing your wedding, mayhaps?”

“Uh, yes, my lady, we are.” Brenn glanced up, a little guiltily.

“I expect it will be soon, once you return South?”

“Yes, my lady, it will be.” As he took her hand, she clung to it. “Lord Stark, Lady Stark, I must thank you for your generosity and hospitality. We owe your lord and ladyship much. My house owes you a great debt.”

Lord Stark nodded, while Lady Stark inclined her head.

“There are no ravens trained to go to Orchard Hill,” Lord Stark replied, “so we sent a letter to your family, through the Manderlys of White Harbor.” Brenn didn’t react to this, but his fingers tightened around hers. Liana continued to keep her face bland, as she sensed Roose Bolton watched them with keen interest.

“I expect your parents, Lord and Lady Fossoway, will be happy to hear of you and your betrothed’s good health and safety,” Lady Stark added.

“Yes, my lady. I cannot wait to see them again,” Brenn said earnestly. “My brother and sister too.”

“It will be a heartwarming reunion, I am sure,” Lady Stark said with a smile. The smile faded as she continued:

“However, if we cannot find Master Hazredi, it might be good for you two to return South with King Robert.” At this, Lord Stark glanced at Brenn, his eyebrows raised skeptically. No doubt Ned was thinking of Brenn’s resemblance to Daeron Fossoway. Brenn gave a non-committal nod, shifting a little in his chair.

“By the way, Septa Mordane tells me you are dedicated to the Faith!” Lady Stark exclaimed. “I trust that you will be wed in the light of the Seven? You must have a beautiful sept back at Orchard Hill.”

“Yes, my lady. It has stained glass and everything. And your ladyship is correct—it is what my family would want.” Liana knew that Brenn cared as much about the Seven as she did, which was, not at all. Still, even if things worked out with them in the long run, and after they got home, they did end up marrying eventually, she supposed, for tradition’s sake, a sept wedding would be in order.

Of course—that was assuming if they got back. Not only did they have to get Theon and Sansa out safely, they had to get out of this timeline and back to the old one, which also assumed that her uncle and Brenn’s equipment would work without a hitch. She thought of Brenn’s explanation of malignite-powered remotes and neutrinos and portals and subportals, and her stomach flopped over sickeningly.

No. She wasn’t going to freak out. Brenn had already crossed the barriers of the multiverse just getting there. If anyone could get them out, he could. Her hand brushed against the bag about her neck, the one with the malignite shavings, and she felt an obscure pull. Her hand felt also a bit chilled, even within the heat of the hall.

“Lord Brenn,” Lord Bolton began, ever so softly. “Lord and Lady Stark told me about your very interesting story. That you and your betrothed’s nuncle, a maester, came looking for a… stone with alchemical properties.” How quaint, his tone read. “And how you and your betrothed managed to evade Black Bartram.”

Brenn lowered his eyes. “Yes, my lord. That is what happened.”

“A pity about your nuncle, Mistress Pyke.” Bolton turned his colorless eyes to her. “He is most likely dead by now. The North is a merciless place, compared to the Reach.” His words were deliberately cruel, but his voice was silky and smooth as dark chocolate. It was… disconcerting. Liana averted her gaze as well.

“Yes, my lord.”

“If you are fortunate, before the winter comes, Lord Stark’s men will discover his bones, and send them to Orchard Hill, where you may lay them to rest. Or perhaps you shall send them on to Qarth? No matter. Death comes for us all.” He smiled mildly.

“Yes, it does.”

‘You are a worshipper of the Red God, are you not?”

How did he know that? Well, word had no doubt gotten around. “Yes, my lord, I am.”

“You do not find the worship of the Seven a dangerous heresy? I hear that most adherents of your religion despise the Faith.” His pleasant smile was close to a sneer.

“Unlike my other co-religionists, my lord, I do not despise it,” she replied levelly. “It is my future husband’s family’s faith, and I have no wish to offend them.”

“Well said!” said Lady Stark with approval, and even Ned Stark nodded.

Bolton, however, gave her a cool look and turned away.

“The Pyke woman is as articulate as you say,” he said to Lady Stark. “I would almost mistake her for a lady born and bred. Perhaps her Essosi blood triumphs over Ironborn savagery.”

Liana bristled—and out of the corner of her eye she saw Theon’s face twisting into a brief snarl— but Brenn placed his hand on her arm. Bolton glanced back at her, his pale eyes mocking. She bit her tongue before averting her eyes again. But for a minute she could feel him staring at her, assessing her.

Why did he come to Winterfell?

And who did he remind her of?

                                                            * * *

Liana itched to run away from the smoky, crowded hall and get some fresh air. After telling Brenn to expect her back at her rooms within the hour, she picked up Brenn’s scarf and fur throw from her room and went to her favorite spot at the battlements. There, she began to pace.

At this time of night, the Northern Mountains were a black silhouette against the ebony blue sky, a nearly full moon illuminating the forests and fields below. She wrapped herself into her furs, as a cold northern breeze whistled down the mountains. It smelled of frost and mist with the sharp hint of pine and smoke. Somewhere, she could hear a fire crackling and the sound of boisterous sound of men singing. Was it “The Bear and the Maiden Fair”? She couldn’t tell.

She placed her hands on the stone and leaned forward, breathing deeply, letting the air fill her lungs. Standing on the tips of her toes, she leaned over further, when a gloved hand clamped over her shoulder.

“I would not lean farther over if I were you, mistress,” a deep, chocolatey voice whispered into her ear. “If you fall off the battlements, I should not wish to explain the accident to Lady Stark.”

Liana whirled around. “Lord Bolton!”

It was, in fact, Lord Bolton, who was much too close to her, his still face and frost-pale eyes standing out as starkly in the moonlight as a cameo on a jeweler’s swathe of black silk. As his hand dropped, her breath caught in her throat as she edged away as far as she could, clumsily curtsying.

“Begging your lordship’s pardon, I did not hear you approach.”

“Mayhap I did not mean for you to hear.” He nodded at the scenery. “A fine sight, is it not?”

“It is very beautiful.” Liana clasped her hands tightly, unnerved. Why was he here? Why would he care about me? she asked herself. I’m a nobody.

“The North has a harsh beauty,” he said, and it struck her as being deeply unfair that someone as awful as Roose Bolton should have such a sexy voice. “It is hard place, cold even in the summer. It is very different from the softness of the Reach. Or Qarth.”

How do you know? she wanted to ask. Have you ever been to Qarth? “Yes, my lord, I see,” she said merely.

“The old gods rule here,” he said. “Not the Seven. King Jaeherys outlawed the First Night—” the ancient tradition where lords could sleep with brides on their wedding night—“because his harridan of a wife was whispering in his ear, but it is an ancient custom, dating back thousands of years to the First Men.” He paused. “The men of the North are the blood of the First Men. We do not bow to Southron laws.”

Lord Bolton looked at her as if he were expecting her to be taken aback. But she nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

“Of course,” he echoed, moving slightly closer. “A Southron lady would be shocked by my plain speaking. But you are no Southron, are you? You are not even Westerosi.”

“My lord, my father was from Lordsport,” she said, not really liking where this conversation was going. Theon’s warning flashed in her mind. You’re the scheming Essosi woman that Westerosi mothers warn their sons about. Even in her day, Essian women were often portrayed as scheming sluts in popular Westrian media—how much worse was it back in the Ice Age, when xenophobia reigned supreme? God, just think of all the rumors that had already been circling about her, Theon and Jon. How much of it had Bolton heard?

“Some Ironborn bastard’s get.” Bolton curled his lips. “Those reavers and rapers barely count as Westerosi. But I will say this for you, Mistress Pyke—you do not seem like Ironborn.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment? Probably, but she had no idea how to respond.

Lord Bolton continued. “In truth, despite your… origins, you seem like a modest, retiring woman. Lady Stark speaks of your sense and education.”

All right—she could finally respond to this. “Thank you, my lord.”

“But you were bold enough to stare at me when I arrived.” He leaned in ever closer, his unblinking eyes gleaming like silver coins. “As bold as a whore. Why is that?”

There. That was why he came here. That was the stinger. Her throat closed with fear. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

His gaze flicked lazily around her face. “I am not interested in your apologies, Mistress Pyke.”

Liana wanted to step back, but all she could feel against her back was frostbit air and the cold stone of the battlements. Thoughts whirled frantically within her brain as her mouth opened and closed. Then what did he want? Was he coming on to her? Did he want to make her afraid, put her in her place? There were guards patrolling the walls, but none were here now. Bolton had timed this so they were completely alone. If he did try to pull a knife on her or grope her or even assault her, then help might not come in time, even if she screamed. Of course, she was a guest of the Starks. Why would he risk his relationship with Lord Stark? Surely this wealthy lord couldn’t find her that fascinating—

Her heart beat like a drum as she bowed her head. “I know, my lord. It was not my place, and I must beg your pardon.”

“The Boltons are not a forgiving house, as I am sure you know, being the educated woman you are.” His face was very still as he touched his dagger inlaid with pink sapphires, and then brushed her sleeve with long, pale, perfectly manicured fingers. A veiled threat? An attempt at seduction? Or both?

“What I want to know— why?” His voice had grown soft and dark as velvet. “The truth, now. No Essosi lies.”

This was it. What did he think she would say? That he fascinated her? She had never seen a lord so powerful, so cruel? Being as he was under Ned Stark’s roof, he couldn’t just throw her down on the ground; perhaps he had planned this as a way to lure her into bed. As she’d had the temerity to stare at him, he wanted to fuck her. But fuck that. He asked for the truth. And that’s what he would get.

“I—this sounds foolish, my lord,” she said, swallowing heavily. “But—”

“What?”

“I have seen you before, my lord. Or I should say, I have seen someone who looks just like you.”

This was clearly not the answer he expected. Lord Bolton actually blinked. “What do you mean?”

Despite the frosty air, she could almost feel fire singing in her veins as she looked him straight in the eyes. “I mean, somewhere, I have seen a man who is like enough to be your lordship’s twin. He looks exactly like you, Lord Bolton, down to your eyes, your height, even your mannerisms.”

Lord Bolton did not move a muscle. “You have seen a man exactly like me in Oldtown?”

“Your lordship, I am not sure where I saw this man.”

“You are mistaken. Women are oft given to flights of fancy.”

“Perhaps that is so, my lord, but I know what I have seen.”

“Mayhaps then you should pray to your Red God.” A shade of irritation emerged in his usually bland voice. “You see things in the flames, don’t you? Mayhaps you may discover the truth of my twin if you ask your god nicely.”

“It’s true, my lord, that the gods do appreciate politeness,” she said as blandly as Bolton himself.

Before Lord Bolton had a chance to respond, she heard a voice calling out. “Liana? Liana, are you there?”

At the sound of that blessedly familiar voice, she almost collapsed with relief. “Yes, Brenn—my lord—I am here! Right over here!”

Brenn stepped into the moonlight, smiling at the sight of her—then freezing at the sight of Bolton, standing far too close for propriety’s sake. “Oh—ah. Lord Bolton. Good evening, my lord.”

“Lord Brenn of Orchard Hill,” Lord Bolton answered. He stepped away, brushing his furs, his lips twitching faintly with what Liana imagined to be contempt. “The night grows late, Mistress Pyke.”

“It does indeed, my lord.”

“It also grows cold. Lord Brenn, Mistress Pyke. I trust you will keep each other sufficiently warm.” With the most perfunctory bow, he excused himself.

“You were gone for a while, and I was getting worried,” Brenn said, just before Liana, shivering, threw herself into his arms. Brenn staggered, before curling his arms around her. “It’s good to see you too. Hey, is everything all right?”

“Lord Bolton was hitting on me in the creepiest way,” she whispered into his ear. “Let’s go back to my room, shall we? I’ll tell you everything there.”

“That fucker,” Brenn hissed, then gave her another hug. “All right. I’ll send for some mulled wine too.”

“I’ll definitely need that,” Liana said, and wished, once again, she had access to a shower. A modern shower, in a clean glassed-in booth, with hot water, and gels, and soaps, and—

Well, she’d be back home soon enough.

But the way things were going, until that day, she prayed she could stay alive and whole and sane.

Chapter Text

“What in the seven hells is going on?” Theon growled as he paced the Wolf’s Lair, kicking the occasional rock and almost bumping his head on the low overhanging ceiling. “What is that Bolton bastard doing here?”

Strictly speaking, the “Bolton bastard” was Ramsay Snow, but she knew Theon meant the epithet of bastard figuratively, not literally.

“As far as I can tell,” Liana said to Theon, Sansa and Jeyne, “Lord Bolton stopped by here for a surprise visit. His goodsister Lady Dustin is sick, he said.”

“Does Lord Bolton seem like the sort of man who would drop everything to visit an ailing woman?” Theon snapped. Typical Ironborn, straight to the point.

“No, but he also implied he was going because he hoped to make her change her will,” Liana said, as he shook his head with disgust.

“I can believe that. That shifty cun—” His eyes flickered to a frowning Sansa, who sat on a boulder, stroking Lady’s fur, and he said quickly instead— “cur. Cur, that’s right! All those damned dogs that came in with his party. The kennel’s overwhelmed. Bloody dogs. Used to hunting. Humans, I’d wager.”

“You’re not wrong, cousin,” Liana said. “I’ve heard stories.”

“You have, have you?” Theon said, staring at her. “What sort of stories?”

For a second Liana thought of revealing the true fate of Roose’s trueborn son Domeric, or rumors of what went behind the walls of the Dreadfort, or the story of how Roose had raped a miller’s bride—Ramsay’s mother— because the miller had defied the tradition of First Night, but then she decided not to dump any more unnecessary horrors into the minds of her youthful charges. She just shrugged. “I’d rather not say.”
“Let me guess,” Theon drawled. “Gathering intelligence for Lady Tyrell again?”

Liana smiled slightly, in a way she hoped was mysterious.

“You do have your fingers in a thousand pies, cousin. Now why would Olenna Tyrell care about the Boltons?”

“Lady Tyrell cares about information,” said Liana. “As do I. That means knowing all about the shenanigans various Northern bannermen are up to.”

“She-nanna-gans?” Sansa echoed, and even Lady cocked her head in confusion.

“I’ve never heard such a word before,” Jeyne said, puzzled. “Is that a southron word, Mistress Pyke?”

“Yes. Yes it is. You don’t want to cross the Boltons.” She paused, uncomfortable, thinking of all the masses of jumbled bones dumped in a pit, found under the ruins of the Dreadfort in a recent archaeological excavation. “Take my word for it. They are horrible people.”

“Oh?” Theon said facetiously. “The house with the flayed man on their banners isn’t sweet and gentle? Thank you for that, coz. I never would have guessed.”

