Chapter 3: Chapter 3
Location: Northern Kingdom
Year: 295 A.D. Month 7
Margaery Tyrell II
Margaery was stunned; in less than a week and a half of travel, they were already a day away from the Empire's capital. The roads were paved, with inns every 40 miles, and the new helmsman provided by the Rose family didn't suffer from the constant problems the helmsman from the Reach did. Prince Robert's attacks hadn't diminished during that time; if anything, they had increased in intensity.
Every night at the inns, he would meet with her before ending the day and instruct her on the traditions, behaviors, and hierarchy of the North. She learned from him diligently and mentally prepared herself to endure in Winterfell. According to the prince, she should be ready for the ladies of the North to constantly insult her for her homeland and maternal religion. As a future queen, she should accept those insults and immediately return the favor. When her grandmother heard that, she took the opportunity to tease once more, and the prince made it clear that in the North, a person who receives insults with a smiling face and sweet words is not respected. According to him, if you can't defend yourself against those who insult you, you're not capable of defending your lands.
"My sisters, in particular, will be more than happy to welcome you to the court," he casually commented, which was a painful awakening for Margaery, who hoped to find friends and allies in the two princesses. However, the more she learned about the royal family, the more she understood that the Starks truly behaved like a pack.
Prince Robert felt no animosity toward his brother for his position as king; if anything, he seemed to pity him for having to rule the Empire. Princess Sansa was a demon at court, with her own political faction dedicated to learning and trade. Princess Arya, on the other hand, had the more belligerent factions in her pocket. Prince Brandon, on the other hand, was an important figure in the RAVN. She knew he was important, though she didn't understand just how much.
"That's both good and dangerous," her grandmother told her one afternoon on the helm after informing them about the king's brothers. "Good because your husband will have the full support of his brothers, making it less likely for them to betray him, and dangerous because it seems you must win over not only the entire kingdom but also the royal family."
From that day on, Margaery immersed herself in her thoughts. Thousands of ideas raced through her mind, and plots ran rampant in her mind; she would face a group of Northern princes who, despite being of her own age or younger, already played a key role in governing their kingdom.
"Before learning from my aunt Princess Lyanna, you must understand the workings of Winter's Court," the prince said that night, handing her a book titled 'Navigating Winter: The Northern Kingdom's Central Political Structure.'
When she arrived at her room, the door was guarded on the left and right by the two six-foot-tall personal guards of her grandmother. As she entered, her brother, grandmother, and two ladies-in-waiting awaited her. Seeing the book, Loras took it carefully so Margaery could get comfortable. While she and her ladies attended to themselves, he began reading the first pages.
"Damn," all the women turned to look at him. He blushed, cleared his throat, and read: "... For any foreigner on Northern soil, it must be known that each Winter Court session is conducted in the High Tongue of the Forest. If one does not understand the noble language of the North, a translator will be provided for six months..."
"There are some details, but that's the gist of it," Loras murmured to the silent ladies. He continued reading that page and muttered anxiously, "In the following paragraphs, it mentions that all kingdom matters are conducted in the ancient tongue, while the common tongue is primarily used for its ease of learning, but every Northern citizen learns the ancient as their first language."
"Just when you think you know everything, they throw another lump in your head," the grandmother sighed, pained. "Prince Robert clearly despises the south, and most importantly, he despises you, dear."
"I know," Margaery understood. The classes, her cooperation, and cordial treatment were undoubtedly well-acted, but it was these details that had everyone in the caravan so nervous. The guards fled from him; they showed nerves every time he looked at them, and they often fainted (only when Greywind was present). The prince acted as if he were unaware of the guards' behavior, but his confident stride through the Tyrell escort and constant false smiles cast doubt on it.
Margaery wondered if that would be her daily life in the North. The prince's cordial reception and gallant dealings were dreamlike, but the coldness of his actions made him a cruel and cunning predator. Would King Jonothor be the same? Would she be relegated to a trophy wife? Or worse, would she be condemned to isolation in an old tower?
