Chapter Text
Eda and Edla; sisters who are servants of Winterfell, stumble into the Kitchens.
All sound in the bustling Kitchen stops as soon as they step through the large door.
The young women wear plain heavy gowns with smock aprons of their profession over top. Their usually neat appearances have taken on a disheveled quality that matches their somewhat shocked expressions.
To those who had seen the war weary return home and witnessed heart sickness or mind sickness from the brutalities of war, they could see a faint shadow of the same disbelief and numbness in the sisters’ faces.
The aprons which were usually off white, smudged with ash, smears of grime or splashes of wine from a day of hard graft, were today dull pink…the color of washed out blood.
They look like butcher’s apprentices rather than servants of Winterfell.
Today the unfortunate sisters had been the two unlucky servants tasked with cleaning up the wrath of a god.
When Queen Sansa had absently ordered for the bloody remains of the two would be assassins to be cleaned up, Steward Bower had assigned the sisters because they were known as stoic women despite their ages. Hard lives in Wintertown and having had to clean up more than one bloody mess when the Bolton’s ruled had seemingly inoculated them at a young age to horror and gore.
Or so everyone would have assumed.
It seemed even their cast iron fortitude was tested by witnessing the wrath of a god.
Cook shuffles through the throng of servants and assistants to the two lost looking women.
Carefully they reach out and guid the sisters to the bench where others vacate and hurriedly made space for them.
“Come now young’uns, take a seat. T’is shock yer feelin’. A dram of cookin’ wine and some bread will fix ye right up,” cook says.
Shuffling quickly they retrieve a dark jug from a high shelf and pour two hearty goblets of strong smelling cooking wine.
Pressed into their hands the sisters seem to sup from them out of reflex. When the heat hits their bellies they shudder.
The subdued crowd watches them in mute fascination and horror.
It seems all the servants are packed into the Kitchens, everyone trying to keep their heads down as Winterfell is secured by pissed off knights and agitated Order members.
The fact that the air seems heavy and the very walls hum if you stand too close to them is an unspoken threat that the resident god’s wrath may not yet be fully sated.
The assination attempt on the Queen had come like a bolt from the blue by the treasonous Stormlanders…yet its quelling had happened equally quickly. The first anyone knew of anything wrong was from the cries of a broken man sailing over the wall of Winterfell. Evidently he had tried to shoot the god full of arrows and she had swatted him like a fly.
Then came the explosion.
Anyone unaware that something was happening in Winterfell had soon become so when the sound of the Great Hall’s door exploding had boomed out across the land.
Terrified birds had fled in flocks, the Godswood had gone quiet of wildlife and the poor stable boys had tried fruitlessly to calm panicked horses who were terrified.
The fact the air had heated and vibrated as though the very air they breathed was waiting to attack everyone had been an unpleasant reality which brought home the gods anger and power.
The great wooden doors of the hall, built to act as a last line of defense to withstand siege, double thick and fixed with heavy iron reinforcements was reduced to splinters. There had been nothing bigger than a man’s thumb after the god disintegrated it in her mindless pursuit to save the Queen.
The servants who manned the glasshouses had already been heard whispering that the fine splinters and dust of the wooden door would make fine mulch for the growing things in their domain.
Eda and Edla seem lost in their own minds as they sup the wine. Their hands are white knuckled on the goblets.
Aedra, a gossipy young servant of seventeen summers who has yet to learn when to keep her mouth shut seems to fidget and shuffle across from the sisters. Her eyes cast around at the quiet masses in frustration that no-one is speaking.
Her curiosity, or rather, her thirst for gossip finally overwhelms what little propriety she has and she hisses to the sisters, “Well, what was it like? What is happening in the hall?”
Cook hisses and slaps the back of her head in reprimand, “Shh, don’t be askin’ silly questions. It be none of your concern….cannae you see they’re distressed?”
Aedra huffs, seemingly unperturbed by the reprimand and the generally disquieted atmosphere amongst the servants she had roused with her question. Her eyes narrow on the sisters.
Eda meets her eyes, sups from the goblet until it runs dry and pushes it forward in silent request for more.
Kindly, Cook tops up the goblet.
Eda swallows around her terror narrowed throat, “Soup…” she whispers.
Cook frowns, “I don’t have any soup lovey but there be some stew I can-”
Eda shakes her head vehemently, “No…no…you…you don’t understand. Soup!”
