Chapter Text
Chapter XXII: The Princess at the Wall
Shireen
It was a relief to see father again.
Truly, every familiar face was a gladdening sight, even those that she might never have thought of as her favorite. Ser Richard, Ser Godry, Ser Clayton, and Lord Peasebury too. There were myriad faces she had not seen in weeks..
Each of them had fought. Each of them might have died.
But each of them had survived.
Her heart was light.
Father and his entourage neared their own.
Mother broke away from their party, with Ser Malegorn and his great grey stallion to one side and Ser Narbert on his smaller, shaggier garron (his original mount had not survived the voyage from Dragonstone) to her other.
Two men followed father away from the welcoming party, one which was all too familiar to her; Ser Richard Horpe in his white surcoat emblazoned with three grey moths kept vigil at father’s right. If she hadn’t known him by his sigil, then she knew his pockmarked face well enough to recognize him even at a distance; once, he had scared her, she felt sorry to admit. The other man though, was one she did not know.
A fiery heart burned bright at his chest, the stag within the red bearing the crown of the Durrandons, and the gold cloth of his surcoat almost shining in the afternoon light. It was a squire’s garb, near the same raiment as that Devan and Bryen had worn. Except–
“His hair!” said Jonquil Peasebury behind her with a breathless giggle.
The squire’s hair was blue . It was in the Tyroshi fashion, she knew, but father had never had a Tyroshi squire!
“Positively ridiculous,” said one of Mother’s ladies.
It was , and yet, Shireen could not laugh; for as he neared, it became quite obvious that this new squire was not just handsome, but exceedingly so. His blue hair was worn long, and his face was clean of whiskers. His mouth was set firmly, but his dark blue eyes all but danced.
Shireen heard Jonquil again, more quietly this time. “I suppose it is not so bad as I thought.”
“How old?” She heard another of Mother’s ladies say behind her.
“He can’t have seen more than seventeen years, scarcely a man” said another, though it was clear she did not disapprove.
To Shireen though, the greater question was not his age, but his identity. Who was he? Was he one of Salladhor Saan’s men? Were Devan and Bryen well? Had they not survived the battle? These questions and others filled her head as her mother’s companions chattered.
Mother and her knights came to a stop before Father and his own,
Father did not dismount, and neither did Mother. There was no embrace, nor were there kind words. Instead, there was only an expression of iron on Father’s face.
“Come,” he said loudly, so that all might hear him. “There is much to discuss. Better within the King’s Tower than here or the yards of Castle Black.”
Mother nodded her assent, adding nothing else.
Father turned to his new squire and said something she could not hear, and within seconds the blue haired young man had spurred his steed forward. Ser Richard followed closely behind, a look of consternation plain on his severe countenance.
As the squire and knight approached Shireen and the rest of the queen’s party, Father began to exchange quiet words with Mother. Neither looked happy.
“Your Grace ,” said the new squire in a distinctly odd tone of voice. Still, his smile reached his eyes, even as his eyes fell to her Greyscale scarring.
She felt heat rising to her cheeks, but nodded in as dignified a manner as she could manage.
Ser Richard Horpe drew up alongside the blue haired squire. “Your Grace,” he said with a nod. “Excuse young Griff. He is as yet unfamiliar with his position.” He glared pointedly as the newly named Griff laughed.
“And what of Bryen?” she asked.
Ser Richard looked as if he intended to answer, but Griff cut him off. “Bryen will soon be Ser Bryen; His Grace intends to knight him soon.”
That puzzled Shireen. Younger had been knighted, she knew, but Bryen had not yet seemed ready for his dubbing when last she saw him. But of course, much might have changed since then. They had been to battle, after all. “And Devan?”
This time Ser Richard glared his junior into quiet, and answered himself. “Your friend remains the king’s squire, His Grace bid him keep the King’s Tower prepared for your arrival.”
Shireen smiled, a slight weight lifting from her shoulders. With Edric gone, Devan was the only friend she truly had left.
The squire Griff scanned Mother’s party, his dark blue eyes stopping momentarily at the sight of Alona and Violet Celtigar. Shireen couldn’t help but feel inadequate when in their company. Mother said her hair was beautiful, but hers could never compare to fairer hair, she felt. And the Celtigars had the fairest of all present, their Valyrian heritage still clear for all to see.