"Um... I think you should hear this," Loras called for attention again, and when he was sure everyone was paying attention, he read:
"... Within the North, the regions have been divided into four major regions: Northern Lands, The Wall, Stark Lands, and Isles. Each region is divided into sub-regions according to the major families that govern them.
To ensure the good administration of such extensive land, each region has its own court. Among the most influential courts are: Court of Ice, Court of Iron, Court of Bear, Court of Fire, and Black Court. Each court has a representative within the Winter Court called ambassadors; their duty is to ensure the interest of their respective court through necessary alliances and maneuvers.
Thus, we enter the most important court, the Winter Court. This is divided into three sections: Court of the Wise, Chamber of Ambassadors, and High Council. In these sections, the different factions coexist and promote agreements, laws, and deliberate actions and decisions between kingdoms. The King must have the support of at least thirty-five members to enact a new law..."
"They voluntarily fractionate their power," Olleana whispered horrified. Margaery shifted uncomfortably, and the ladies were petrified by confusion.
"At least this gives them a better political map of the North," Loras murmured. All the women looked at him with wide eyes; it was very rare to see him of all people being rational. Margaery's brother, on the other hand, remained immersed in his thoughts. "From what I've learned, Princess Sansa leads the pacifist faction, so she has the Wise Council in her pocket as long as her profession doesn't improve due to the war. Princess Arya, on the other hand, controls the more belligerent ones, mainly the ambassadors, and of course, the king controls the High Council."
"There must be a neutral faction, but we don't know who controls it and how loyal it is to the king," Olleana looked at her grandson, but he remained absorbed in the book.
"Princess Sansa leads this faction," all eyes focused on Elody, who blushed under the attention.
"Explain yourself, child," the grandmother demanded immediately, and Elody quickly complied.
"Well, according to Lord Loras's explanations, the royal court has factions, and according to Prince Robert, his sisters control two of those factions," Elody gained confidence and spoke rapidly. "We don't know how many factions there are, but from what we learned from the princesses, we can understand that Princess Arya leads the warlike faction and Princess Sansa leads the neutral faction. Princess Sansa's power base is in the Court of the Wise; my assumption would be that this court maintains the presence of maesters or scholars who almost always advise against war but are not opposed to it. And Prince Robert, while he hasn't mentioned belonging to any faction, clearly belongs to a defensive faction, no less dangerous than Princess Arya's but in a style of 'let them come to our land, and here we'll break them.'
"Sansa the Bloody, Arya the Good, and Robb the Impaler," Margaery counted the names Robert Stark had been teaching her.
"Yes, dear, we've all heard those terrifying stories told by your future good brother," Olleana rolled her eyes, but the gears turning and connecting the dots were obvious in her eyes. Margaery blushed and, with a choked voice, explained her idea for her confused cousins.
"Sansa the Bloody was a queen in the North, daughter of Brandon the Builder. When she had the Winter Crown, she brought the Umber kings and the mountain clans to their knees, led a great expedition north of the Wall, and brought the Frozen Fangs, the Enchanted Forest, Storrold's Point, and the Thenn Valley under her banner."
"A warlike era of expansion like the current faction of Princess Arya," Mynissa whispered, distressed. It was still a delicate topic among the Reach travelers, the many Stark queens.
"Arya the Good, on the other hand, ushered in an era of progress by normalizing education for both nobles and commoners, creating orphanages maintained by House Stark, and sponsoring promising ventures and businesses."
"A progressive faction like Princess Sansa's," Loras understood his sister's train of thought.
"And Robb the Impaler, a cruel Stark king who dealt with the coalition of kings some 4500 years ago. He and his personal guard of 400 northerners defended the Neck alongside the Rose and Reed troops against the kings of the Reach, the king on the Peake, the Storm Kings, and the Falcon Kings. According to the chronicles, he defeated an army superior to his by a margin of ten to one, and all the prisoners were impaled from the Green Fork to the Foss."
