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Chapter Text

Jon Arryn wasn't a man easily given to emotion, nor was he particularly sentimental–call it manly pride, a prickling side effort of a highly logical mind, or simply being heartless—Lord Arryn cared not for silly jabs, childish notions, or outlandish public displays. But all that stoicism had crackled like poorly painted marble when his Little Dove was born.

She was sickly, quick to cry—he held her hand and kissed her tense brow when her favorite falcon came to the same cruel fate all mortals do, her tiny, pouty face all blotchy and wet with tears, “The Gods will reunite you one day, sweetling—it is just a matter of patience.”

The frail girl of six even managed to force her Lord father into black attire for the falcon’s funeral—buried among seedlings of the girl’s favorite flower, white roses, within the Gate of the Moon‘s gardens.

He held her on his hip as she wept, kissing her temple as her wet nurse lowered the carcass into the ground; “I don’t want him to go…” she murmured with pouty lips, watery words and swollen blotchy, pale flesh framing soft blue eyes. “I want him to stay!” She finished with a more spirited tone, but quickly came to a violent sob.

“We all want the things we love to stay—but sometimes they need to go.” Jon explained softly, Daella looked to her father then. “It is never ‘goodbye’ when we love them so, Little Dove, merely a ‘until I see you again’.”

The little girl parted her swollen lips to protest, but she found there were no words to aid in her grief, no arguments logical enough to explain this ache in her belly— why it is there, why it will never go away—so she plopped her head down on his broad shoulder instead, and let him caress her golden ringlets and sway her in his arms, and shortly after, Jon found he had a sleeping child to put to bed.

-

Was there anything so undoing as a daughter? Was there anything more maddening than a son? Robert was not Jon Arryn’s blood, was not of his seed, but he came to love the boy all the same—and that love made discipline a most difficult thing.

A quarrel between weeping children led to a confession most foul—murder, no less. The falcon had not died by the gods’ will, but by Jon Arryn’s fosterling’s own hand. A simple crack of the neck with his roughen hands did the deed, Jon grimaced when he heard the words uttered with such venom–was it a lie to pull tears from Daella’s eyes, or was it truth? “Why would you do such a vile thing?” Jon inquired with narrowed eyes, and a low hiss of a stern tone.

The question seemed to bounce off the walls of Jon’s solar like a rogue arrow, striking the boy of ten in the spine–Robert, nearly his own height, merely shrugged off the initial shock; “Lady Daella is quite the vexing creature, mi’lord.” That on its own, spoken so indifferently, so bitterly, riled the stoic Lord’s temper–a poisonous pot of bile stirred in his chest, leaving his mouth twisted at the mere taste.

Jon had not meant to strike the boy, but his hand met his cheek all the same–but no good sense was beaten into the future Lord of Storm’s End–only defiance. His deep blue eyes simply snapped back to meet Lord Arryn's own, glinting with a new found displeasure that neared hatred. Blood welled from his split lip, streaming a crimson river to trickle down his chin–staining his cream-color tunic.

“Lady Daella will have a formal apology for this unseemly act against her—you will beg on your knees if need be. And as for punishment, your sword training is forfeit until I say otherwise. Do we have an understanding?” The boy looked just about ready to take out an eye, or open a throat. Jon did not yield however, and persisted when there were no words spoken; “Do we have an understanding?”

Robert’s sharp jaw rolled, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a breath through his nose, his mouth twisting as if tasting poison–he looked to be swallowing his pride.

“Yes, My Lord.”

Chapter Text

The summers in The Vale were known for their seldom heat–though it was warm enough for children of Eddard Stark’s age to swim in the mountain-fed streams on the outskirts of the Eyrie; waters so clear and cold they prickled the skin, and soothed sunburns, trickling down the smooth rocks, so pure one could drink from it without fear of a belly ache and long night visit over their chamber pot.

He did not wish to bring Daella along on their adventure through the green wilds of the Eyrie’s mountains, she ever needed to be carried, so quick she was to lose her breath–yet that was not what made the young Quiet Wolf bristle and frown as he trudged through brambles and bushes; Robert seemed to despise Jon Arryn’s heir, yet there was sickening fascination that settled within his deeply rich blue eyes whenever Daella was present, so much so that even Eddard himself became uneasy. It felt near-sinful—but he, a boy of ten, could not quite place a name upon it just yet. Though Eddard felt it coil like a wrongness in the pit of his belly.

Robert was older by a year, yet he stood at near a man’s height–dark hair lined his navel and began to curl faintly at his broadened chest. A small part of Ned envied him for it, but he did not idolize his foster brother, he never could.

“Ned, can you carry me?” Daella asked softly. She knew well enough that he would say yes, he always did after all. Yet she played the part of uncertainty, her lips curled out in a childish pout, her big blue eyes shimmering like the waters just off Gulltown.

At seven, she looked no more than four–her pale-white curls tucked behind ears that were too large for her head, the strands spiraling inward toward her dainty chin. Eddard did not answer verbally, not with words at least. Rather he flicked off the piece of grass he’d been twirling between his pointer and thumb, letting out a huff that might have passed for annoyance. Then he knelt, silent and dutiful, so she might climb upon his back like a well-trained palfrey in a stable yard.

