Chapter 12: The Joys of Womanhood Are Many and Troublesome (IV)
"-. 273 AC .-"
Lyarra Stark hadn't expected to derive so much amusement out of watching the North's newest noble stumble through his hapless introduction to highborn life. Or perhaps 'confused flailing' was a better thing to call it. The man had done little since his sudden elevation besides nodding jerkily and haltingly replying to Lord Cerwyn and her husband as they educated him on his new responsibilities and lands. Then came the closing feast, held in the grand hall with its doors open wide to give clear view of the sky lamps outside, hovering high in the air like sentries on both sides of the stairs and sloping path, tethered in place by flaxen strings. But the more her husband spoke, the less the newest nobleman seemed to even register them or anything besides. He instead looked fit to run away and hide under a rock in the woods.
"The forests in your territory are rather sparse, but re-planting and coppicing should see them grow back into something sustainable by the time your heirs are grown. There is a limestone quarry on your lands as well. It's largely depleted but we've recently discovered that the scrap rock from limestone and dolostone can be smelted into an all-new metal suitable for many things. That should provide you with a solid income stream immediately, and the red clay waste can easily be turned to any number of building applications. What you sadly won't have too much of is farmland, but we should have a solution for that as well, come spring. Even if it turns out to be sub-prime for food crops, you should be able to raise hemp just fine. Of course, a full prospecting will have to be done to know everything you do or don't have available beyond these generalities. Do you know your letters and numbers?"
"… I can count to one hundred, m'lord," the man said helplessly. "You gotta know how many logs everyone be wantin', you see. But I can't read or write none."
"You'll have to learn then. You and yours will come to Winterfell to be educated on everything you need. That is, if your new lord agrees?"
"We have the means and a Maester of course," Robard said. "But if House Stark has even more Winterfell Wonders to be doling out, best if he goes learn it all from the horse's mouth so to speak."
Oh if only he knew the name of that horse, Lyarra thought with a hidden smile. Wait, where was Brandon? He still hadn't shown up, and neither had his guard. Come to think of it, Medger seemed to be missing as well.
"House Stark will match what starting funds house Cerwyn provides, and you can expect various gifts from the other noble houses once you throw your inauguration feast. I suggest waiting for spring to maximise attendance," Rickard was saying. "That said, more coin can be made available as investment on top of the knowledge and techniques I just described, to be returned as a percentage of the income of whatever enterprises are financed with them. But such things can be discussed once you've been properly armed for such talks. Now eat and drink. We wouldn't want our newest Master to come out of a feast still hungry."
That would be the day, Lyarra thought. She still wasn't sure the new Master Winterstone would be able to rise without help at all, given how unsteady the man's legs had gotten from sheer shock by the time Rickard and Robard sat him down at the high table between them. Admittedly, that had proven fortunate in a way. It eliminated all chances of the earlier scene being repeated, when the man barely made it to a bench after being ennobled and was promptly charged and embraced desperately by a heavily pregnant woman. The North's all-newest dame now sat next to their lady host doing a fair impression of a shy wallflower. She was another surprise for everyone involved, though for Lyarra herself it was secondary to Lady Sera's approach to the situation. Which is to say, the Lady Cerwyn immediately took charge of the young woman and spent the hours leading up to the feast bathing her and dressing her and fussing over her appearance and proving she owned far too many pregnancy gowns for a woman who'd only ever had the one child. Lyarra decided not to mention all the things she read into that.
She also held back from speculating on how severe a boredom Lady Sera must be suffering from, to so tightly latch onto this unexpected distraction. Lyarra didn't remember her being particularly invested in the smallfolk. Then again, there could be a lot of soft prestige in mentoring the wife of the person who rediscovered the secret to Bran the Builder's greatest accomplishment. Or half of it, depending on how much magic may or may not otherwise have contributed to the making of the Wall.
Lyarra would wish Sera luck if she hadn't just learned it would be her job to get her trained up. She hoped Lady Della was just overwhelmed rather than timid. After the last seven years, Lyarra was far too weary of coaxing others out of their shell. It was a tiresome skill, and she'd never been particularly adept at it to begin with.
That was when Medger Cerwyn finally entered the hall, and while he looked normal enough, the lute he was carrying was out of the ordinary for him. More curious to Lyarra, though, was the sight of her eldest son trailing the man, carrying what looked like a stack of papers in one hand and a bunch of wooden sticks under the arm. Medger eschewed the high table entirely, going instead to the spot where the minstrel had been playing his tunes all evening. He quietly conferred with the spindly man, who then backed off with a bow.