"A defensive faction," Elody whispered appreciatively.
"That means we're navigating a court with well-defined factions, previous experience, and a long history," Margaery noted that her grandmother suddenly aged ten years; seeing the confusion in her granddaughter, she pointed out, "that means when you arrive in Winterfell, you'll have to choose a faction. You can't create your own as we hoped because doing so isolates you. Remaining neutral will only strip you of control, and choosing incorrectly will either kill you or cause your husband to sideline you."
The silence that followed filled the room and oppressed the minds of those within it. Margaery, in particular, felt like she had entered the wolf's den naked; the irony of that thought did not escape her. Since the marriage proposal, everyone in the family had been delighted with this development, although worried about the reaction of their bannermen, they accepted without hesitation. For years they were taught that the Northerners were wild beasts hungry for battle, and they believed it. Every time the North descended from the Neck, they burned, plundered, and killed everything in their path. But in the last two weeks, they discovered that the Starks and the North in general were players of the Game of Thrones with millennia of experience, cruel animals that tore apart their enemies and fierce protectors of their subjects.
"It's ironic," Margaery whispered on the verge of tears. "The south was so ensnared in its pomp and luxury that it forgot the North had been playing the game of thrones millennia before them."
While Margaery was aware that intrigues and maneuvers were as old as Westeros itself, the Great Game of Thrones was only just under three hundred years old. Before that, intrigues were minimal and distant from each other; the southern kingdoms were too small to worry about gaining influence. The kings before Aegon used the method of rotational marriage to keep all their bannermen connected to the crown. The North, on the other hand, was enormous from its beginnings; each of the small regions of the North was equivalent to the Riverlands or the Westerlands. The largest ones were as large as the Reach. With so much land under their control, the southern method of connection was difficult to maintain. When the Starks expanded, they learned to play the game... The Northern savages had an 8000-year advantage over the southerners in the game they boasted so much about.
"Damn," all the women turned their eyes to the only man who now looked at the book once more. However, he said nothing and just continued reading and muttering.
"Read for everyone, you silly boy," the grandmother snapped, and Loras was startled. Blushing, he cleared his throat and obeyed his grandmother.
"... The Court of the Wise is formed by: five representatives of the High Guilds: blacksmiths, sorcerers, builders, merchants, and alchemists; five representatives of the disciplines of the Winter University: healers, judges, police, stewards, and scribes; and, seven veterans of the Northern martial disciplines: knives, axes, spears, maces, swords, bows, and wargs..."
"Oh, isn't that a wonder?" the grandmother grumbled at the information. "That's 17 votes, plus the 28 regions of the North, leaving a total of 45."
"See what it says about the High Council," Margaery kindly asked her brother. Her brother complied and quickly flipped through a few pages.
"... The Northern High Council has the most influential figures, among them we can highlight: the director of The R.A.V.N., also called Riksagentvirksomhet Nord, which in the ancient tongue means Northern National Intelligence Agency, Grand Dean of the Winter University, Grand Steward of the North; First General, High Judge, Grand Admiral, Queen Mother, Royal Consort, and Magnar of Winter..."
"That makes 54 votes," Olleana murmured impressed.
"If each faction is equal, there are 18 members for each one," Margaery whispered. That meant the king needed two factions from the Court to pass a law.
"Not exactly," Loras turned the page. "... The King in the North has a vote equivalent to ten of the other members..."
"That results in one faction, the High Council, and the King's vote... more or less," Elody understood Loras's idea.
"At least they're not as stupid as I thought," Olleana muttered, the old woman was terrified for her granddaughter's fate in that nest of vipers. "And it seems the North is more dangerous than the Red Keep."
"We're forgetting something," Mynissa whispered, embarrassed. When everyone looked at her, she blushed but spoke anyway. "The R.A.V.N. is a spy organization where Prince Brandon has great influence."
