Chapter Text
Arya scrutinized the woman in front of her.
Long, brown hair pulled back into a low bun with a few short strands framing her thin face. Large, downturned eyes pouring over a sheet of paper on the table, a fingertip skimming the pages, following each sentence, and heart-shaped lips absentmindedly whispering each word. Her tunic, a dark green and highly collared, well-fitting and falling to her knees, cinched at her waist by a cloth belt only a shade or two lighter. Underneath that is a pair of simple, brown riding leggings and sturdy, leather boots.
For five years Arya’s been taught by this woman, a woman of a mere thirty one namedays old. It was astounding to her when she was six, and still a bit incredible now, for a woman so young to be so intellectually gifted, to stand beside the maester of Winterfell and debate him, to teach the children of Lord Stark himself all she could.
Alice Grant was her name, and she appeared at the gates of Winterfell with nothing more than a horse and wagon filled with books and the clothes on her back. Arya had been watching from afar as the foreigner conversed with the guards, the firm expression on her face still stamped within Arya’s mind.
She noted her brothers, the then eleven-year-olds Robb and Jon while they sparred with their instructor along with Theon, a boy also of eleven, as they took glances at the woman during their practice. Robb getting his wooden sword knocked from his hands and a stern remark from their instructor had the three boys scrambling to right themselves.
One of the guards left the gate and soon brought her father, the Lord Stark in his intimidating cloak and sword sheathed at his hip. The woman dipped her head in a moment of respect. A greeting, Arya believed, fell from her lips before she spoke to him quickly.
Her father nodded and soon a stable boy had come to lead the woman’s horse and wagon away. A complicated expression had flickered over the woman’s face, a feeling Arya couldn’t discern then, and is still unable to now. Her father gestured for the woman to follow him, and she did, trailing behind him by a couple steps until they entered the castle and disappeared into Lord Stark’s solar.
Arya has no idea of what was said that day, but the next thing she knew, her and Robb and Jon and a then eight-year-old Sansa and five-year-old Bran had been informed that they were to receive lessons not just from Maester Luwin or Septa Mordane, but from the foreign woman as well.
At first, Arya had groaned, secretly rolling her eyes at the thought of more ‘ladylike’ lessons, the only lessons her mother would approve of despite her clear enjoyment of more boyish activities. But Arya had been wrong, and her lessons with Alice turned out to be the highlight of the day.
Advanced mathematics, science, reading, writing, language learning, to write in code, to decipher code, and a study of the mind she called ‘psychology’. Subjects hardly any noble women could boast to knowing and not very ladylike in her mother’s or Septa Mordane’s opinion, if the furrow of their brows or scrunch of their noses was anything to go by whenever one of the Stark children spoke about their sessions.
For the past five years, Alice Grant has taught the Stark children these fascinating things, now including Rickon for the past year, once he turned five namedays old.
Now, the woman, her teacher, was looking over the passage she had written in what was called ‘Morse Code’. She had only been learning the more simple codes in comparison to her older brothers. Her teacher thought that because she was still young, she needed a little extra time to master the simple ciphers before moving onto more complex ones.
“Good.” Alice praised. Her voice was deeper than the typical woman’s, smooth and warm. Alice was never overly dismissive of Arya or her siblings, never angered when they messed up. She simply corrected them and encouraged them to try again, praising them for anything they got to correct. “No words are spelled wrong, the message is short and understandable.”
She had been asked to write a message in morse as if she was warning an ally of an assassination attempt. ‘Condense it.’ Alice had always said. ‘Make sure the message is as short as possible. The more someone has, the more patterns they can recognize, the better they can crack it.’
Arya let a smile take over her lips, proud of herself.
“Since it seems you’ve mastered the Ceaser cipher, Morse Code, and the A1Z26 cipher, I think we can move onto some more complex ones at another time.” Alice shuffled the papers on the desk, pushing them around until they found their way into a neat stack. Only after her desk was cleared, as she is always particular about her organization, she stood and walked over to the corner of the room where her bookshelves were.
If there was one thing Alice Grant would never let go, Arya realized, it was her books. Piles of books had filled her wagon when she had first come to the gates of Winterfell and bookshelves to comfortably home them were the only thing Alice had asked of her father when he offered her a room at Winterfell to function as her solar.
Now, she stood in front of her bookshelves, eyes scanning each title. “What do you want our final lesson of the day to be?”