“You hail from Tyrosh?” she asked, drawing his eyes back to her.
Griff shook his head lightly. “No, but my mother did. My father hails from the Seven Kingdoms.”
She noted his lack of an accent. Most of Sallador Saan’s men bore accents that marked them for this Free City or that, with some even marked by the tongues of the Summer Isles. “And you?”
He smiled again. “Me? I’ve never had a home. A life of travel is all I’ve ever known.”
She wanted to comfort him, but a snort from Ser Richard saw her chance flee her.
“Learn that one from one of the Maester’s books, did you?”
Griff was affronted. “It’s true!”
“Keep your pretty words to yourself, squire ,” Richard retorted, making the word an insult.
Shireen’s ears burned. She’d been the one to ask him a question; he hadn’t spoken out of turn. But before she could muster words to his defense, her father cut them off.
“Inside!” he called. Father’s eyes bored in their direction, though she could not see if it was her or Griff that was the source of his ire.
Her ears burned hotter. Father had not meant for her to make small talk.
Ser Richard and Griff wheeled their steeds around to either side of her own. Ser Richard offered Griff one last hard look as Shireen urged her mount forward to meet father. The rest of Mother’s party followed behind her shortly.
Before Shireen could meet Father face to face, he had turned his horse back toward Castle Black and spurred it ahead. Mother kept near him, Sers Malegorn and Narbert close at her heels. Father’s initial party too turned around as Mother and Father neared them, and in short order they were a long column of horse filing back into the venerable home of the Night’s Watch. Far behind them, wagon wheels creaked and struggled in the snow, bringing with them supplies from Eastwatch and what few clothes they’d been able to bring from Dragonstone.
Father moved forward silently, Mother only slightly behind him. Neither’s mood had improved.
Beside her, Griff leaned toward her ever so slightly. Then, in a tone that scarcely cut above the sound of hooves, he said, “Do mind the black brothers, they have soured somewhat since their new Lord Commander fell off the Wall.”
“ What?” she asked too loudly.
Ser Richard looked over then, “Leave the princess alone, Griff. You forget yourself.”
“What?” Griff asked, exasperated. “I’m the king’s squire and I can’t speak to the princess?” He made an annoyed noise. “And to answer your question, princess, the Lord Commander was atop the Wall on a windy night and was blown right off.” A pause. “Lord Stark’s wolf found him the morning after.”
“This Lord Stark has a Wolf too?” She’d heard that their King in the North had one big enough to ride, but she wasn’t sure if she’d ever believed it. This new lord was Eddard Stark’s bastard son, younger brother to their king, Mother told her.
“Aye, a great white beast,” Ser Richard answered. “But save your questions for your father, Your Grace.”
They passed the outer gate of Castle Black with little fanfare. It was cold, and few of the Watch’s brothers were out to suffer in it. What few she saw were hovering in doorways, or beside lit braziers. Some few with badges of R’hllor’s burning heart on their breast bowed their heads. Those others that made any clamor at all were her father’s men who had awaited their return to the castle.
Mother's party was not large. The vast bulk of their forces had ridden with Stannis from Eastwatch, with only the seamen remaining behind. Shireen did not know where they would all be granted shelter, but for the moment they were all led in the same direction, toward one of the few towers that seemed to be in any decent condition. She thought of Dragonstone and its myriad dragon shaped towers, and could not help comparing the two of them.
Dragonstone was far the better between the two; that much would have to be clear to anyone with eyes.
As they entered what could only have been Castle Black's primary courtyard, Father stopped for a moment and wheeled his horse around to face her. “Rooms have been prepared in the King's Tower for you, your mother, and your mother's entourage.” His eyes turned to her escorts. “Ser Richard, with me.” Then, louder. “Ser Hubert, with Griff. See the princess to the Maester's quarters; my daughter has ever been a lover of books.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” said Griff, as Richard pulled away from her. Ser Hubert Wagstaff separated from the rest of father's party, and took Richard's former place at her left side.
“I will send for you later,” Father said, his tone firm and definite.
Shireen nodded.