Lady Daella was light in his arms, she was a dove in truth–all brittle bones and cooing words. When standing side-by-side, her head scarcely reached Eddard’s hairless pits; her knees knobby, elbows soft, her stature that of an infant–even her hands were smaller than usual for a girl her age, resting upon his bare shoulders like she meant to guide a pony by unseen reins.

Each time Robert swung his sword however–unnecessary in both usefulness and noise discipline, cleaving at branches and stray leaves just ahead–the Little Dove at his back flinched. Her body would coil, then uncoil, with every grunt and growl that rumbled from the depths of his foster brother’s chest.

It was plain to the Quiet Wolf that she feared him. Though Ned reasoned that it was purely a clash of temperaments–Robert was far too loud for scarcely any Valeman’s liking, and Daella was far too quiet to mesh well with a loud Stormlander; a rationalization on Ned’s behalf perhaps.

It did not take long for Robert to announce they had indeed reached their destination. ”Over here!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the trees. A waterfall awaited just beyond some bushes, a place well known to the children of the Vale. Though neither vast in height nor strong in current, the falls were calm and silver-smooth, a quiet thing…until the peace was disturbed by Robert striking the damp soils at the creeks edge with his sword, like a conqueror bestowing himself king, then quicker than not stripping himself of his breeches and diving into the chilled waters with practical ease.

Daella giggled faintly as she watched the scene from Eddard’s back, and the Quiet Wolf took great care in settling her down upon a moss covered stump near the bank; however she was far too entranced by Robert’s carefree antics to offer thanks, but Ned could not bring himself to mind.

“Come on, Ned!” Robert called out, already abandoning the waters to haul himself up upon the slick rocks surrounding the falls–his movements were swift, hurried, like a hound too delighted and giddy to realize it had tumbled someone over, or drooled upon their feet.

Eddard watched for a moment, then began to unlace his own breeches to join his foster brother–though Robert’s much more developed physique made him pause at his braies. He knew it would cause discomfort to voyage back to the Eyrie with soaked undergarments, but Eddard Stark was much too craven, and conscience, to bare himself completely in front of a Lady.

Though the lady herself seemed not to share in that sentiment. When Eddard cast a glance over toward Jon Arryn’s Little Dove, she was far too intent upon tiptoeing into the chilled waters to notice much else–least of all Ned Stark’s shyness. Her gown and shift lay folded atop the mossy stump in which he had set her upon moments prior.

Daella looked like a fawn, Ned thought; newborn, slick with life and learning the art of balance–the stones beneath her noble feet treacherously slick. He near sprinted to her side when she stumbled, a moments away from losing her footing, but halted himself, restraining the urge when she righted herself once more.

Ned found his gaze lingering on her more than his foster brother, whose shout rang out from atop the highest point of the falls. His attention was stolen once more only when Robert leapt into the pool below with a great splash and a war cry that echoed off the rocks, sending ripples coursing across the calm waters.

Ned saw Daella smile–and it was both sweet, and infectious, drawing a faint tug to the corners of his own mouth from the sight alone. Robert bared his broad chest once he broke the surface of the water, flinging his dark Baratheon hair so it would not cling to his brow. He huffed at the sight of Daella wading deeper into the creek–like a fawn approaching its dam, Ned thought–and for a brief moment, he believed Robert Baratheon and Daella Arryn might become friends. As he himself was friends with both.

“Little Dove wants to swim with the big fish, does she?” Robert called, loud as ever. But to Ned's surprise, Daella did not shrink nor shy away as she oft did when faced with Robert's boisterousness. His foster brother's grin was crooked, his sharp teeth bared like a hound at play as he watched Daella’s fumbling form.

“Careful,” Ned murmured toward her, though the distance between them was quickly growing greater. It was a force of habit, he supposed–but far softer, and not so commanding as Lord Arryn’s voice would have been had he been near.

“Ah–fret not, I got her; don't I, Little Dove?” Robert said, loud and bold as he swam nearer to the creek's bank.

Lady Daella smiled, her chin just barely above the water surface where Robert could stand fully, and tall. “I want to play too–but not in the deep,” she said, her voice a bird-like coo, soft but clear, her smile stretching wider as Robert came nearer.

“Oh, aye-?” Robert replied, rather smugly–and with a flick of his wrist, water darted towards Daella–and she laughed when it splashed her face. As her smile had been, her laugh was equally contagious; bright and catching as a summer breeze.

It took both of Daella’s stick-thin arms to splash Robert in equal measure, and they both laughed when she managed it–the sound of it ringing through the glade, echoing off the trembling waters of the falls. The sunlight caught upon the ripples like molten silver, it was a thing of beauty, though Ned feared he might be mocked if he were to ever speak such words aloud.

His siblings came to mind then–Brandon would have leapt from the rocks as Robert had, bold as any feral direwolf or great knight, while Lyanna would be crouched along the shadows of the creek’s bank, searching for rocks smoothed by the stream. Different, but both would be content, as Robert and Daella were content; separate but whole. And a part of Eddard ached at the thought.

Mayhaps he could find a stone–one he thought Lyanna would have chosen for herself–and bear it as a gift when next he saw her. Something beautiful from the Vale to place in her palm.

Lyanna would like that, he decided.

The future Lord of Storm's End had lifted the future Lady of the Eyrie in the air, water trailing down her bare, boyish limbs when Ned decided to venture off just a little further downstream, in search of his token.