Medger then sat down on the minstrel's chair, set his lute on one knee and waited for Brandon to set up what turned out to be a small tripod stand for the stack of papers he'd brought along. When he was done, the papers were at eye-level with the sitting man and Brandon, after looking around for a seat and not finding one, chose to step back and sit right there on the ground. Then he pulled a two-pronged fork from his trouser pocket.
Pockets. Another thing her son refused to leave home without, Lyarra thought absently. He disdained belt pouches for some reason. He'd expressed to her in no uncertain terms that clothing without pockets sewn in was worthless because no, the ones in his cloak's inner lining weren't nearly enough and Maester Walys' pocket-dappled inner sleeves obviously agreed with him.
Brandon motioned for Medger to do something or other. So the man did. From where Lyarra sat, it almost seemed like he wasn't doing anything except looking at the paper in front of whim while tilting his head. But then Brandon made a 'so-so' gesture with his hand, and she realised from the way his throat moved that he was probably humming the starting tunes to prepare himself. That was as much as she understood though. Brandon then knocked his odd fork against the leg of Medger's chair and held it up near his ear right after. Then, when the man hummed again, Brandon nodded in satisfaction and held up a thumb.
Medger then began to pluck the cords of the lute. It was a simple, repeating tune, but it sounded pleasing to the ear. And when the man actually started to sing a song she'd never heard before, Lyarra Stark was surprised that his voice sounded pleasing to her ear as well.
Are you going to Winterfell Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
For she once was a true love of mine
Tell her to make me a Dornish shirt
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Without any seam nor needlework
And then she'll be a true love of mine
Tell her to wash it in yonder dry well
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Which never sprung water nor rain ever fell
And then she'll be a true love of mine
Tell her to dry it on yonder thorn
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Which never bore blossom since First Man was born
And then she'll be a true love of mine
Ask her to do me this courtesy
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
And ask for a like favour from me
And then she'll be a true love of mine
Have you been to Winterfell Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Remember me from one who lives there
For he once was a true love of mine
Ask him to find me an acre of land
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Between the salt water and the sea-sand
For then he'll be a true love of mine
Ask him to plough it with a lamb's horn
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
And sow it all over with one peppercorn
For then he'll be a true love of mine
Ask him to reap it with a sickle of leather
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
And gather it up with a rope made of heather
For then he'll be a true love of mine
When he has done and finished his work
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Ask him to come for his Dornish shirt
For then he'll be a true love of mine
If you say that you can't, then I shall reply
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Oh, let me know that at least you will try
Or you'll never be a true love of mine
Love imposes impossible tasks
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
But none more than any heart would ask
I must know you're a true love of mine
When the song was over, Lyarra was pleasantly surprised to find herself joining in the applause and cheers without any artifice. The song was slow and meandering, but had endearingly absurd lyrics for all that. More importantly, the young man had actually done a good job of holding the right tune throughout, and never missed a word or line even though he obviously didn't have them memorised, relying instead on Brandon turning the page at the right time. Her son never failed to do just that. There were two or three points where Medger seemed to veer into a wrong note. But then Brandon would knock on wood with his fork and hold it to the man's ear again like some sort of magic wand, and Medger would regain his flow and hold it longer and longer until he hit the last third of the song and didn't need any more help at all.
As a smug Brandon Stark and blithesome Medger Cerwyn picked up after themselves and finally came forth to take their seats at the high table, Lyarra watched her son and what may already be his most loyal subject. She wondered where the song came from. Wondered if they knew the significance of the words. The one line that repeated throughout. The meanings she could trace back to ancient lore and stories from Old Nan, where parsley removed bitter feelings, sage granted wisdom and inner strength, rosemary symbolised love and fidelity, and thyme conveyed the greatest strength of conviction in matters of the heart.
She also wondered if she should ask what sort of wager Brandon must have surely roped Medger into, for the man to risk making a spectacle of himself had this gone poorly.
She decided not to inquire after the former in case Brandon's dreams were the source of the song, which would lead to far too many questions for there and now. She asked about the latter instead.
"Oh, I wagered I could make it so he didn't need a bard along to start him off," Brandon said smugly as he served himself one of everything. He was eating more normal amounts now, Lyarra was glad to see. "Obviously, I won."
"So you made a magic wand?" Benjen asked in wonder.
"Ha!" Brandon laughed and shook his head, pulling out the fork-shaped item. He knocked it against the edge of the table and reached over both Ned and Lyanna to hold it close to Benjen's ear. And since Lyarra was sat right next to him, she leaned close to listen as well, the same as her other children. She was granted the sound of the smoothest, clearest note she'd ever heard that didn't come from someone's mouth.