Ser Hubert was a more pleasant sight than Ser Richard, though she had never known him well; he was one of many lower knights who had risen higher in the aftermath of the Blackwater. He seemed kind enough at a glance. Ser Richard had never been un kind of course, but his bearing was much closer to Father's, without the familial affection that Father bore even on his worst days. Still, Ser Hubert was a more pleasant presence.
With a kick of his spurs, Father pulled away again, and the rest of the column continued further into Castle Black. Over the noise of hooves and chatter, Ser Hubert made his disposition known. He smiled at her. “Young Griff here is quite the lover of books himself, you know.” He laughed. “Can't say I have ever quite understood the fascination myself.”
Griff beside her echoed his laugh. “There is only so much you might see in life. In books, you can bear witness to much more.”
“Your father has high hopes you, I feel,” Ser Hubert said. “Few sellswords take such an interest in their son's education.”
Griff's eyes danced, and Shireen felt her face warm again. “More than you know, Ser,” Griff replied with a grin. “But we mustn't keep the princess waiting, it's cold out, and it's warm within.”
Wordlessly, she urged her horse forward to follow Griff and Ser Hubert as they led her to what could only be the structure that housed the Maester's quarters. It was a squat keep, only about two stories, and the second floor seemed to be dominated by the rookery. All the better for the maester to be as close to the ravens as possible.
Nearby, a black brother near as squatly built as the keep warmed his hands by a brazier, though his beady eyes glanced in their direction.
“Toad!” Griff called suddenly. “Might you handle the horses for us?”
The man named Toad's face scrunched up as he growled. “Think you're fancy now don't you Tyroshi?” He jerked his head toward Griff. “Get yourself a squire's garb and now you can order me around?”
Ser Hubert's smile faltered, but Griff's remained bright and cheery. “A favor for His Grace and his noble daughter.”
Toad looked from Griff to her, and she struggled not to let her embarrassment show on her face.
Finally, Toad's facade broke, and he chuckled, his expression softening rapidly. He sketched a bow in her direction, and she could tell by his manners that he must have been common before joining the Night's Watch, for it was decidedly unpracticed. “Of course Yer Grace,” he said roughly, though not unkindly. Then, to Griff, he added, “Tell Lord Stark 'hullo' from the rest of us. Pyp 'n' Grenn especially. Damn near beside themselves with worry.”
Ser Hubert's smile returned in full force, and he dismounted elegantly. “Thank you, er–“
“Todder,” Griff supplied.
“–Todder,” Hubert finished, as Griff too dismounted.
Both men were practiced horsemen, that she could see clearly. She herself had ridden horses only rarely before coming north. Like many things, she had feared them in all of their bulk and strength. She had heard tales of what a horse could do to a man, let alone a girl.
Griff offered a gloved hand to her from below, and for a second she longed to take it; a heartbeat later she resolved to dismount herself, though she couldn't say why.
Her motion was decidedly less practiced than that of either of the two of her companions, and she struggled to maintain balance as she swung her left leg over the saddle, minding the egg that was even now stuffed within the folds of her dress. If it fell out... well, she didn't have to explain anything to either of them, but they could bring it up to father, and she couldn't talk her way out of that .
Once on the ground, she stepped away from her steed. The tawny mare had served her well on the march from Eastwatch, but she couldn't help but worry. A horse was not a dragon. The bond horse and rider shared was nothing even close to that which Alysanne had shared with Silverwing.
Griff collected her mare's reins, as well as those of his own and Ser Hubert's mount, and brought them to Toa–Todder. Before handing them over, Griff said something to the round black brother that she couldn't quite hear.
Ser Hubert spoke up. “These Night's Watch men, they all have their little names. Of course, a jest from a friend is not the same as a jest from an outsider. I try to mind my tongue.”
“What did they call Lord Stark before father legitimized him?” she asked.
Ser Hubert's dark brown eyes flicked back toward Toad before he met her gaze. “Ah, Lord Snow, I believe is what they named him. Some still do, though not in the king's presence.”
“Why did they call him that?” she asked, curious.
“Apologies Your Grace, I couldn't tell you. Griff would know, I'm sure. He and his band have cavorted about Castle Black since before we arrived.”
