Nerd In the North 5: Interlude 1

Arc 5, Interlude 1: "The Lady of the Brightfort"

“Kweh.”

The morning mist rolled thick as Merrin’s stew, grey and slow as it poured over the white stone of the battlements. Grey eyes watched it all, a slight smile below them, as Lady Gwenevere of the Brightfort stood at the solar window.

Her hand pressed up against the glass, actual glass, clearer and stronger than any Myrish make she had heard from the nobles still within the keep. The cold of the glass seeped through still, the fine make of her dress not as warming as her old wear. Her hair sat soft on her shoulders, auburn curls freshly washed with rose-scented soaps and styled in the ways her mam was learning more and more about every passing morn.

Eight moons in a castle, the young lady thought with a sigh. Has it been just eight? It all scarcely felt real some days; the view almost like a dream someone else was having.

The towers of the Brightfort, keep white as snow and just as beautiful; all of them met the dawn light in a way that made the stone itself shine like finery. Gardens, green and stubborn against the cold were a shock of color against all the white surrounding the castle; strange southern flowers alive still even under a thin blanket of frost.

All of it... all of it was hers to oversee while he was gone.

Not mine, not really. She wasn't daft enough to think otherwise. Her lord hadn't given her a castle, he'd given her a job; a heavy one, and a title that still felt borrowed. Two sizes too big and liable to trip her up if she moved too fast. 

But Lady Gwenevere had responsibilities now.

Lady. Her.

A village chief's daughter.

When she’d spent most of her life with dirt beneath her nails and a bow in her hand, expecting to never leave Frostfall at that. 

But times had changed so quickly, and she… she was still changing with them.

The silver dragon ring on her finger caught a stray bit of light, metal gleaming. It still felt strange on her skin, the weight of it unfamiliar even after months of wearing it. The thought of her da sent a sharp pain through her chest.

A wound scarred over, yes, but one that still ached when the air grew cold. She pushed it away, anger and grief both a dull weight she'd learned to carry. He avenged ye, Da. That's more than most get.

Shiro perched on her shoulder, the big baby bird already nearing the size of a pheasant puffing himself up against the morning chill. "Kweh," he chirped, silken feathers nuzzling against the skin just below her ear. 

"Aye, I know ye're hungry," her voice was a coo as she spoke to the babe of a bird, tones still carrying the Frostfall edges she tried so hard to smooth away. "Just... just let me finish watchin' the sun come up proper."

The stillness and quiet was a blessing, a time to allow her some calm to steady her head before the pressures of the day wore themselves into her as they did so often. 

Yet, the work of the day was not to be denied; not as she could already hear footsteps in the corridor, measured and familiar. Eren. The steward's knock was expected, respectful and insistent, three sharp raps against heavy oak.

"M'lady? The morning reports are ready."

M'lady. The title still sent a shiver through her every time, little jolt that was half pride and half the feeling of being caught somewhere she shouldn't be. She had scant idea what being a lady truly meant, beyond what the sharp-tongued Lady Rylsa Coldbrook corrected her on at every turn. 

"A lady does not slurp her soup, Gwenevere." "A lady does not wipe her hands on her dress." "For the grace of the Old Gods, girl, stop calling it 'muck.'"

And she had even less understanding of what it meant that her lord had given her this title, this power.

Her mam believed it affection.

And Gwenna... she didn't doubt he cared for her, not really. 

But a man didn't give a girl a castle (even one to preside over, for a time) just for a bit of affection. 

And if that was true, then why had her lord... 

The young lady turned her face aside, cheeks reddening as Shiro let out another ‘Kweh’, the fat little bird tilting his head to the side. Why make no attempt? 

A chaste kiss on the cheek, at least. 

Something more than just her hand.

Her boldness in the kitchens after another one of their lessons; a memory she wished she could forget but never wanted to, of his surprised lips against hers, still made her cheeks burn hot.

It left her confused, a knot of questions she couldn't untangle.

...does he believe me tainted?

The thought left her feeling colder than the window had, a slick greasy feeling resting in her gut as she tried not to believe that could be so.

She hadn’t… she hadn’t lain with Lorn.

Not past sharing their bed, at least.

She’d had some affection for him, aye; as any maiden would a tall strong lad, even if he was a quiet one. Plain in word and face, but not unpleasant in the latter; the young guard was not a bad match.

Yet in their month or so together, he never had interest in the marriage bed. The village had done the rite, escorting them to their new cottage with a blanket around their shoulders and leaving with bawdy well-wishes for strong sons. But Lorn had done little but kiss her cheek, lips dry and hesitant, before rolling over and falling asleep. 