Lyarra straightened and looked at her son, astounded.
Her son could make steel sing.
"This," Brandon said grandly once the note finally faded to silence, "is a tuning fork. Nothing magic about it."
"So he says," grunted Medger as he ravenously bit into his roast pork. "I'm still not sure I believe him."
Brandon ignored him. As well as everyone else listening in, which was the entire high table and then some. "One of the copper ones turned out right too, but it can't sing as long and the pitch is lower. Not a great reference point for vocals. Well, unless you're an Umber with the voice of a bear which would be awesome, but alas, is not the case for us. It should be great for tuning string instruments though."
From the corner of her eye, Lyarra caught Robard Cerwyn looking strangely in Brandon's direction, and then between him and Rickard before turning away to quietly mutter something or other. Lyarra was no lip reader, but if the words "Winterfell" and "Wonders" weren't included in whatever it was, she'd eat Lady Sera's entire collection of pregnancy dresses.
That could be trouble.
They ended the feast on a high note, so to speak. Lord Robard Cerwyn held a speech, Lord Rickard Stark added a few words to end the festivities, and the fair closed under the orange light of sky lamps and bonfires with much good-natured jeering and backslapping of the newest Master by his smallfolk family and friends.
The Starks left for Winterfell the very next day, with thanks and good wishes from the Cerwyns and a promise on Rickard's part to send the sledhouse back for the Winterstones to make the journey north without delay. But even that didn't go by without Brandon disrupting it somehow. At this point Lyarra was becoming resigned to it. She still wished her son hadn't chosen to do it through something so blatantly preposterous though. Medger Cerwyn's words upon being presented with the two full dozen pages covered in "everything you need to learn and collect every last song ever" quite aptly summarised her state of mind.
"You made a language for music?"
Her son did what now?
"I didn't make shit. Some guy came up with it whose name I can't remember, then he died," Brandon said as if he weren't even trying to be subtle. "I have a pretty long memory these days, don't you know." The sheer preposterousness of his words seemed to belatedly dawn on him. "And I had nothing to do with it! He was way before my time." Correction: it dawned on him in precisely the wrong way, Lyarra thought exasperatedly. "Now remember: practice, practice, practice and do not sing outside your vocal range. If singing makes your throat tired or raw, you're doing it wrong and should stop immediately."
The young man seemed absolutely stunned. "… You made a language for music" Medger Cerwyn looked incredulously between the papers and her son. The man spoke with all the bitter resignation of a man who'd just realized he'd live all that remained of his life in the shadow of his betters. Then he begged off to confer quietly with his father some ways off. Over the next couple of minutes, Lyarra Stark got to see Robard Cerwyn turning increasingly astounded at whatever Medger was saying, and from the way they gesticulated it barely had anything to do with Brandon's latest fancy at all. At least directly. Whatever it was, the younger man seemed to get his way, but Lyarra still wasn't expecting the request when the men finally rejoined them.
"Lord Stark," Medger Cerwyn said formally. "I request permission to join you at Winterfell until such a time as I have mastered this system of song."
Well now.
"Granted. You will accompany the Masters Winterstone on their trip hence." Rickard agreed and they were off.
"I don't get it," Lyanna said on the trip back. "He was upset, but it still made him want to come with us? How does that make sense?"
Brandon rolled his eyes but it was Benjen who replied. "It's the fulfilment of a man's romance! You can't possibly understand, you're a girl!"
Lyarra had to hold her daughter down lest she jump up and down the carriage in revenge.
"We really need to figure out how you keep plucking the thoughts right out of my head," Brandon said.
"What?" Lyanna balked. "I knew it! You're both jerks!"
And so it was that Medger Cerwyn ended up accompanying the Winterstones when they made their own trip to Winterfell in the sledhouse three days after their own return home. It wasn't clear to Lyarra how well the North's newest nobles appreciated the company and guidance he provided. What was clear was a certain Maester's feelings on finding out just why they were entertaining such an august guest.
"You made a language for music!? In one night!?"
Lyarra had laughed herself almost to tears at that reaction. The poor man seemed to take it as such a personal insult! She knew her son's haphazard genius offended every last one of his sensibilities as a Maester and learned man, but she never got tired of seeing it. Sketches of windmill power, water wheels, machines that could supposedly drill seeds right into the earth and improve crop yields ten times over. With every new idea from her son's mouth, the Maester's reactions seemed to get more and more overwrought. It made for some truly boisterous dinners.
