It is a remarkable thing to witness somebody’s world falling apart.
Sawyer has seen grief before. He has lost men in battle and been forced to deliver the news to their families, the loved ones they left behind. He has felt it keenly a few times himself, the hollow ache that carves out your insides and makes you wonder if you will ever be whole again.
But one never gets used to seeing it tear through somebody anew, even a stranger. His heart wrenched painfully at the incomprehension in her eyes, followed by a war of denial and despair. He could feel her shaking even without touching her, as if feeling it burning through his own nerves, and knew well that the roaring in her ears would drown out anything he might try to say. She would hear nothing, feel nothing; only the sensation of the world falling away underfoot.
Did she know Eddard Stark, somehow? Sawyer’s eyes tightened at the corners in thought. This was more than patriotic shock at the loss of a well-loved leader. This devastation seemed personal, even familial. He could not begin to guess how this woman was connected to the Starks, if at all, but he felt certain all at once that she was. Somehow.
His men had gone quiet, averting their eyes and staring glumly into their drinks as if hoping to grant the woman some semblance of privacy. Their shifting discomfort awakened Sawyer to his own, and before he knew it he was out of his seat, taking her by the shoulders to steer her out of the tavern. If she objected to such a liberty, or indeed was even aware of it, she gave no sign of it. She let him guide her outside into the twilit alley, where the air was a fragrant mix of sea air from the port and lingering smells from the evening market.
He wanted to ask her. Did she know Ned? Who was she? But he could see she was reeling, and doubted he would get much sense out of her until she’d had time to collect herself. Grimly ducking back inside, he paid for a bottle of cheap Dornish wine and brought it back out to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, shutting the door behind him and crouching at her elbow. “I know it is a shock. But it is the truth, my lady, however much it wounds me to say it.”
He was guidingher outside into the evening, the sun setting on the harbor and the gentle sounds of the water and the gulls, the ships rocking in their salt cradles. How could the world be so calm and quiet?? How could things be so still and beautiful?? How was the world still spinning when hers had so collapsed?? When Brandon had died, she nearly lost the baby. Rhaegar had to sit with her for days to console her. Two brothers now, gone. How did this happen?? How could Ned possibly be dead??
Lyanna settled on the ground, knees bent, no care for soiling the thin fabric of her tunic. Her scabbards made a sound as she sat (not much more than a collapse), and she leaned back against the wall of the tavern, face searching a cloudless sky. She took the wine from him without question, without thinking, uncorking it in a single motion and taking a long swig. It was a bitter fluid but she didn’t even taste it at first, swallowing fast. Better. It eased something in her chest slightly. She felt like she could finally breathe.
“Treason??” It was an incredulous question, as though she could not conceive of the idea. “Treason?!” Her tone changed, pitch higher, no longer shocked about the possibility, but the audacity of accusing Lord Eddard Stark, the most honest, honorable, and reliable man she had ever known in her life to plot against a king that he himself put on the iron throne. “He cannot be serious. It’s the most preposterous thing I’ve heard in my life– and I’ve heard some nonsense. Seven fucking hells.” Another lengthy sip from the bottle. Lyanna was not normally so heavy a drinker, but it was a small help, especially combined with the ale she’d been drinking earlier.
“It was Robert, wasn’t it?? He killed Ned, didn’t he?? He dragged him all the way from Winterfell to his death just because he could, that honorless, usurping, gluttonous, whoring scoundrel!! All of the world is his stage, and we are merely players, mummers for his amusement that he can do with what he likes and cast aside when he grows bored. Well I won’t have it. Not this time. I’m not going to let him get away with this.” She would tear his throat out with her teeth if she had to. She would teach him the meaning of winter.
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.
In the otherwise loud, lively tavern swirling with music and colour, one table in the corner, was strangely subdued.
It was with a leaden heart that Sawyer raised his cup, signalling his men to do the same. “To Lord Eddard Stark,” he intoned, not needing to raise his voice above the din in order to be heard. “Gods grant him peace.”
“And piss on the Lannisters,” Arneld growled, curling a bitter lip. “They say they always pay their debts. This one’ll be paid for in blood, mark me.”
A few grim ‘ayes’ chorused in agreement. Sawyer couldn’t fault them, and in fact shared the sentiment, but only nodded wordlessly. Grief was too close to allow room for anger just yet, but it would come soon enough. Ned Stark was more than than the Warden of the North. He was the North, as much as the cold and the Wall and the dire wolf that symbolized his House. This was a bitter blow, and he suspected this was a wound that would never fully heal. The North would always remember. It made him fiercely homesick, all at once, knowing that his people were mourning as one thousands of miles away, while he and his sellswords were languishing in this blasted Dornish heat, picking sand out of their ass cracks and drinking themselves stupid.
He finished the toast and drained his cup in a one fluid motion, setting it back down on the table with a dull thud. As he turned to signal the barmaid for another round – flush as they were from the last contract, only ended a few short days ago – he caught sight of the woman who had silently come up beside him with fierce intent in her eyes.
The abrupt nearness of her pulled the ex-noble up short. For a split second he thought she was a prostitute, like the few that had been draping themselves over his men since they first sat down, but there was nothing coy or seductive in her approach. He blinked at her with equal frankness, noting that, like him, she was no local. Her hair was black as any Dornishwoman’s, but her skin and eyes were pale as ice. There was something distinctly Northern about her, but in a place like Dorne, it was difficult to be certain.
“Something I can help you with?” he prompted, arching a questioning eyebrow.
She had twopair, and one of those was a high card, too. There was a very good chance she was going to win this hand, although she was working hard not to look too pleased with herself. Gambling was one of the best ways to practice negotiating, although it might not seem like it. The man across the table from her was a salty Dornishman with pleasant enough features, although at the moment he was very focused on trying to discern from her own whether it was worth a few more dragons. The brunette took a sip from her cup, setting it down on the table gently.
"You going to put your coin where your mouth is?“ She wasn’t going to be intimidated by a hard stare– not when she’d seen much scarier stares in more perilous a place than a Sunspear tavern. Grey met black for a short measure of time, but eventually the man looked away first. He threw down two more coins just as a voice from the other side of the room caught her attention. Had she imagined it, or did a man just mention Lord Eddard Stark?? Lyanna placed the cards face down, sitting up in her seat as she looked around to see if she couldn’t find who had spoken. There– a group of men isolated in the corner. There weren’t dressed like Dornishmen, and they seemed to be drinking a toast, a sad one.
The game was not nearly so important as the chance to learn word from the North. Anything, any detail, large or small, was precious to her. Any way to be close to Winterfell, however brief the feeling was. Lyanna was crossing the room before she’d even dismissed herself from the game. The men were speaking of always paying debts, of a debt payed in blood. Clearly a reference to the Lannisters, and a mention of blood did not bode well.
There was a sudden sickness roiling in her gut as she approached their table, standing there as though struck dumb until one of them addressed her directly. The sigil of House Grant, two rearing horses, was on his leathers, a house loyal to the Starks. Or at least, they were last she knew. "I apologize for the intrusion, I thought I overheard you mention Lord Stark. Is there news from the North?” Dread settled in the pit of her stomach.