Night after night; he’d never touched her like a man should touch a wife.

She had wondered as well if he was simply south-bent, a term she had heard her father use to mock her uncle once or twice, but her former husband seemed as disinterested in other men as he did her.

In fact, he seemed to have as little interest in that part of things as he was with anything that wasn’t smithing or guard duty. The idea that Lorn might have been a bit simple and that had made her feel somewhat more at ease yet as time went on and her lord denied her the same attention, she had begun to wonder if it was something more.

Something with her. Am I simply… 

Gwenevere tried to fight the frown on her face, the ladies having warned her about creases and age-lines many a time already. Ugly?

The young lady of the keep turned from the window, smoothing the front of her dress with hands that felt clumsy and rough despite her mother’s creams. She took a breath, pushing those thoughts of uncertainty away as she steadied herself. 

“Come in, Eren,” she called, her voice more measured now, the lady’s voice. “What needs my attention?”

The young steward entered the solar with his head down, scroll tucked under his arm. No more than two and twenty, Eren’s hands were still rough from his years working a farm, but his manners were more careful and quiet than most smallfolk still.

His bow was short, respectful.

Unnecessary, all the same.

"The grain stores, my lady. And there's been word from the villages."

Gwenevere gestured to the two carved chairs by the fire, table between them with embers still glowing from the night before. Warmer than Da's hearth ever was. "Sit, then. No need for all that ceremony when it's just us." A small smile touched her lips, testing the words before she let them out. "Though Maester Tybald might have a fit if he saw. He'd say it was unseemly."

"That man… it’s hard to say what he finds not to have fits about these days, m'lady."

"The magic in the castle still has him... unsettled, aye." Unsettled. 

A mild term, that.

One would think after eight moons of seeing near a score of village girls running about casting spells, he'd have grown used to it. If anything, he seemed more worried each day; as if shocked the magic persisted with the lord gone to war.

Eren unrolled the scroll on the small table between them, pointing a calloused finger at the neat columns. Numbers and notes in rows. "Grain stores are holdin' well. We've enough for a hard winter, even an extended one."

Gwenna leaned forward, the figures making sense to her now. Numbers and letters coming as easy as breathing, though she couldn't recall when that had changed. "The new farming techniques the boys learned from Lord Greg..."

"They're workin', m'lady. Yields are up near a third in the west fields. He knew what he was about with that."

Aye, he did. "And the villages?" Her voice steadied, the lady's voice she'd been practicing. "Any trouble? Wildling raids? Bandits?"

"Three villages report strange lights in the woods," Eren said, voice careful the way it got when he was unsure of his words. "Above the waters of Last River at night. Dancing lights, they say. But no raids. No attacks since... well, since the lord cleared the Bolton men out." A pause, looking at her proper now. "It's almost like..."

"Like something's keeping the dangers away." Gwenevere finished, her own hand moving without thought to the dragon ring. The silver was warm against her skin, always warm these days. Magic. It's always magic now. "We'll keep watch."

Eren’s breath hitched as the man sat there for a moment longer, rolling the scroll back up with hands that knew work better than parchment. "There's... something else, m'lady." His head lowered again, eyes not reaching hers as he stumbled through the words leaving his lips. "Some of the men... the older ones, from the Dreadfort garrison... and the... the guests... they're asking questions."

"Questions about what?" Her jaw tightened as she spoke the words. As if their words mattered here. 

"About the magic lessons, m'lady. The girls. Some think it's... unnatural. Woman's magic, they call it."

"And what do ye tell them, Eren?" The border burr crept back in without her meaning it to, as her hand went to her ring again, holding it up so the silver dragon gleamed in the light of the morn. "That Lord Greg himself blessed us with these arts? That no maiden need fear again?"

"Aye, m'lady. I do." Eren's troubled expression failed to unsettle her much; she'd seen worse looks from the fat maester. "But... old fears die hard. Especially with winter coming, and m'lord away at war."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The Hall of Magic sat at the western end of the keep, the title something the girls had given the large space their lord had set aside for them to practice their arts. As most of the rooms and halls in this castle, the Hall of Magic was... big.

Vast, more like.

But their hall, especially so; almost a cavern of white stone for the Sisterhood.