Finally, Griff barked a loud laugh, slapped Todder on the shoulder, and strode back to the two of them. He was tall on a horse, but on foot, it was clear to Shireen that he was quite a tall man. Not so tall as Father or her Baratheon uncles, of course, but tall nonetheless. Like Father, he was not thickly built, but he wore his squire's raiment well. His long blue hair fell about his shoulders, and though she knew it was absurd, she found it very pretty nonetheless.
He smiled as he approached her, but sobered quickly. “The Maester is very old,” he said. “He may not be able to see you, but his personal library is open to all of us who might be interested. His eyes have fared poorly since before you or I drew breath.”
She remembered something Father had told her during their voyage north; something that had interested her quite a bit. “Is the maester still the Targaryen? Father told me of him, but did not know if he yet lived.”
Griff nodded, an odd look in his dark eyes. “He has not been Targaryen since he put on the maester's chain, but he is the son of King Maekar, yes. He has long since lost count of his years, but he was uncle to your own great grandmother, Rhaelle, if he tells it true.”
“He does, I think. Father told me of it. He knew his grandmother only briefly, but my father was cousin to Rhaegar and his siblings.”
A smile touched Griff's lips. “So are you then, though distant. Family is family.” He turned to Hubert. “We must keep our voices low. Maester Aemon sleeps often during the day, and we best let him maintain his health.” Then he knocked sharply. Three knocks in quick succession.
Shireen heard shuffling behind the door, and soon, it creaked open, blasting her with a wave of warmth.
The man who opened the door was neither Aemon nor a black brother. For one, he was far younger than anything she pictured, and for another, he did not wear black. He was an older man, probably older than Father, but his hair was dark brown, and tied up in a sort of bun. She was not used to seeing such a fashion on men.
“Ah, hello Griff,” he said pleasantly. His cool grey eyes flicked from Ser Hubert to her, and then rapidly from her own eyes to her greyscale. He stood up slightly straighter. “To what do I have the pleasure of hosting Princess Shireen?”
Ser Hubert spoke before Griff could. “His Grace asked that she be brought to the libraries for a time. I believe he intends to meet with his highest lords and councilors.”
Shireen knew the truth of it, of course. Mother was here to argue , and Father did not want her in earshot of the yelling that would ensue.
The man with the bun leveled Hubert a steady gaze. “This building houses only Maester Aemon's personal library, the true vaults are in the wormways. But I cannot blame His Grace for not knowing the difference. The Wildlings have been a greater concern, to be sure.” He stepped aside. “Come in. Clydas is tending to the ravens, and Tarly is sorting the letters.”
Ser Hubert entered first, then Shireen behind him, and Griff behind her. She was used to being guarded, but not quite to this degree. Within the keep, she felt far warmer. Uncomfortably warm, in truth.
Griff read her thoughts easily, and held out his hand. “Your furs, princess?”
She blushed, and obliged, removing the thick outer layer of fur that Mother had demanded her wear during the journey from Eastwatch. He quickly found a place to hang it on a nearby rack; he clearly knew the maester's quarters well.
She found her voice, but found she had not caught the man's name. “You are?” she asked, hoping he understood her meaning.
The man with the bun did not require elaboration. “Haldon. The Halfmaester, some have called me.”
“Haldon.” He was Westerosi then, though he clearly knew Griff, despite Toad having called Griff Tyroshi. But the second man he mentioned piqued her curiosity. “You spoke of Tarly. Who is it?”
“Samwell Tarly,” Haldon replied. “Son of Randyll Tarly, who even now supports the king on the Iron Throne.”
She didn't know what to say except the obvious. “He is my cousin, though I have never met him. My mother told me he had been sent here.”
“More family here than you might have thought, eh?” Griff said with a chuckle. “The Wall is full of surprises.”
Indeed it was. There were extended Florent cousins among her father's number, she knew, but Samwell Tarly was closer than most. Maester Aemon was an exceedingly distant relation, but somehow, it felt more significant. A tie to family she never knew. A tie to a dynasty all but extinguished before she was even born.
“Haldon,” Griff called, almost sing song, “fetch us the Slayer. His cousin should like to meet him.”
Shireen balked. “The Slayer?” she asked as Haldon left the room. What little she knew of her cousin Samwell did not seem to fit with such a name.
Ser Hubert scratched at his bushy brown beard, an amused expression on his face. “Another of the black brothers' epithets. A very imaginative lot.”