The crowd of servants sway towards her unconsciously at her rambling nonsense. Cook’s brows furrow but before they can question Eda, Edla clarifies her sister’s remarks.
“Soup. The god…Her Holiness…she turned the men to soup,” she whispers.
Aedra huffs, “We know that. It’s the talk of Winterfell. The god blasted the assassins into mush.”
Eda shook her head vigorously and a hysterical laugh escapes her lips, “No…no, you don’t get it. Words don’t do it justice.” Another breathless laugh as she stares deep into Aedra’s eyes before glancing around with hollowed out gray orbs at the curious onlookers, “The men…their furs, their bones..even their armor and swords…she didn’t just kill them Or c-crush them..she turned them to soup.”
Edla snorts without looking up from her goblet, “Soup that had been cooked too long and mashed and then strained through muslin cloth to boot…they were beetroot soup. The blood glittered…it was coarse and thick…I didn’t understand…”
Eda nods, “It was like the dust in the blacksmiths…fine metal from honing swords. The finest plate steel; the chest plate, chainmail, gauntlets, sword…all of it…just dust. It twinkled in the candlelight as we mopped the blood. It had sunk in the puddle but when we mopped it we could feel it. Metallic blood sticking to everything.”
Hushed and shocked whispers flow across the room and faces pale at what the women reveal.
Aedra can’t help but seek more clarity for her gossip mill. This story will net her some extra attention in Wintertown, a free drink at the Tavern or an extra crust of bread in the market when she haggles.
“There was nothing left…nothing at all?” Aedra whispers with poorly repressed excitement.
The sisters pale and shake their heads. Edla confirms it with a hysterical laugh, “Nothing! They were puddles. The furs they wore, their bones…everything was just liquid. We used so many clothes to mop them up and ring them out into buckets and then emptied them out with the chamber pots. But still the blood stuck in the crevices of the stone. The wall, the flagstone floor…like the god had imprinted their stain on the stone as a reminder. Prince Jon…when he saw it wouldn’t come out, he just shrugged and sent us off. Told us to leave it, said it would be a warning. Two splotches of blood soaked stone. It…it just…”
Eda’s eyes are narrowed in confusion and she speaks as though talking to herself, lost in thoughts and far away, “Not even teeth. Even when Ramsey fed people to the dogs or pigs the teeth would remain.”
The room flinches simultaneously at the reminder of the mad Bolton who had ruled here and his sadism. The dark and ungodly things he had done are unspoken stains on their minds and hearts.
Eda continues as though unseeing how her words cause a tide of shuffling unease, “The teeth were the hardest part…you have to take a hammer to them to crush them properly. Always the last thing to rot…I saw the force Ramsey used when he would bash them out but they still were chips and pieces we could pick off the floor…but the god…just dust in blood.”
Edla laughs, “And not a drop on the Queen. Two assassins trying to kill her, restraining her and the god turned them to bloody mist that scoured the walls but the Queen? The Queen standing in the middle of it all? She didn’t have a single drop of blood on her. Not one! Like the god willed them dead and nothing of them to touch her and it was so. Pristine she was as she sat with the god.”
Many dry throats swallow as they try to comprehend such power bound up with such vicious control.
Aedra eyes the sisters, “The god is well? It is said she was injured? For all her supposed power she was hurt?”
Grumbles and hissed reprimands flow at the foolish girl for her blasphemous words but they are unnecessary. Edla hiccups a mad laugh. “Hurt? She had three arrows sticking out of her, one surely in her heart and she ignored them as though they weren’t even there. I-I don’t think she even noticed. She was so focused on the Queen…and the Queen…”
The crowd leans in as Edla trails off. A hissed voice from the back of the room calls, “The Queen? The Queen what? Tell us girl!”
Edla’s head jerks back up as though just remembering her rapt audience, “The Queen…she was so concerned. The god wanted to move the Queen somewhere safer but Her Majesty called for the Maester to remove the arrows. She- she ordered the god to sit and let the Maester tend her…”
Sharp indrawn breaths rush around the room at such a breach of etiquette but everyone leans impossibly closer to hear the end of the tale.
Even Cook now is enraptured, “And? How offended was Her Holiness?”
