Nerd In the North 5: Interlude II

Arc 5: Interlude II

The smoke on the horizon was a thin, grey smudge against a sky just as dull; another village burning at the hands of the Lannisters forces. 

The youngest daughter of House Tully stood at the window of Bitterbridge Keep, finger tracing the weathered stone as her thoughts rested heavy on her shoulders.

Six moons since they’d taken Ned’s head. 

Four since she had swallowed her pride and joined Renly Baratheon’s host, a petitioner in a court of summer roses and hollow laughter. How many more will die before this ends? 

Her other hand clutched the letter from Winterfell, parchment worn soft as old linen from nearly a hundred readings over the last few moons since it had arrived. Maester Luwin’s careful script, each word a small soldier in a war of hope against despair. Bran is walking again, my lady, the man had written. Perfectly. Lord Veder’s first action on your son’s order was to heal him and the healing has run its course.

Walking. Her broken boy, her sweet summer child who had loved to climb the old towers of Winterfell, had started walking once more. The words were a prayer she had worn her voice ragged for, hands clutched together for hours at his bedside and at the sept of Winterfell.

And yet, the how of it… the who of it… that was a different kind of cold. 

A sorcerer. 

Robb had trusted a sorcerer. 

Catelyn had thought on it for moons now, since the first raven had arrived. Wealth, gifts, a place of honour; aye, all fitting rewards for such a miracle. But lordship? 

To raise a landless boy with a name so strange and powers even more so to the seat of a Great House, after slaughtering a bannerman? It was a move born of desperation or folly, and she did not know which motivation of her son frightened her more.

Yet, if that was all she had to worry over, she would have considered it a blessing.

Unfortunately, the Gods had seen little reason to ease her suffering as of yet.

Winterfell, besieged by Ironborn.

Those bastard raiders, worse than Wildlings, and twice as savage because they had the gall to play at nobility; legitimized in the eyes of the kingdoms. The letter from Luwin was the only comfort she had since news of her home in the North reached her not long ago.

One son, at war.

Her daughters, in the clutches of the Lannisters.

Her youngest, possibly dead by pirates.

Life was not fair to Catelyn Stark and it had rarely been so.

Loud laughter — bright, easy, but strong in the way only a man’s could be — drifted up from the courtyard below, scattering a flock of pigeons from the battlements. Even now, with the realm bleeding from a thousand wounds, the young Baratheon found reasons for mirth. How can he laugh? 

The question was enough to stir rage in her heart. No Lord worth their name would give in to merry-making with such ease or reason to celebrate. She could scarcely imagine even Robert doing so, and certainly not Stannis or even her Ned; the realm would fall before the latter two would even consider such. Few battles one, a rare nothing victory to name, and yet you laugh so freely?

But she needed his army, she did. 

She needed his swords to break the Lannister host and reach Robb. So she would endure the laughter. A sigh left her lips, the sound as weathered and heavy as Renly’s ongoing laughter was high and light, as she made her way down the stairs.

For her family, Catelyn Stark would endure anything.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The great hall of Bitterbridge was less a place for duty as much as it seemed to be used for dallying, the scent of sawdust and beeswax a thin veneer over that of wine freely poured and sweat from dancing. Yet for once, it seemed to bear more than just a hint of seriousness; the Reachmen seeming a tad more staid in their dealings as she neared them.

Maps spread across heavy oak tables, their edges curled and stained with drops of red. Marker upon marker showed this front of the war tearing apart the Seven Kingdoms in miniature; Lannister lions and Tyrell roses scattered like a child’s game.

Tully blue eyes rose from the tables to the man sitting at the head of the largest one; Renly Baratheon — looking less like a king leading a war and more a boy playing at it, he let out another laugh as he raised a goblet of wine to his lips. As always, Ser Loras Tyrell stood beside him, every day looking more and more a figure of impossible grace, golden armor catching the firelight like a captured sun.