As Gwenna strode in, seven and ten of them stood waiting, each and everyone of her sisters scattered across the floor in simple blue dresses with white trim her mam had insisted on sewing. Eight to fifteen namedays among them, some from Frostfall, others snatched from the jaws of those Bolton bastards or worse. All turned toward her now, hopeful and eager in ways that made her chest tight.

"Right then." Gwenevere's voice came out too loud in the sudden quiet, echoing off stone that had probably never heard village girls speak before her lord made it so. She took her place at the front, the small leather-bound books Lord Greg had left them arranged on the table. A promise, those books were. 

Shiro, who'd been pecking at a loose thread on her sleeve, hopped down onto the largest grimoire, his little white form a stark blot against dark leather.

"Who can tell me the three…” Her cheeks warmed despite herself, but she pushed past the uncertainty, “...the three parts of a spell?" 

A hand shot up and grey eyes landed on Mara.

Always the first with an answer and rarely wrong, the Whitehall girl was sharp as a needle and just as quick to stick ye with it. "Set yer mind, keep th’ eyes, an’ hold yer heart, m’lady,” she answered with clear confidence, even for a lass new to her letters.

"Very good." A breath left Gwenna that she hadn't realized she was holding, relief mixing with something close to pride. "And why do we start with the... the Magic Missile?"

"Because it can't miss!" The chorus came ragged but enthusiastic from the Frostfall girls, voices she'd known since she was small. Hully, the keenest of all of them, blurted out loudly over the rest, “It learns ye control, m’lady!”

A real smile touched her lips then, warmth spreading through her chest that had naught to do with the hearth fires burning along the walls.

Stepping back, she gave the girls space as they spread out across the floor. "Remember," she spoke softer now, the way her da used to speak when he was showing her how to fletch an arrow proper. "Magic comes from within. The gestures... they just help focus it. Don't force it. Let it flow, aye? Like water finding its course."

Gods, do I sound like I know what I'm saying?

Demonstrating first, the silver dragon ring on her finger came aglow with soft light that felt familiar now after months of wearing it. A tingle ran up her arm, power flowing from some deep well inside her as she traced the signs in air.

“Bonny, m’lady!” Dara breathed, eyes wide as winter moons. At eight, she was the youngest, still more wonder than worry in her eyes. “Can we have a go now? Please?”

"Aye, but slowly." Gwenna let the shimmer fade, fingers still tingling. "And if anyone feels... dizzy, ye're to stop at once." Last thing I need is one of them fainting. "Magic is a wonder, but it's not without its risks."

Shiro watched from his perch on the book as the girls continued their weekly practice with clumsy grace; the fat little creature letting out the occasional soft "kweh" at each failure. Daft bird.

Gully managed a decent shimmer on her ninth try, just around her arm. “I feel it!” She gasped, grinning wide enough to split her face in two. “Like warm soup in me veins!”

That's one way to put it, aye.

Mara's attempt was less successful. Bright sparks sputtered from her fingertips and died, leaving behind a faint smell that made Gwenna's nose wrinkle. “Blast it!”

"Patience, patience." Gwenna chided gently, walking over to her with steps she tried to make measured and lady-like. "And more patience after that. Ye wouldn't expect to weave a perfect tapestry on your first try, would ye?" A hand on Mara's shoulder, feeling the girl's tension through the fabric. "Magic's the same. Takes practice. And time."

Gwenna’s eyes suddenly widened, half the girls doing the same and the other half gasping with shock as the loud blast of a horn interrupted their practice, the sound repeating from the main gate. What now?

"M'lady!" A shout rang from the courtyard, not nearly half as loud as the horn but with urgency sharp enough to make her heart jump as quick. "Rider! Rider approaching the Brightfort!"

News from the war? Good or ill?

"Girls, continue practicing. Gully, you're in charge." The words came out steadier than she felt, borrowing some of that lady's voice the hostages had been teaching her. "Mara, help her mind the young ones."

Keeping her pace steady as she walked to the main hall, the blue dress swished against white stone that no longer felt quite as foreign under her feet. 

Soon enough, she arrived to find the steward already there, Eren waiting by the great doors with his face a careful mask. "A single rider, m'lady." 

He answered before she asked, continuing on as she raised a single brow. "Northern colours, but not Stark. Carrying dispatches, by the look of him."

The great doors groaned open, letting in cold air and a mud-splattered messenger both. The man, maybe five-and-twenty, stood there with exhaustion clear in the slump of his shoulders and the mud caking his boots.

"Lady Gwenevere?" The voice was formal but rough, tiredness showing more than in just his stance. "I bring word from Lord Manderly."