"The King knows everything in the North," Margaery was horrified, looking around the room. Suddenly, the curtains, the wardrobe, the furniture, and even the bed seemed to hint at the presence of an unknown eavesdropper listening to their private conversation.
"Only the North?" Olleana raised an eyebrow. "The boy was waiting for us; he knew when we would reach the Neck. The Northern forces were able to evacuate little Rhaenys and newborn Daenerys without Robert Baratheon's forces knowing what happened, and Princess Rhaenys was taken from under Tywin Lannister's nose."
The words of the old Tyrell matriarch plunged the young ones into silence. The more they thought about it, the more obvious it became that the North constantly monopolized information and had people ready to use it.
"The Spider is clever and manages a good spy network," the grandmother continued, "but he has never entered the North. The question constantly asked is: How bad are Varys's spies? Now I see that thought is wrong; the real question should be: How compromised is the Spider's network?"
"Remember what my Lady informed us two days ago?" Elody jumped excitedly, and everyone looked at her curiously. Two nights ago, Margaery had recounted the average life of a Northerner, but they didn't see how that was relevant to the conversation. Seeing her family's faces, Elody gave them a blank look before clarifying, "all children from six to twelve years old are sent to castles and towers to receive compulsory education and undergo military training. Everyone knows that Varys's spies are mainly children from six to twelve years old, so in the training areas, it would be easy to find little ones without tongues who can read and write."
"They take advantage of the fact that in the South, children are mostly ignored to identify spies," Olleana murmured thoughtfully. "And now the kids have a home, food to fill their stomachs, and a better future than being sacrificed by that eunuch."
"And those children might be chosen for the R.A.V.N.," Loras commented. "I mean, they already have experience in espionage and logistics. It wouldn't be difficult to redirect their talent for their new kingdom."
"These are just speculations, but with the North, everything is possible now," the boy's grandmother agreed.
"Now the stories of direwolves, giants, Children of the Forest, and dragons don't seem so fantastic," Mynissa murmured. The girl's words made everyone do a double take, and they remembered that for the past eleven days, they had been traveling with a living legend."The King knows everything in the North," Margaery was horrified, looking around the room. Suddenly, the curtains, the wardrobe, the furniture, and even the bed seemed to hint at the presence of an unknown eavesdropper listening to their private conversation.
"Only the North?" Olleana raised an eyebrow. "The boy was waiting for us; he knew when we would reach the Neck. The Northern forces were able to evacuate little Rhaenys and newborn Daenerys without Robert Baratheon's forces knowing what happened, and Princess Rhaenys was taken from under Tywin Lannister's nose."
The words of the old Tyrell matriarch plunged the young ones into silence. The more they thought about it, the more obvious it became that the North constantly monopolized information and had people ready to use it.
"The Spider is clever and manages a good spy network," the grandmother continued, "but he has never entered the North. The question constantly asked is: How bad are Varys's spies? Now I see that thought is wrong; the real question should be: How compromised is the Spider's network?"
"Remember what my Lady informed us two days ago?" Elody jumped excitedly, and everyone looked at her curiously. Two nights ago, Margaery had recounted the average life of a Northerner, but they didn't see how that was relevant to the conversation. Seeing her family's faces, Elody gave them a blank look before clarifying, "all children from six to twelve years old are sent to castles and towers to receive compulsory education and undergo military training. Everyone knows that Varys's spies are mainly children from six to twelve years old, so in the training areas, it would be easy to find little ones without tongues who can read and write."
"They take advantage of the fact that in the South, children are mostly ignored to identify spies," Olleana murmured thoughtfully. "And now the kids have a home, food to fill their stomachs, and a better future than being sacrificed by that eunuch."
"And those children might be chosen for the R.A.V.N.," Loras commented. "I mean, they already have experience in espionage and logistics. It wouldn't be difficult to redirect their talent for their new kingdom."