Their laugh echoed behind him like a rope to a drifting boat. He would not go far, he promised only to himself–simply follow the current with a keen eye for a stone his little sister would favor most. Many were rounded, fat as wet nurses came winter–but one, just one, caught Ned’s eye for true.

Half-submerged in the chilled, flowing water; slick with moss, marbled with a lighter shade of greyish-brown, he likely would have missed it if he were not looking so intently–it was imperfect, just as Lyanna would have liked. Once dried, it would be smooth still, which she also would have favored greatly. He examined it–a smile tugging faintly at his lips when the laughter ceased.

And then–it was quiet. How long it had been silent before he had taken notice, he could not say with certainty. Only a moment surely. His brow twitched, still clenching the damp stone Eddard stepped from the flowing waters and made way back upstream, toward the falls where his friends had been playing happily at its base.

Daella was dressing herself with an earnestness when he returned, standing by the moss-covered stump along the bank. Her cheeks were pale, lacking the rosy hue from earlier; her arms trembled from the cold as she lifted them to slip her shift over her head. Water still clung to her pale curls, but she made no move to wring them. And the smile she had worn had vanished into a far, and distant memory– something in Ned’s chest tightened at the sight, but he could not quite figure out why.

“What has happened?” He asked quietly, but plainly–his hand clenching around the stone still as he cradled it to his breast.

“I…I wish to search for tadpoles,” Daella answered, lip jutting in a small pout as she fumbled with the lacing of her gown with pudgy fingers. It reminded Ned of the tone she used with Lord Arryn when she wanted something–usually after he had denied her firmly.

“I thought you wanted to play, you said as much–”

Daella‘s pout deepened further, and it looked like petulance no longer–Ned could not name what it looked like, only that it unsettled him.

“I don't want to play anymore,” she said, softer in tone now. “I want to look for tadpoles,” Daella declared, but it was weak and worn–no defiance, no spark laced her words. Within the marbled walls of the Eyrie, the wet nurses and maids would have whisked her away, laid her in a featherbed so her sullenness would be subdued by slumber–but there were no attendees here. Only Robert, and himself.

“Would you like me to carry you, Ella?”

Her blue eyes widened to that, small infant-like hands curling into fists within the delicate folds of her pale blue skirts. Long near-white lashes rested damply against her furrowed brow, but her pout straightened however, faltering as it drew into a pinched expression he never quite seen upon her face before. Confusion then crept along his own brow as a beat of pause passed between them.

“No,” she said softly. Her bare feet pressed into the mossy stones as she padded downstream–the ends of her curls clinging wetly to the nape of her neck.

Eddard did not follow after her, not at first–a strange unease swept through his spine, cold as steel. It felt as though he had been struck by an iron nail driven home with a war hammer’s swing. He turned toward the falls once more. Laughter no longer echoed off the shimmering waters, only the song of birds remained, and Robert at its base. Though no longer splashing but rather floating where the pool ran deepest. Half-submerged and still, dark hair clung to his brow and his eyes–bright, bold, and strangely knowing–watched him.

Their gazes met. And Robert smiled–wide, genuine. And Eddard looks away first, though he could not say why.

He would never know what had passed between them–but he would come to learn it would be some time before he bore Lady Daella Arryn’s weight in his arms again. And even longer before he saw her out of her smallclothes once more.

Chapter Text

The snow lay untouched and virginal beneath Daella’s fur-lined boots, soft as freshly spun silk and thick as wool. Had Eddard been there, they would have been waded knee-deep through drifts, casting fistfuls of the grey sky’s bounty at one another, shared laughter echoing off stone and clouds alike. But he was not. He was in Winterfell, surrounded by his kin leagues away, and her heart ached with the absence of his quiet company as she meandered the frost-cloaked courtyard of the Eyrie, only faint caws of ravens wheeling in and out of the rookery filled the frozen silence.

Father has been receiving a glut of messages as of late. Daella did not know from whom precisely, only that the wax seals came in crimson, bronze, a deep forest green–and other more vibrant colors foreign to the Vale.

But her thoughts of parchment and ravens stilled, her longing for Eddard slipping into the mists of forgetfulness, when the softest of cries met her ears–causing them to perk with the high-pitched tone and pitiful nature of it, like a babe pulled too soon from the womb. It came from beneath a snowbank, her gloved hands worked swiftly to brush away the powdery crust until her dainty digits met something warm and wriggling.

A kitten; scorned and writhing, blind still from the birthing, its pale pelt slick and curled in upon itself like a withering leaf. It gave a soundless mewl, mouth yawning wide in dumb hunger, and flailed feebly against the cold. One front paw jutted sideways at an unnatural angle–twisted, broken, perhaps from birth or mayhaps cruel mishandling, Daella could not say.

Yet its fur was the color of milk, unblemished save for the thin veins beneath its skin. White as snow, pure as innocence, bleak as death.

Daella’s pink lips parted in awe, the cold kissing her breath into a mist, the corners of her mouth twitching. She drew the feeble creature gently to her fur cloak, nuzzling it against her breast, whispering prayers and coos of comfort for the squealing babe.