Despite the tension that filled the cave, Liana chuckled. “Yes, I know. Well, they’re worse than you can imagine.”

“I don’t know, cousin—I can imagine quite a lot.” Theon smirked, and the absolute irony of him making this otherwise amusing comment about Bolton atrocities was so ironic that Liana wanted to scream. She restrained herself, but Sansa asked, her eyes wide:

“But flaying was outlawed, a thousand years ago, once the Boltons bent the knee to the Starks!”

“My lady—Sansa…” Liana began nervously, when Theon sat down next to Sansa on the boulder, taking her hands between his.

“My love,” he said gently, “the Boltons used to be kings. The Red Kings, who warred with the Starks over the North. I’d wager all the gold in my purse that they think they’re above the law.”

“Lord Theon is right,” Liana said, and Jeyne nodded too, her mouth tight.

“After all, my lady,” the steward’s daughter added, her voice low, “we now know what princes themselves are capable of.”

Sansa nodded, her eyes turning suspiciously bright. Trembling, she threw her arms around Theon. She couldn’t see Sansa’s face, pressed against his jerkin; but even in the shadows, she could see his eyes were squeezed shut, his eyebrows angled upwards, his mouth a thin, agonized line, his own hands wrapped about the small of her back. They were locked in an embrace for a long minute, as if they never wanted to let go; at last Sansa broke away, surreptitiously wiping her eyes, as Theon turned away, breathing heavily, staring into the dark.

“So, Mistress Pyke,” she began. “If I understand you correctly, we can’t leave tomorrow. Or the day after. Because the Boltons will hunt us down.”

“Yes,” Liana said, as Jeyne squeezed her hands together so tightly she wondered if they might break.

“So we must wait a few more days,” Sansa said with a tremulous smile, scratching between Lady’s ears as the direwolf pup wagged her tail.

“That’s all very well then.” Distracted, Theon rubbed the back of his neck. “But what if the king comes early?”

“Then we must wait until he leaves,” Sansa replied, a steely glint in her blue eyes and a gravitas that surprised Liana. “If that happens, we must move to Plan B. Isn’t that right, Mistress Pyke… I mean— Liana?”

“That’s right,” Liana said with a smile. “You’ve learned well.”

“I can just hear you saying, ‘implement Plan B, option 3 everyone’!” Sansa’s face broke into a teasing smile. “I only learn because you’ve been so patient with me. My dear schoolmistress. My dear friend. My future goodcousin.”

Tears came to Liana’s eyes. “You are too kind, Sansa.”

“Not at all.” She rose to her feet, brushing her gown. “You might have your fingers in a thousand pies, as Theon says, but you’ve saved me from a monster. You’ve brought me to the man I love.” She gazed at Liana earnestly. “You have saved my life.” She cast a shy, sideways look at Theon. “No. Our lives.”

Theon gazed back at Sansa, and for a moment his expression was wrought with indescribable emotion. Then he shook himself.

“She’s right,” he said, standing up. “We owe you much, coz. Some day, when I’m Lord of the Iron Islands—and Sansa is my lady—” as he squeezed her hand, Sansa gave him an adoring glance—“you and Lord Brenn will be invited to stay at Pyke. We’ll treat you to all the hospitality the Ironborn have to offer!”

If that’s true, God help me, Liana thought, and she bit on her lip, trying to laugh as she saw Jeyne grimace as if she’d just bit into a lemon. “I appreciate your offer, cousin, but the bottom of my heart.”

“Speaking of hearts,” Jeyne said, “we must go, Lady Sansa. Your lady mother will be looking for you. I’m sure her mother’s heart yearns to see you by her side, especially with Lord Bolton running about, waxing about the efficacy of leeches.”

“In that case,” Sansa said, her eyes twinkling, “we should relieve her.”

“So you’re leaving me for the Leech Lord and your mother, eh?” Theon cocked his head, sticking his thumbs in his belt.  

“Only for the nonce, my sweet lord. As the poets say, let not your heart be filled with sorrow—for we shall see each other ‘pon the morrow.” She smiled at him tenderly, her eyes luminous. “Good-bye, beloved.” She leaned over, kissing him lightly on the lips.

Sansa might have meant this as a quick adieu, like a lady bidding farewell to her leal knight, but instead, Theon grabbed her by the waist and pulled her flush to his chest, opening his mouth and consuming her with a piratical fervor that was so frank and shameless that Liana, after a second, had to look away in embarrassment.

After a minute, the two were parted again, Sansa blushing a fiery red, her lips chafed and her hair tousled, while Theon grinned in the most louche way imaginable.

“I told you she was going to call on her mother!” Jeyne said indignantly. “Now I must take her ladyship back to her quarters and douse her with cold water so she doesn’t look half ravished!”

Theon, still grinning, wagged his finger. “You mean, ‘I told you she was going to call on her mother’… my lord. Your manners, Mistress Poole.”

“You—you Ironborn lout!” Jeyne stamped her foot. “You are incorrigible!”

He laughed. “You have been spending too much time with my sweet cousin—you are beginning to sound like her.”

“I hardly think that’s a bad thing!” Jeyne said indignantly. “My lord,” she added.

“Well, it’s either Mistress Pyke’s influence… or Jon Snow’s,” Theon added with a wink as Jeyne gasped. “Come, cousin. Let me escort you back to the keep.” After a final parting smile at a still flustered Sansa, he offered his arm, and the two left the cave, before Jeyne forgot all semblance of manners and punched Theon in the nose.

Though, to be honest, Liana would pay to see that.

                                             * * *

“You were too hard on Jeyne,” Liana told Theon as they walked through the woods.

“Me?” Theon, aggrieved, placed his hand on his chest. “She called me a lout!”

“You provoked her.”

“It isn’t hard. She’s always running about, sticking her nose in things, so self-important.” He shot her a sideways glance. “She was more courteous, before she met you. Which is strange, because I thought the Quartheen loved courtesy.”

“But my father is an Ironborn captain, and you lot are as blunt as spoons,” she said, and Theon guffawed.

“You’re not wrong—”

Not paying attention, she tripped over a root, almost losing her footing. Theon caught her arm before she went sprawling.

“Watch yourself, coz,” he said.

“Thank you,” Liana said, breathless. There was her damned clumsiness again. With some horror, she realized she’d tripped over one of the weirwood’s massive ivory-pale roots, as the crude weeping face stared at her. She looked back nervously. “Pardon me, Lord Tree.”

“Lord Tree?” Theon asked, grimacing. “Must you be courteous to that?”

“He’s the god of this land, is he not?” Liana replied in a low voice. She could not rid herself of the feeling that the tree watched her still, and was only biding its time until she and Theon were gone. A crow cawed somewhere overhead, and the feeling of being watched increased. Her skin threatened to creep off her bones altogether, leaving them as white and bleached as the divine tree that currently only suffered their presence. “We should be courteous to the gods whatever lands we visit.”

“He’s not our god.” Theon clenched his dagger’s pommel. “Our people cut down such trees whenever we invaded. The First Men sacrificed prisoners to such trees. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Then why waste your time? You are half Ironborn, are you not?”

Liana shrugged. “It’s habit, I suppose.”

“A good habit,” a deep velvety voice intoned, and Lord Bolton stepped from behind the weirwood, his black cloak with its pink lining sweeping behind him. Liana jumped.

“Lord Bolton,” Theon said warily. “We did not hear you.”

“I was deep in prayer to the old gods. The gods that you Ironborn despise. But your cousin is courteous enough.” Lord Bolton stared at her, as fixed as the weirwood tree. “A most intriguing woman, your cousin. It is such a surprise you two found each other.”

“The Drowned God looks after his subjects,” Theon said, stiffening. “Excuse me, my lord, but we must go.”

“You are in a hurry? Very well.” He stepped closer, still staring. “I wish to speak to Mistress Pyke.”

Nervously, Liana glanced at Theon. Theon took Liana’s hand and stepped forwards, as if to shield her.

“I gave my cousin my word that I would escort her to the keep.” He was as formal as she’d ever seen him. “Your lordship may accompany us, if it pleases you.”

“How courteous you are, Theon Greyjoy. Your years as Lord Stark’s… ward…has served you well.” His voice grew softer, a smile hovering at the edges of his thin lips. “I imagine your father, Balon Greyjoy, would be proud. His last surviving son and heir. Now Lord Stark’s own squire.”

For a moment, Theon’s eyes blazed with rage—he looked like he was on the verge of saying something rude— but to Liana’s great relief, he said nothing. He bowed. “After you, my lord,” he said at last.

Was Lord Bolton disappointed that Theon did not respond to his taunts? She had no idea. They were all silent as they walked back to the keep, though Bolton maintained his usual expression of mild distinterest, while Theon’s jaw was clenched, his hand in hers the entire time. As soon as they entered the Great Hall, his hand dropped.

“My lord,” he said with a stiff bow. “I hope your business with my cousin will be brief.”

“Your hopes are irrelevant, Theon Greyjoy,” Lord Bolton said. “My business with Mistress Pyke is none of your concern.”

“She is my cousin, Lord Bolton, and an unmarried maid betrothed to Lord Tyrell’s bannerman,” Theon answered flatly. “As you are both guests under Lord Stark’s roof, I trust you will remember this.”

“Indeed.” With his mist-colored eyes, Lord Bolton examined Theon from his curly hair to his booted feet in a way that made Liana shiver. “Spoken like a good little Stark squire.”  

Theon’s lips tightened. “I’ll be back soon, cousin Liana. I must find Lord Robb.” He bowed quickly to Lord Bolton. “Good day, my lord.”

He wheeled about, making his exit out the great door, leaving Liana with Lord Bolton.

                        * * *

“Lord Bolton,” said Liana as neutrally as she could manage.

“Mistress Pyke.” He continued to gaze at her with such a smiling blankness that as each second ticked by, she began to get more and more unnerved. And he knew it too, that fucker. He was enjoying this.

“May I inquire as to the nature of your lordship’s business with me?” she asked at last, as formal as Theon.

“Come sit by the fire with me, Mistress Pyke,” Lord Bolton said, his voice wrapping around her like a river of chocolate. “You are in the middle of the Great Hall. You need not fear me.”

She wished she could say something epic and Age of the Sagas-y like I fear no man, but the truth was, she did fear him. But Theon had thoughtfully deposited her into the Great Hall, the heart of Winterfell. It was pretty empy at the moment, currently populated only by a maidservant sweeping the hearth and a man cleaning the windows.

Not knowing what else to do, she followed him to the empty high table by the hearth, where low banked flames crackled in the embers. He sat in Lord Stark’s chair, gesturing to the seat usually reserved for Lady Stark. She sat down, trying to look as graceful and elegant as Lady Stark. Or her mother. As she brushed her braid over her shoulder, she touched her lotus pendant surreptitiously.

“Get me a flagon of hippocras,” Bolton said to the maid by the hearth. “What do you wish, Mistress Pyke?”

“I’d like a Coke,” Liana said, suddenly tired of the charade. “Chilled. Hold the ice.”

Lord Bolton blinked. “Pardon me, my lady?” the maid squeaked.

“I’ll have some hippocras too,” Liana said with a sigh, waving a hand. “Bring us two glasses, please.”

As the maidservant bustled away, Lord Bolton raised an eyebrow. “’Coke’?”

“A Qartheen tonic, made of the Sothoryian cola nut. It hasn’t made it to this side of the Narrow Sea yet,” Liana said. “But when it does, your lordship, it will be very popular.”

Bolton eyed her lke she was an exotic animal he’d never seen before at the zoo. “You are a curious woman.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I did not mean it as a compliment, Mistress Pyke.”

God, the games people played with each other back in Ice Age was so bloody tedious. Well, the best defense was a good offense, her father would say. Even though every nerve in her body was screaming from sitting several feet away from one of most notorious villains in Westrian history, she straightened her back and looked him in the eye.

“What is your business with me, Lord Bolton? I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to discuss the various beverages of our respective nations.”

“I admit, mistress, that sounds like an amusing conversation—but alas, no. I brought you here for other reasons.”

“And what could those be, your lordship?”

Bolton paused, looking around. He leaned closer. “You are a strange creature, Mistress Pyke, but you’re handsome enough.”

“Your lordship is too kind,” Liana said coldly.

“Not at all. If this were the Dreadfort, mistress, I would take you on this very table, and no one would say a word. There are other things, too. Other… pleasures. Ones that you might find less pleasant.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “But I shall spare your maiden’s modesty.”

Her blood turned to ice. She couldn’t move. She told herself that he wanted to throw her off, to make her lose her nerve. That this was all a game to him. She could not let herself even blink.

“But this is not the Dreadfort,” she said, as calmly as she could.

“It is not,” he agreed. “Ah, yes— the hippocras has arrived!”

Lord Bolton poured her a glass as the maidservant curtsied and backed away. “It is a healthful drink, one that improves digestion. Mayhaps in that way it is similar to your ‘coke.’”

Liana forced herself to drink the hippocras, which tasted like the sweetest brandy cocktail concocted by a drunk bartender at Yule. She hated it, but Sansa would probably love it. “It’s very nice, my lord,” she said with a bright, false smile.

Lord Bolton gave her a knowing look, as if he knew exactly what she thought of the hippocras. “May I suggest a toast… to memories.” He raised his glass.

“To memories,” she echoed.

They clicked glasses and drank, as if they were old friends at a feast. Part of Liana wanted to hurl the overly sweet wine punch in Bolton’s face; another part wanted to start laughing hysterically. She forced herself to continue smiling, like she was showing tourists around the Ten Towers, and was about show off Rodrik Harlow’s famous library.

“I specifically wanted to ask about your memory,” Bolton continued smoothly. “Have you remembered who my twin is yet? If you are helpful, mistress, I will reward you. The Red Kings have always rewarded their most leal supporters.”

She lowered her eyes. Of course, the one thing that would drive a narcissist was to find the mirror image of himself. What else could it be? “I am sorry to say, my lord, that I do not remember.”

“That is unfortunate. Perhaps your memory might be helped along.”

Was that a threat? What the hell did he have in mind? “My lord, I have been trying very hard to remember. But I keep drawing a blank.”

Bolton glared at her. “Perhaps your command of Common is flawed, Mistress Pyke. I often find your speech strange. Indeed, somewhat opaque.”

“I am very sorry, Lord Bolton. I cannot remember at all. But—” she turned to the fire, an idea sparking in her brain—“I think I know who might be able to help.”

“I do not believe in the Red God, Mistress Pyke,” Lord Bolton replied softly. “It offends me that you would suggest I traffic with him in any way.”