The Winterstones, by contrast, were extremely impressed by the alum. "Ain't gonna deny none, that new kyln just makes me feel more of a fake, m'lord." For such a large and strong man, Master Varr was too humble by half. "That wheel power you be talking of though…"
"Yes?" Brandon asked.
"Could someone be usin' it to cut wood any?"
"If you made the saws round or put them on a chain, sure."
"I'm really starting to wonder what all we've been doing these centuries," Medger grumbled from here he was chewing on a pork rind. "None of this is even difficult! Now if someone came up with a summer stone of some sort to go with the winter one, then I'll really be impressed."
"Sand, gravel and baked lime."
"Wait, what?"
Medger Cerwyn ended up living at Winterfell for near the whole year. He brought more than enough supplies and coin to cover his stay when they finally opened the road back up. He never got much further than he already was in the training yard, but learned everything Rickard spared time to teach him. He won himself the fondness of her children, especially Benjen who turned out to be a singer every bit as good as her eldest and twice as inspired, it seemed. "He literally picks the songs right out of my head!" Brandon would complain. Most of all, Medger paid very close attention to everything her firstborn ever said. Indulged every one of Brandon's fancies no matter how outlandish on the surface. Lyarra Stark wondered what the young man felt some days. How deep his feelings ran, whatever they were, as he became more a student than mentor to a boy half his age. Wondered how much he suspected too, at the end of it.
It was a damned shame that she didn't get to witness most of it. She got her moonblood just a over a sennight after they got back. It was a bad one, longer and more painful than any of the ones before, and the pain in her womb never fully left her afterwards. Then she took with a winter chill and was confined to her bed on and off for weeks at a time. That became her life for the next ten moonturns. And whenever the Maester asked her to try a new medicine that worked for everything other than what ailed her, oh, those days were the most frustrating. Her moonblood came at increasingly irregular times thereafter too. At times it was enough to make her think she'd miscarried, no matter how many times Maester Walys assured her that wasn't the case.
Her worry didn't seem to compare to the one suffered by her children though. Maybe not so much Lyanna and Benjen who had Old Nan, Lady Della, Master Varr and Medger to distract them. But Ned was as perceptive as he was quiet, and Brandon seemed to take it worst of all. He swung wildly between condescending scorn at her sickness for having the gall to make her life difficult, and nerve-wracking worry bad enough to make him all but lock himself in a cellar for days on end glaring at moldy bread as if it was responsible for everything wrong in the world. That's how Ned and Lyanna described it at least, when they came without him. All this over a chill and her womanly pains proving more stubborn than they should be. Honestly! It had certainly been amusing the first few times Brandon came to visit her sick room dressed like a bird, but really! She'd have thought her son would've learned better from his father by now!
Gods bless her husband because Rickard was the only one that seemed to keep his head.
"Be glad you're not there for Walys and Bandon's discussions on your welfare," Rickard would tell her in the evenings as he rubbed her back. "Last I saw them, they were arguing over whether or not our son was secretly out to poison you."
Lyarra groaned into her pillow, and not just from the pain relief after having been abed for too long. Again. "You really don't need to pamper me so much, husband," Lyarra lied like the lying liar she didn't need to grow old and bald and toothless to become, clearly. "I'm sure you – nnh! – have mo–oh!–re… important things to be doooooing."
"Hardly. Everything is far enough along now to delegate. There is a matter out east that will need my attention soon, but I cannot be there in person for it regardless and it is not more important to me than this."
"Oh, that's good," she moaned as her man brought out the rosemary oil and went from firm to soft strokes between one moan and the next. "At… at least one of you has his priorities in order. Honestly, those two! Ah… Some days I feel like banging their heads together until they see sense."
"Don't be too hard on them. I've a thought to indulge them myself on what few points they do agree on. Speaking of which, here." Rickard wiped his hands on a rag, reached into a satchel and put a large empty jar on her bedside table. "We're going to need you to fill that up."
"With what!?"
Fortunately, Maester Walys finally came through with a concentrated extract of chamomile, peppermint, fennel and red raspberry leaf, so she finally started feeling better. The worst of the chill passed and her womb pains faded to dull twinges she could ignore after so long dealing with worse. Then her appetite returned and the Maester reluctantly agreed that she could start taking up her duties again – slowly.
She was very happy for it. It meant she wouldn't have to miss her firstborn son's first unaided horseback ride. The Maester had strongly advised against exiting the Great Keep, but her husband decided that walking out onto the veranda overlooking the main grounds was enough of a compromise. She wasn't entirely pleased, but she was no fool to ignore good advice and the view stretched all the way to the stables anyway.