“Lady Daella! Lord Arryn requests your presence in his solar!” Jeyne shouted from the stone steps above the Eyrie’s courtyard, careful to avoid treading into the snow. Daella lips pinched in a coy, secretive little smile, as she turned toward her lady’s maid, and Jeyne’s brows lifted in wide-eyed curiosity at the girl’s odd demeanor.

“What have you got there, Little Dove?” she asked softly, her comely smile brightening as Daella slowly uncurled her gloved fingers to reveal her prize.

“By the Mother herself, what a darling thing!” Jeyne exclaimed in a gasp, abandoning her previous caution as she stepped into the snow to join her mistress. Her hands–smooth and unmarred by harsh conditions–cupped the back of Daella’s gently, leaning close to peer at the tiny creature squirming in her palms, snow flakes catching in her silken auburn curls. “One of the ratters must’ve dropped it, poor mite. Broken and Forgotten.”

“Do you think Father will let me keep her?” Daella asked, breathless with the hope swelling beneath her beast–heart dancing with possibility.

Jeyne looked at her with a pointed expression–one of sympathy teetering on pity. It was the sort of look in another’s eyes that might have made Daella feel foolish, even small, if she were not so hopelessly in love with the broken creature in her hands.

“It is a cripple, Dove,” Jeyne murmured gently; “Your father will have mercy upon it.”

Daella's mouth pinched, and a faint twitch stirred at her cold kissed cheek–she did not like that answer; it twisted something low in her belly. “I shall ask him regardless,” she said, her voice quiet but sure, standing a touch straighter than before.

Jeyne nodded in swift agreement, though her brown eyes flickered with something else entirely–someting Daella could not quite name, but did not like either.

“Well,” Jeyne said, her eyes dropping to the snow, then drifting back to a writhing creature in Daella’s palm, “the poor thing must be famished. I’ll place her on the breast of one of the kitchen cats, so you may go on to your father’s solar.”
Daella blinked, lost in thought, as flecks of snow caught in her pale lashes. She gave a faint nod, and when she spoke, the cold nipped at her breath.
“Alright,” she said softly, casting her gaze to the kitten in her hands. Its paw was twisted—an ugly thing on such a beautiful creature—jerking with each feeble cry. “But I will fix her paw first.”
“Your ribbon might help a bit,” Jeyne offered. Daella nodded, agreeing at once. She slipped the bright blue ribbon from her fair hair and tied it gently around the kitten’s tiny torso, while Jeyne held her steady. It would not cure the deformity, but it would keep the limb secure, and in its proper place—for now.
Jeyne held the kitten in her palms but refused, in her silence, to cradle the feeble creature. The absence of tenderness made Daella uneasy, prickling at her skin more harshly than the cold air, though she reminded herself the creature would fare better in the kitchens–fed and nestled against a true mother–than being carted about in her own arms.

So small she was, so pale and fluttering, like a moth trapped in a jar. “I believe her name to be Moth,” Daella said then, soft in her certainty. Jeyne blinked, but did not smile as Daella did–not even faintly.

“Moth it is then, my Lady.”

—

Daella was ever fond of her father’s solar. It smelled of parchment and ink, the scent of pine lingering in the pillars, and the marble-like stone lent the air a crisp, dry chill—not eerie, but rather invigorating. When she sat at his great desk, she felt as wise as he, though her feet scarcely touched the ground.
It would be hers one day—the only aspect of her future ladyship that did not fill her with dread and the smothering weight of duty. It was the vanity of her title she adored most, not the authority it promised.

She heard her father’s cough as she entered, the grand oaken door groaning shut behind her. The chair in which he sat was tall and narrow, making him appear less withered and shrunken by age than he truly was. At the sound of her step, he discreetly tucked a handkerchief into his coat pocket—then offered her a soft, familiar smile.

“You wished to see me, Father,” Daella said demurely, her chin tucked in toward her narrow chest, voice soft and scarcely above a whisper.

“I did, sweetling,” her father replied, gesturing to the chair opposite his own. “Sit, my gentle girl. There are matters we must discuss.”

Daella did as she was bid, carefully gathering the train of her pale fur cloak so she might sit with dignity upon the cushioned chair–though it was not as regal a display as she’d hoped, having to give a small hop to reach the chair properly, and fidgeted a moment to settle herself just so.

“You were playing in the snow, I presume.”

“Yes, father,” she answered sweetly, fluttering her pale lashes so he would not be cross. He did not care for her wandering the grounds without leave, though he seldom forbade it–and his displeasure, when it scarcely came, was always quiet and composed. But to Daella, her father’s disappointment stung more keenly than any lashing ever could.
“That is good, sweetling,” her father said, to her mild, pleasant surprise. His voice was tight, and he paused to clear his throat with a careful sip of rose-steeped tea—a soothing ritual whenever his cough troubled him. He swallowed visibly, then continued in a more even, composed tone. “I find that fresh air lends clarity to matters of the heart.”
“Matters of the heart…?” Daella echoed, her voice small, her brows knitting faintly in confusion.
“You miss Eddard, do you not? I know the two of you are quite close—like two doves in a cote.” He said the last with a note of fondness, almost chipper, and Daella nodded, though her smile faltered just barely. She might have smiled more freely, more truly, had she not sensed he was suggesting something she could not quite grasp.
“Ned is very sweet to me, father–it is true, his company is solely missed.”