“My lord, I do not believe in the old gods either. But I am courteous to them. It doesn’t hurt to be polite to a god. Even if one doesn’t like them, or what they stand for, they still might help. And why not? They are gods. We are mortals. How are we to know how they think?” She shrugged, her palms going up. “It is a mystery.”

“Are you trying to convert me to the Red God, mistress? I would not think that was wise.”

“I’m trying to do no such thing, my lord. After all, it was your lordship himself who said last night that ‘mayhaps you may discover the truth of my twin if you ask your god nicely.’ Was that not what you said, my lord?” she added, as sweet as the hippocras. “I admit my memory is not always reliable.”

Bolton stared at her, and then at the flames. A long minute passed as a faint scowl crossed his face. But when he glanced back, he seemed to have made up his mind.

“Make this quick,” he said.

“Yes, my lord.” Liana stood, walking to the hearth. “If it pleases you, my lord, stand besides me, and I will present your query to the Lord of Light.”

“Do you want me to throw myself in the hearth as well?” Bolton asked dryly. “I hear your god is very fond of sacrifices.”

“That is the nature of His worship in the Free Cities, but not in Qarth. Once I make the desired query, please prick your finger with your dagger and drop three drops of blood into the fire. No more, no less.”

As he looked at her askance, she added apologetically: “The last time I did this, my lord, I used my own blood. But my grandfather was only Dagon Greyjoy’s bastard, and your lordship is the descendent of the Red Kings. The Lord of Light will prefer to receive your blood— not mine.”

“Perhaps your Red God has some sense,” Lord Bolton said. They were both now staring into the hearth, and the flames, at their approach, seemed to leap higher. Liana took a deep breath, and like she did with Ros, raised her hands. The words she used last time flared within her mind, traced with fire.

“Lord of Light,” she murmured. “You who are the fire of knowledge and the sun of truth—you who drive back the darkness. Tell me, O Lord, where I have seen this man who looks so much like Lord Bolton, called Roose, Lord of the Dreadfort, descendant of the Red Kings of the North. Please illuminate the truth for me, oh God— I beg of you, please, to light my path and show me the way.”

She turned to Bolton. “Now.”

Without hesitation, he took his dagger and squeezed out three drops of blood into the fire. One—two—and then, as the third drop hit the embers, the fire exploded up like a nuclear bomb.

Bolton gasped, jumping backwards, but Liana stood there. She felt the warmth of the flames, caressing her, reaching, with bright curious fingers, towards the little pouch of malignite that hung between her breasts. The cold of the malignite merged into the heat of the fire; the flames whirled about her, faster and faster, blurring into a wall of color, a funnel of jewels, ruby, carnelian, citrine and topaz, melting into gold, pure gold, white and hot as if ripped from the bowels of the earth—

The images came to her like a television screen had been implanted in her brain. There was Roose Bolton—with his thin lips and pale eyes—but instead of wearing a furred black cloak with pink lining, he wore a slick, expensive modern suit, of a narrow Braavosi cut, and he stood proudly by a rack of AR-15s. There, with the same faint smile, he stood by a tank. She saw unmanned drones bombing a small jungle village, smoke billowing in the air as huts burned; then a convoy of Mossovian tanks, likewise being bombed by drones; there was Bolton again, leaning forward, his hands on his black angular desk by his sleek laptop, the computer’s LCD light reflecting on his face, turning his frost-pale eyes an unearthly blue. But he was always smiling, smiling. 

Then he wasn’t smiling; he was shouting. He stood in a tent, leaning against a table covered with maps, and he was not only armed with a sword, he was dressed in the sort of grimy, patched together armor that seemed the sort of thing she’d seen in illustrations of Westerosi mercenaries serving in old Volantia. He was flanked by two men, dressed similarly. The one on his right was a tall, handsome blond with a chiseled face; the other was much shorter and much younger, with dark curls, frost-pale eyes and a feral air of excitement. He kept glancing back at the Bolton lookalike, pointing to a map here, a map there, saying something—she couldn’t hear what, it was as if the sound had been turned off— and while the blond man smirked, Bolton’s twin smiled and answered gravely, paternally. The younger man beamed.

Who were these people?

The scene changed. There was a montage of Bolton’s twin showing schematics of what looked like early firearms; then showing the blond man—who radiated skepticism— and the dark-haired youth—who radiated a manic delight—how to throw crude grenades and fire long-barrelled arquebuses, propped up on fork rests, the sort of guns used back during the days of the Velick kings. There was a brief glimpse of this unlikely trio training other men; then she saw nothing but fires, explosions, great walls crumbling, men falling to the ground, mouths agape and yowling with pain, musket balls ripping apart legs and bellies and brainpans. Though the sound had been off earlier in her visions, but now it turned on slowly, like a radio, so she could hear the noise of battle, the agonized screams of dying men, the rattle of guns and the booming of cannons, so loud she could feel the vibrations in her teeth, her bones. She could even smell the sharp sulfurous stench of gunpowder. It stung her eyes.

And then—silence, once again. Within a dark hall, the dark-haired youth—still dressed like a shabby mercenary— approached Roose Bolton, who stood near a hearth, much like the hearth of Winterfell’s hall. Bolton was dressed simply in a doublet and leather jerkin, but somehow she knew it was the original Bolton, the Dreadfort’s lord, not this mysterious twin, whoever he was.

“Father,” the young man said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has,” said Roose Bolton. “But,” he added gently, coolly, “you may address me as ‘my lord.’”

“Yes, my lord. May I congratulate you on your new marriage?”

“You may,” Bolton said. “It has already proved fruitful. She has just given birth to a son.”

“More congratulations are in order,” the youth said, stepping forwards and hugging his father, patting him heartily on the back.

“I regret any… misunderstandings that have occurred between us.” Lord Bolton stepped back, placed his hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Bastard or not, you will still be my eldest son.”

“Your assurances mean so much to me, my lord.” The youth smiled, a bright, feral smile that made her blood run cold. “Or should I say, father?”

With that, while still in his father’s arms, he slammed a blade into Bolton’s heart. White-hot fire—like that of an exploding bomb—filled her vision, as excruciating pain consumed her torso, throbbing, blooming outwards, searing every atom—

Air whistled past her ears as she felt herself fall. The hardness of the table knocked into her. Dazed, she felt the cool of the flagstones against her cheek. The whiteness was fading into black, as somewhere she heard distant shouting. Brenn? Theon? She couldn’t tell…

Someone grabbed her arm. “Mistress Pyke?” A man hissed into her ear. “Mistress Pyke—stay awake. Mistress Pyke—”

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t say anything. She was, in fact, no longer in R’hllor’s domain. She was swimming on the beach with her mother and father, and as they laughed and played in the waves, she drifted farther and farther away from the shore.

There was no fighting it. Closing her eyes, she let herself go. The tide was washing her out, away from the fire, and down, down into the kingdom of the deep.

Chapter Text

“Mistress Pyke—can you hear me? Mistress Pyke?”

A cool cloth was applied to her forehead. She opened her eyes, which were watering. A blurry face emerged in her field of vision. It looked… vaguely familiar.

“Uncle Xandros?”

“Thank the Mother. She’s awake!” It was a woman’s voice this time. Lady Stark?

“No, it’s Maester Luwin,” the blur said, and as she squinted, the blur crystallized into the wrinkled, concerned face of Winterfell’s elderly maester. 

“What’s going on?” she asked groggily. It was sometime in the late afternoon, judging by the ruddy sunshine slanting through the mullioned panes; a bird sang insistently on the window ledge, while a fire crackled in the hearth. “Where am I?”

“You fainted and hit your head, Mistress Pyke,” Luwin said gravely. “Since you could not be revived, you were transported back to your rooms.”

“Wow,” Liana said, wincing as she touched her head. “I must have really conked my noggin.”

“If by that, you mean you have a bump on your head, I must concur.” Luwin gave a gentle chuckle. “Do you need some milk of the poppy? The most important thing now for you is to rest.”

“No opium for me, please,” Liana said. As she struggled to sit up, she was relieved to note she still had on all of her clothes. At least she was wearing the teal cast-off given to her at the beginning of her stay, not the nice new gown Sansa had made her, so she wasn’t wrinkling up her best dress. “I just need willow bark tea. It’ll help with the swelling.”

“If you are quite sure, mistress,” Luwin said uncertainly, but at a nod from Lady Stark he nodded and left her chambers.

“You mustn’t exert yourself,” Lady Stark said, placing a soft but firm hand on her arm. “Maester Luwin is right. You must rest.”

Liana looked around uneasily. “Where’s Brenn? Where’s Theon? I thought I heard them before… before…” After everything had gone white. And right before she’d slipped into the ocean. God, how weird. What the hell had just happened?

“You did hear them,” Lady Stark said. “Theon Greyjoy brought Robb and Lord Brenn to the hall right as you fainted.” Her lips thinned. “It was quite a scene.”

“What kind of scene?” Liana asked uneasily.

“We shouldn’t talk about this now. Maybe later.”

“No. Please, Lady Stark. I have to know. What happened?”

Lady Stark sighed. “Theon almost attacked Lord Bolton, blaming him for your condition. My son and Lord Brenn had to pull him off. Lord Bolton claimed he was innocent, of course. That you and he had only been discoursing about religion. But the servants who were there said a pillar of fire emerged from the hearth shortly before your swoon.”

“Oh my God,” Liana breathed.

“That seems about right,” Lady Stark said with surprisingly wry humor.

“Now, Mistress Pyke,” she continued. “Be honest with me. Did Lord Bolton ask you to see something in the flames for him?”

There was no beating around the bush. “Yes,” Liana said. “Yes, he did.”

Lady Stark shook her head. “I never thought one so faithful to the Old Gods would care anything for the Red God, but Lord Bolton is… such a peculiar man. With unusual interests.” She cleared her throat. “I imagine you must have seen something?”

“I did, yes.”

“I imagine it must have been upsetting.”

Liana thought of Bolton’s twin, the arms dealer in what must’ve been her century, with his guns and drones and bombs, and then in what might have been Ice Age Volantis, devising futuristic weapons and grenades. An array of deadly anachronisms. Guns weren’t supposed to exist in this era. She thought of his faithful comrades, especially the dark-haired youth. The dark-haired youth who’d killed the real Bolton. And called him father. Ramsay Snow? She shivered.

What did it all mean? Was Bolton an immortal, going from one era to the next? But how did that explain his knowledge of guns and grenades while working as a mercenary in Volantis? Was he a time traveler instead? Or did this vision depict two entirely different people, who just happened to look the same? She felt the last was the most likely, but her head spun. She needed to discuss this with Brenn.

“It was violent and strange,” she said slowly. “I don’t know what to make of what I saw.”

“Lord Bolton is leaving Winterfell tomorrow at cock’s crow,” Lady Stark said. “Would you like to tell him what you saw before he leaves? If you do not wish to see him again,” she added in a low voice, “I completely understand. I will make sure he knows that you are sick and not to be disturbed.”

For a second, she contemplated doing as Lady Stark suggested. If she never saw that creepy pale-eyed motherfucker again, she’d be happy. But. But the fires had blazed so insistently, and the flames had touched her malignite, as delicately as a lady’s fingers—

Her eyes shifted towards the fire again, and she could swear that R’hllor stared at her from the depths of the flames. She couldn’t lock the door. She couldn’t hide. He wanted to her to confront Bolton—He wanted to tell the Northern lord what she had seen of his future.

Lord God, she implored silently, what does this mean? Who is he? Why do you ask this of me?

You will find out, the flames seemed to crackle and hiss. She waited, to see if she would hear any more, but…nothing. He said His piece. It was up to her to act.  

“No,” she said reluctantly, tearing her eyes from the hearth. “I can’t do that. The Lord of Light showed me these things because Lord Bolton asked. I must tell him.”

“You are an honorable woman, Mistress Pyke,” Lady Stark said, her voice filled with warmth, and Liana winced. If only she knew what Liana had been planning with Theon and her beloved eldest daughter… No. She couldn’t think about that now. She wouldn’t.

“I must see my betrothed and my cousin first,” she said.

“Of course. I’ll send Lord Brenn and Theon to you straightaway.” Liana noticed how Lady Stark never referred to Theon by any appropriate title. Of course, why would she? He was only the hostage-cum-ward, another problem to deal with, along with resident bastard Jon Snow. “And then, I’ll send in Lord Bolton. Your door will be left open, and I’ll keep Maester Luwin outside so there can be no hint of impropriety.”

Liana smiled gratefully. “Thank you, my lady. Thank you for everything.”

“It is my pleasure,” Lady Stark said, her eyes crinkling up. “But first, before you see anyone, I’ll make sure you get your willow bark tea. An excellent homemade remedy.” She fingered the silver trout pinned at her breast, and her blue eyes grew dreamy and faraway. “It is a popular tonic in the Riverlands. It does bring back so many memories. My old nurse said it was the perfect medicine for a headache or anxiety. But my father used to say that all problems could be solved by taking a morning walk along the Red Fork, with a gentle breeze blowing from the west…”  

“There is no pretty river to walk besides here at Winterfell, I’m afraid,” Liana said.

“No,” Lady Stark said wistfully. “There is not. So we must do what we can.”

“That’s true,” Liana said, playing with her own lotus pedant. “My own father always told me we could only play the cards we’re dealt.”

Lady Stark’s eyebrow raised. “Your father, the Ironborn captain?”

“Yes,” Liana said.

“He sounds like a wise man, for an Ironborn,” Lady Stark said tartly. “Though, I admit, most of the Ironborn I’ve heard of have been reavers and rapers.”

Anxiously, Liana bunched her fur throw up in her hands. “My lady, I swear to you by the Lord of Light my father has never reaved or raped in his life. He’s spent his life in honest labor, by the sweat of his brow. He’s ever hurt anyone!”

Lady Stark sighed again. “I believe you, Mistress Pyke. I never thought I’d be saying this, but your father must be a good man if he raised you.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Liana in a low voice, feeling very small indeed.

“Now excuse me. I must make sure your tea is properly prepared. If I remember correctly, white willow bark makes a superior tea to other varieties.”  

With that, she departed in a swish of fine teal wool. Liana, feeling the beginning of a migraine, sank back into bed, wishing all the more for a bottle of ibuprofen.

                                                            * * *

Liana was still nursing a cup of white willow bark tea when Brenn and Theon burst in on her. More accurately, Theon burst in on her, with a concerned Brenn following on his heels.

“Coz!” Theon exclaimed, his eyes blazing. “Are you all right? Did the flayed man hurt you? Did he offend your honor?”

Brenn just looked at her. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Liana said.

“How are you?” He sat on the right edge of the bed, taking her hand, his eyes shadowed with concern. “How’re you doing?”

“Not too bad.” She wanted so badly to talk to Brenn alone, to tell him what she saw—to ask him what he thought— but not with Theon there, who was so agitated he was practically vibrating. “He didn’t hurt me. Lord Bolton, I mean.”