Arya was quiet for a moment, thinking hard. “Can we do mathematics, please?” Alice had been teaching her finances most recently. Budget and debt and saving and taxes were all things Alice had insisted on her learning, saying, lady or not, it’s very likely that one day she would be involved in the matters of money, whether that be her own, or Winterfell’s.
Alice smiled lightly, as if she found something funny but wasn’t inclined to tell. She did that often. “Of course.” She pulled a book off her shelf, heavy, and dropped in on the table, sitting across from Arya once more.
A part of Sansa hated herself for her enjoyment in Alice Grant’s lessons. They were not ladylike like her mother and Septa Mordane strived for her to be. They were strange and meant for boys given that all her brother’s were included in the lessons as well. She knew Arya was enjoying them and that only cemented the idea that these were not for her, because Arya never liked anything that was meant for Sansa.
But goodness she loved them, most specifically, she loved the science Alice called psychology. Mathematics and reading and code she could probably do without, but understanding how the human mind worked was so fascinating to Sansa, she had to consciously keep her reactions in mind. She had to stop herself from widening her eyes and letting her lips form a little ‘o’ of amazement.
“A wife is nagging her husband to clean up the trash.” Alice states clearly.
Sansa thought for a moment, planning her words. “Negative reinforcement.”
“Yes.” The woman nodded. Strands of her brown hair shook free from the low bun she had pulled her hair into at the start of Sansa’s lesson. “Why?”
“Because… because the behavior of cleaning up trash is meant to be repeated, so it’s reinforcement.” A pit formed in Sansa’s stomach that was only cleared when Alice nodded again, encouraging her to continue. “And the man is trying to remove his wife’s nagging, so it’s negative.”
“Good. A child is playing violently with a toy and hurts another child; therefore, the mother takes the toy away.”
“Negative punishment. The mother is discouraging the behavior from repeating, so it is punishment, and she removes the toy from the child, so it’s negative.”
“Yes.”
Sansa feels something inside her swell, something not present when she’s praised by her family or her septa for her embroidery or a new dress she sewed. Perhaps it was because this subject was indeed so strange, something not many know or understand to the extent that Alice does. She knows something special, something different, something not ladylike, and it makes a traitorous part of her heart flood with pride.
“Last one for the day, Sansa.” Alice brushes some hair out of her deep brown eyes. “A man receives a notice saying that if he starts another bar fight, he will be arrested.”
“Positive punishment?” Her voice is uncertain, but the gleam in Alice’s eyes lets her know she’s on the right track. “The behavior of fighting is being discouraged, punishment, and the man is being given a notice, positive.”
“That is correct.” She chuckles, deep and soothing and kind. “I thought that one might trip you up. We almost never think of punishment as a positive thing, so sometimes it can be hard to catch.”
That makes her sit up a little straighter, a hint of pink to her cheeks.
Alice leans to the side and opens a little drawer on her desk, pulling out a small lemon cake. “I got you a little treat.” She smiles, setting it in front of Sansa. “You’ve been doing so well in your lessons, picking things up so quickly for someone so young. I thought you deserved a reward.”
“Positive reinforcement.” Sansa says without thinking, blushing a little darker when she realizes.
Alice laughs, a little louder, a little freer. The cold, north sun streams through the window and catches Alice’s deep, bronzed skin so beautifully, Sansa could stop the seed of jealousy from taking place in her stomach.
“Yes, but I do this because I think you deserve it, not just because I want you to keep putting in effort. I know you’ll do that on your own.” She winks.
Sansa hesitates. She loves lemon cakes, the taste, how refined and proper they make her feel. “Mother says I shouldn’t have desserts before dinner, or so often lest I get-”
“Sansa.” Alice interrupts, and Sansa can see the little twitch in the corner of her eye. “A dessert every once in a while is perfectly fine. And besides, you’re thirteen. You’re not likely to get fat from a little extra cake now and then. I’ll deal with your mother if she gets upset, okay?”
“Thank you.” Sansa has to control herself so she doesn’t grin, taking the little lemon cake and rushing to her room, sparing Alice a quick goodbye.
To Jon, Alice Grant was excessively confusing. She treated him like he was normal, wanted. She never called him a bastard or yelled in his face or sneered in his direction when she thought he couldn’t see. She treated him just as she did his half-siblings, fair and kind. Jon received the same private, one-on-one lessons his half-siblings did, went over the same subjects, and was praised just as much.