Eda snorts, “Offended? She was amused. She kept telling the Queen that the arrows were nothing. That she could just pull them out as though they were nothing, but the Queen was so upset and worried she ordered Her Holiness to sit and let the Maester tend to them. The god…she just indulged the Queen. She had this sort of amused, maybe confused? And indulgent look as though she was letting herself be put upon to appease the Queen’s pointless worry.”
The room rumbles as they digest the idea that a god would follow a mortal's orders out of amusement and a desire to appease them. The hold the Queen has on the god’s interest could not be denied or underestimated it seems.
Edla half smiles, “Her Holiness had no such patience or indulgence with Maester Wolken though. She ordered him to hurry up and just pull the damn arrows out because she said she was ‘healing around’ them. He plucked them out and the god…she seemed more impatient and annoyed than hurt. It was like pulling a thorn from a man’s hand rather than an arrow from ones heart.”
Silence reigns at this image.
Suddenly Elda rises and fumbles at her pink smock, trying to untie it with clumsy hands, “I have to get it off. I have to get them off.”
Eda joins her sister, pushing back from the bench and in sudden panic trying to pull off her own pink smock.
The crowd watches in horrified fascination. The reality that this water stained remnants of blood which cover the servants aprons and smocks is all that is left of the two traitorous assassins penetrating their brains.
The women finally manage to free themselves of the sodden cloth and cast them across the heavy table.
CooK frowns but bundles them up and turns swiftly to the fire. Without hesitation the cloth is cast into the flame.
Cook’s face is stormy for a moment but it smooths as they face the sisters, “I’ll speak with the steward and make sure ye get new work clothes. Better the last remnants of those treasonous pigs are burned. No amount of cleaning would wash out the traitors' stains.”
The sisters sigh and nod gratefully. They sit once more and sup their wine and absently rub their hands across their biceps to infect some warmth back into them.
Cook magnanimously turns to the fire and stokes it back up even though with so many bodies packed in here there is little need for extra warmth, the cumulated body heat already making the room uncomfortably warm.
One of the servant boys, Godwin, huffs, “Fuck ‘em. Good riddance. Got what they deserved didn’ they. Tried to murder our Queen. What about the Peasbody shite?”
Cook casts another hard look at Godwin but their eyes swing back to the sisters, curious to know if they would illuminate his fate as they had the others. Curiosity it seems was trumping manners and politeness this eve.
Eda shudders, “His body was kneeling in the Hall. His own sword through his throat and his sword arm…it was in chunks on the floor. Frozen.”
Cook’s brows furrow, “Frozen?”
Eda nods, “Like the meat we might store in winter snows. It dripped with ice and was hard as rock. It- it was like the life’s blood of his arm had frozen and exploded. His arm was in bits across the floor. They were easy enough to clean up. No splatter, just crystals of blood and flesh.”
A hesitant voice from the side speaks up, Sera, the Queen’s Servant, “I heard Lord Umber talking to Prince Jon. He said it was like Her Holiness didn’t even notice Peasbody. She was so intent on getting to the Queen that when he attacked her she just made his arm explode, caught his sword and stabbed him with it. She didn’t pause, didn’t break stride, didn’t even really acknowledge him. Just one moment he was attacking her and the next he was dead and Her Holiness was across the Hall beside the Queen after exploding the other other two.”
Godwin shakes his head in awe, “Fuck. If’n we is so beneath her, why dost she bother wit’ the sparin’ and teachin’ the Order to wield sword? She is artistry wit’ weapons but..if’n she can just kill a man wit’ a look, why bother wit the rest of it?”
The room is silent until a calm voice at the door of the Kitchens answers, “To appear more human. To make us less afraid. So she can teach us to fight our own battles rather than depending on her…Because it amuses Her Holiness mayhap? The truth is that no one knows.”
Servants rise quickly and bow without hesitation to Lord Umber.
He surveys the crowded room, unsurprised at its contents or their topic of conversation. With Winterfell on lockdown the servants had been sent to the Kitchens under guard to await further instructions.
Cook rises from their bow, “Apologies m’Lord, momentous events unfortunately lead to momentous gossip. How might we serve you?”
Umber huffs in half amusement, “Your apology is unnecessary. I am sure half the North will be dissecting this day before the week is out. And better they do. If’n they hear of the gods power it might discourage other dumb shits from pricking her anger or attacking our Queen.”
The room shuffles at the irony of this man so casually discussing pricking the gods anger when not so long ago it was he who riled her temper.
Cook nods, “The Queen is well? Is there anything we can do?”