"These are just speculations, but with the North, everything is possible now," the boy's grandmother agreed.
"Now the stories of direwolves, giants, Children of the Forest, and dragons don't seem so fantastic," Mynissa murmured. The girl's words made everyone do a double take, and they remembered that for the past eleven days, they had been traveling with a living legend.
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When their imminent arrival at Winterfell was announced, the three young ladies crowded at the helm windows to catch a glimpse of the capital of the Northern Kingdom. The sight was dreamy, with wooden houses and rooftops covered in a light layer of snow, spacious yet not exaggerated streets, a constant smell of burning wood and cooked spices, armed groups of men patrolling the streets in boiled leather armor and swords, all bearing the symbol of a howling wolf.
The people on the main street glanced with curiosity for a moment only to continue on their day. Margaery observed the conditions of these people; they didn't dress in luxury or anything overly opulent, but certainly the smallfolk of the North had better conditions than those in the South.
Winterfell was a solid structure of three walls: the main wall, the middle wall, and the inner wall. When they reached the inner wall, they saw Winterfell in all its splendor. A castle with fifteen towers, imposing in height but with the classic northern finish without many ornaments and always thinking of practicality.
The courtyard that greeted them was cobblestoned, simple, and devoid of flora, with a small contingent of soldiers in the middle surrounding an eight-year-old boy. Margaery was enchanted; his moderately cut hair, deep indigo eyes as intense as ice, and eyes that had seen too much were painful to behold.
"Welcome to Winterfell," the boy spoke respectfully with a bow. Margaery used every ounce of self-control not to coo. "Prince Brandon Stark, at your service."
"Well known, my prince," Loras was courteous and quickly introduced himself with his name and continued with the rest of his female companions. The young prince was silent and gave superficial acknowledgments to the Tyrell ladies. Once that phase was over, Brandon gestured behind him, and Margaery swore she saw the most beautiful woman in the known world.
"Allow me to introduce you to Queen Mother Lyanna Stark of Winterfell," with a slightly elongated fine face, pale snow-like complexion, chestnut hair beyond her shoulders, and shiny steel gray eyes. She wore a black fur over-dress with silver stitching that reached her knees, plain black leather pants, and boots of the same color with a one-inch heel made of a single piece. She walked with a poise that left Margaery feeling inadequate.
"It's a pleasure, my Lord, my ladies," the voice sent shivers down Margaery's spine, husky due to her accent but modulated and trained like a fine summer breeze, making it an addictive symphony.
Margaery tried with all her might to respond, but it all came out as a jumble of nonsensical words. The Queen Mother gave her an indulgent smile, a smile that should have been taken as an insult (Olleana certainly cleared her throat annoyed), but Margaery could only think about how kind Lyanna Stark was to her.
"Rooms and quarters have been prepared within my section of the palace," Lyanna informed, and Margaery silently thanked her for covering up her inappropriate behavior.
"Rest up, regain your strength, and in three hours, you will be presented to the king and his court," Brandon's words were relentless; without bothering about her reaction, he turned around and with a pensive air added, "Welcome, sister."
"Don't bother trying to understand him, my lady," Princess Lyanna smiled at Margaery when she saw her confused expression at the rough treatment. "Brandon is an oddity even among the Northerners. Follow me; I'll take you to your rooms."
The walk was arduous, dozens of hallways, hundreds of servants, and thousands of stairs. Princess Lyanna engaged in idle chatter with Margaery and her ladies-in-waiting; they were curious little things fluttering about with questions and compliments. For Margaery, the journey was too short; she had hundreds of questions for the princess, who obstinately refused to answer beyond vague and unclear sentences.
In the Queen Mother's tower, they were assigned rooms and servants; the chambers were beautiful. Margaery entered her chamber with wide eyes of amazement; the welcoming place was a large room filled with rustic furniture, a large central table displaying some appetizers on silverware, some paintings adorned the walls, and three doors called out to her future guests.