“Lady Stark, a pleasure as always,” Renly’s voice was warm as his green eyes laid themselves on her, smile as easy as a summer’s breeze. “Still determined to brave the Kingsroad north? The mud will ruin your boots.” 

The boy thinks me a fool. Her words were harsh, and if she were to give in to madness and voice them where any Reachman could carry it to higher ears; treasonous without a doubt, yet she found little reason to believe them untrue. Catelyn moved to the map, fingers tracing the air above red lines that marked the roads north, route after route blocked by the crimson of Lannister forces. A grieving mother chasing ghosts. Perhaps I am.

Yet, war and grief made fools of lords and ladies alike.

“My son fights alone while I sit here in comfort, your Grace.” The voice that left her was not the grieving mother, but the lady of Winterfell in all her composure and strength; Catelyn of House Stark, mother of direwolves. “Every day I delay is another day Robb faces Tywin Lannister without my counsel. Without his mother.”

Ser Loras leaned forward, the Knight of Flowers resting his gilded gauntlets on the table. He seemed different now than he had at the tourney in King’s Landing. The boyish arrogance was gone, replaced by an intensity that made the air around him feel charged, like the stillness before a lightning strike. “The Mountain’s men control the Trident crossings, my lady,” he said, his voice crisp and clear. “To ride north now would be to ride into an open grave.”

“Then we go around them,” Catelyn insisted, her gaze not leaving the map. Her finger traced a path through the rolling hills, the back roads. “Through the mountains, if we must. Anything is better than sitting here while my children need me.”

Renly stood, the elegant son of House Baratheon moving to the harp that stood in the corner; carved wood gleaming in firelight. "Perhaps a song to ease the tensions of the morn?" That same light careless air, but his eyes were on her as careful fingers, impossibly nimble, found the strings.

The melody that emerged was... more than music.

Not a song she knew. Not a Northern dirge or a Tully river tune, nothing from her father's hall or Ned's... Ned's. The notes hung in the air longer than they should, weaving through the room in ways that made her think of silver threads, sharp edge of grief dulling to a distant ache she could almost pretend wasn't there.

Around the table, worried frowns smoothed into expressions of calm attention.

This isn't natural.

The thought was ice in the warm river of the music. She had seen him do this before, many a time, and it did not sit well with her no matter how often she witnessed it. No matter how enchanted the Lady Brienne looked, plain face softening as she fixated on Renly as if he were the sun itself.

Loras closed his eyes, and for a moment golden light flickered around him. Faint but unmistakable, warming the cold stone of the hall in ways that had nothing to do with the hearth fires. "Your Grace has a gift for lifting spirits." 

Catelyn stared at them, the unnaturalness not going addressed by anyone present. At Renly with his magic fingers, at Loras with his inner sun. Magic. "Forgive me, your Grace, but..." 

"The realm is one of change and growth, Lady Stark." Renly's smile faltered, voice losing some of its easy charm. "Old powers stir. New gifts emerge." A look passed between him and Loras, silent understanding she wasn't privy to. "Perhaps the gods mean to give us the tools we need for the war ahead."

"Tools. Like the Sorcerer under my son." Tully blue met the green of Renly’s. "The lords say he turned the Dreadfort white as snow, his magics healing my father and soldiers as well."

A sorcerer. Robb trusted a sorcerer. The thought had circled her mind for moons now, vulture over carrion.

Renny and Loras exchanged a look. Not surprise but... confirmation.

"Magic in the North as well." Loras murmured, voice a low hum. His hand moved without thought to his sword hilt. "The realm truly is awakening."

Awakening to what? But before she could voice the question, commotion at the hall doors cut through the moment. A messenger stumbled in, cloak spattered with mud, face grey with exhaustion. The direwolf of House Stark on his tunic.

Her direwolf.

Robb's.

"Lady Stark?" The man gasped, voice raw. "Word from… f-from Riverrun."

Hands trembling as she took the offered parchment, breaking the seal with a sharp crack of wax. Let them be safe. Please, let them be safe.