Umber seems to relax fractionally at Cook’s sincere inquiry while he snorts, “Her Majesty is fine. Fussin’ over Her Holiness like a hen pecking wife. You all will likely be released in another couple of hours to go to your beds or home to Wintertown. Her Holiness has said she’ll interrogate the ones responsible and none can lie to her so this will all be cleaned up soon. The small council is meeting to discuss things and I figure wine will help settle the nerves a bit after all the excitement.”
Umber pointedly shoots a look to the sisters who sup steadily at the cooking wine.
Cook bows, “Certainly m’Lord, I’ll fetch you some decent casks.” So saying Cook shuffles towards a back store room and with some of their assistants following they soon retrieve a tray and fill it with bulbous clay jugs filled with wine fit for noble tastes.
Umber takes the tray with a nod, “M’thanks. Rest easy, I will send the guards to let you go as soon as it’s feasible.”
The room shuffles nervously and whispered “Aye M’Lord” and “Thanks’ M’Lord” sounds across the kitchen.
The room falls into tense silence.
Cook turns and sighs, “It seems we’ll be here a while yet. I’ve got stew, some bread and plenty of nettle tea. If’n a bottle or two o’wine gets mixed in wit’ it, well, I wouldn’t see a thing. Let’s make a feast of it, celebrate the Queen’s survival.”
An excited ripple spreads through the room and soon bowls are being handed out and serupsticious mugs of ‘tea’ are being supped.
GreatJon Umber had told a partial lie. It was no meeting of the small council that was occurring but rather an impromptu gathering of Her Majesty's supporters who were determined to hash out all the implications of this latest debacle. He carries the tray of wine jugs with great care, knowing the precious liquid will be needed to get through the talk to come.
Bloody inconvenient having to fetch the damn stuff himself with the place on lockdown but he is mighty pleased by how effectively the Queen has brought the whole of Winterfell under her iron control within less than an hour after her near miss with assassins.
GreatJon balances the tray and swings the door open to the small public solar where the meeting is occurring.
“I bring wine, grab your goblets and fill 'em up. I feel we are gonna need em,” Umber bellows.
Lord Cerwyn, Forrester and Manderly sit in stiff backed chairs, alongside the Steward Bower. Tiredness and anger is etched into their faces.
Manderly reaches for the jugs and begins pouring large measures for all.
The Lords sit and sup heartily in silence for a few moments.
GreatJon was never a patient man however and so he breaks the silence, “So, what’s the state of things now?”
Bower snorts, “State of things? The assassins are stains on our walls that mayhap never come out, the Queen is well and the pissed off god is marching towards the dungeons with Prince Jon to extract confessions of all who were involved. Wintefell is locked down tighter than a fish’s arse and every man with a sword is itching to plunge it into a Stormlander’s gut. If not for the god’s power seeming to sit in the air and how the bloody stones of every room in Winterfell hum with her displeasure I think the men would have stormed the dungeon by now if circumstances were different.”
Lord Cerwyn snorts, “You mean if circumstances were more normal.” He sups from his wine with a sardonic smile at Bower.
GreatJon is just amused by the fact the usually stoic Lords seem to be speaking plainly for a change rather than using their stuffy court speech that reeks of political hot air.
“What of Rickon and her Majesty?” GreatJon asks.
Lord Forrester flicks his fingers as though this is not even a concern, “When Her Holiness agreed to go with Prince Jon to interrogate the traitors the Queen and Prince Rickon retired to her Chambers. Loras and Brienne guard the door while half of Winterfell’s guard and all of the Order have camped out in the keep or around her chambers. I dare say anyone so much as looks funny at the Queen and they will be gutted from nape to knavel before any questions can be asked. She could only be safer if Her Holiness was with her.”
GreatJon nods in understanding, “So are we gonna talk about it then?”
Lord Cerwyn gulps from his goblet and refills it. GreatJon can feel his eyebrows rising at seeing the usually stuffy man racing to get deep in his cups.
Lord Cerwyn huffs, “Which bit? How the god shrugged off three arrows, blew open a siege door, reduced two men, including their armor, to a fine mist, or the fact that the Queen not only stabbed Peasbody herself or that she then proceeded to scold the same pissed off god that just saved her as though she were an unruly child?”
Bower huffs a laugh as though it is all just too unbelievable to even begin dealing with, “It really is like something out of one of the Legends from the Winter Kings. Bloody madness.”