“He didn’t?” Theon glared at Brenn, as if he should be out there defending her honor in a duel. “The way he was looking at you with those damned icy eyes of his? I know what it’s like when a man looks at a woman that way. He’s not praying to the Mother, I tell you that!”

Probably best not to mention Bolton’s attempt at seduction. Or perhaps it was just him trying to fuck with her. It was hard to tell.  

“Nothing happened. I mean—not like that.” Liana wanted to say more, but suddenly exhaustion came over her.  She fell back into a mass of pillows, wondering if she should call for Maester Luwin to bring her some opium. Any moment, she thought, I’m going to turn into a fainting lady out of a Restoration drama crying out for her sal volatile, and I am going to confuse the hell out of everyone.  

“You mean,” Brenn said gently, “you had a vision in the fire.”

“Yes.”

“Was it about Bolton?” Theon’s cheeks were flushed red with rage. “Did he ask you to do it?”

She nodded.

“His love for the Old Gods my arse,” her cousin muttered. “He’s a bloody opportunist!”

Liana felt her eyebrows raise. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised at Theon’s flash of insight—he wasn’t a stupid man, even though he often had the subtlety of the proverbial bull in a china shop. “You’re right. He is that.”

“And you saw his future?” Brenn asked.

“Yes.”

As Theon shot a wary glance at Brenn, he leaned forwards. “Did you see… anyone you know?” Like me or Sansa, she could tell he wanted to say. She wished her “cousin” felt more comfortable around her future “betrothed,” but she supposed the fact that the two men were in the same room and not fighting was a vast improvement.  

“No,” she said, and Theon sagged with relief. “I didn’t see anyone I recognized.” She gave Brenn a meaningful look, which she hoped conveyed the message that she would tell him more later. When he replied with the ghost of a nod, she fought back an exhausted smile. Thank God for Brenn.

“We should let you get some rest,” Brenn said, and as Theon opened his mouth to object, Brenn shook his head. “Rest is important if you’re recovering from a concussion. That’s what Maester Luwin would say.”

“Right,” Theon said, shifting from foot to foot, radiating a barely hidden misery. “I understand.”

Weary as she felt, she did her best to give him a reassuring smile. Did he feel guilt about leaving her with Bolton? Perhaps. “Thank you, cousin. By the way, I just wanted to say… that it’s not your fault.”

Theon’s head jerked up. “What?”

“It’s not your fault—that I fainted,” Liana amended. “Lord Bolton was curious about my visions in the fire. He was going to approach me sooner or later.”

Theon’s eyes flashed. “Yes. I could tell. He was curious about you. Too curious for my liking.”

“In fact,” Liana said, “it was a wonderful idea for you to take us to the Great Hall. He couldn’t try anything hinky—I mean dubious—there. His hands were tied, so to speak. So I thank you, coz, for looking out after me.”

“And he brought me and Lord Robb back to the hall as well,” Brenn interjected. “Which was good too. We saw Lord Bolton attempt to revive you, and Lord Robb requested that he back away and wait for Maester Luwin.”

“Was that a request or an order?” Liana asked, and Brenn grinned.

“Maybe a bit of both.”

“So you have my gratitude, my lord,” Liana said. She felt drained, groggy and out of sorts, but she straightened her shoulders, trying to sound as grand as possible, like Sansa Gloriana herself. “I know I am only the most distant of cousins, and tainted with the bar sinister as well, but you have looked after me as a trueborn brother. I thank you again. May all the blessings of the Lady and the Lord of the Light travel with you always.”  

Theon’s chest swelled, and his eyes brightened suspiciously as if he might be on the verge of tears.

“Thank you, coz,” he said thickly. “You’ve been like a sister to me. And bastard blood or not, you’re the first Ironborn I’ve met since I’ve left Pyke.”

“Well, I guess that makes us family,” Liana said. “And we should stick together.”

“Yes.” Theon came around the other side of the bed, taking her left hand. “Family. I shall protect you, cousin. I swear it by the Drowned God.”

“And I shall protect you,” Liana said, gripping his hand back, staring into his wide-spaced, uptilted grey-green-blue eyes. “I swear it in Je Taara’s name—I swear it under the sun of truth. May the Great Other take me if I do otherwise.”  

With Brenn on one side, and Theon on the other, she was beginning to feel like a princess, flanked by her sworn shields. “Thank you both,” she said, a playful lilt in her voice. “I could be a lady in a song, protected by two gallant knights.”

“I am at your command, sweet cousin!” Theon proclaimed dramatically, while Brenn said with a grin, “all I need is armor and a sword.”

“A real sword, Lord Brenn?” Liana teased.

“Of course!”

“Not a tourney sword, such as the one used by the Knight of the Laughing Tree?”

“Yes, an actual big boy sword, with a pointy end and everything.”  

“But Lord Brenn,” Theon said, “I think my sweet cousin finds your own real sword pleasing enough.” He smirked. “No need to find anything else. I think Mistress Pyke finds you most satisfyingly equipped.”

“Theon!” Liana felt her face grow hot. Of course he had to ruin the moment with one of his stupid jokes. Brenn began to blush so much he looked like a big red beet in a tunic. Or perhaps more like an apple, given that he was a Fossoway. As for herself, she wished could fly off to the Summer Isles like Arrelion on the ebony horse—

“Look at you!” Theon crowed, hands on his hips. “Betrothed and bedded already, and you’re blushing like a maid and squire caught in the hayloft! You’ve spent too much time in the Reach, coz. With all those prancing Tyrells and Hightowers who are so high and mighty they pretend they don’t even shit. They’re not such prudes in Qarth, are they?”

“Oh God, they’re worse!” Liana exclaimed with a choking laugh, when she thought of her mother’s family, and how they talked in the most circular ways about cancer and pregnancy and funeral arrangements and God knows what else. “It’s scandalous to bare an ankle, much less talk about private matters!”   

Theon’s brow furrowed with confusion. “But I thought Qartheen women bared one teat! That’s what Dagmer Cleftjaw told me.”

“They don’t. At least—” she thought of the historical fashion books she’d often checked out from her favorite library in Qarth— “the sex workers do. Courtesans. Not proper ladies. It’s all feathers and filigree and silk trains. One’s bosom,” Liana added primly, “must always be properly covered.”

“Pity. I bet your betrothed is right sad about that—”

Brenn, still pink, cleared his throat. “Lord Theon, I know we can spend all day here, but I do think Liana should rest. She is recovering from a concussion.”  

“Right. Yes. Ah, my apologies, cousin. Mistress Pyke. Liana. Robb always said I could only smile and jape.” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “Not like these Northerners, who always look like they’re delivering speeches at a funeral.”

“Don’t apologize. You are the worst rogue, cousin, but I do enjoy your company. It’s been nice.”

“It has been,” Theon agreed shyly. He stared down at his boots for a moment, clearly pondering something. “Can we get you anything?” he blurted. “Sansa—I mean, Lady Sansa—loves lemon cakes. Would you like those too? I’ll ask the cook to make them for you. She’s always been fond of me.”

Liana wanted to say that she didn’t care for lemon cakes, not really, but instead she found herself saying: “That would be lovely. Yes, please.”

“I’ll ask Cook straightaway,” Theon said, straightening. “I hope you feel better, coz. Perhaps we’ll see you at dinner?”

“Maybe. But I have a feeling Maester Luwin will keep me here and feed me something bland.”

“As long as it’s not turtledoves,” Brenn said, his eyes crinkling up. “Feel better, babe. I mean, uh, sweetling.” And he kissed her softly on the forehead. She closed her eyes, breathing in the faintest scent of soap and what she thought might be an even fainter scent of his old pepper and bergamot aftershave. “Don’t start causing any more trouble.”

“I won’t,” she said. “I promise.”

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he said. “I have my own surprise.”

“It’s not a sword, is it?”

“You’ll see,” said Brenn, as mysterious as a shadowsider, and he slipped out, leaving Theon to glance back at her and shrug. With that, the younger man stepped out as well.

Once Liana was left alone, she stared into the cold remains of her tea. If she were home, she would pop it in the microwave to heat it up. No microwaves though. Not for another seven hundred and fifty years.

She sighed.  

Chapter Text

Brenn’s surprise turned out to be—miracles of miracles— her very own pepper spray, which Maester Luwin had had for almost a month and a half.

“How did you get it away from him?” Liana asked with a gasp, clutching the familiar little black cylinder.

“It was easy,” Brenn said with a grin. “I just asked for it.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Not without asking a million questions about it first. That guy is as persistent as a rottweiler.”

She chuckled. “He is that. How did you get him to stop?”

“Elementary, my dear Ormond. I asked him what he had planned for your dinner. He walked away, muttering of illnesses against nature and fiery humors and foods that were moist and cool to the third degree.”

“I take it this means room service isn’t going to bring me a fried chicken sandwich,” Liana said glumly.

“Spiced with the Dornish long pepper?” Brenn said with shock. “But my lady, it would bring a sore misbalance to your humors!”

“Well, I got all the peppers I need here,” Liana said, jangling the pepper spray before stuffing it in her sash. Even though she wore the older dress, she had Jessa lace on the new gold silk sash to add a bit of pizazz to the outfit. It also made a handy pocket alternative, in a pre-pocket world.  

“Peppers that pack a hell of a punch,” Brenn said. “How are you feeling now?”

“Better, I think?” Liana grimaced, touching her head. “I still don’t know what happened.”

“Yeah, it was pretty crazy. I was with Robb, trying to get Bran to get down from climbing the ramparts, when Theon came running up like a bat out of hell. He told us to come quick, that Lord Bolton had cornered you in the Great Hall and he believed he had ‘dishonorable intentions.’ In his words. So we ran too.”

“What did you see?” Liana asked.

“We saw the fireplace going out of control, like someone had poured gasoline on it—and you keeling over. And Bolton kneeling next to you, and his arms about you? I think? I wasn’t that close. But it looked bad. Robb was not pleased.”

“What did he do?”

“He shouted at Bolton to remove himself and for a servant to fetch Maester Luwin. He frowned, but he did as he was told. A good thing, too. Theon was about to shove a blade into his guts.” Brenn shook his head. “I checked your pulse myself. It was steady, but you were out cold.”

“Thank you.” Liana’s eyes filled with tears.

“For what? For checking your pulse?”

“No, for being there. When it counts. Thank you.” She threw her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “I’m so glad you’re here, Brenn. If you weren’t— if I had to be alone with Bolton, with you…”  She shivered.

“Hey, hey.” He made soothing noises, stroking her hair, her neck, her cheek. “You’re safe with me. I mean it.”

“I’m glad,” she whispered, pressing her face into the wool of his doublet. She wrapped her arms more tightly around his chest, burrowing more closely into him. He smelled less like fancy aftershave now and more of sweat, damp wool and woodsmoke, the fragrance of the Age of Sagas. She didn’t want to know what she smelled like, but she didn’t think he cared. His heartbeat vibrated within his chest, syncing with hers.

“I am too.” Brenn tightened his arms about her, as if he never wanted to let her go. He didn’t move. His large hands pressed against her back, and he just stood with her, as the fire blazed merrily on the hearth. The weirwood tree had eyes—but the fire had eyes as well. She half wondered if it watched them. Did it matter though? She had Brenn, who had come from almost a thousand years away to find her. She was safe. She was with him. And that was all that mattered.

Safe. Well, safe for the time being. After all, Lord Bolton still roamed the halls of Winterfell. She felt herself trembling, and she hated being so afraid of the guy, but facts were facts. Lord Bolton was no cuddly uncle. He was a violent raping torturing piece of shit who could do whatever he wanted because he was a lord, and this was ancient Westeros. Fucking feudalism. The Revolution and all its Majorist firing squads couldn’t come soon enough.

“What’s wrong?” Brenn asked, pulling away, his brows knitting with concern.   

“Just thinking about Bolton.” Liana pushed her hair back, stepping towards the fire. “He’s still here.”

“Yeah. But not for long, Robb says. Our merry band of flayers is packing up as we speak.”

“Lady Stark said they’d be gone by cock’s crow, tomorrow morning.”

“Thank God,” Brenn said with feeling.

“I know, right?”

“So, ah…” He paused awkwardly. “I don’t mean to pry. And you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But what did you see?”

“Oh my God. I still don’t even know.” Liana threw herself on the bed. “It was weird as fuck!”

She proceeded to tell Brenn everything about the vision, from the way the fire had reacted like an atomic bomb to Bolton’s blood, to the flame caressing her malignite pouch, to her first vision of a modern day Bolton playing arms dealer with AR-15s and bombs and drones, to her second vision of Bolton as a mercenary in ancient Volantis with his two comrades-in-arms, the blond man and the dark-haired youth, to him teaching his friends all about early modern arquebuses, cannons and grenados, and a final siege utilizing these new weapons. And finally, the dark-haired youth returning to the Dreadfort and killing his father, the original Lord Bolton, and how the pain from that wound caused her to faint dead away.

“What does it mean?” Liana asked. “Is Bolton a time traveler? An immortal being? Or are we talking about two different people here?” She put her head in her hands. “I don’t know. It’s all too much to process.”

“Well,” said Brenn, “it seems like we have three different possibilities. Let’s look through it logically, shall we?” He held up one finger of the right hand.

“So,” he said, tapping that finger with a finger from the other hand, “the first possibility is that he’s a time traveler.”

“I did tell him I wanted a Coke,” Liana said, “and he looked taken aback. He actually blinked. Then he wanted to know what this ‘coke’ was. He wouldn’t stop asking questions. He said I was ‘curious’ and when I thanked him, he said it wasn’t a compliment.”

“He’s a charmer. Scratch that, then. So, second possibility. He’s an immortal. How did he learn about gunpowder? And cannons?”

Liana scratched her head. “Maybe he got into trouble and fled from Westeros, and went to Yi Ti and learned about gunpowder and early types of cannon?”

“Does Bolton seem like the kind of guy who’d go to Yi Ti? Or even Volantis?”

“Not really. He doesn’t seem much for traveling, to be honest. He seems to like being a lord.”

“So even presuming he lives for hundreds of years and ends up traveling, why is his bastard son there too? Is he also an immortal?”

Liana shook her head again. “That doesn’t make sense, no.”

“Also,” Brenn pointed out, “guns didn’t become a thing even in Yi Ti until the fifth century AC.”

Which was two hundred years from now. “That’s a ways off.”  

“Yup. This is was after the sorcerous principle left the world, and the seasons returned to a yearly cycle. That’s what drove humanity to invent new tech and new sciences. We live in a world where even dragons or mermaids or giants don’t exist. They can’t exist. I don’t think it’s likely that a magic-powered immortal can continue to exist if his other sorcerous brethren have fallen by the wayside.” He paused. “Never say never, I guess, but absence of evidence is not the same as evidence of absence. That way lies madness. And conspiracy theories.”

