Chapter Text
125 AC
“We’ve carved out runes along the tunnels,” Gerold, leading her through the old abandoned mine, brought his torch close to the wall, where she could see a rune, one of the most often seen in the ancient bronze armor of her house. “This one, we think it means shield, we’ve carved all the way to the hidden room. Whenever you come upon a fork in the road, one of the roads will have the rune carved, follow that one.”
Olyvar walked by her side, he was carrying an oil lantern. They’d gone down into the mines through the hidden door beneath the walls. Closest to the castle were a few rooms that had been hollowed out in ages past and turned into cold rooms: secondary winter storage for when the kitchen’s basement was full. They’d been walking for almost an hour in the abandoned mines, the only thing to break the monotone cave was a sealed bronze door, which led to a hill in front of the castle and was used to sally forth and attack sieging armies in the back. Gerold brought the carved runes to their attention at the first fork of the road.
“There’s runes carved on the other tunnels as well,” Olyvar put his lantern close to the other tunnels, to show her.
“Aye,” Gerold explained. “Decoy runes. This one, might mean tree, leads, after an hour’s walk or so, into one of the abandoned mining tunnels, dangerous and at risk of collapse. And,” he stood next to the far-left tunnel. “This rune, which the maester is certain means metal, leads into a tunnel angled downwards, not man-made, that gets narrower the more you advance, then you’ll have to bend down, then crawl, then try to fit through a tiny little crevice that we are certain opens up to a large room. Afterwards? None of the lads were brave enough to try the crevice,” the movement of the torch was the only sign that Gerold had shrugged.
“And you, Gerold?” she smiled at her steward, who slapped his belly with a laugh that echoed around them. The years of work behind a desk, counting coppers and measuring yards of cloth, had taken their toll on the knight.
They went on, into the dark tunnels with just a few torches and a lantern to light their way. There were support beams and empty sconces, and even a few remnants of rails, meant for mule-pulled carts: all the remaining evidence of a once thriving tin mine. She could see that some of the support beams were new. After two more forks in the road, they finally came upon the hideaway. An iron gate led into a tunnel to their right, their current tunnel continuing forward. A short tunnel led to yet another iron gate, which led them into a large cave. There were chairs, tables, beds and wooden boxes.
“We can store around a fortnight or so of food down here, more in the passages,” Gerold opened one of the boxes, showing her the blankets and clothes inside. “There’re clothes, a few weapons and some silver. Lanterns too, but we haven’t brought down any oil. We are, according to the maester, some eighty feet under the hill above. A small group could hide here for days.”
“And then?” Elaena had also asked for other ways to leave the mines, beyond returning to Runestone.
“If you continue on the tunnel we were at,” Gerold took out a large iron key, putting it in one of the tables. “You’ll come upon an iron gate, that’s the key,” he gestured to it. “Around two hours of walking, you’ll reach an active mine. Outside, there’s a small village, where you could hide, find horses or send word to your banners.”
Elaena knew that village, the only one that lived on the tin trade. Some twenty families made a living by mining tin, and any other metal they might find. In the times before Aegon’s Conquest there were apparently ten times that number living from the mines. The village was not as far from Runestone as it seemed to be from the distance it’d take them to walk underground; so they might have gone through twists and turns and she hadn’t noticed it.
“We’ll keep a couple of mules in the stables,” Olyvar talked at her side. “Ready to descend into the cave, carrying food, water and whatever else. Enough to feed the children, ladies and guards that’ll travel with you.”
“With me?” she’d assumed that Olyvar would be joining him. Under the light of torches and lanterns she could tell that neither Gerold nor Olyvar had ever intended to flee to the tunnels: their jaws were set with resolve.
“Aye,” he squeezed her hand. “I’m a knight of house Templeton and we do not flee. If it ever comes to it, I’ll hold the keep for as long as I can so you and the children can get to safety.”
“’Tis the same with the knights of house Royce,” Gerold nodded. “We’ll die before we let our home be taken.”
“But,” Olyvar interrupted her, just as she’d opened her mouth to mention dragons. “We’ll not let Runestone become a second Harrenhal. If a dragon comes, I’ll buy you just enough time to hide, then surrender.”
“But only for a dragon,” Gerold grumbled.
“Are you certain?” she’d rather there be no fighting at all in her lands, no armies pillaging their way through the villages and towns that looked to Runestone for protection. She’d heard plenty about lengthy sieges, and a sieging army would eat her land bare. “I’d much prefer no blood being shed.”