GreatJon sighs, “Let’s start with how her Majesty stabbed Peasbody. Queen Sansa is a strong leader and her mind is a deadly weapon but I never knew she had any martial wit to go along with it. I always thought she was too gentile for that sort of thing.”
Forrester snorts again, “Bloody good job she wasn’t too gentile. Stabbing the prick is what bought her time for Her Holiness to arrive. She saved her own damn life as much as the god did. Then again, I assume it was the god who taught her. She seems keen on women being able to defend themselves, even has a woman in her Order I hear.”
GreatJon shifts uncomfortably, it nags at his traditional pride that women folk had to fight. That is menat to be the men’s job but he can’t argue with the results, “Bloody stupid notion anyway. Women not bein’ able ter swing a blade never helped them when they’re caught alone at the mercy o’some scoundrel. Northern women are tough things and with what’s coming it’s fight or die.”
The Lords mumble and nod in agreement as they polish off the first jug.
Lord Cerwyn rubs his eyes, “Damnedest thing I ever saw. The door of the keep was blown to bits I could pick my teeth with. I have seen the bloody remnants of war but what Her Holiness did to those men was …unnatural. One moment they were there…and the next they were gone.”
Greatjon huffs, “Fuck’em. Got what was coming to them. All that’s changed now is that we have more proof of what happens if you cross the god. She’s been mighty restrained til now, as I can attest the most. But for fuck sake, she’s a god. She commanded the earth to swallow the Dreadfort and threw me across a room like I was a horseshoe, the air humming with power and Winter frosting the hall in her rage. It’s not that surprising that she is powerful.”
Bower slams his goblet down and his face is white, “Speak for yourself. There is a difference between abstractly knowing she has power and seeing it on display so….brutally. What’s to stop that power turning on us? Gods are beings of whim.”
GreatJon scowls, “Horse shit. Her Holiness has been restrained and only acted in our and our Queen’s defense. Hell, she let the Queen fuss at her and order her to sit for the Maester. I think the Queen has it well in hand.”
Lord Forrester snorts a laugh, “Well in hand. The Queen plays a dangerous game. She leads a god by her affections…affections we do not know will remain or if the Queen will allow it to be returned. Until she accepts or denies the courtship we are in limbo. There is doing ones duty but…can we really expect the Queen to try and leash a god by her-” Lord Forrester cuts himself off abruptly as his face heats, he makes vague hand gestures and his eyes bulge.
Lord Umber and Steward Bower watch him in confusion for a moment before their own color rises as they catch his crass meaning. They jump to their feet in outrage at the implication. They speak over one another berating Lord Forrester.
“Watch your tongue! Our Queen does her duty.”
“Her Holiness’ regard is not so fickle or superficial a thing. Keep your filthy accusations to yourself.”
Lord Cerwyn is more calm, “I think it best if we leave the Queen and god’s courtship a private matter between them. The Queen seems to have a cordial understanding with the god. A god who seems happy to continue her courtship and defense of her Majesty. After seeing what befell those who attempted her harm, I don’t plan to get between the god and Her Majesty so I suggest we move on.”
The men grumble and Lord Forrester looks cowed. He sups his wine and nods in agreement.
“My apologies. I spoke out of turn…it’s all just so….”
“Mad?” Lord Cerwyn offers.
Umber snorts, “That’s a polite way of putting this shitshow. The Long Night is here and bloody gods walk the land. It’s all fucked. Nothing for it but to drink and fight and keep doing it until ye can’t no more.”
“How eloquent,” Bower dryly asses.
“What of the mood of the people? Are there any other possible avenues of dissent that we could have overlooked as we did the Stormlanders?” Lord Cerwyn interrupts before Lord Umber and Steward Bower can begin sniping at each other.
Umber slowly moves his gaze from Bower and shrugs, slumping in his seat, “I overheard the guards talking as I went for the wine. Everyone is just pissed off at an attack on the Queen or gossiping about the gods' retaliation. I overheard the Kitchen servants dissecting the whole thing. Word will spread like Wildfire by tomorrow night. The story of her Holiness’ wrath will be inflated with every retelling. Songs will be sung, stories told and all will know not to piss off a god who courts a Queen.”