“Maybe he has a special room of malignite where he recharges,” Liana suggested wryly. “Or there’s a portal in the Dreadfort to the dimension of the Old Ones.”

“I think I would know if there’s a rift in the time-space continuum in Lonley.” Brenn rubbed his chin. “When you had these visions—did it seem chronological to you?”

Liana thought about it. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I think so. It seemed like… God was telling me a story.”

“It seems that way to me too.” Brenn gazed thoughtfully into the fire. “Have you ever been to Lonley?”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“Well, there’s what’s called the Lonley look. Dark hair, pale skin, eyes that are such a light grey it makes you look like you have cataracts. It’s creepy. Striking though. There was a famous swimsuit model who used to appear in all these magazines when I was a kid who looked just like that. There’s someone who works at the lab who looks like that too.” He paused, thinking. “Anyway, yeah—you go to Lonley, you see folks like that walking around. They’re not lords, though. They’re construction workers, baristas, office workers—anyone. It’s not weird to see people who look like Roose Bolton in Lonley now. I guess he had a lot of kids?” He looked at her questioningly.

“A lot of bastard kids,” Liana said. “He was—is—very proud of keeping up the ancient tradition of First Night. It’s a point of pride for him.”

Brenn grimaced. “It seems Bolton DNA got everywhere. That’s all his pale-eyed descendants wandering around.”

“What a comforting thought.” Liana shivered with disgust.

“I know, isn’t it? I think it’s more likely that Roose has a descendant who looks just like him, who sells guns in Ghiscaria and drones to Dorne. You’ve seen facial reconstructions of ancient skeletons. A lot of these people look just like living ones. There’s just so many combinations of noses, eyes and mouths until you start hitting repeat.”

“So Bolton has a great-great-great whatever grandson who is in the arms trade,” Liana said. “I can believe it.”

“Sure. A lot of Northerners love their guns. There’s a crazy huge gun culture up here. Lots of guys hunt. They grew up hunting. Even more join the military. I don’t get it, but I’m a soft Southerner.” Brenn shrugged. “I run away from swans. What can I say?   

“So this is how I interpret this. There’s an arms dealer. Some guy from our time who looks like our buddy Roose. A lot like him. Well, there’s some timey-wimey shenanigans, and he ends up in Volantis. And he uses his knowledge of guns to carve out a living as a merc.”

“Makes sense.”

“This kid you mentioned—this is probably Ramsay Snow, of The Adventures of Princess Sansa fame. He’s friends with the arms dealer, works as a merc too. Then he goes home, sees dad, old Roose, and kills him, like he did in our timeline.”

Liana nodded. “Yes, that sounds right.”

“So the real question is—” Brenn pointed at her, his face suddenly grim—“who is this arms dealer? And how does he get his hands on the Chronoscope?”

Liana felt like she’d just fallen into an ice-cold ocean. “That is the question. Shit. Uncle Xandros—”

“He’ll be okay.” Brenn took her hand. “We have to focus on our current situation. Take it one day at a time. It’s easy to get overwhelmed.”

“Yeah.” She was beginning to feel pretty overwhelmed right now. She wished she could lay down again. “Brenn, I… I don’t know what to do.” She felt tears brim her eyes again, and she hated herself.  

Brenn hugged her again. “It’s okay to cry,” he murmured. “You’ve been through a lot.” Now, as he rocked her like a child, she let herself weep onto his shoulder.  

Liana felt like she was falling into a whirlpool, her brain battered by storms. The last time she’d felt so lost and confused was when her mom had died, and she had to arrange her funeral, put her effects in order and move to the other side of the world while her own father had been AWOL dealing with his own alcoholism. That had been bad enough. But now she had to save the asses of these two clueless horny kids while evading a whole host of psychotic aristocrats? In a time and culture that wasn’t even her own? What the hell was she doing? Not to mention God had suddenly decided to start using her as a messenger service! What was even happening?

Overwhelmed, she cried and cried until she couldn’t cry anymore. Drained, limp as a wrung-out rag, she hiccuped.  

“How are you?” Brenn asked finally.

“All right. I don’t know. I want Uncle Xandros. I want Aunt Jenny. I want my dad.” Tears rolled down her face. “I hate this place. I want to go home.”

“You will.” Brenn squeezed her tighter. “We’re going home. Once we get back we’re going to go for burgers and fries and cokes. And then we’re going out to my favorite bar and we’re gonna drink vodka until we can’t stand up. And then we’ll get loaded nachos and get stoned and listen to Black Manalishi.”  

“That sounds amazing.”

“You’re amazing. If I were in your place… I’d be dead.”

Liana gave him a watery smile. As he handed her a handkerchief, she wiped her face. “Well, I’m the talker. The tour guide. The debate team champ. You have a different skillset.”

“Yeah. Hopefully with those skills, we’ll be set.”  

“I know you can do it.”

“Yeah? You think so?”

“I do. I believe in you.” And she kissed him softly, chastely, with closed lips.

“I believe in you too.” He kissed her back, also softly, yet more soundly. As he ran his fingers through her hair, her braid completely unraveled, falling in strands over her shoulders. Meanwhile, his mouth wandered, kissing her cheeks and chin lightly, as light as butterfly wings. She half-wondered how he could stand to kiss her when she was a hot mess with damp lashes and a red nose, but she wasn’t going to question it. She closed her eyes, leaning in, breathing him in, letting herself enjoy the sensation of his embrace and his lips on hers. After all, this was the Age of Sagas. You never knew what moment might be your last.

When someone rapped on the door, they jumped. Flushing, Liana hastily finger-combed her hair to some semblance of order. She told herself she shouldn’t feel guilty. It wasn’t as if his breeches were unlaced and her skirts were hiked up. Even in Ice Age Westeros, there was nothing wrong with an engaged couple kissing—

She opened the door to see a woman standing there. With her long face and thin lips, she looked half-familiar, her nut-brown hair done up like Lady Stark’s. Liana had always seen her bringing stuff to and fro whenever Sansa was hosting court in the old or new bower. She was one of Catelyn’s lady’s maids. What was her name? Nessa? Nesta?

“Mistress Pyke,” the maid said coolly, looking her over with an air of almost insolence, pausing briefly on the silk sash, before her eyes slid over to Brenn. “M’lord Brenn.”

Liana nodded, unsure of what to call the woman. “Yes?”

“Milord,” the maid said to Brenn in pointed tones, “Maester Luwin requests your presence in the kitchen. The maester wishes to discuss the lady’s dinner with you.”

“Oh. Uh, of course.” Brenn took Liana’s hand, kissing it. “Excuse my absence, Mistress, but I shall see you anon.”

“Anon?” Liana said mischievously. “And forthwith?”

“However you like it,” Brenn replied. “Nonce, anon, forthwith, and forsooth. Wherefore?”

“Art thou?” Liana said with a laugh.

“That is far too existentialist a question for me, sweet lady. If I do not see you later, I bid you a good night.”

“I wish you the same, my sweet lord,” she said, thinking how well the two of them parroted the polite nothings of the day, though the maid had stared at them puzzled as they went through their Rosenstern and Guildenkrantz style banter. “Good night.”

With that, Brenn was off with Nesta—Nessa?—and she was left alone in her room again.   

Her head whipped around, as the fire suddenly sparked and flared. As if God was trying to tell her something. Foreboding bloomed within her, her hand resting near where the pepper spray was tucked into her sash. Stuck in her room, without company, she felt like a sitting duck. Maester Luwin would want her to lay down again, but was she really that sick? Maybe she should find Brenn in the kitchens—

Liana opened the door and ran straight into Roose Bolton.    

Chapter Text

“My lord.” Liana heard her voice quavering, but she straightened, looking him in the eye. She would not look afraid. By the Lady, she would not!

“Mistress Pyke,” Bolton said, his voice as dark and silky as ever. “You are finally alone. I have been waiting for this moment.”

“My lord,” she said, “you should not be here. Maester Luwin should be here to chaperone—”

“The good maester was not here when you entertained both Theon Greyjoy and Brenn Fossoway in your chambers,” Bolton said.

She stiffened with a glare. “They are my cousin and my betrothed, my lord. It is not improper—”

Bolton raised a finger, cutting her off with one imperious gesture.  

“We have unfinished business, mistress. Pray. Do not try my patience.” Then he took her by the arm, his pale fingers pinching through the heavy fabric like steel pliers, and shut the door behind them.  

The Leech Lord was menacing enough on the battlements and by the hearth in the Great Hall—but that was nothing compared to what he was like, in her rooms. He was not as tall as Brenn, but he was certainly taller than her, garbed in swathes of black and pink wool, and he was intimidating as hell, with his pale craggy face and eyes like fragments of clouded ice that stabbed into her brain.

And they were alone. Her hand hovered by her sash, thanking God Brenn had finally extricated her pepper spray from Luwin’s clutches. At least she could defend herself.

“You seem uneasy by my presence, Mistress Pyke,” Lord Bolton said, his gaze roving up and down in a way that made her both infuriated and uneasy.  

“It is improper for you to be in here, my lord, moreover with the door closed.”

“There is that word, improper, again. If I can believe the rumors about you, Mistress Pyke, you have been extremely improper with the squid whelp and the apple lordling. Even at the same time. They say you are very accommodating.”

Liana felt the blood drain from her face. “That—that is a vile insinuation, my lord!”  

“Commoners will gossip,” Bolton said. “It is nothing to me. As long as they do not wag their tongues to my face.” He stepped towards her. “But I do not wish to discuss how your cousin and your betrothed care to sheathe their swords.”

Her mouth grew dry. “What do you want, then?” she asked, knowing well the answer.

He stepped towards her again. They were less than two feet apart now. His eyes, which seized upon hers, shaded to something like a glacier at night. “Do not play the fool with me, Mistress Pyke. I want your visions. I paid for them, with mine own blood.”

Is that all he wanted? she asked herself angrily. To buy time, she nodded, trying to look as calm as possible, as he continued:  

“Tell me. What did you see?”

Liana wished she could sit down, but she didn’t trust her legs. Or Bolton, for that matter. For a split second, she frantically wondered what she would tell him: but then she decided she would let him have it. No pussyfooting around. He wanted to hear about her visions? Well, he would get it. Everything.

Fuck it.

“I saw him,” she said. “The man who looks like you. But he is not of your time. He was dressed in a suit and tie.”

Bolton blinked. “A what? What was that you said?”

“A suit and tie. It is the fashion of almost a thousand years hence. This man— he sells machines, machines of death. Fire lances, the Yi Tish call them. And artificial dragons, dragon-machines, that rain fire from above. The people of this era call them ‘drones.’”

“Drones?” he asked incredulously. “Are they bees?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes.”

“What do these ‘drones’ do?”

“They look like tiny wyverns made of metal. They fly at the behest of their owners, raining wildfire on command.”

“I hear you tell marvelous fairy stories, Mistress Pyke,” Lord Bolton said sharply. “Of ebony horses and the like. Mayhaps you have confused one of your tales and your visions.”  

Liana ignored his taunt. “The fire lances are called AR-15s, which are a type of automatic rifle originally manufactured for the South Westrian military. He is very rich, this man. He makes a great deal of money selling his machines all over the world. Far Ulthos. United Mossovia. The Further South. Nymerios.”   

Bolton opened his mouth, shutting it again after a moment. “You speak madness. These lands do not exist, Mistress, except in your own fancies.”  

Liana shrugged. She took pleasure in making Bolton so, so uncomfortable. “They do exist, my lord, but they have not been discovered yet.”

“What is this?” Bolton’s pale eyes blazed. “Is this a riddle?”

“No, my lord. You see, my vision came in three parts. The first depicted this man, living in the future. Then I saw him next, in this time. He was dressed as a mercenary—a sellsword—in what I believe was Volantis. He was accompanied by two men. The first was a blond man, in his thirties I think, who was very handsome. Very princely, rugged features. The second was a youth, early twenties or so, who was short and somewhat stocky. He had a very strong jawline, and black curly hair. He also had light grey eyes, very much like your lordship’s. The youth and the man seemed to have a good relationship, from what I could tell.”

At her description, Bolton’s jaw twitched, but that was the only reaction she saw.

“So this man is from Volantis.”

“I don’t think he is, my lord. I believe he is from the North. Anyway, he was showing these two men how to construct crude fire lances and hand cannons. The blond man was dubious, but the youth was very excited about—ah, blowing things up. I saw them getting used to these new machines. Then I saw a scene of warfare in an unknown city, emplying all the new cannons and fire lances, with thousands of people dying as a result."

Bolton shrugged. “In Essos, they are very good at killing each other. The Myrish, Tyroshi and Lyseni have been fighting over the Disputed Lands for centuries.”

“Indeed.”     

“What was the third scene, Mistress?”

Liana took a deep breath. “I saw the dark-haired youth, still dressed as a sellsword, returning to the Dreadfort. He greeted you in your hall, my lord. He called you father—but you informed him that you wished to be addressed as ‘my lord.’ You told him about your new wife and the son she had just birthed. And then you said, my lord, as you placed your hand on his shoulder:

“’I regret any misunderstandings that have occurred between us. Bastard or not, you will still be my eldest son.’

“To which the youth replied:

“‘Your assurances mean so much to me, my lord. Or should I say, father?’

“And then he took his dirk and stabbed you in the heart. That was the part at which I fainted, my lord.”

Lord Bolton blinked again, stepping back. He gazed into the fire for a minute, unmoving as a statue.  

“Mistress Pyke, I was under the impression you would respond with cryptic riddles. It is the way of Essosi seers and shadowbinders, is it not? Instead, you are as thorough as a scout reporting to his commander.” He smiled thinly. “I commend you.”

“These are the visions my God presented to me, upon his lordship’s request.” A bloody messenger service, that’s what she was. But was the message for Lord Bolton? Or was it for herself?

“And his message is—permit me if I have this right—that an unknown merchant of weapons will travel from the future—” Lord Bolton said this as if he could barely believe it— “to Volantis, where he will train my bastard son, among others, in this new art of war. And then my bastard, after squiring at the side of this lowly sellsword, will return home to kill me. Do I have that correct?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“A curious message.” He glared at Liana. “How can this happen? Is your Red God prone to madness too?”

“No. My lord, if God shows this in the flames, it is the truth.”

Bolton’s lips thinned even further. “What sort of bloodmagic would send a man from one era to the next? I have never heard the like.”

“It’s not bloodmagic, my lord, but science.”