He nodded slowly to that, thoughtful and deliberate, his mouth drawn in a pitched expression as it always was when heavy thoughts settled behind his wise, blue eyes. Daella felt, quite suddenly, as though she were being interrogated. It reminded her of the time Robert was accused of deflowering a noble girl, and the entirety of the castle was questioned–sternly, harshly, like the walls themselves might give answer to the truth of it.

She never learned the outcome however, nor fully understood the reasoning behind such an act. But it had all been quite perplexing, and Daella always wondered if such action–if guards would be called, Maesters summoned–if her father knew Robert had touched her, too.
“I shall not insult you with rhymes and riddles, Daella,” her father began. “I remember well what it was to be your age—barely twelve, uncertain of one’s place in the world. I despised it when my own father cloaked his meaning in riddles, spinning nonsense I was left to untangle alone.”
Daella did not reply. Her posture, once poised and proud when she first took her seat, had softened; her back rounded faintly, her expression no longer cunning, but quiet. She watched as her father reached into the drawer of his great desk and withdrew a stack of letters—their wax seals already broken. Still, she said nothing.
“I have received many proposals for your hand,” he said, voice measured. “And I do not say this to trouble you. I only wish for you to begin thinking on such matters—with greater frequency, and with greater seriousness. For it is not merely your own future you must consider now, sweetling, but that of the Vale entirely.”
Daella felt herself shrink into nothing, the richly-cushioned seat beneath her bottom had somehow swallowed her up and begun to suffocate her until there was no more air yet to breathe. It was as though she had become an inch worm blissfully unaware upon her leaf–soon to be plucked up in a falcon's grasp, and devoured.

Marriage was inevitable; Daella knew the fact well and did not fear it. For she would be Lady Arryn, and her husband a second son–or a third, or a fourth-born lordling with little claim nor power in his own right. But marriage brought the marriage bed–and that is what frightened Daella above all.

“You will be a woman grown soon enough, sweetling,” her father said gently. “And with it shall come duty–the same duty once laid upon me. So be fruitful, and with hope, you may yet find contentment.”
Daella felt her jaw tremble. She could only imagine how small and pitiable she must have seemed beneath her father’s discerning gaze. She was meant to speak now—she knew it—but her voice failed her, falling dead upon her tongue like summer leaves surrendering to autumn.
Courage came only when her gaze dropped to the stack of letters cradled in her father’s weathered hand. The one atop bore a House sigil pressed in grey brittle wax—a direwolf, solemn and proud.
She nodded then, weakly, and found breath enough to murmur, “I understand, Father.”
-
The discourse with her lord father had left Daella ill at ease. She felt a craven as she was bidden leave from his solar—all that talk of marriage and fruitfulness had soured her belly, so thoroughly that she’d forgotten to inquire after Moth altogether.

How she had found her way down to the kitchens, she could not rightly say. Her stomach churned like the butter Wylla was working, and her heart beat an frantic, anxious rhythm that near pained her. She was breathless besides—mayhaps she had run, who’s to say?

“Hello, Little Lady,” Wylla chirped from her place atop a low woolen stool, her arms busied with her task. She had once suckled Daella at her breast when she was but a babe, though she could scarcely be more than twelve years Daella’s elder—a thing which had always confounded her. But Daella could not recall a time when Wylla's belly had not been swollen with child.

Her time at Wylla’s breast was vague in Lady Daella’s memory, veiled in the soft haze that cloaked most of her earliest years. Yet one moment remained vivid: she recalled stumbling upon the cobbled steps that led to the Gates of the Moon, a sharp fall that left her weeping—whether from pain or some greater grief, she could not say. The reason had long fled her.
But she remembered Wylla’s embrace. The maid had pressed Daella’s face firmly between her bosom, and cradled her there until the tears had run dry. Robert had laughed afterward, calling her Big-Titted Wylla, and speaking of her with the same low regard he gave to all women not of noble birth.
Big-titted she was, in truth—broad of hip and full in figure. But her face remained ever-youthful, touched with freckles and crowned by dimples when she smiled. The castle spoke often of Jeyne’s beauty—sharp of cheekbone and dark of hair—but Wylla’s charm, to Daella’s eye, felt something more eternal.

“How are you faring?” Daella asked softly, her voice scarcely more than a breath. Her throat was dry, and her heart thudded so loudly within her chest she feared Wylla might hear it.
The maid—four-and-twenty and heavy with child—huffed a weary breath and paused in her task, wiping her damp hands upon her brown-stained apron.
“Feel as though I’ll burst like a tick come supper hour,” Wylla muttered. “I’m near done with babes, I am.”

Daella gave a tight-lipped nod and descended the last of the stone steps that led down from the hall to the warmth of the kitchens.

“Is it truly so terrible?” Daella whispered. She tried not to furrow her brow, but the worry bled through her voice all the same—for Wylla gave her a gentle, reassuring smile in return.
“’Tis not so dreadful, Dove,” the maid replied. “The birthing’s the easy bit. Making them is better still—it’s the baking I’ve no fondness for.”

A moment passed in quiet, a breath of contemplation on Daella’s part. Then she rubbed at her upper arm, as if she’d been struck there by a Septa’s switch during lessons, leaving her fair skin raw and reddened.