She found Lady Della already there, to her pleasant surprise. The young woman looked almost natural now in her finely cut dress, almost comely instead of plain, and she gave Lyarra a perfect curtsy as she walked to stand next to her at the railing. To her chagrin, Lyarra had ended up unable to see to her education. Fortunately, Old Nan did good work. Shortly after, Lyanna emerged from inside and hugged both her and the younger woman, if only briefly. She seemed to have missed quite a lot in her convalescence, Lyarra thought somberly. As soon as she felt completely back to her old self, she'd have to remedy that. That and a lot of things. She'd not even gotten introduced to Della's twin sons.
Then her heart all but stopped when her son went and did the opposite of everything his father and the stablemaster and Varr Winterstone and Medger Cerwyn had wasted their time trying to teach to him that whole morning.
Brandon Stark sunk his heels into the horse's sides, bent forward and lashed sharply on the horse's reins, sending the black stallion shooting forward as if launched from a catapult. "HYA!"
Master Winterstone gasped, Ned and Ben cried out from the side, the stable master vainly called a halt, Medger jumped out of the way with a cry of shock, Rickard Stark reached after him in horror, and all of their dismayed cries were drowned out by the fool boy's mad laughter as he rode off on the large, black stallion just barely saddle-broken.
Lyarra Stark thought she'd die on the spot when the steed broke into full gallop and her son seemed about to fly clear off the horse's back.
But none of that happened.
Instead, the mad boy leaned back and yanked sharply on the reins just short of the great keep itself. And so did the proud steed rear back majestically just below where the lady of the castle watched from on high, neighing in rhythm with is rider's mad laughter.
Then Rickard caught up and Lyarra got to see for the first time what Rickard was like when he was too angry to even talk. The man stormed up to the horse, snarling like the wolf on every last one of the banners covering the walls, pulled Brandon off the saddle and then spun him around, holding him up in the air while laughing loudly, free and uproarious.
… That little monster! And her husband too, the boorish arse! She was going to kill them both if it's the last thing she did!
Alas, her righteous vengeance failed before it even began because she turned out to be the only Stark alive who even bothered assuring the Winterstones that no, being present wasn't the same as being responsible and they should really rethink their assumptions about highborn and no, Medger dear, it's not your fault my mad son chose to be a reckless idiot as way to thank you for gifting him the precious steed you've raised and cared for and reared all these years for your own. Now are you sure you don't want to keep it after all? You're not likely to find another destrier birthed from a garron mare any time soon you know.
The young man assured her that he, indeed, remained as certain as the day he asked to join them at Winterfell – so that's why Robard seemed so aghast! – and could she perhaps prevail upon the Flints to teach him whatever ways they knew to cross horse breeds the way they did?
She said yes of course. Someone in House Stark had to show good sense.
That day she went around calming spirits, spent most of her meals scolding her entirely too unapologetic firstborn, reassured her other children that she wasn't going to forbid them from ever climbing on a horse just because their brother was going to end up in the crypts when she was done with him, and used the time left to bicker with her husband for egging him on the way he did. Then night fell and she was faced with the inescapable truth that one should thoroughly explore the full range of reconciliation opportunities resultant from a woman returning to her husband's bed. It took hours before they were finished, and they still needed to spend some half of the next morning going over the methods that worked the best.
She remained cross with Brandon for some time yet, but at least she wasn't alone in being out of patience with him. Rickard himself was just about done with everything he'd been put through that she hadn't had to deal with during her sickness, thank the Gods. So it was on the first day of the third sennight of the eleventh moon that he invited her to sit in on a game of cyvasse between him and the Maester.
Lady Lyarra Stark didn't relish the thought, in all truth. She disliked the game. She disliked even more the way the Maester never failed to ruin even Rickard's best strategies through some tactic or rule that he'd never before mentioned. It was like seeing her man set up to fail over and over again. She wondered sometimes if the Maester was even using real rules to eke out his wins anymore. She wondered if he hadn't been lying about them all along. She didn't understand why Rickard never gave voice to similar thoughts.
Then Rickard paused mid-way through the game to announce that Eddard would foster with Jon Arryn at the Eyre.
The world seemed to go on without Lyarra Stark thereafter. All the way to the end of the game which Maester Walys won through the latest of his underhanded plays.
Which was when Brandon, who'd watched the game while becoming more and more grim and quiet with every move and piece moved off the field, slipped off his chair, ambled behind his father's desk, pulled Ice from its sheath and levelled it at Walys' throat, no by your leave, no nothing.
"How long must you gaslight my father?"
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