“You have a woman’s heart,” Olyvar brought her hand up to his face, to kiss it. “’Tis our duty as knights of Runestone to defend your keep and fight your enemies, and fear of death is no excuse to shirk our duties,” all she could do was bite her lip and sigh, in the face of their resolve.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Lady Elaena!” Tansy, her chief maidservant, rushed towards her as soon as they’d left the caves, her crying daughter in her hands. “Lady Alysanne woke up and, upon not finding her mother, began crying and we’ve not been able to calm her down.”
“I’m here, I’m here,” she took Alysanne from Tansy’s arms, smiling at her daughter. “I’ll be going to my office,” she turned to Gerold and Olyvar. “Aren’t we, Alysanne?” she kissed her in the forehead and began to gently rub her little back, as she walked back into the castle. She hummed to Alysanne as they walked, her daughter, stopping her crying, laid her head on her shoulder.
Alysanne was troublesome in a way that Samwell had never been. Usually, she was quite the happy baby, babbling away and making as much noise as possible, but she hated being far from her, Olyvar or Septa Roelle, who spent nearly as much time with Alysanne as her parents. Whenever she couldn’t see any of the three, she’d end up crying. It normally wasn’t a big issue, but there were a few odd days when all three were busy.
“Have you seen your brother?” she asked the big bright blue eyes that stared back at her, she had Olyvar’s eyes.
“He was playing with his maps, milady,” Tansy spoke up, behind her.
She’d had toys made for them. The Seven Kingdoms did not actually have a diverse variety of toys for babies, so she’d asked the local carpenter to make them. He’d finished the latest order of spear shafts and had more than enough time for her little ideas. Alysanne, who so loved making noise, was fond of her horse-shaped rattle, a stuffed lamb with a bell inside and a little drum made with a goat’s hide. For Sam, she’d had educational toys made. On a board of wood, painted white, she drew a map of the Vale, colorful and full of small shields with sigils, showing where every house made their home, and tasked the carpenter with cutting the tiles, to make a puzzle. It had taken him a while to be able to properly cut the tiles, but once he’d presented the finished puzzle it had been a resounding success.
Sam had loved his twenty-piece puzzle, which prompted her to draw maps of every individual kingdom, all colored with little shields and local animals and flowers. Once he was older, she was tempted to make one of the entire Seven Kingdoms, a thousand pieces to occupy her son for many moons. Sam’s favorite was the map of the Free Cities where, due to not having shields to fill the space with, she’d asked Cella to draw mysterious animals, giant turtles, Dothraki, Unsullied, elephants and more. Sam was also fond of building blocks.
The carpenter had taken her idea and used it for his own business. He’d paid a brother, from one of the septries, to make woodcut prints for him—showing knights ahorse, ladies (which she ignored whenever they looked suspiciously like her), ships and other things that children liked—and took in a former apprentice from a painter’s workshop to color the prints, which he then used to make more puzzles, to sell in Gulltown. The carpenter had her blessing, he began to build a second floor for his workshop and took on more apprentices, urchins and orphans from Gulltown and the neighboring villages, and soon it seemed that for every spear shaft he made, three puzzles were made. She’d told the carpenter that a hundred pieces would be more enjoyable for the older children. She was very impressed with the holy brother’s woodcuts. She had commissioned the brother to make a woodcut of the designs that Rhaena had made for her wall hangings and tapestries, printed a copy for herself, and sent the relief to Dragonstone, for Rhaena to learn from. In the place from before she had seen some breathtaking woodcuts, so hopefully a lot of practice would make the holy brother into an artist of legend.
She was also teaching Sam how to share. He didn’t mind sharing his toys, and she encouraged him when he wanted to play with the children of staff, or villagers; but he threw tantrum whenever she wanted to lend his puzzles. They were great tools for teaching children, learning about the kingdoms with a game, so she wanted her wards to play with them, but Sam hated it. She soon learnt it wasn’t the sharing that he disliked, what made him mad was whenever the puzzles that he’d painstakingly completed were taken apart. There were only forty pieces or so, she’d think, but to a boy of two they were the result of effort and trial and error. She suspected that not many lordlings were taught to share.
“Elaena,” Septa Roelle, pale white stood to receive her in her office, a letter clutched in her hand. Elaena nodded at Tansy, who left them alone with a curtsy. “Read this,” she handed her a letter, her kingly uncle’s seal at the bottom.