Margaery entered the central door, which Princess Lyanna indicated would be their new accommodations. Upon passing through the double doors, she was astonished by the decoration. It was rustic like everything in the North, but the bed carved with a canopy, the small library in one of the corners, and the comfortable furniture were so beautiful that it took her breath away. She had three other doors at her disposal; according to the princess, one was for a private bathroom where she could freshen up, another was a large dressing room, and the last was a door with access to a personal balcony overlooking the Wolfswood.
"The books are selected with topics containing stories, traditions, and geopolitics of the North," Princess Lyanna's words brought Margaery out of her awe. "I would suggest starting with this one."
Margaery looked at the volume the princess pointed to; it was written in cursive, the words 'Robert the Patriarch.'
"There you will understand the foundations of our house," the princess clarified, turning when a girl entered wearing the servants' uniform of Winterfell. "Your bath is ready, my lady. In two hours, I will come to collect you and your family. Keep practical clothing for the cold; the throne room is not a suitable place for a southern dress."
Margaery shuddered; the princess gave a half-smile and left, almost floating in her stride. Heading to the indicated bath, a small army of maids was already waiting for her; with quick introductions, they set about undressing her. The shower was a balm for her muscles sore from days on the road; the gentle scent of the forest wafted from the weirwood and winter roses.
Faster than she would have liked, the water cooled, a price the northern climate did not forgive. Reluctantly, she stepped out of the tub, and one of the maids informed her that she had an hour and a quarter left. The bath had access to the dressing room for added convenience; inside, a maid awaited her with a package neatly wrapped in moss green paper.
"Princess Lyanna wasn't sure if you had suitable clothing for the weather, so she prepared this outfit in advance as a welcome gift," the young maid left the package on one of the dressers and exited the dressing room to give Margaery more privacy.
Margaery felt tears welling in her eyes; she was aware of her naivety in considering Princess Lyanna her ally. But this level of insult was overwhelming; not only did it call her ignorant, but it also questioned the competence of her entire house. And the saddest thing for her was the complete truth of such an act; the clothes she brought from Highgarden barely protected her from the weather.
With parsimony, she opened the princess's gift and gasped at its contents: a beautiful black leather over-dress with rose patterns embroidered in blue and green metallic thread. She unfolded it to reveal that the interior was lined with velvety fur, with long sleeves edged with winter roses embroidered on them, a bunch of blue roses surrounded the waist of the garment, beyond the waist, it lacked patterns or decoration. The dress had a low neckline that, if worn without other garments, would leave her breasts mercilessly exposed.
Checking the rest of the package, there were smaller clothes, functional and without extravagant seams or uncomfortable shapes. She put them on immediately but found that she couldn't wear the one covering her breasts as she didn't know how to wear it without it flying on its own. Covering herself with the robe, she went in search of a maid. It turned out that a seventeen-year-old girl was waiting in the common room; she called her and embarrassedly asked for help. The girl gave her an encouraging smile and obeyed her request.
It turned out that the garment had two clasps that needed to be fastened at her back, and the garment was called a bra. Margaery concluded that it was more comfortable than the garments worn in the South (loose nightdresses or tight bands).
The pants were comfortable and warm, with fur on the inside to keep her warm and comfortable. They had no decorations beyond an incorporated belt shaped like a gold rose ring.
The boots were very similar to the ones worn by Princess Lyanna that day, accompanied by thick padded stockings; these boots were synonymous with comfort despite their one-inch heel (she had worn lightweight heels, and they were torture). Finally, a thick gray blouse, simple with a high collar, hugged her skin.
Once finished, the maid offered to comb her hair; accepting the offer, she offered to style it with her southern styles or use a northern style. Indecisive, she chose a northern style; the maid nodded approvingly, and Margaery felt joy at her validation, happy to have chosen correctly.