“My mother died in the birthing bed,” she murmured.

“Aye,” Wylla said, nodding faintly, her gaze drifting to the stone floor of the kitchen–a look distant, yet knowing. “And what a fine woman her Ladyship was, I remember her well.”
Daella swallowed all the questions that bubbled and rose in her already tight, parched throat–inquirement on her Lady mother’s likeness, her nature, mayhaps even her voice: was it soft and silken, or sure in authority? Not only what she appeared to be on the outside, but who she truly was within. Would she have beaten Daella with a switch, or have been passive in discipline like her father? Did she like rose-steeped tea as well? Two sugars or three?

But the answers would have made her weep, made her miss the person whom she'd never truly met–so Daella held her tongue. Though the questions came still, crushing to the forefront of her mind like the waves against the stones of Gulltown. Did her mother wish to die? Or did the maester cut her open without her leave? Had her father cursed the Gods when the babe who killed his wife bore a cunt instead of cock?

She did not wish to know–not truly.

“Have you seen Jeyne?” Daella asked instead, her voice weak and splintered. She wanted something real and breathing to anchor her to reality–not memories, nor feeble wishes to sullen her already tarnished mood. “I sent her down here with something of mine.”

“Last I saw of her, she was bound for the buttery,” Wylla said, wiping her hands once more upon her apron. “Though I’d tread careful, Little Lady—many a stray cat’s crept in with the coming snows. Feral, they are.”

Daella inclined her head in thanks, her tone mild, but polite and mannerly as she thanked the maid.

She had never cared for the buttery—those dim, cold chambers that wound beneath the kitchens, lined with shelves of winter stores. Sacks of grain stacked to the beams, dust thick upon the oak pillars, cobwebs clinging like silk to the stone corners. Creatures skittered and slinked through the ratters; once, a snake had nested there, seeking cool refuge in the heat of summer. It had near struck her hand when she reached for an apple.

Though fortune had smiled upon Daella that day, for Ned had been with her. He’d drawn the dagger from his boot and severed its head clean. They had not dared sneak food before supper again—not after that. Mostly for fear of Daella’s, who’d thought the serpent a sign from the Father above—a divine rebuke for gluttony and deception.
But she longed to see Moth now. And surely, the Father above would deem that reason just enough. Would he not?

A few of the torches were already alight when Daella descended the steps, their flames casting long shadows upon the ancient stone. The scent of dust and cold earth hung thick and suffocating in the still air, and the silence was near deafening. From above, a cat hissed—its eyes gleaming, its black fur bristled as it stood watch atop an old wooden shelf, clearly agitated from her presence alone.
Daella near leapt from her skin at the sound, her heart hammering in her throat. Yet she pressed onward, undeterred once she had determined that the feline's exclamations were a mere warning–and she was not in any true danger of losing an eye to a sharpened claw. And the torches were lit—which meant someone had come shortly before her. Jeyne, Jeyne was down here. And by extension, so too was Moth.

Walking in the buttery felt like a pillow had been pressed over Daella’s head–the silence was not painful by any means, but rather pressed upon her ears in a way most unnatural, near suffocating. So quiet that it was almost too loud. The crawl of a spider held the weight of a giant’s tread, and her own heartbeat beat like a war-drum beneath her breast.

When noise prickled at her senses–sharp, and sudden against the hush. Daella could scarcely place the source, or determine what the noise was precisely. Talking, mayhaps..or weeping?
Her brow furrowed in unease as she crept farther down the narrow passage, each storage chamber branching from it fuller with grain than the last. The shadows grew deeper, swallowing her whole, and her belly gave a sickening churn. Pain lanced through her gut, a low twisting knot, and her skin buzzed with the urge to turn back, to flee—to run.

But she peered through the cracks between the stacked wine barrels near the end of the passage, and froze–the image of bouncing, dark curls coming into view; the grunting of a boar slamming into her skull like a destructive tidal wave. Robert’s nostrils were flared, his teeth bared and gritted as he bounced Jeyne atop him with claws curling at her naked hips–Daella eyes burned from their wideness, and her vision blurred.

She only realized it was tears blinding her vision when she stumbled back, the heel of her boot catching on something soft, something tiny, ceasing her hasty steps. Moth laid on the stone ground be. Flattened from being crushed, and bloody–the only piece of her recognizable, untouched, was her tiny face and matted pale fur, her pink nose still glistening with the blood that streamed down from her nostrils.

The blue ribbon that Daella had wrapped around her small frame was gone, vanished–and Daella choked on the grief, on devastation, from the harrowing sight alone.
Her mouth agape as if to scream–but nothing came, just tears. The world whirled, everything burned like all seven hells, and once Daella came to breathe again, her tears were staining her pillow within her featherbed. And she was alone–the moon just outside her chamber window: high, and bright, and mighty.

She vowed to take a husband then–and she would bed him, she would grow wide with his child, then parish as her mother had. Then, mayhaps, she would not be alone again–for she would be with her mother, she would be with Moth.

Chapter Text

Daella was never fond of the game of dress up. As a little girl, she preferred fewer clothing, not more; the wet nurses could scarcely keep her modest in any circumstance. Her father often found tiny shoes abandoned and lying about the Eyrie, and returned them to her wandering toddler feet. But as she grew, so too did Robert’s nature–and with it, her desire for coverage even in the most intimate, and private of moments. Womanhood, she found, was simply another version of the same game, and one she liked no better.