Lord Manderly who has been quietly observing nods, “Good. That is good. The quicker the story spreads the better. If people hear of how brutally and negligently her Holiness dealt with this attack then it may put off anyone foolish enough to do something similar in the future.”
A knock comes to the door and Lord Manderly casts a look, “Ah, good, he is here. Enter!” he calls.
A guard enters looking serious and watchful, “I have brought Crann Snow, as requested My Lord.”
Lord Manderly nods and beckons the guard, “Good man, send him in and then wait outside.”
The guard nods and stands aside to reveal a hunched Crann Snow who is looking worried and nervous to be brought before so many important men.
Lord Manderly smiles reassuringly, “Come in Crann Snow. We have questions.”
“We do?” Lord Umber asks in obvious confusion, the other Lords giving equal looks of consternation.
Crann shuffles into the room, bows to the assembled Lords, “My Lords.”
Lord Manderly rolls his eyes at his fellow Lords, “Yes we do. In all the confusion and…distracting excitement of Her Holiness saving the Queen, most people have overlooked the other asassination attempt that failed today. Ser Swann’s attempt to kill the god’s touched man Fitz.”
Lord Umber huffs, “Ser Swann must have been totally incompetent. Fitz was eating the abandoned food in the Hall with the mad Wilding Tormund as though they hadn’t a care in the world and they weren’t feet from a pissed off god and the bloody pools of her victim. He hardly had the look of a man who had come near death.”
Manderly nods, “Exactly. Everyone is overlooking Fitz. All I have heard is that Swann is dead. The Stormlanders thought Fitz was enough of a threat to want him dead, yet he lives. I want the details of how that happened. A mad scholar surviving a trained knight on an assasination mission is an intriguing tale I would bet.”
Bower and Lord Cerwyn turn now to face Crann, their intrigue risen as they realize they hadn’t really given Fitz assasination much thought.
Crann almost shrinks under their combined scrutiny.
Lord Umber pours a mug of wine and thrusts it towards Crann, “Well then lad. Tell us the tale.”
Crann takes the fine wine and sips it. The taste is richer than anything he has ever had before, but the pleasant heat it ignites inside him eases some of his nerves.
He drags in a breath and considers how to explain, “Well, um…Fitz was working on making a far seeing eye. He was distracted by it as he usually gets when his addled mind fixates on something. Ser Swann came in and we assumed he was there as the guard for Prince Rickon. The Prince has been hiding out in the workroom to avoid his lessons on numbers and letters. Fitz seems oddly indulgent of it. He gives Prince Rickon small jobs and helps him with his letter. The Prince takes to it easier than traditional lessons and it's been helping so I think Her Majesty has been turning a blind eye to it.”
Lord Mandelry nods, “We know of Prince Rickon’s time in the workroom and how it is aiding his learning. Did Swann take any notice of the Prince? Any ill will?”
The Lords all tense at the question but Crann is already shaking his head, “Ser Swann was respectful of the Prince and even when he attacked Fitz he seemed to ignore Prince Rickon’s presence. I shielded him behind myself when the violence erupted but it was over so quickly…I can’t say if Ser Swann had any intention of dispatching Fitz and then turning on Prince Rickon.”
The Lords grumble and Lord Umber mutters to Lord Bower, “We’ll have to include the Princes in any future plans for increased protection…just in case.”
The Lords nod to one another and Lord Manderly focuses on Crann, “Tell us about Ser Swann’s attack. How did Fitz survive? Did Swann make a mistake? Was Fitz prepared?”
Crann swallows and again shakes his head, his eyes going distant as he recalls the scene in his mind's eye.
“No my Lords. You must understand, Fitz was wholly focused on the bits of metal he was assembling for the far seeing eye. Ser Swann was seemingly in deep conversation with Prince Rickon. Then out of nowhere he drew his sword and swung at Fitz’s neck from behind.”
Lord Cerwyn’s eyebrows rise, “From behind? And yet Fitz lives? How?”
The Lords all wear similar looks of intrigue as they lean forward.
Crann licks his suddenly dry lips and sips the wine again. His brows furrow as he tries to explain something that he himself has struggled to understand.
“I-I am unsure my Lords. Fitz…he just rolled away from the sword. One moment he was standing looking at his trinkets and the next he was rolling to the side while Lord Swann’s sword crashed into the workbench where a second previously Fitz had been standing.”