The time he spent with Alice was often quick, her voice never raising more than a soft speaking level and him not talking much at all, though he had become more conversational over the more recent years, having gotten more comfortable in her warm presence.
She was patient with him, so patient he sometimes wondered if she just didn’t know what he was, but she did. She told him. The first lesson they had, she had said, ‘Jon, no matter what Lord Stark or Lady Stark or you think you deserve, I will treat you the same as I treat your siblings.’
Maybe he got a little clingy after that. It just wasn’t so often that someone treated him so normally, let alone someone older, someone who knew better. Her spirit encompassed him and soon he started going to her outside of lessons, just to talk.
When he was eleven or twelve he was still small enough to fit on her lap. He’d snuggle up to her, resting his head on her chest and bending his knees till he was practically folded into himself. She would pet his hair or rub his back, letting him cry or talk or even sleep in her arms.
When he turned thirteen he shot up like a weed, his limbs too lanky and hands and feet too big for his body. He sat next to her instead, laying on her shoulder. Sometimes, sitting like this, she’d read him books he had never heard of with places he’d never been.
She called it ‘fiction’, completely made up stories in made up places with made up characters. Jon had only ever heard of legends, stories Old Nan would tell or the histories surrounding the gods. But the characters in these stories went on awesome adventures. They were warriors, survivors, lovers, poets, healers, and Jon couldn’t get enough off it.
The books that held the stories were small, with handwriting so neat it was astounding. Thin pages, hundreds of words.
When Alice would read to him, he would practically be lulled to sleep. She soothed him, mind and body and soul, letting him relax in ways he couldn’t even in his own room. On some instinctive level, he knew she would protect him, care for him.
He felt it in the ways she held him close. He felt it when he came to her with bumps, bruises, and cuts, the way she would kiss right next to the wound to make the pain fade away, cover his injuries in ointment she nicked from the Maester’s office, and wrap them up with bandages.
Even now, at sixteen, he sits next to her, leaning into her side. The fireplace in her solar is simmering with embers and flicking with small flames. It was a rather tight fit, with the cushioned bench so close to the fireplace he felt his shins heat up. To the right of the fireplace is the door and behind him is the desk used for all their lessons. Even further back was her modest bed and the two walls on the side were lined with stuffed bookshelves.
It was a cozy room, homey and lived in. Jon liked it much more than his own, which, despite living in Winterfell for much longer than Alice, had not accumulated much outside of basic necessities and furniture. His room didn’t hold books from far off places or baubles and trinkets collected from years of travel.
“Once there was a miller who was poor, but who had a beautiful daughter.” Alice’s voice floated through his ears as she started another story of the collection. “Now it happened that he had to go and speak to the King, and in order to make himself appear important he said to him, ‘I have a daughter who can spin straw into gold.’”
She continued on and Jon listened with half an ear, simply content to be in her presence and rest for the night. Arya and Sansa had finished their lessons for the day, code and psychology he believes he remembers them working on now. Tomorrow would be Robb and Bran and the day after would be him and Theon and now Rickon.
Rickon had only just begun learning a year ago. Since his teaching is lighter than everyone else's, it was easy to stick him on any day and make it three lessons instead of two. That day happened to be Jon and Theon’s day.
The day Jon enjoyed the most was group lesson day.
Lessons were broken up into seven day cycles so Alice could give appropriate attention to each one and give them enough time to attend their other lesson with the septa or maester. Arya and Sansa are day one, Robb and Bran are day two, Jon, Theon, and Rickon day three, and group lessons with everyone are day four. Then there were three days of free activity for Alice to do what she likes.
Group lessons are when the seven of them go over their languages. Jon never thought he would know more than common, but now he was getting the hang of both High and Low Valyrian using a book filled with words and rules and translations (something Alice called a dictionary), as well as a language she calls ‘Spanish’. Jon had never heard of it before she spoke about it, but considering she said it was a language that evolved over the years in her town so little it doesn’t even have a name, he understands why it wasn’t common knowledge.