Childhood comes with its own aches and pains, but the quickening of one’s moonblood was a crueler pain still. Her face changed with her chest; her limbs lost their softness; legs prickled unpleasantly as she gained what little height she would. Nearing her fourteenth nameday, she remained small of stature, but required new bodice measurements every other moon’s turn.

The stares were the worst of it. So many stares, so many pairs of eyes upon her–one can go mad from it. She had once pitied Wylla for how the Knights spoke of her, but now Daella felt a sort of strange kinship with the forgotten maid, and visited Wylla often with her many quiet woes.

The newly lengthened skirts were fashioned to spite her—surely. How was a girl meant to walk with so much silken cloth tangling at her slippered feet? Gone were her laced boots and thick stockings that warded off the chill of the Vale. Now Daella was cursed with a monthly rag between her thighs and silk that prickled her skin like a thousand marching ants.

Could anyone fault her for pouting so fiercely?

Her father could–plainly. He sat across from her in the wheelhouse—too stiff with age for horseback—fixing her with that weary, Arryn-stern stare that simultaneously frightened, and riled her ever growing anguish. The chill seeped through every seam of the carriage; the sway was worse still, tossing her like a sack of barley. And her so-called womanly garments did little and less to ease her misery.

“I do not see why we must ride to the Gates simply to greet Ned. On every other return, he had been welcomed at the Eyrie,” Daella said. The words left her lips smooth as polish–yet beneath, like cracked stone, the truth lay bare and ugly. They were poor lies indeed. She knew full well as to the reason for this journey; she only wished to deny it for as long as she might. In her mindseye: he was her foster brother still. Good mannered Ned, whom pulled at his nail bed, and kissed at his teeth.

“You wish to have this conversion again?” Lord Arryn asked plainly, disamused–yet his feathers laid unruffled still.

Daella turned her chin aside, a demure rebellion, a quiet surrender. Her tongue had grown a will of its own these last few moons of newly discovered womanhood. It either twisted itself into dreadful knots–or loosened so wildly she feared it might tumble straight out from behind her teeth.

They sat in silence. A weighty, suffocating silence that chilled worse than the coming snows. Daella was not pleased with these shared silences she and her father had come to share–though the truth of it was she was displeased with most things as of late. Frustration prickled and borrowed beneath skin, more maddening than the silk at her wrists, and far more difficult to ignore. The wheelhouse rocked, her belly ached, and she wished this whole wretched journey to the Seven Hells.

The Gates of the Moon were just as Daella had remembered from the previous snows the prior year–grayer, more muted than the marbled brightness of the Eyrie, though warmer, in then strange way the castle always seemed to be. Still, its stones seemed to hold a forever chill that no hearth’s flame could mend. Once arrived, Daella’s mantle dragged behind every hurried step she took through the solemn castle, the deep Arryn-blue velvet with its fur lining. Warmer than silk, yes–but heavier than any garment ever laid upon her shoulders. She clutched it with both gloveless hands, shoulders taut to keep from tripping over the sweeping folds.

Truly, it begged the question: why must noblewomen be expected to live in a perpetual state of fearing a fall simply because their clothing demands it?

The thought made Daella huff, the sound echoing softly in the empty corridor–half exasperation, half rebellion, but entirely her.

She had scowled when she learned the traveling party had not yet arrived, still only moments away–she was to wait, she was to face Ned on her lonesome whilst her father lingered comfortably in the wheelhouse. Daella was not one to scorn, but the cold winds caught at the few pale curls that had escaped her impossible tight hairstyle–and bit unpleasantly at the tip of her nose and the high apples of her cheeks.

Another dreadful addition to a bloody cunt. Hair must be pinned up, veiled or netted–so said every Septa in the Vale and Reach alike. Daella longed for the days of comfort, and smoothed a hand over the silken hair her newest ladies-maid had combed back from her brow–only to shove it down to rest in the velvet folds of her mantle once she’d caught herself.

With a pitched mouth; Daella spared a glance at Ser Kyle Royce, whom stood absent-mindedly with the quiet patience of a man long used to drafts and waiting, his bronze armor etched in ancient runes. She then gave a faint nod of respect–for if there was one garment she thought to be far more unruly than gowns, it was armor.

She saw the solemn grey direwolf of House Stark crest the rise before seeing the riders themselves atop their mounts–a great show of banner and men-at-arms, far grander than any escort fit for a mere second son of Winterfell. It made Daella all the more nervous, and all the more perplexed when she failed to pick out the familiar shape of her foster brother among the impassive crowd.

She descended the steps herself then, wearing the polished poise of the Eyries’s heir–though she stopped short of the damp soil at the base. Daella lifted her chin, folded her hands at her belly as a Lady ought, and hoped the attendants failed to notice the faint tenseness of her brow, and the whitening of her knuckles. And she waited for the man in the deep grey cloak and direwolf sigil to dismount from his grey-and-white stallion.

He stalked toward her, expressionless lest the tightness beneath the stubble and the refusal to meet her eye–his gloved fingers curled, her mindseye heard the strain of the worn leather, his boots dully thud against the soils damped from morning dew, and the pleat that rested on his shoulders shifted with each purposeful step. She required a breath before she spoke–and prayed her cheeks had not bloomed from the chill alone. “Lord Eddard,” she said, far too timid and soft than her father would have said it. But his steps ceased at the address all the same. And only then did he look at her–truly look.