“Lady Royce,” she read out loud. “His Grace King Viserys and His Lordship Ser Otto Hightower has bid me place an order for one thousand yards of cloth, dyed black, and one thousand yards of cloth, dyed gold. Upon receiving said goods, payment will follow. Signed Lord Larys Strong, Master of Whispers and Lord of Harrenhal,” she shrugged. “For the Gold Cloaks most like.”
“It continues in the back,” Roelle was shaking.
Elaena’s blood ran cold when she turned the letter. In the same round script of Lord Larys their own code was written, already deciphered by Roelle. Hello, it read, this was fun. If you do not wish for Their Graces and the Hand to learn about your singer, I’ve a service you can provide for me. Septon Donnel of the Most Devout, head of the Sept of Maidenpool. Use whatever means you have at your disposal and get him out of the Riverlands. I expect to hear good news.
“What do we do?” Roelle asked her, green eyes wide with worry.
“Let us think this through,” she sat down, hugging Alysanne tight. “He could have kept quiet, reading all our messages without our knowledge. But he chose to let us know,” Larys Strong was dangerous. She had chosen to ignore him, being so far from King’s Landing, but here was a man who murdered his own father and brother and now tried to blackmail her. “Every Lord likely has agents in Court,” they had to, every servant and knight had to be in someone’s employ, she tried to convince herself. “What is one more? He gains more from holding this over my head than currying favor with someone else. If he hasn’t already told.”
“Do we tell Errol to return?”
“For his own safety, I’d say yes,” he might have told Larys Strong about their code, a voice inside her whispered. “But let us wait. Do you know anything about Septon Donnel?”
“Not much,” Roelle shook her head. “He travelled with the High Septon, they’re close. Septon Lomas ought to know more, he has friends everywhere.”
“Ask him, please. Find out what you can from any septas you may know. Ask Septa Myranda,” she bit her lip. “Septon Robin will come for our harvest festival, I’ll ask him there.”
“You’ll try to get Septon Donnel taken elsewhere?”
“If I do as Larys Strong wishes, he’ll just come back demanding other things,” anger began to replace fear. “Let us discover why he wants the septon away from Maidenpool and if possible, try to take him away from the Riverlands and send him to another place where he might trouble our good lord of Harrenhal,” she bit her lip. Larys Strong wants him away from Maidenpool? I’ll see if I can put him in King’s Landing, send him to Lannisport or even Gulltown, and if he’s a friend of Larys? Dorne.
She’d not be cowed by him. Her walls were strong, her knights stalwart. So what if she had a spy in the king’s court? Everyone had spies, her uncle wouldn’t do a thing. She took deep breaths, Alysanne was playing with her silver streak, gently pulling at her hair. All she needed to do was find out more and then comply in a way that troubled Larys Strong. She had to continue her messages with Errol with the knowledge that he was compromised, whether by betrayal or a cracked code. A cracked code was its own resource. She couldn’t take Errol away from court, she needed to have him there to try and protect Helaena’s children.
“Any other letter of note?” she wanted to get her mind off Larys Strong.
“From Oldtown, a letter from the Starry Sept,” Roelle handed the letter with reverence. “It’s not from the hand of His High Holiness, but he’s signed it himself.”
She’d asked him if he knew of alternative solutions to a dissolution of marriage, beyond forcing the wife to join the Silent Sisters, or the husband to the Night’s Watch. The Faith actually recognized divorce, under specific circumstances, and annulments; but neither of them would apply to the troubles of her landed knights. Divorce was only granted on grounds of consanguinity or when several king’s ransoms were donated to the Faith. It wasn’t granted on grounds of adultery.
Annulments were only accepted when there had been no consummation, oft used when children were married and, once they came of age, their fathers no longer cared to keep an alliance, or when, after many years of marriage, there had been no quickening of the womb. She’d asked the maester to look into the histories of the Vale, looking for past annulments and divorces, seeking possible excuses. All they’d found was an amusing anecdote: eighty years before the Conquest, Lord Grafton had requested an annulment, arguing his wife’s infertility after thirty years of marriage. The lord remarried, and his new wife also gave him no children. When the lord died, a cousin inherited. The problem was clearly on the man.
“His High Holiness advises that, if both parties in a marriage are in agreement, one of the two may abandon the marriage to join the Faith, as a septon or a septa, not a Silent Sister,” she bit her lips, it was better that the alternative of marrying the Stranger; but it left her unsatisfied.