The group lessons are one of the only times it’s completely acceptable for him to interact with all his siblings, and it's a time he doesn't take for granted. Though he and Sansa’s interactions tend to sour after more than a few sentences, they are more familiar than they ever had been before Alice. He always enjoys spending time with Arya and Robb has never felt more like a full sibling than when they attempt to banter in Spanish as Alice looks on in horror at the accents she has tried to coach them out of butchering every word. Sometimes he thinks she knows they do it on purpose. Theon and him are still combative, but at least it’s tolerable to be in the other boy’s presence.
Learning a language seemingly unknown to anyone but an excruciatingly small group of people had brought them closer as a family. Communicating in front of others, in front of their parents, with odd words and weird lilts to their voices. It made them all snicker behind their hands and laugh with each other.
“¿Estás escuchándome?”
“Sí. What?” Jon blinked, tuning to look at Alice, seeing her amused eyes.
“If you’re tired, you can just go to bed, Jon. It’s late.”
“I’m not tired.” He denied, even if every blink felt like sand was falling from his eyes.
“Jon.” He winced. It was that soft reprimand, that gentle concern that hadn’t been shown to him by anyone but his father, and he did it so rarely too. “Are you not sleeping?”
“I am.” He reassures her.
“Then you’ll be fine going to bed now?” He hesitates and she sees it. “Why don’t you want to go to bed?”
How can he say that it was because she made him feel so right? Like he belonged? How can he say that he just wants to bask in her warmth, the only person who accepted him unconditionally, taught him, cared for him. How can he say that a part of him never wants to leave her side?
He only turns into her side, pressing his face to the crook of her neck and wrapping his arms around her waist. He didn’t care how childish he looked in such a position, almost crawling into her lap to be hugged and cuddled. Her arms pulled him closer, her cheek against the top of his head.
“Jon, you know I’d offer you my bench if I could, but it’d be seen as inappropriate. You have to go to bed at some point.” She whispers against his hair, stroking his back the same way she did when he was eleven.
“Can I just stay here a little longer?”
She sighs and he finds comfort in the way he can feel her chest rise and fall with breath. “Alright, a little longer.”
The king was coming to Winterfell in just a week.
Lady Stark had dropped by with a tense smile and well wishes, giving her a well constructed, form-fitting, expensive dress that fell to her ankles. The collar is high, just like her tunics, in the same way a turtle neck was, and the sleeves are long, lined with fur. It was dark green, contrasting nicely with her bronzed skin and brown hair and eyes.
Alice had thanked Lady Stark, hoping the tension would one day drain away from their conversations, but it was unlikely to ever happen. Alice knew that Lady Stark was uncomfortable with what she taught her children, that she taught Jon and Theon the same way. She didn’t like how Lord Stark trusted a foreign woman when they had a septa and a maester to teach all that needed to be known.
Alice understood her grievances, and was aware of how she integrated herself so quickly into the Stark family. But as she tucked the dress away into the chest at the base of her bed, she couldn’t find herself regretting what she had done.
She truly loved the children of the Stark family, and, in a way, saw them as her own to take care of. She’s teaching them everything she knows, everything that can be taken from her little library and put to use in this harsh, cruel world. She holds them, understands them, gives them safety away from the responsibilities and irritants of the world.
Laying in bed, the thick quilts of the north slung over her lap, anxiety curled in her gut. It was starting now that the king was coming, the beginning of the end was coming. All these years she had planned as she traveled the world for this very moment, where everything would go wrong and still she wanted to vomit.
She had been in Westeros for half as long as she had lived on Earth. She knew the etiquette and the languages, the sciences and religions everyone believed.
It had been hard roaming for so long with so little real world experience behind her, but if she wanted to be what she was now, she knew she had to work for it. She had gotten robbed, groped. Slept in stables and dirty inns. She washed clothes, learned to weave and spin wool, cooked, cleaned, and milked cows. She taught young boys and girls to read, write, and basic math.
She did everything she could to avoid working in the brothels. She liked to think she was strong, but she knew she would not make it out of a brothel with a full mind. However, there was one pleasant surprise. Lowborn women tended to look out for other lowborn women. This left the brothels a surprisingly safe option to sleep on the necessary occasion, the women kind and giggly and welcoming.
So she worked and grew and learned. She bled and now her hands were rough with callouses, nails kept short to try and get as little dirt stuck under as possible. She got the money, got the horse, and made her way to Winterfell.
But now that she had made it to where she was now, Alice would not let anything stop her. The Starks were the ultimate winners of the Game of Thrones, and she planned to keep it that way.