Mother, it is good to know you are safe... Reading past the pleasantries, her heart formed a cold cold stone in her chest. The words she needed to find weren't at the start, they never were in letters that mattered.

Then she saw it.

I have sent men to King's Landing. To retrieve them. The Bright Lord himself leads the mission.

Even as her heart stopped, Catelyn forced herself to read the words aloud, voice growing steadier with each one as the Lady of Winterfell forced the terrified mother back into her cage where she belonged. "I have... my son has sent men to King's Landing." The letter crumpled in her fist without her meaning it to. "To retrieve my daughters. The... the Bright Lord leads the mission."

Arya. Sansa. Still prisoners. Still in danger.

And Robb had sent this... this sorcerer to save them. A boy he barely knew. A boy with a dragon, if the mad rumors were to be believed.

"My children…" As much as her throat ached, and tears threatened at her eyes, it was all she could do to keep her expression as strong as she would expect of her husband. "I should be helping plan their rescue." 

She would not weep. Not here. Not now.

“It seems the Young Wolf has allies, allies most powerful, Lady Stark,” Renly spoke up, the young king smiling her way with a gentle tone to voice. “Perhaps this sorcerer can succeed where conventional force would fail."

"Whatever allies my son has made, I know nothing of them…" Catelyn felt the tightness in her throat, words sharp and rough. "I fear Robb trusts too easily. He is too much like his father."

And look where that trust led Ned.

Ser Loras stepped forward, the Knight of Flowers aglow with a faint golden light that had no source she could name.

Yet it clung to him all the same. "Honour calls to honour, my lady,” the man’s voice rang out with power, a conviction to it that bolstered her spirit more than it should. "If your son accepts this man, perhaps you should as well."

Catelyn stared at the young knight, at the way he stood there speaking like a man touched by the gods themselves. What is he? "And what of your honour, Ser Loras? What power gives you that light?"

Renly stood then, easy charm gone, her question ignored as the young king was buoyed with the own power that came with his song. "We ride north." The declaration rang through the hall, brooking no argument. "Within the sennight. We strike down any Lannister in our way. Lady Stark deserves to be reunited with her son."

"Your Grace," one of his lords protested, a stout man with a florid face. "The Mountain still controls the roads. We would be marching into a massacre."

Loras drew his sword in one fluid motion, blade blazing with golden fire that illuminated the entire hall as shadows retreated from the light. "Then let them come. Let them face those blessed by the might of the Seven.”

Catelyn's breath caught in her throat, hand trembling as it rose to point at the flaming sword. True magic. Before my own eyes. "How... how long have you been able to do... that?"

"Since the new year." Loras replied simply, face serene in the golden glow. "But truly, I have felt a change since the red comet passed. The night sky bled, and I felt... called. Called to something greater than tournaments. True glory."

The comet. She remembered it, red and terrible, hanging in the sky like a wound. Dragons and magic. The world is not what it was.

Renly nodded, his own power a low hum beneath the surface. A song only she seemed to hear, threading through her thoughts. "The realm needs champions, Lady Stark." Eyes meeting hers, holding. "Perhaps your northern sorcerer isn't the only one answering that call."

The hall exploded into activity, orders given, energy of an army about to move. Servants ran to prepare for the march, knights checking armor and weapons, faces grim but determined.

Loras sheathed his sword, golden fire fading though the warmth remained. "I have dreamed of your son's sorcerer, my lady,” he turned his gaze her way, voice a low murmur meant for her and his king alone. "A young man with eyes like the summer sky. Fighting in shadows and flame, for those who cannot fight for themselves."

In his dreams? "What kind of dream?" She spoke in barely a whisper, afraid of the answer. "A vision? A prophecy?"

"Truth." He spoke it simply, the flowery king at his side nodding at that word as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "He is no dark sorcerer, whatever his enemies may claim. The light recognizes its own."

Catelyn had nothing to say to that, no words that could truly encompass what she felt. Sansa. Arya. She could only clench her hands to her chest, worn parchment of Robb's letter a fragile shield.

Hold on, my children.

Mother is coming.