“Science,” Lord Bolton said blankly. Liana quickly realized the usual contemporary meaning of science was not the usual definition in the Ice Age.

“By science, my lord, I mean the intellectual and practical activity encompassing the branches of study that relate to the phenomena of the physical universe and their laws. With such knowledge, one may create machines—technology—that seem magical but are not.”     

“Are you in the pay of the Citadel?” Bolton asked abruptly. “You prattle of knowledge like a grey sheep.”

“No, my lord.”

“Then what do you mean?” he demanded. “How did this man come from the future?”

“Through a machine, my lord. A machine that can send a man forward into the future. Or back into the past. A time machine, if you will.”

“This is madness,” Bolton snapped, and Liana beheld him with a distant sort of amazement, to see the bland, inexpressive Lord Bolton slowly unravel. “Your travel has addled your brains. You should be locked up in a tower like the Mad Maid!”

“The Mad Maid?” Liana racked her brain for the reference. “You mean Malora Hightower?”

“Of course. How many mad maids could there possibly be?”

She remembered now. Back in the Ice Age, Malora Hightower, the oldest sister of Queen Lynesse, King Bronn Blackwater’s wife, had been known as “the Mad Maid”— though now of course she was known as Malora the Wise. She was a prominent occultist who, with help of her sorceries and prognostications, helped defeat Bran the Broken and install Bronn on the throne. While King’s Landing was a smoking ruin, Malora had helped usher forth a new age of rule centered upon Oldtown and the Hightower family. She even wrote several books, the Ourobouros of the World and A Dialogue with Philosophers. Even though by her time the Hightowers were extinct like most other noble houses, her praises were still sung to this day in Oldtown.

Ordinarily Liana would be flattered at the comparison to such a famous intellectual, but it was clearly not meant to be a compliment.

“My lord,” Liana said gently, “I understand why you disbelieve me. But there is a way to find out the truth for yourself.”

“And how is that?”

“Ask R’hllor for the truth. Give Him three drops of blood. Perhaps he will answer.”

“And mayhaps he will not?”

Liana shrugged. “He is a god, and we are but mortals.”

Bolton looked at her with a steely contempt. “My blood is of the First Men. My ancestors warred with the Children of the Forest. I am descended from the Red Kings. I fear no foreign god.”

She did not respond, but glanced from him to the fire, her fingers hovering near her sash in case he tried anything. His jaw tightening, he turned away from her, the flames reflecting in his icy eyes.

For a second, as Lord Bolton stared into the hearth, he looked almost transcendent with rage. Yet instead of cursing or spitting, he defiantly thrust out his hand. He pulled out his dagger, pricking himself, the three drops of blood falling like rubies into the fire.

This time, the fire didn’t explode like an atom bomb. Instead the flames curved up sinuously, teasingly, like a lover’s arms, towards Bolton’s very eyes. Look at me, the flames seemed to sing. Curl up within my arms, my lord, my king, and hear the truth. Your gods are old and cold and of the earth; but I am young and bright and vibrant. I burn; I am hungry; I am alive. Come peer within me, and see the future…  

And Roose Bolton, as if hypnotized, peered into the fire’s heart. A transfixed expression cane over his cold bloodless face; a flush appeared in his cheeks; and, most incredibly, sweat beaded on his high forehead. The fire crackled and sizzled, a living thing, silken, luminous, brilliant, crimson and gold and white and at its heart, feeding upon the carbonizing wood, the brilliant blue of a newborn star. Liana held her breath, not even willing to breath.

At last he jerked away, his chest heaving. He stared about wildly. He wheeled around.  

“You,” he snarled.

“My lord?” She stepped back, pulling out her pepper spray.

The rage in his face faded, back to its customary coldness. But there was something unsettled about him, like the cracking icy crust on a frozen lake.

“You have been telling the truth,” Bolton said flatly. “Because you yourself are from the future, Liana Pyke.”

The words sliced through her like a knife. She flinched.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”  

“Why are you here?” he snapped.

Liana felt very close to trembling herself. She’d been hiding her true nature for so long, and now… Roose Bolton, of all people, knew the truth? “It’s an accident. I shouldn’t be here.”

“You shouldn’t.” He drew himself up, and his eyes the same color of melting ice fixed upon hers. What had he seen? What did he know now? It was if he could see into the depths of her soul.

“Go home, girl.” His velvety voice was now harsh. “Go back to that future hell of yours. You don’t belong here. You never did.”

He looked as if he might be about to say more, when Brenn burst through through the door, panting as if he’d just run all the way from the kitchen. Perhaps he had. That maid had come by with a very convenient summons to get Brenn out of the way—

“Liana!” the younger man said with a gasp, and she noticed he clutched his taser. “Liana, are you all right?”

“Brenn,” she said, clutching her arms about herself. “I’m fine. Lord Bolton was just leaving.”

“Yes, I was.” Bolton glanced at Brenn coolly, assessingly. “Good afternoon, Lord Brenn.”

He marched to the door, turned about, unhooked his purse, and flung it at Liana’s feet. “For services rendered,” he said, and was gone.  

Chapter Text

“My dear Mistress Pyke,” Lady Stark said, turning around as she fed her goldfinch a morsel of bread. “Would you mind telling me what happened with Lord Bolton? I hear, despite my precautions, he ended up in your rooms.” 

“Yes, my lady.” Liana looked down at her hands in her lap. Once again she sat on the stool in the new bower, as the pet finch sang merrily and dust motes whirled in the sunlight shining on the tapestries of the unicorn hunt.

“Maester Luwin informed me that your betrothed met him in the kitchens, because my maidservant Nesta had led him to believe that Luwin expected him there to discuss your supper. Is that correct?”

“Yes, my lady. That is correct.”

“I spoke to Nesta.” Lady Stark’s face grew grim. “I discovered that Lord Bolton had paid her to lie to you and Lord Brenn. I will not brook such insubordination. She has been dismissed.”

“I’m sorry, my lady.”

“You, Mistress? You should not be sorry. I should be sorry, to have such servants who are so easily led astray from duty and honor. Did Lord Bolton…” She paused. “I hate to be indelicate, but did he offend your modesty?”

Offend your modesty. Well, that was one way of putting it. Bolton had clearly come into her rooms with the intention of A. finding out about her visions and B. making her his mistress (her brain shyed away from how exactly he would have gone about the second part), but he changed his mind once he had realized she was from the future. She doubted he would tell anyone either. What was he going to say? “Yeah, there was this hot piece of Essosi ass I wanted to fuck, but she killed the mood when she told me about my arms dealer descendant eight hundred years in the future, who was going to return to the past via time machine and help my bastard son who also would end up murdering me— and if that wasn’t bad enough, I saw, courtesy of R’hllor, that she was from the future too. That’s when I noped the hell out. Not before paying her though.”

If Bolton had the intelligence she thought he did, he would go straight to his ex sister in law’s and start making plans on finding a new wife. She had no idea what he would do to Ramsay Snow, but she didn’t care. He had told her to go home, and she would. 

“No, Lady Stark,” Liana said. “He merely wished complete privacy to discuss the vision I had.”

“Was that it?” Lady Stark looked at her, incredulous. “He suborned my servant when he could have merely asked?”

“My lady,” Liana said, “even when it is unnecessary, Lord Bolton is one of that class of men who turn the simplest interaction into an elaborate gambit.” Well, that was true enough. “The visions were about his family, and he wished for the utmost secrecy. That is all.”

“Ah. I am not pleased with his behavior. It was not worthy of one who accepted bread and salt. But I will inform my husband, Lord Stark, that his bannerman only behaved thusly because out of a misplaced love for his family. I am sure this will assuage matters.”

The last thing Liana wanted was Lord Stark to think more highly of Bolton than he deserved. She half wished she could have sprayed him full in the face with her pepper spray—or Brenn could have tased him—but it was better that he was out of their hair, period, and they didn’t have to deal with the fallout of attacking an important lord. “To be honest, I wouldn’t say Lord Bolton loves his family. I’ll just say he’s very secretive about his personal affairs.”

“That makes sense, Mistress Pyke. But I admit, I was concerned with his extreme interest in you.”

Those keen Tully blue eyes saw a great deal. But as much as Liana wished she could tell Catelyn the complete truth about her interaction with Lord Bolton, there was no point in it now. With the Bolton party having only departed this morning, Theon and Sansa weren’t going anywhere—not with those ferocious hounds only hours away, and Bolton having even less love for Theon Greyjoy in this timeline than he had in the original one. Ugh, why did everything have to be so complicated? She needed to talk to Jeyne about when exactly the kids could leave. Perhaps in another two days? If all went well? They would have to play everything by ear…

And then, once their pocket Romulo and Iuletta were out the door, she and Brenn could nope out themselves, back through the Chronoscope. She was done with the Age of the Sagas. For good.  

“I appreciate your concern, Lady Stark,” Liana said as graciously as she could. “But he just wanted to talk about what I saw in the fire where no one could hear him. He didn’t believe me, so he gazed into the flames himself.”

Lady Stark’s blue eyes flew open. “Lord Bolton prayed to your Red God?”

“He did.”

“Well.” Lady Stark blinked. “You must have made quite an impression on him.”

“I suppose I did.”

“When he left, he was very quiet, more so that usual,” the older woman said thoughtfully. “He must have been thinking about what he saw.”

“I expect he was,” Liana replied.  

There was a long pause, the only noise being the finch’s liquid, unending song; Liana wondered if Lady Stark has any questions of her own. No doubt she was too proud to ask, though.

A polite knock announced the arrival of Septa Mordane, who after her courtesies to Lady Stark, assessed Liana warily. Liana felt sorry for it, because they used to be friendly, but whatever tentative friendship they had had dissolved, whether it was because of Liana’s religion or her “betrothal” to a nobleman, however minor he might be. Not many friendships in this era could survive class and religious differences.

“My lady,” Mordane announced, “I am afraid to inform you that Lord Bran did not attend his noon lessons. He was last seen climbing the broken tower. Robb informs me he likes to feed the ravens there—he says the little lord oft loses track of time.”  

Liana gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.  The broken tower—where Jaime Lannister had thrown Bran, after Bran had discovered Jaime and his twin sister Cersei, the queen herself, having sex—

Lady Stark threw her a sharp look, before turning back to the septa. “Where is he now?”

“Still feeding the ravens, I imagine.”

“When he deigns to come down, have him sent to his room without dinner,” Lady Stark said coldly. “Bran may not be the heir to Winterfell, but even a second son must attend his lessons. A Stark has his responsibilities.”

Septa Mordane nodded and withdrew with another curtsy, as Lady Stark turned to Liana.

“You know something about my son, Mistress Pyke,” she said, her jaw tense. “Did you see something in the flames?”

Liana paused, thinking of what to say, when Lady Stark snapped: “Tell me!”

“My lady, I… I know the future.” Liana clutched her hands. “A little of it, anyway. I have seen Bran falling from the tower—the broken tower—and becoming paralyzed.”

“Did you see this in the fire?” Lady Stark demanded. Not willing to lie—her current predicament was so bizarre that she had found it necessary to lie like a rug, but this was about God and His visions, and He was not particularly kind to liars—she looked down.  

“I cannot tell you how I know it. But I do. If Bran climbs that tower, doom will come upon him.” Just as she glanced up towards the fogged over window, a huge raven flew down, perching upon the ledge, tapping on the pane. Quoth the raven, nevermore, she thought hysterically.

“Gods,” Lady Stark says in horror. “This cannot be right. Mistress Pyke, you must be mistaken, somehow—”

“The ravens will come to take his soul away,” Liana found herself saying, “and the boy you know and love will be dissolved. Into snow, into ice, a soul borne away on the wings of a blood-soaked bird.”   

Lady Stark clutched the back of her chair, her face turning suddenly grey. “By the Seven,” she whispered.

  A wave of exhaustion crashed over over her again. She hadn’t slept well, last night, after her encounter with Roose Bolton, no matter that Brenn had hugged her, talked her through it, shared the lemon cakes Theon had cajoled the cook into making, and had even obtained for her some chamomile tea that had calmed her a little. She kept waking up, thinking about Theon, or Sansa, or Jeyne, or Ramsay Snow, or Roose Bolton, or Bolton’s great great great whatever grandson getting his mitts on the Chronoscope, or Uncle Xandros, or Aunt Jenny, or Dad, or—or—

It was all too much. Perhaps she should get some drugs from Maester Luwin. She felt like her brain was going to explode.

“I need to lie down,” Liana croaked, as she stood up. She gave a tottering curtsy. “My lady.”

“Yes, of course,” Lady Stark said, her hands to her throat, looking on the verge of tears herself. “I understand. I’ll send Jessa, if you need anything.”

                                                         * * *

Later that night, Liana stared at the ceiling. A worried Maester Luwin had brought her a dreamwine to help soothe her, and it had soothed her enough that she’d slept through most of the afternoon. Later, she was brought a supper of fish, pottage and pears, along with another bottle of wine (not doctored this time) and promptly fell asleep again.

She knew she should talk to Brenn about her latest vision, but God, she was so tired.

Inchoate, muddled dreams flickered about her unconscious mind, like watching a TV show while zonked out on Valium. Theon and Sansa sang on the stage of the Oldtown Opera House, while Ned and Catelyn Stark danced the foxtrot and Roose Bolton sold knives in an infomercial and Brenn set up a new Chronoscope, the portal revealing the University of Oldtown, suspended on the other side of a ring of fire, sizzling blue and white and yellow and scarlet. And there was Uncle Xandros, dressed just like the Wizard from The Wizard of Ev, with a top hat, frock coat and starched collar.

Oh, can you help me? Will you help me get back home? Liana cried, and she was dressed just like the girl in the movie, with a checked gingham dress and a bow in her hair.

You don’t need to be helped any longer, the Wizard said with a benevolent chuckle. Why, my dear, you’ve had the power all along!

I have?

Of course. I couldn’t have told you—you had to learn it yourself. It’s there—in your heart. What do you need to do, child?

Yes, what do you need, Liana? Jeyne Poole asked, leaning forward curiously. Tell me what you’re going to do. And the youthful face of Jeyne aged within seconds, hard lines forming in her delicate face, her dark eyes growing hard as agate. And she leaned forward and seized Liana’s arm.

And Liana saw, all at once, Vayon Poole, standing there, with his craggy face and stringy hair, while a red-cloaked guardsmen in segmented, almost beetle-like armor, plunged a spear into his stomach—and then his head rotting on a pike, flies landing on his eyelids, maggots squirming in his cheek. She saw Jeyne, weeping inconsolably in Sansa’s arms, Sansa’s eyes red-rimmed and bleak. Then, a small goateed man, a smirk etched on his narrow face, pulling Jeyne into a dark room with latticed windows, half-naked women (also smirking) lolling on chaises and cushions, amidst a riot of silks and shawls and spangled scarves. Then, Jeyne lying in a monstrous bed, her slight form dwarfed by the naked man heaving and grunting on top of her, as she stares into the canopy above her, her eyes as red-rimmed and bleak as Sansa’s.   