“Lord Waynwood is not interested in a match between his heir and your niece,” Roelle still seemed nervous, but was trying to control her breathing. “Septa Myranda mentioned that it’s just not that he’s sickly, there’s something else there and they don’t believe he’ll live long.”
“Mya arranged a match for Rhea,” her cousin had not left it all to her and sought matches on her own, Rhea would be marrying Roland Tollett, the lord’s grandson. “Willa will likely marry the Dutton heir, then.”
“There’s a letter from Rhaena, I’ve not opened it,” Elaena smiled, seeing her sister’s neat script.
Rhaena had asked Lord Corlys to teach her how to sail, so he’d taken his five grandchildren on a boat trip to Duskendale, teaching them along the way. Rhaena wrote to her boasting of all the new seafaring knowledge she had, and the three different ways to tie a rope that she’d learnt, even drawing them. She’d been sending constant ravens to her sisters, once a sennight at the least, telling them about her day, what Sam and Alysanne got up to, and asking them questions about their lessons. She’d also asked after her brothers, Baela had started to read Aegon her letters, in front of a painting of her. She had her suspicions of where they got it from.
“Your cousin Gunthor asks for ceremonial robes to take his septon’s vows,” Roelle handed her another letter, once she was done penning an answer to her sister. “’Tis customary to wear fine white robes and belts woven with seven colors.”
“Could you see to it?” Roelle nodded. The rest of her letters were mostly requests and greetings from merchants and knights travelling through her lands.
“There was another request,” Roelle stood to open the door after a knock, letting in her nephews, Allard and Robar, and Eldric. Behind them came Mya, Jon, Gunthor and Septa Myranda.
“Lady Royce,” the three squires talked as one and bowed.
“We are of age now,” Allard began, he was seven-and-ten. Eldric, the youngest of the three, was five-and-ten. “We come to beg permission to lend our swords to Lord Tollett to defend his land from the clans and earn our knighthoods,” whenever it was time for the harvest, the clans tried attacking villages and farms, to steal their crops.
“I see,” that they had the adults with them meant that their parents, and grandparents in Eldric’s case, had already consented. “I will send ten knights and half as many squires to Lord Tollett, you will go with them,” smiles appeared on the three boys. “But you will not be rash, overeager or put yourself in unnecessary danger to earn your spurs.”
“Aye, my Lady,” the three nodded, eager. Behind them, both Mya and Myranda nodded in approval.
“Ser Gunthor,” she looked towards the old knight. “You’ll have command, keep the squires safe, judge their skill and nature,” the Bronze Giant put a hand on Eldric’s shoulder, nodding. “A knight is not just a warrior,” she turned back to the boys. “Warriors are everywhere, from here to Asshai. On your way to Grey Glen, think of a knight’s vows and what they mean. You are eager for the title, rushing to earn it, thinking of the honor of having Ser before your name; but ‘tis not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles. Become men that bring honor to knighthood.”
“We’ll do you proud,” Eldric stated. He was the most eager for a knighthood, out of the three. His wedding was close, and he didn’t wish to marry without a knighthood.
“Do yourselves proud,” she smiled. “Gunthor, have new swords and shields made for our three squires, inscribed with our best wishes.”
“Aye, I’ll do that.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Spirited lad, eh?” Septon Robin, Chancellor of the University, laughed. They were looking at Samwell, who was laughing as he chased a lamb, whenever he reached the lamb, he’d turn around and the roles would be switched, the pursuer becoming the pursued. “Reminds me of myself at his age.”
The septon had travelled to Runestone for the harvest festival. It was the largest in her land, many smallfolk choosing not to host their own in their villages and instead journeying to the castle town. They’d come bearing offerings: their choiciest crops to offer to the Gods. She had the statues of the Seven taken out from the castle’s sept, bronze statues of her own make, copies of those in the Bronze Sept, for the offerings to be put in front of. She’d also made an offering of her own, a portion of her harvest joined the smallfolk’s own.
They lit incense in front of the statues, prayed and thanked the Seven for a good harvest and sang hymns to their glory. Septon Robin led the prayers, but she had led the hymns. The offerings went to the Faith, to feed holy men and women and as alms for the poor. Beggars from Gulltown travelled every year to her land seeking charity and always found her farmers in generous mood. After the hymns came music, dances and a feast. Besides the offering, farmers brought crops and animals just for the feast, to share with everyone. Brothers and septas, from the nearby septries and motherhouses had also made the journey with carts full of ale and cheese. They’d be taking their share of the tithe back on their empty carts.