The men exchange worried and confused looks, “Perhaps a gift of protection from the Smith when he cracked his mind? Or a blessing of protection from Her Holiness for her companion?” Lord Manderly hypothesis.
Bower’s eyes are distant, “Possibly. If it is so, it makes the man better protected but also more dangerous. How far does this gift go? How dangerous is he?”
Umber shifts uncomfortably in his seat, “Fitz spoke of killing people at the evening meal once. He was…cold about it. A warrior he may not be but he spoke of killing with an odd detachment, a cold logic. He spoke of the human body like it was another contraption to take apart. Mayhaps the Smith’s blessings grant him more martial qualities than we thought?”
Lord Manderly’s eyes narrow on Lord Umber, “You didn’t mention this to us before?”
Lord Umber shrugs, “The man stays locked in his work room all day unless Her Holiness drags him out. I didn’t think he was a threat.”
Bower scoffs, “That seems to be a decidedly deadly miscalculation. One that Ser Swann made.”
The Lords all exchange looks and a silent agreement that a better eye will be kept on the Smith Touched man and his guards is made between them.
Lord Manderly refocuses on Crann, “What happened after Fitz rolled away from Ser Swann’s attack?”
Crann shifts uncomfortably, “Ser Swann’s sword was buried deep in the workbench. He had put all his weight behind his intended killing blow. When he couldn’t pull it free he withdrew a knife and made to charge for Fitz, but Fitz threw an oil lamp at him. Ser Swann went up like a candle, and as he howled in agony at his burning face Fitz calmly picked up a pen and stabbed him straight through the ear. He killed him instantly. Fitz withdrew his pen and calmly stuck his hand, which had caught alight while stabbing Swann, in a bucket of water before asking me if I knew what that was all about.”
“A pen? What manner of weapon is this?” Lord Umber asks.
Crann flushes, “Uh, no M’Lord. A pen…it’s a writing implement. That is, Her Holiness and Fitz say that in their realm quills aren’t used to write with. It’s why their letters look so bad. They said they use machines but also sometimes pens. Fitz has been trying to make them. The one he stabbed Swann with, it's a length of wood with a pointed nib of fine sharpened metal at the end. He dips it in ink and writes with it, but he is also working on one which is a hollow tube of metal with a similar carved, thin, spiked end. He claims the hollow tube can be filled with ink and it will drip through a small hole on the sharpened spike which acts as the nib, creating a flow of ink so a man has no need to dip the nib in an ink pot or to sharpen its end like you would with a quill.”
Crann is alight with excitement as he explains the idea of a ‘pen’ while the Lords all look on in seeming bewilderment.
Bower drags his hand down his face and then gestures for Crann to calm down with a stopping gesture of his raised palm, “Wait…wait, you are telling us that Fitz killed a fully trained Knight, in full armor, armed with a sword and a knife…with a lamp and some kind of metal quill for writing?”
Crann’s face falls as he sees the Lords don’t share his enthusiasm at the idea of the new invention that would make writing more efficient, “Um, yes my Lords? I suppose that is one way to look at it.”
Lord Manderly blows out a long breath between his teeth, a constipated look on his face.
Lord Umber is red in the face and begins giggling madly, “Hee..hee…Ha! Killed by a fucking quill…Ha! Serves the treasonous bastard right! Ha, ha ha ha.”
Crann stands awkwardly as the Lords look queerly from one to the other and sup their wine.
Crann shuffles awkwardly.
Lord Manderly sighs, “Thank you Crann Snow. I believe we have heard all we need to from you as of this moment. I am sure you are tired after the day's excitement. The guard will return you to your quarters.”
Lord Manderly waves him away even as Lord Umber continues to laugh.
Crann bows and backs out of the room with a sigh of relief.
Bower groans, “So, to sum up, we have a god that can turn armored men to fine mist on a whim, and a Smith Touched scholar who seems deadly with writing instruments?”
If anything, Lord Umber laughs harder at the sense of disbelief in the room.
Lord Forrester drains his goblet of wine and looks mournfully at the last jug, “I think we will need more wine.”
Lord Manderly nods, “Aye. When I tell you what Maester Wolken had to say about the god’s blood you will definitely need it. And that’s before we even begin the discussion of how we go about a Queen’s guard.”
Lord Forrester lifts the tray of empty jugs, and like a man going to his execution, he heads for the door, “I’ll be back shortly with more wine. Hopefully by then Lord Umber will have himself back under control.”