House Grant.
Recognition of a fellow Northerner softened his confusion. Sawyer relaxed, leaning back a fraction to appraise the woman more fully, noting the intensity – perhaps trepidation – in her gaze. Her accent was all too familiar, but she didn’t speak low and common. She sounded educated, very likely highborn, though he couldn’t imagine what House she might hail from or what business she had in Dorne. It had been too long since he’d paid any attention to the comings and goings of the nobles he once considered peers; whom they married, the children they produced, who was allied with whom and why, who was rivalling with whom and why…it had all become a distant, long out-of-date memory that he cared little to revisit. But news of Ned’s death…his murder…had made him a great deal more charitable towards his countrymen than before.
He did not relish the prospect of sharing the news with her, but it seemed crueler to leave her in suspense. Sighing, he turned to pull up an abandoned stool to the head of the table, indicating that she should sit down.
“I’m afraid so, my lady,” he confirmed grimly. “One of my scouts just came back from the docks with ill tidings. Lord Stark was executed at King’s Landing a week’s time past.”
Arneld, already stewing in vengeful anger, craned his neck to spit on the floor. “Murdered, ‘e was,” he fumed, snappishly waving over the barmaid to refill their pitcher.
“I doubt the Lannisters see it that way,” Ferran countered from the other end of the table. “He publicly confessed to conspiring against the king, to hear tell of it.” His tone was plainly scornful. None of them believed for a second that Ned would do anything to compromise his honour, but even if he did in this case, none present would have blamed or thought less of him. Joffrey had no love amongst true men of the North, and sometimes one’s hands must be dirtied in the process of rooting out evil. Sawyer was willing to bet any one of his men would have loved to help remove that foppish little shit from the Iron Throne, by any means necessary. Were he an ambitious man, or overly governed by his passions – which he no longer was – he might count himself among them.
He had fallen silent, watching the woman’s expression as she digested the news. Her complexion had been pale to begin with, but seemed whiter than snow all at once. He wondered if she’d heard anything past execution.
Grey eyes shining, she looks as though he has visibly struck her. Even her body language retreats, head back, reeling, on the heels of her feet. Shakes her head, looking from man to man, waiting for someone at the table to disagree, to tell this stranger he is wrong, this did not happen, Ned Stark is alive and well with six children and his wife, advising their fat king. Drinking too much wine. Laughing about some time long past, when Robert did something he shouldn’t have, about when they were young and impetuous.
“No,” she swallows again and again, like slowly choking on the word, while his friend adds to the narrative. Murdered. No no no. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. “That’s not possible, that can’t–” Her voice is so soft, he might not even be able to hear her, another man is speaking over her about the Lannisters. What did the Lannisters have to do with anything?? Robert would never do such a thing. Robert loved Ned. It had disturbed her for many years how close they were, but there it was. Brothers. Publicly confessed to conspiring…
“No! No, you take that back, take it back right now! He would never!” Not sure if she’s talking about Ned or Robert. Ned would never betray his king, and his king would never let Ned die. It was the one thing she had relied on, the one bet that had always been safe. Robert loved Ned. But all of their faces, sitting there so solemnly, tankards of ale in hand, in mourning for… for Winterfell. She recognized their banners, each and every one. House Grant. House Fenn. House Holt. All her father’s houses. Her brother’s houses.
“No,” she exhaled the word, voice breaking, more a sob than anything else, head shaking, shaking shaking. “No, you’re wrong. You’re wrong. You’re wrong.” Voice fades away into whispers, and she can’t see any of them past her own tears. She blinks once, twice, feels hot liquid rolling down her cheek, wipes it away, impatient. Her hands are trembling and her blood is on fire. “Please…” As if she could beg her brother back to life.
Her stomach lurches, and for a moment, she thinks she might lose her lunch, but it doesn’t matter because she might fall to the floor. A pale hand grips the table for support as she tries to catch her breath. There is no air in her lungs. There is no air in this tavern. This cannot be real. This cannot be happening. Why is this happening?? There is this horrible sound, if hope died, it would have this sound, a high, breathless keening, and it takes a full minute (or what feels like one) to realize that the sound is coming from her.