“Imagination alone, it is not. Your cousin slew an Other beyond the Wall; several men saw it, and His Grace himself believes it true. He may not look the part, but Samwell Tarly has done what few men have.” Griff then beckoned the two of them to follow him. “Come, let us find our princess something besides talk to hold her attention.”
She followed him even as her thoughts swirled. An Other! Griff was quite right, the Wall was indeed full with surprises.
The room adjoined to the entryway was something of a hall. A moderately sized table sat at its center, and several shelves stuffed full with books. Stairs led upwards, and a door led out into another room. Griff pulled a chair from the table, and bowed his head to her. “A seat, princess, though it is not particularly comfortable, I confess.”
Shireen sat quickly, smoothing her dress beneath her, and discovered the truth of his words. “Are all of the seats made in such a fashion?” she asked, squirming slightly.
Ser Hubert removed his sword belt and placed it on the table as he took a seat beside her, though he kept one hand on his blade's hilt even as he settled in. “The North is a land of few comforts, Your Grace. And we are near as far north as one might go. Might be that the Wildlings have never seen a chair until they've taken one in a raid.”
“They prefer lighter loot, I'm told,” Griff said, chuckling as he walked around the table and toward one of the bookshelves. “Would be rather difficult to carry furniture over the Wall, but I'm sure it's been tried.” He turned his head to read the spines of the tomes the shelf held.
Shireen was curious. She'd never heard of the Wildlings climbing the Wall itself, though she knew they raided. “Do they climb the Wall, truly?”
“Oh yes,” Griff replied. “Our new Lord Stark was with them. Says he watched a man plummet right to his end.”
She must have been showing her shock on her face, because Ser Hubert spoke up at her right. “I'm sure His Grace will tell you of Lord Stark and his exploits.” Then to Griff he added, “Best not to confuse the princess, squire.”
“Aye, aye,” Griff said, waving his hand noncommittally. “Is there a sort of book Your Grace prefers? Poetry perhaps?”
Shireen blushed, knowing her answer was less than ladylike. “The histories,” she said, “though I like the poems and songs too. I must practice my High Valyrian.”
Griff withdrew a thick tome from the shelf and quickly rounded the table, placing it gently before her with a dramatic flourish. “A history for Her Grace,” he said cheekily, a grin splitting his handsome face. “There will be ample time for poetry, and there is much to learn from the past.”
Dragonbane: The Life and Reign of Aegon, Third of His Name.
Shireen knew of the Dragonbane, of course, but she had not read this tome. She looked back up to Griff. Had he chosen it for some reason in particular?
“It is one of Gyldayn's works,” Griff explained, reading her thoughts once again. “The Halfmaester would recommend it, I'm sure.”
Behind her, a soft voice made itself known. “I–It is not without merit, Your Grace, but I–I should think you would like something else better.”
It was a fat boy, perhaps only somewhat younger than Griff, and he was clad all in black. He was quite fat. Even more than Patchface, but he had a kind face, and he had large protruding ears that she would know anywhere.
“Samwell Tarly?”
“A–At your service, Your Grace,” he answered.
She smiled. “Just 'cousin' is enough, Samwell.”
He bowed his head. “And 'Sam' for you, c–cousin.”
Griff was right, she could hardly believe that this diminutive, if large, boy had slain an Other. “Sam, what is wrong with this book?
Sam shuffled closer, his steps near as soft as his voice, despite his bulk. “A–ah, well, it is one of Grand Maester Gyldayn's works, as the Young Griff h–has said.” He paused for slightly too long. “Gyldayn knew much, b–but I fear he was not especially fond of the gentler sex. H–He professed fairness, but it c–can be hard to trust his words, in mine own opinion.”
“The halfmaester would be like to strike you for that, Tarly,” said Griff, eyeing the book with a strange look. “Where is Haldon?”
“Ch-checking in on Maester Aemon, then he will take charge with the letters.”
“Ah, of course.” Griff crossed the hall again and resumed perusing the bookshelves “Who would you recommend then, Tarly?” he asked, turning back around to face them.
Her cousin studiously avoided Griff’s gaze, as well as her own. “One of Malleon’s, perhaps?”
“Um,” Shireen said, trying not to mumble, “I never cared much for Malleon.”