And then, a wall of fire, the same women screaming and burning, their hair like torches, their eyes melting. And a coughing, desperate Jeyne grabbing one of those spangled scarves, covering her mouth, crawling through the inferno to the nearest door and clambering down the stairs, almost out, almost free—until the wall collapses. She doesn’t even scream. She just falls like a doll, without even a whimper, her limbs and skull crushed by a thousand pounds of brick and mortar.   

Tell me what you’re going to do, Liana, older Jeyne hissed. Tell me.

Liana shook her head, desperate. I don’t know. I don’t know what I need!

You know it. Jeyne jabbed at her with one finger. You’ve known it all along.

I need—Liana said, choking up. I need—

 She stared down at her feet, but instead of seeing shiny silver or sparkling sequined red shoes, she saw her feet submerged into a field of fire, flames lapping at her legs. But it didn’t burn. It felt cool as water, as refreshing as wading into the beach outside her aunt’s—

Her eyelids flew open. Utterly disoriented, she almost tumbled out of bed. Gasping, she whipped her head around, only to find that it was late. Darkness covered the world like a shroud of black silk, while the fire had died down to smoldering embers. Was it the hour of ghosts? The hour of the owl? Whatever it was, it was late.

She clumsily crawled out of bed, splashing her face with water. Jeyne. She dreamed of Jeyne’s future. I need to talk to her, Liana thought. Brenn was right. Her friend needed to know the truth. Time was of the essence.

She paced, urgency piercing her brain. She couldn’t wait until the morning. Jeyne needed to know now.

Dressing quicky in her plain grey gown that she had lent to Jeyne in the past, she grabbed a taper, lighting it in the fire. Where was Jeyne’s bedroom anyway? It was near the Starks’ in the Great Keep complex, north of the Great Hall. Lord and Lady Stark’s chambers were in the Lord’s Tower, while the bedrooms of their assorted children were clustered around it, rather like pups around their parents. The steward’s quarters was adjacent in what Jessa called “the Steward’s Tower,” which she supposed suited the Pooles’ status as an extremely minor noble house, though no one had ever referred to Vayon as “Lord Poole,” and certainly no one had ever referred to Jeyne as “Lady Jeyne.”  She racked her mind thinking of all the times she’d wandered about the castle. If she walked down the corridor with all the torches, took a right into a narrower, more dimly lit gallery, took a steep staircase up one flight and took the first door on the… left? She should be there at the Steward’s Tower. She hoped. 

With the candle flickering in her hand, a tiny smidgen of blessed light against the black,

she flitted through the halls. For all the world she felt like a character in a Gothic novel. First she passed by all the torches, guttering against the blackened stone; then she took the right into the narrower gallery, which was undecorated, save for carvings on the oaken wainscot of what might be weirwood branches and strange bug-eyed creatures staring through them, watching her every move. Were they supposed to represent the Children of the Forest? Liana didn’t know, and didn’t want to think about it. Except for the wind whistling by the casements and passages, the silence was unnerving. Absolute. She clenched her teeth so they would not chatter. It was well called the hour of the ghosts.

Liana found the staircase, which, like most of the stairs in any old castle, was profoundly claustrophobic. Steep, winding, and with stone steps half worn down by time. Of course, there were no railings or anything like that. Still clutching her taper, she crawled up the stairs, one step at a time, until at last she reached the first landing. The silence was still deafening—but when opened the door, the hinges screeched. She jumped, almost dropping her candle.

It’s okay, Liana told herself, reminding herself to breathe. I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s okay.   

She paused there at the threshold, hoping that no one would come running at her with a dagger; but after a minute, nothing happened, so she stepped inside the Steward’s Tower, heart pounding.

All that greeted her was another flight of stairs, even narrower than the last.

“What the fuck?” Liana muttered to herself. “Who built this place?”

There was no helping it. She ascended the even narrower stairs, the flame of her candle throwing sharp shadows all about. She arrived at a second landing, two doors in front of her. She thought of the old Frank Stockland story, The Maiden or the Manticore. Which should the condemned man in the arena choose? The door or the left, or the door on the right? Which door would lead to the maiden or the manticore? She imagined bursting in on Vayon Poole in his nightshirt and nightcap, and shuddered. Master Poole was a perfectly nice man—certainly not a manticore— but manticore or not, she did not want to be bursting into his chambers at midnight.

Okay, left or right, left or right? A sudden idea gripped her: she squeezed her eyes shut, thought of God’s flame. Which way, God, she asked silently. Guide my hand.

It was as if a cord, with the smallest of tugs, pulled her to the right. Thanking Him with a sigh of relief, she pulled open the door on the right.

And who but Jeyne, sitting at her table in her shift, corset and dressing gown, candles lit, pouring over what looked to be maps.

“Liana?” she exclaimed, jumping up. “What are you doing here?”

“Jeyne,” she blurted out, “I’m sorry, it’s so late—but I had to come.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I had a dream,” Liana said. “About you.”

Even in the candlelight, Jeyne paled, grasping the edge of the table. “Gods,” she said, her voice wavering. “I—I can’t imagine it was good.”

It wasn’t, Liana wanted to say, but she bit her tongue. Instead, she shook her head infinitesimally before stretching out her hand.

“We should go back to my room. I have wine.”

“Yes. Wine,” Jeyne said shakily, buttoning up her gown. “An excellent idea.”  

                                                                                             * * *

It wasn’t Dornish Red, Arbor Gold or any of the name brand wines of this era, but it was a step better than the usual thin Riverlands red the lower tables were served at dinner. She only had one glass, which she offered to Jeyne, but Jeyne said she’d rather drink out of the bottle.

“What did you see?” Jeyne asked. “It must have been sufficiently dire for you to wake me up in the middle of the night, Mistress Pyke.”

“No more ‘mistressing,’ please,” Liana said, as she took a poker and stirred up the embers at the base, stoking the flames until they began to lick up again most satisfyingly. “We’re up past midnight drinking wine in our pajamas. This is not the place for formality.”

Jeyne raised an eyebrow at the phrase “pajamas,” but let that pass. “I suppose that’s right. So… Liana. What did you see?”

Setting aside the poker, Liana sighed. “I saw what would happen if Sansa married Prince Joffrey. More specifically, what would happen to you.”

“And what would happen to me?” Jeyne asked, in a small voice.

Liana thought and thought of how she could phrase the events of the dream nicely or gently, but she couldn’t.

“I saw your father stabbed by Lannister guardsmen,” she said, “and you sold into a high-class brothel. And then you were crushed by a wall when the city burned.”

Even in the firelight, the blood drained from Jeyne’s face. She looked down into the bottle of wine. “Oh,” she said softly. “You’re right. That is bad.”

“Yes,” Liana said, not knowing how else to respond.

“Right,” Jeyne said, her voice wavering, and she took a deep drink. “Do you… do you know what would happen to Lady Sansa?”

Seeing no point in beating around the bush, Liana nodded.

“Please, tell me,” Jeyne whispered.

“If Lord Stark goes South, he’ll be executed for discovering why Jon Arryn was killed,” Liana said reluctantly. “Then Sansa will be kept in King’s Landing as a hostage, while her brother leads his banners to war against Joffrey. Sansa will escape eventually, and Joffrey will be killed, but Sansa will be sold off to Roose Bolton’s son.”

“Roose Bolton’s son?” Jeyne said. “But he died a year ago! Wait,” she said, looking at Liana askance. “Do you mean his bastard? The one Lord Bolton left at the Dreadfort?”

“The very one,” Liana said.

“By the gods,” Jeyne breathed. “This is so fantastical, but—you scared Lord Bolton so—and you frightened Lady Stark just this morn with your prophecy about Bran…” She shook her head. “Have you been having dreams and visions about us all the while? Is this what happens when you worship the Red God?”

“I have been having more visions lately,” Liana said cautiously. “I’m not so sure about other R’hllorists, to be honest.” She took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “I do think He’s been sending me more visions because of my, ah… special situation.”

Jeyne’s eyes blew wide. “Your ‘special situation’? What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean…” Oh boy. “I’m from the future.”

Jeyne gaped. Then a strangled giggle. “You are japing, are you not, Liana? I do not know why you would jape about such a thing, but mayhap it is an Ironborn trait…?”

“No, I mean, literally, I’m from the future,” Liana said. She inhaled and continued.

“I was born in 1089 AC, almost eleven hundred years after Aegon’s conquest. I am from Qarth. My father is from the Iron Islands. And I do live in Oldtown. My uncle is, as I’ve mentioned, Xandros Hazredi, but he’s not a mage, exactly— he’s a physicist at the University of Wintertown. He created a machine called the Chronoscope. He thought it worked as a—a viewing portal to the past. A window to past eras, if you will. But it turned out it was an actual portal. One which I accidentally fell through.” She spread out her hands. “And here I am.”

Jeyne gaped for a few more seconds, then managed to shut her mouth. “You’re serious,” she said weakly.

“Extremely,” Liana said. “Look, I understand why you think I’m crazy. I mean mad. Mad as the Mad Maid, even. But I can prove it.”

“You can?”

“Sure. I hid the stuff I brought with me from the future. May I show you?”

“Of—of course,” Jeyne stuttered, putting down her bottle.

“Okay.” Liana walked slowly to the flagstone where she hid all of her things when she first arrived at Winterfell, seemingly a million years ago. She kept an eye on Jeyne, slowly dragging away the stone and retrieving her purse and sweatshirt. She emptied her purse out on the bed. There lay her wallet, her paperback, the anti-itch cream, her sweatshirt, and her charged-up smartphone.

“Here,” Liana said, picking up her wallet. “Here’s my driver’s license. And here’s my passport.” She handed them to Jeyne, whose eyes were as round as moons.

“Is that a painted miniature?” Jeyne squeaked, poking at the driver’s license photo of a scowling Liana.

“Not exactly,” said Liana, not wanting to get distracted into a discussion about photography. “See the year on it? That’s the date of my birth. It’s the same here,” she said, gesturing to the passport, which loudly declared Republic of Qarth in Qaathi and Common.  “Here’s my student visa, which I need to study in South Westria. That’s what they call the South now. The North and the South are different countries. This is Northern and Southern currencies.” She pulled out various dollar bills and coins.

“No stags? No dragons?” Jeyne looked about to pass out. Well, she hadn’t seen anything yet.

“There’s stags and dragons on some of the coins,” Liana said, “but in my era they use paper currency.”

“Paper currency? Paper doesn’t have any value!”

“It’s a Yi Tish custom that spread west. The Bank of Westria guarantees the paper is worth its value. See?”

She showed Jeyne a 20 dollar bill which featured Clarence Bussey, the Beautiful Epoch composer, moodily staring in front of a stormy sea. “See? Bank of Westria, twenty dollars. It was called the Bank of Oldtown in this century though. And here’s the date, here—1103. The year I come from is 1110. You can see all the coins have different dates on them, the year they were made.”

“Of course,” Jeyne said, growing wall-eyed.

“Maybe you should have another drink…”

“Yes… yes. I should.” At this point, the other girl pounded down half the wine bottle. Liana could sympathize.  

“I’m sorry to dump this on you. I know this is a lot. I discussed this with Brenn, and we thought you should know the truth.”

“I appreciate that,” Jeyne said faintly. “So Lord Brenn is from the future too?”

“Yes. He’s my Uncle Xandros’s assistant. He helped build the Chronoscope. That’s the machine that brought us here. He came back to get me.”

“He wanted to rescue you,” said Jeyne with a sigh. “That is most noble and gallant of him.” But then her eyes narrowed. “But tell me—is he actually a yellow-apple Fossoway?”

“He is. He’s from Orchard Hill. He’s a true-blue legit aristocrat. Daeron Fossoway is his actual uncle. It’s more of a great-great-great-great uncle. Or however many generations it’s been.”

“All right,” Jeyne said, staring blankly at all the assorted modern accoutrements on the bed. “I see.”

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the whole truth straightaway. I didn’t want to seem like—like a madwoman. You know? I understand how hard this is to believe.”

As Jeyne nodded in an abstracted way, Liana continued, anxiety mounting as every second passed.

“I tried to tell you as much truth as I could. For example, I have been to Highgarden. I can show you pictures, if you like.”

Jeyne’s brow knit. “Pictures?”

“Yes. They’re right here.”

And as she powered up her phone, Jeyne gasped and bolted up.  

“By the Seven! What is that… thing?”

“It’s a machine that we in the future use, called a telephone,” Liana said, making sure her voice was perfectly gentle and calm. “That means far-talker. We use it instead of sending ravens everywhere.”

“But you said it had pictures.”

“It does. This is a new style of phone with a camera. A camera is a machine that takes… painted miniatures, if you will. Like the pictures on my driver’s license and passport.”

Jeyne blinked. “Oh?”

“Yes. Here’s the photos I took at Highgarden.” Liana pulled up her photo folder and showed Jeyne. “There’s me in the labyrinth…the rose garden… here’s Brenn too. This was around the time we first met.” Brenn sat by Rodell’s famous statue, The Thinker, mimicking it, with his head on his fist, scowling thoughtfully. “Here are also some swans, but we are nowhere near them.”

“Gods!” Jeyne’s mouth had fallen open. “The wonders of your world… I can’t believe it. It must be like Valyria of old, with their dragons and sorcerers!”

Now it was Liana’s turn to grimace. “I hope not. We don’t have slaves or blood magic or anything like that. What wonders we have is through science and technology. It’s more accessible.” As Jeyne stared at her, Liana added: “Like, Highgarden isn’t just a rich person’s home now. It’s a cultural center, open to everyone. You just have to pay a small fee, and you can go inside.”

“I can’t imagine the Tyrells would like that very much.”

“They’re not around any more to object.”

Jeyne’s mouth became a perfect O. “House Tyrell has gone extinct in your age? Did they anger a king? Commit treason? What happened?”

“Well, it’s been a long time. There’s been a lot of coups, a lot of regime changes, a few revolutions. Most noble houses haven’t made it.”

“What about the Starks?”

“Sadly, they’re also extinct.”

“The Starks were the Kings of Winter for eight thousand years, but they couldn’t last another eight hundred!” Jeyne exclaimed. “Who is king or lord in the North, in your day, if the Starks no longer hold Winterfell?”

“Um… well, you see, there’s no longer kings in the North. Or the South. We have representational government. People vote for who they want to see in charge.”

Jeyne’s mouth dropped again. “So it’s like Volantis?”