The people in her territory ate a lot of onions, the crops they grew the most of, and made many dishes out of it. Elaena’s favorite was an onion soup that reminded her of the place from before. Onions were everywhere on their tables. The year had been good for them, the harvest rich. Ser Gerold fully believed that a long summer meant a long winter, so he had asked her to order that a portion of their onion harvest to be dried and stored away. Even without his saying, smallfolk families would dry and pickle onions and other vegetables, storing away food for the coming months.
“Do you miss the Reach’s fare?” she asked the septon. He’d lived most of his life in Oldtown.
“You’d think so, but my cook is from Oldtown and works wonders with the local ingredients. And nowhere else is garlic so large and flavorful as in the Vale,” he gave her a satisfied smile. “You’ll be pleased with the students, they know their histories and the teachings of the Seven. Sums and letters and various arts, of course,” he waved his hand with dismissal. “But their knowledge of the Seven-Pointed-Star is second to none, I’ve made sure of it.”
“That’s good,” she shifted Alysanne’s weight from one leg to the other. She’d tried to give some food to her daughter, but she seemed more interested in the musicians than in eating. “Those I’ve taken into my service have proven their worth,” the septon nodded, pleased. Moondancer’s Port’s small custom house was working smoothly and the proctors she’d sent to the towns and villages in her lands had already proven their usefulness. Gerold usually spent days counting sacks of onions and weighing peas, but his work had been cut in half thanks to the university students.
“I’m glad,” one of the septon’s attendants served him another plate of mutton, cooked with plenty of onions. “I suspect that soon His High Holiness will leave us and join the Seven-who-are-One,” they both made a sign of the star, second nature to her by now. “And I will be recalled to Oldtown. I’ve long thought on who to leave as my successor, and Septon Donnel of Maidenpool is a good choice,” she’d looked into the septon, which turned out to be much easier than she’d feared. He was one of her own septon’s many pen pals. It appeared that he was a friend of Lord Lyonel Strong and suspected foul play, he’d been asking questions and as far as she could tell, that was what scared Larys. Upon learning that, she sent a letter to Septon Robin proposing Donnel as his replacement. “He’s well learnt and has performed admirably in his post in Maidenpool. I’ve sent word to Oldtown, asking for Donnel to be assigned to the university.”
“Have you given thought to the painting?” she’d proposed they make a painting of him, to hang in the university library. “It could also be a bust. We are making history; you are the first Chancellor. Come a hundred years, yours would be the first of many paintings, showing the students of the future the history of the university.”
“I’ll admit,” he spoke slowly. “At first it sounded like vanity,” he looked at her pointedly. The gardens of the University boasted of a statue of her own, reading a book, with a little lamb at her feet. “But you are correct, it is important that we record our histories. We’ll have the painting made,” she smiled, knowing just who to commission.
“Mama,” Sam ran towards her, the little lamb hot on his heels. “I’m hungry.”
“Do you want some soup?” he nodded, putting his hands up, waiting to be lifted. “Cella?” she called out to her handmaiden, who sat nearby with her wards while they ate. “Could you take Alysanne for a while?”
“Aye, my Lady,” she smiled at Alysanne. “Do you want to go see the statues?”
“Come here,” she helped Sam up to her lap, where he could reach the table. He ate on his own now, but he still needed a tall chair. “Do you like the soup?”
“Aye,” he nodded. “Can I have a sheep?” the lamb he’d been playing with had run off, probably to find its own mother.
“We’ll see,” she searched for Cella and Alysanne in the crowd of merrymakers. They were in front of the Maiden’s statue, Cella likely explaining to the baby how they had made it. Olyvar was near, laughing with the guardsmen. He’d gone on a hunt before the festival and brought down an elk that they’d given to the people, so he was the target of quite a few toasts. “Here,” she handed Sam a plate with some bacon.
“Ah,” Septon Robing stood. “They’re beginning the dance, and these old bones can still join in,” the musicians began to play an old, and playful song, about Hugor of the Hill asking the Smith to build him a wedding bed that could withstand his lovemaking. People found it amusing that he’d had forty-four sons. Cella returned with Alysanne, taking the empty seat beside her, as the festivalgoers stood in a circle around the statues of the Seven and their offerings and began to dance.