The styling was quick; the girl Alyssa, as she introduced herself, chatted cheerfully while braiding her hair with a contradictory force and delicacy that left her dizzy and unable to attend to her words. In the end, she sported a crown of braids converging at her nape, with curls cascading down her back.
Margaery gasped in surprise; the mirror not only reflected her image but also made her look like a queen of the Reach. Alyssa placed two winter roses among her curls.
"The roses of Highgarden do not thrive in the North," Margaery shuddered, unable to believe that even a servant would insult her. "But winter roses make their way through the snow and cruel blizzards... You were born to be a queen in the North, my lady; you may carry the name Tyrell, but you were born to challenge these lands."
Margaery covered her face with overwhelming emotions; the memory of the gallant but cold treatment of the prince disconcerted her, the poisonous kindness of Princess Lyanna, and the constant insults against her family or herself weakened her spirit, shattered her soul, and shook her mind.
But receiving such innocent words from a northern citizen, seeing that she was accepted despite her origin, filled her heart, and in a way, that made her grateful to Alyssa. At that moment, she swore never to forget the name of that servant and, if necessary, she would beg her betrothed to keep her close.
Tearful, she rose with a commotion and embraced Alyssa fervently; the girl squealed in surprise but still reciprocated the hug with gentleness and affection that Margaery had never received in Highgarden.
"Your Highness awaits, my Lady," Alyssa reminded softly, stepping away from Margaery and adjusting the lady's braids correctly. "I will await you for dinner, my lady... If it pleases you."
"It does, Alyssa, it does please me," Margaery hurried to respond, not wanting to miss the chance to have this girl close to her.
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Location: Kingdom of the North
Year: 295, seventh month
Brandon Stark I
Brandon stood at the tallest tower of Winterfell, enjoying the noisy wind that battered its walls, watching the birds soar through the skies and desperately longing to join them to be part of the greatness of the sky.
Brandon looked at the vast expanse of Winter Town in the depressing twilight, the beauty of this city that he personally designed and slowly watched grow and prosper. From the small village of huts and wooden walls to a grand structure of three walls and a castle that put the best creations of the South to shame. His sharp gaze softened; this city in its splendid beauty harbored within its walls the worst crimes against humanity, the sincerest laughs, and the coldest wrath in the world.
Delicate footsteps were heard, Brandon awaited her. She was beautiful as only a Northerner could be, delicate in form, appearing fragile, but in her eyes burned a flame that no one, not even winter itself, could break, eyes shining silver like two magnificent pearls, chestnut hair, and a face so angelic that it hid the fangs of a predator.
"My prince," she bowed almost reverently.
"You know it's not necessary to bow to us, Alyssa," he looked at her, tilting his head, not understanding why she insisted on constantly reverencing him when he allowed her to address him with closeness.
"I couldn't help it, Your Majesty," she apologized, "you are too important to me to be so familiar with all of you."
"You are family, Alyssa," Brandon reminded kindly, "Jon calls you his sister and always says that if we are too troublesome, he would name you his heir. Robb has made it clear that he would fight anyone who dared to ask for your hand, Sansa has offered to sponsor your studies, and Arya has planned to train you as a shield maiden of Winterfell. You are family, Alyssa, each of us would die for you."
"And that's why I love you," Alyssa smiled genuinely, causing two dimples to form on her face, "but it is my wish to be a servant in your castle, and as much as I love King Jon for considering me a worthy heir to the throne, I could never accept such a burden because of my humble origin."
Bran shook his head amused, Alyssa can be very intelligent but is so absent-minded it is very frustrating; Brandon knows Jon is serious about naming her his heir if Arya, Sansa, and Robb behave like wild animals. Brandon refused to admit that he too was troublesome.
"How did your interaction with Lady Tyrell go?" the prince decided to change the subject, aware of his sister's stubbornness by choice.
"Just as my prince predicted," she replied, and Brandon genuinely smiled.
"She remains your friend... She must be a strong queen for the wars to come."
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