“Sort of? Except that everyone can vote. Anyone over the age of 18, man or woman. And you don’t have to own property.”

“Gods!” Jeyne exclaimed again, plopping down on the bed. She stared up at the ceiling, as if imploring divine intervention, before turning to Liana again.

“I’d call you a liar and a mummer, Liana Pyke, but there’s been so much portent and strangeness whirling about you, from the moment of your arrival, that part of me isn’t surprised at all. You are full of marvels, and prophecy seems to run in your blood. I’ve been wondering why this is so, but perhaps… perhaps it is because you are from the future.” She pinned her dark eyes upon Liana’s. “Is this why you have been so determined to save Lady Sansa and Lord Theon? Because…” Her voice wavered. “You know what will happen to them?”

“Yes.” The one word cut through the air of the room like a knife. A flayer’s knife, Liana thought. Jeyne shuddered.

“What does happen to them?”

“It’s a long story,” Liana said. “A long and terrible one. Do you want to hear it?”  

Jeyne’s jaw set. “Yes. I want to. Please.”  

And so Liana told her. She told Jeyne everything, from Lord Stark’s death, to Sansa’s doomed betrothal to the sadistic Joffrey, to the War of the Five Kings, to Theon’s return home to Pyke, to his betrayal of Robb and the taking of Winterfell, to Ramsey Bolton née Snow taking Theon hostage and torturing him to a far-thee-well, to Sansa escaping King’s Landing and being sold into marriage to the aforementioned Ramsay, to the two hostages, beaten, raped and tortured, at last jumping from Winterfell’s walls in a daring escape through the snows that later become known as the Flight from the Flayed Men. She tried to summarize as best as she could the events of the Cataclysm, the fall of the Wall and the march of the wights and the White Walkers down to Winterfell, where Theon and Sansa, along with others, fought for the survival of the human race.

“They reunited with tears in their eyes, as Theon swore himself to protect Sansa,” Liana said. “He died trying to protect her brother. Theon’s sister never forgave Sansa for burning her brother’s remains when she could have sent them home, but perhaps it was a precaution from a possibility of a corpse reanimating, even in the Cataclysm’s aftermath. Nevertheless, Sansa wept by his corpse, and she wept even more as she placed a wolf pin on his breast. Not too long after, she become Queen of the North, and her youngest son was named Theon, in his memory.”  

When she was done, Jeyne was completely frozen, unmoving as a statue. At last, she blinked.

“That is quite a story.”

“It’s not a story,” Liana said forcefully. “It is what happened. Or rather… what will happen. I did not make it up. You can ask Brenn if you like.”

“Very well.” Jeyne’s expression was guarded. “I will.”

“Do you want to go now?” Liana asked, feeling hurt despite herself. “He’s probably up now, reading something from the Winterfell library. He’s a late riser.”

“No!” Jeyne threw her hands up. “I do not want to ask him now. I just—this is all so much. I cannot—I’m overwhelmed, Liana!”

“I know. It is a lot. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize. All of this—I can barely understand it. Because not only are you a time traveler, but you’re saying that everything Old Nan told us was real? Absolutely, inutterably, inexorably true?”   

“Uh, I don’t know who Old Nan is,” Liana said self-consciously. “Sorry.”

“For once—for once I know something you don’t know, Liana Pyke!” Jeyne put her hands on her hips. “She is a servant here, an aged beldam, who tells stories of all the horrors beyond the wall. Grumkins and snarks and ice spiders… and the Others who fought the First Men during the Long Night. It sounds exactly like that!”

“Well, it pretty much is exactly that,” Liana said. “In my day we call it the Cataclysm. Uncle Xandros thinks it happened because of an overabundance of the sorcerous principle, probably due to trans-dimensional leakage from the dimension of the Old Ones.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Uh, never mind. Yeah. If Old Nan told of a zombie apocalypse, she’s right. That’s the Cataclysm.”

“What’s a zombie? Is that a wight?”

“Yup. It’s a Summer Islander word.”

“So they know of the Others down in the Summer Islands too?” Jeyne looked horrified. “Gods. I can’t even—I thought it was just a legend!”

“Sadly, no,” Liana said with a sigh. “They are not. The best thing that ever happened to this planet was when contact with this other dimension closed. In your age, Jeyne, you guys have bizarrely long seasons and weird shit like dragons and shadowbinders and reanimated corpses shambling about, controlled by… ice elementals? Even in the twelfth century, we still don’t know who these ‘Others’ are.”

“Gods above. The Mother protect us!” Jeyne moaned. “You’re not japing…”

“The wall is monstrously huge for just that reason,” Liana pointed out. “And no, I’m not japing or joking or whatever. It’s a thing, and it’s going to be happening in seven years.”

“What did they do? I mean to fight against the Others?”

“Well, the armies of the North and the Vale, for the most part. The Ironborn with Theon and his sister Yara. Plus the remnants of Stannis Baratheon’s army. Plus Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons.”

Jeyne gasped. “Dragons are reborn too?”

“Yup. Through bloodmagic. Anyway, the Others are defeated. At great cost. The Wall is destroyed. Thousands of people die. Many noble Northern houses are made extinct. But the good news is that once the Cataclysm was averted, seasons go back to a yearly basis, as it was in ancient times.” Liana gave a queasy smile. “The climate becomes less cold. That’s a win, at least.”

“Wonderful.” Jeyne clutched her hands to the side of her head, as if to keep it from exploding.  

“I’m sorry. This is a lot, I know.”

The steward’s daughter clenched her fists. “It is, Mistress Pyke. Liana. It is. It’s something looming, something monstrous, something to give even Robb waking nightmares. I always hated the scarier stories of Old Nan… I even threw up once after she told the story of the Rat Cook. I had eaten too many lemon cakes. She knows how to spin a tale to get under your skin, I shall give her that.

“Of course I preferred the tales of Jonquil and Florian. I’d rather hear about Daeryssa and Serwyn. Or Aemon and Naerys. How did Theon put it? I am Sansa Stark’s henchwoman. I am sure Jon thinks I’m a pretty, silly fool with her head in the clouds…” She shook her head.

“But I am of Northern stock, born and bred. I have heard stories of the last hero and Others and the Long Night since I was a suckling babe. I was stupid enough to think I could find love and a Southron marriage and live amongst flowers and palaces… but no. Clearly I was a fool. I must stay here.” Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she blinked them away, and they grew hard.

“Wights or zombies or whatever you care to call them. If the Long Night is coming, we must tell Lord Stark.”

“I…” Liana took a deep breath. “I am not sure, under the circumstances, if that is a good idea.”
“What do you mean?” Jeyne’s eyes blazed. “This is about a fight with forces of darkness, Liana. Why do you cavil now?”  

How was she to put this? “King Robert going to be here, any day now. And there are countless factions that hate the Starks and wish to take power instead. In fact, there would rather see the world burn if they can’t take the throne. It is a bad, bad situation.”

“It gets worse?” Horror was writ on Jeyne’s face. “How could it possibly get any worse?”

A hysterical laugh ripped from Liana’s throat. “Oh, my sweet summer child, you have no idea. Westeros is fucking horrible, and for some reason people would rather off their entire families than give up the tiniest smidgen of power. For example—look at Cersei Lannister.”

“The Queen?”

“Yup. She hates her husband, King Robert. In fact, none of her three children, including Joffrey, are King Robert’s.”

“What? Dear Gods. You know this for certain?”

“I do.”

“Who is the father?” Jeyne’s voice lowered, and her eyes darted about, as if lurked about every corner. Liana couldn’t blame her. This was treason they were discussing. But fortunately, this was Winterfell, not the Red Keep.  

“Her twin brother, Jaime Lannister.”

“Mother above.” The steward’s daughter blanched. “The prince is a bastard born of incest?”

Liana nodded.

“I can’t… Gods.” Jeyne pressed her hand to her mouth. “No wonder you were so against Lady Sansa marrying the prince. If Lord Stark found out—”

“He does find out,” Liana said grimly. “And he’s killed for it. So was Jon Arryn.” Well, arguably it was Littlefinger who arranged to have Jon Arryn killed to have the blame put on the Lannisters, but there was already enough for Jeyne to digest. It wouldn’t hurt to simplify an already horrendously complicated situation.

“This is terrible!” Jeyne wailed.

“Well, it gets worse,” Liana said. “Once Lord Stark is killed, Robert’s brothers Stannis and Renly make a play for the throne, since Stannis has found out about the incest as well. He even makes it public knowledge. This sets off the War of the Five Kings, where Stannis, Renly, Robb, Joffrey and Balon Greyjoy fight each other. Robb does this to avenge his father, but it goes poorly for him. He’s betrayed by Roose Bolton and Walder Frey, who kill him and Lady Stark at what is now called ‘The Red Wedding.’”

“By the Seven…” Jeyne breathed.

“And then the Boltons take over Winterfell, and that’s when Littlefinger sells Sansa to Ramsay Bolton, who was legitimized by King Joffrey.”

“Who’s Littlefinger?”

“That’s the nickname for Petyr Baelish. He’s the Master of Coin. He’s supposedly a friend of Lady Stark’s, but he’s only out for himself. He betrays Lord Stark to the Lannisters, and he sells a number of the Stark household ladies into prostitution.”

“Including myself, I take it?” Jeyne asked, her voice brittle.

Liana nodded.

“Where’s Jon in all of this?”

“Up at the Wall, discovering what’s going to happen with the Cataclysm.”

“That sounds like Jon,” Jeyne said, and even though this discussion was beyond grim, a pale smile flitted across her face. “What about Bran? And Arya? And Rickon?”

“During the King’s visit, Bran is paralyzed from a fall from a tower,” Liana said. “That’s what I warned Lady Stark about. He escapes after the fall of Winterfell, and is taken up North to find the ancient Targaryen seer Bloodraven, who initiates him into the ways of greensight and other ancient magics. According to some, he loses his soul over this. To make a very long story short, Jeyne, he becomes king of the South, but he is widely hated. He’s later assassinated.”

Jeyne opened her mouth, and closed it. “What about Rickon? And Arya?”

“Rickon is killed fleeing Ramsay,” Liana said. “As for Arya, she goes South with her father and Sansa, but escapes the Lannisters. She goes to Braavos, is trained to become a faceless assassin, and during the Cataclysm, she ends up killing the Night King. A glorious achievement! And then she goes exploring the Sunset Sea, where she discovers a new continent. Another glorious achievement! But then she’s killed by a poison arrow on one of the Jewel Islands in the Sea of Mictlan, off the continent of Nymerios.”

“Nymerios?”

“The continent she discovers,” Liana replied.

“Ah. That makes sense. Arya always loved the tales of Queen Nymeria.” Liana rubbed her forehead. “So in a decade, after the Long Night, the only Stark left alive is… Lady Sansa. Is that right?”

Liana nodded.

“Does she marry again?”

Now that was a loaded question. “That’s also a long story. Filled with Sturm und Drang, as the Rhoynelandish put it. Do you want to hear?”

“Of course!” Jeyne said. “I hope at least one of the Stark children has a happy ending. Does she have a happy ending? Please?”

Liana mentally girded her loins and began.

“So. In our history books, it is said that Queen Sansa married Denys Downstark, the son of a hedge knight, who is from a distant cadet branch of the Stark family from Barrowton. He was a few years younger than her, and he was a sulky fop, but he had connections to the Dustins and the Ryswells, and it is said that she believed him to be manageable.

“She had two sons with him, named Eddard and Robb. Meanwhile, after Bran’s assassination, Sansa’s former sworn shields, Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne, who fought for her during the Cataclysm, arrived in Winterfell, seeking shelter. It is said that the queen wept when she saw her old comrades again, and that Ser Podrick sang for her in her bower, as he had an exceptionally sweet voice.

“However, trouble was a-brewing with the young king consort. Little did the queen know that several lords disliked having a female ruler and wanted to back ‘King Denys’ into becoming the ruler of the North. After all, he had Stark blood too! Denys, who was none too secure, was wildly jealous of Sansa and Podrick, and led a band of thugs to try to kill the knight, but this did not go well with the conspirators. Podrick and Brienne slaughtered the thugs and Denys ran for his life, joining the rebels in the Northern Mountains, determined to claim his ‘rightful throne.’

“Anyway, with Brienne’s help, the rebels were put down, and Denys fled to Braavos, where he was poisoned and found floating in a canal. Sansa returned to ruling. She gave birth to a third son, whom she named Theon. Although she claimed that her late husband was the father, it was widely believed that Podrick actually fathered the child. Historians say it is hard to tell, as Theon was the only child of Sansa’s to favor her, and had both the red hair and the blue eyes of the Tullys. But some say that little Prince Theon’s blue eyes were closer to the sea color of the late Greyjoy heir. Perhaps the queen was impregnated by the ghost of her lost love…”

On that romantic (if improbable) note, Liana let her voice trail away, as Jeyne sighed.

“A pretty story,” she said. “I am glad that Sansa was able to obtain some sort of happiness in the end. But—” Her brow wrinkled. “That’s not going to happen now, since you came?”

“No,” Liana said. “It’s not.”

“Do you know what’s going to happen now? To us?”

Liana shook her head. “I’ve no idea.”  

“You should have told Lord Stark,” Jeyne said in a small voice. “About the Long Night. Or the Cataclysm. You should have told him.”

“And risk being locked away, or sent to a motherhouse in White Harbor to be prayed over?” Liana snapped. “Neither of those were options. Do you think for one moment that Lady Stark would believe me?”

Jeyne shook her head.

“More than anything, Lady Stark wants her daughter to marry a prince. King Robert wants that too. Hell, Sansa wanted it herself until I talked her out of it. But those southern ambitions will get all of you killed—horribly. The most important thing to do is fight the Others if for the Starks to remain here. Not to go South, where the family will be ripped apart by Southern factionalism and infighting. But here. In the North.” Liana jabbed her finger to the floor.

“I see.” Jeyne’s voice became quiet. She looked down at her feet.

“What is your plan, Liana? You don’t have much time left before the King arrives. Once Lady Sansa and Lord Theon are sent off to Braavos—will you and Lord Brenn escape, with nary a word to Lord Stark about the Long Night? Will you just run away back to your own time?”

Liana squirmed. In a word—yes. She wanted to make excuses. But that was not the Northern way, was it? It was all about plain speaking and directness.

“I wasn’t planning on talking to him about it,” she admitted. “I’ve focused so much energy on getting Sansa and Theon to safety, I hadn’t thought much about anything else.”

“Well,” Jeyne said sharply. “You should do more than just think about it. You should do it! It is the future of the world, is it not?”

“Yeah. It’s a big deal.” Liana squinted at the fire, scratching her head. “But I think I know what to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m going to give Lord Stark one hell of a prophecy.”