Manderly. White Harbor. Her mind raced, trying to recall what little she knew of the great houses. Gods, what could they want with us?

"Milord sends his greetings,” the man produced parchment, wax bearing the merman of Manderly firmly sealing it together as he presented it to her. "and... a proposal, my lady."

Careful fingers took the heavy parchment and broke the seal, leaving Gwenna to stare at the elegant script within, without question the careful hand of a learned maester.

...reports of a school for the magical arts... a most... mutually beneficial arrangement...

Her eyes scanned faster, something in her head clicking as the words made sense quicker than they should have.

...the protection of such rare knowledge... the preservation of learning for all the North...

"Lord Manderly wishes to send... envoys." Her eyes trailed to the middle of the parchment, testing the word on her tongue and not much liking it. "To study our... methods." Those same grey eyes darted to the silent steward, Eren’s face still blank as the man was clearly deep in thought. "In exchange for supplies. And 'additional protection.'" They've heard about the magic. 

Her stomach clenched tight, sudden worry a physical thing. Gods, word's spreading faster than winter fever.

Eren finally shifted beside her, leather of his jerkin creaking. "My lady…”

"I know…”

The messenger cleared his throat, mud still caking his boots and spattering the clean stone. "Lord Manderly wishes to emphasize this would be a purely scholarly arrangement, my lady. No military aims. Merely... interest in the tales m’lord has heard... of miracles worked here."

Gwenevere stared at the letter, at the elegant looping script that a maester had penned. Her lord had never said what to do if other lords came calling, not like this. But he did say the magic needed to spread. He wanted folk to learn. 

But could they trust White Harbor? They hadn't marched against the Brightfort with the others, hadn't joined the lords who'd wanted her dead. They were sworn to the Starks, aye. 

And Lord Greg trusted Lord Robb.

That had to mean something.

Didn't it?

"Tell Lord Manderly… tell him I will consider his proposal." She met the messenger's eyes proper, the way the hostage ladies had taught her. "But any scholars who come would be under... strict conditions. And only after Lord Greg returns from the war."

The messenger bowed, relief clear on his mud-streaked face. "I will convey your words exactly, my lady. Lord Manderly will be... pleased by your consideration."

As the messenger departed, boots echoing on stone, Eren spoke with his voice barely above a whisper. "That's the third such inquiry this moon, m'lady. First the Glovers, then the Flints. Now a proper one, a formal one, from Manderly."

"Aye." A sigh left her, small in the vastness of the hall with its high ceilings. "The lord should be here to make these choices, not me."

Not a village girl playing at lady.

Before Eren could say anything else, a deep violent tremor erupted, a powerful shudder shifting through the ground. Enough to make the Brightfort's very walls tremble, Shiro let out a panicked squawk from her shoulder, wings flapping wild against her neck.

What was that?

Gwenevere barely wasted a moment before she was running outside, skirts bunched in her fists, Eren close on her heels. The courtyard was already in chaos, folk streaming out of doorways. Maester Tybald stood there with his red face flushed past its usual ruddiness into something closer to panic. Several of the girls from the Sisterhood had emerged from the hall, faces pale with shock. Her mam, Gerda, was hurrying from the kitchens with her hands still damp from washing, wiping them on her apron.

"What happened?" Gwenevere called out, voice sharp and carrying. The few guards left in the keep were rushing into the courtyard with their swords drawn, looking around in confusion at an enemy that wasn't there.

No raiders. No wildlings. No cause for the tremor that she could see.

Her mam shook her head, eyes wide in ways Gwenna had never seen. "Don't know, love. Felt like the whole world shook. Never felt the like in all my years."

Tybald stammered, trembling finger aimed toward the treeline. Toward the deep green of the wood that bordered the Brightlands. "Something... in the forest, my lady." Voice thin and reedy, cracking on the words. "Something... appeared. Far from here, but..."

"If it was far, how did it shake the ground?" Gwenna asked back, a simple solid question cutting through the man’s panic… but not his confusion.

Tybald looked lost, mouth opening and closing with no answer coming. Before he could manage words, she saw something in the trees.

What is that?

Light fell from the forest; points of starlight drifting toward the castle on the breeze. Not the glowbugs of summer, these were far too bright, far too large, and moving with a purpose that spoke of a guiding mind.

Gwenevere's eyes widened as one of the lights broke away from the others, floating directly toward her. Shiro chirped softly from her shoulder, his fear forgotten in curiosity as the light hovered bare inches from her face. 

"HEY! Listen!"