“Scandal!” Griff said, his jest clear on his face.
Sam laughed lightly. “It’s true. Malleon can be dry. It comes with…. ah, preciseness, I feel.”
“Septon Barth then?” Shireen asked, wondering if either would have an objection.
Griff nodded his head. “Barth is good.”
“I agree,” Sam said, “ but –”
And so the hours passed.
Eventually, Shireen found something to read, as did Griff, while her cousin tidied up the shelves and Hubert acted a gargoyle, speaking up only rarely. She did not get the chance to speak to Aemon before she was finally summoned to the King’s Tower.
The egg felt warm here.
The fire burned high in Father’s solar.
Mother was seeing to their rooms. The King’s Tower was more spacious than anything at Eastwatch, but it did not possess enough space for each of them to have their own room. She would share with Mother. Father would have his own.
Two chairs sat before the fire, and Father stood beside them.
“Come, sit,” he said. He did not say it loudly, but it was not a request.
Shireen acquiesced, despite her soreness from a long day of sitting. Still, sitting in a chair was better than sitting in a saddle. And this seat was far more well made than what she’d used in Aemon’s personal library.
Father too sat, but stared directly ahead, the fire flashing in his deep blue eyes.
He looked tired. Very tired. But there was a spark there too, a vitality she had only seen in brief moments throughout her life.
“I’m sure your mother told it all to you as you rode,” he bit out without preamble. “She believes I erred in my elevation of Jon Snow. In legitimizing him. She believes I err in my plans with the wildlings.”
Father’s letter to Eastwatch had said precious little, but it had said enough; Mother told it all to her, and told her what she thought of it. Ser Richard Horpe was to marry a wildling princess soon. Mother thought it foolish.
“I intend to let the wildlings past the Wall, so long as they swear me fealty and allegiance. I return the North to the Starks, the only Stark I have. Your mother thinks I cannot have both.”
“And Edric–”
“Bah!” Father threw up his hands. “She sees phantoms of Daemon Blackfyre in Robert’s bastard brood.” He ground his teeth. “How can I put a bastard ahead of trueborn daughters, when I myself have only a daughter to succeed me?” More grinding. “I make do with what the Lord has given me, that is how.”
Edric would never harm her, she knew. He was brash, and hotheaded too, but he was kind. And he loved her. They would never fight in earnest if he had his way. But Shireen knew that sometimes one could not have their way; the time could come that Edric wouldn’t have a choice. Any man might be compelled by another, be it by threat, or guile, or even love.
And Edric was not the only option. There were others.
How many would choose a son of Robert Baratheon over the scarred, ugly daughter of a man they loathed? No matter how just his cause?
She tried not to let her thoughts show on her face.
“And the boy Griff,” Father continued, “his Father makes for Braavos even now, to fetch me the finest sellswords in all Essos..”
Her stomach turned. “Is that why Griff is your squire now? Is he hostage?”
Father’s jaw worked. “I trust the Father as far as I might throw him, and he is a large man. The son…”
Shireen picked at her dress. “Griff… h–he seems nice.”
“Oh aye,” Father said, eyeing her briefly. “The boy is all smiles and japes; there is little to dislike. Suspiciously little.” He stared hard into the fire, suddenly quiet.
Shireen didn’t know what to say, as was often the case with her father. She knew one thing, though.
“ I trust you, Father.”
His grinding of teeth ceased, but still, he looked strained. “And Mance Rayder. Even now the Watch yearns to see him hang from a noose. I have already let one break his vows, they say, but Rayder is my prisoner. How might I win the wildlings’ favor if I slay their precious ‘king’?” He slammed his right fist down onto his chair’s armrest. “Now I wait for another Choosing, because I need the Watch, I need the Wall .” He grit his teeth hard. “And I need the wildlings. I need the North. I need the Golden Company. I need them all if we are to stop what is coming.” He gripped the armrests hard. “I might well need more than even that.”
Shireen reached over as gently as she could, and placed her right hand atop his left. When he didn’t jerk away, she let herself breathe.
“We use what R’hllor has given us,” she said, echoing her father. “Lady Melisandre says we fight for light. We fight for life itself. I think… I think we should remember that.”
Father laughed breathlessly, with little mirth.
“Aye, we should.”