His eyes were the same grey she had known since childhood, yet colder still... familiar, yet somehow foreign. A friend’s eyes, but a stranger’s gaze. As though he no longer recognized her at all.

“It is.. a pleasure to see you once more, my lord,” Daella found herself saying demurely, falling back upon her many lessons on lady-like etiquette and courtesy as a sort of cushioning. Eddard blinked at the pleasantry, and she bore witness to the stoicism fade and melt like the snows come spring–and there, laid beneath it all, was Ned.

“I had begun to suspect the winds of sweeping you away,” she added, an attempt at good humor that did not go unnoticed.

He smiled–faintly, but undeniably still. “I apologize if my tardiness interrupted your embroidery lessons, my lady,” he said–his voice so newly deepened by late youth that the tease flew over her head like a rook from the Eyrie’s rookery.

“I do not know how to embroider,” she corrected softly, a faint crease forming between her brow–hands clasping more vigorously at her belly.

“Mayhaps that is why you need the lessons.”

Daella sighed once she understood, chin dipping from its once proud stance. “You jest,” she murmured softly–cheeks warmed to a dusk rose.

“I did not think myself subtle,” Ned said, having the nerve to laugh at her naivety–he took a step forward, smile slipping, and Daella forced her slippered feet to stay rooted on the cold stone of the steps beneath her. He was so terribly, horribly handsome now–gone were his full cheeks, and earnest eyes. His hair was long–longer than she had ever seen it–the tips brushed his broad shoulders and shadowed his neutral expression. What stood before her was a man, in truth–one so similar to Robert in stature, but she hoped, no, prayed it not be in nature. “If you wish for formality, Ella... I will never begrudge you that right.”

Daella said naught–her tongue twisting itself like a serpent's tail. Ned reached for her hand then, gloved his were but larger than even that of her father’s–and warmer still. She kissed her teeth when he kissed her knuckles; “My betrothed,’ he murmured for her ears alone, and she inclined her head in courtesy.

“My betrothed,” she returned.

-

“I have missed you, in truth, Ned–the Eyrie has been so terribly empty without you,’ Daella confessed as the pair walked through the Gates of the Moon. The stone walls were grayer still, the draft familiar now, no longer something she bothered to dislike. She did not dare take his arm–though she wished he had offered it–but they walked slowly, side by side.

“You did not have the stable boy to keep you company,” he murmured. She might have taken it for a jest, but his tone was so utterly disamused. When she glanced at his profile, he was not smiling either. What an odd thing to say…

“Do you mean Wylla’s boy?” she asked. Wylla had a son–near Daella’s age, mayhaps a year or two younger–who used to join her for games of Enter My Castle. He had worked in the stables once, but had not set foot in the Eyrie in years. “I’ve seen naught of him since long before you left. Wylla tells me he is a squire in the Westerlands now.”

Ned nodded, eyes downcast, his jaw drawn tight–but easing after a quiet moment. “Quite the achievement,” he said. “His father was a knight, as I recall.”

“Yes,” Daella answered softly, “Died from spring fever, not a year's past. A terrible tragedy.”

There was a pause–and silence settled then–one of those heavy, waterlogged pauses she knew too well, like a tide pulling downward with the intent to drown. It pressed at her ribs, and she swallowed before she spoke again, if only to spare both the discomfort. “I.. hope Storm’s End was not such a disheartening journey,” she offered, “I was not able to make the trip myself, but I sent Lord Baratheon a letter of condolence. And to Lord Stannis as well.”

“It was well enough,” Ned said without pause, nodding in that stiff, dutiful way that told her he was reciting rather than recalling the events of Lord and Lady Baratheon’s funeral. “Robert is… handling it better than expected. Lordship, however, is something he must grow accustomed to.”

Daella nodded at the politeness required of her–nothing more, she could not stomach more pretending, especially regarding such matters. Truth be, she had little interest in the wild griefs and wilder tempers of Robert Baratheon. She pitted Storm’s End, however. And the Stormlands as a whole. Its people foremost, and only. “I am sure he will adjust… with time,” she said, her voice even, fingers intertwining themselves at her belly once more–lightly at first, then tighter, as if she were willing herself together beneath the layers of velvet and duty. A child’s gesture forged into a Lady’s posture.

Daella thought then–briefly, distantly–of Robert, of the corridors she now walked, silk and velvet whispering at her slippered feet, wrapping her throat. The silence that now settled between them went unnoticed, though it was not entirely unpleasant. Not at all. Yet somehow, she felt as if she were being crushed by it.

“Ah, there he is,” Lord Arryn murmured once they’d reached the outer courtyard–weakly, yes, but with pride that lifted his tired, wrinkled features nevertheless. He approached Ned with an unhurried step whilst the mounts behind them stamped their hooves into the damp soils in growing impatience, eagerly awaiting for the greetings to conclude.

Daella graciously accepted a carrot from her lady’s maid and offered it to her mare–a beautiful beast of the same mountain-bred silver stocks as Ned’s grey-and-white stallion, bred for the mountain paths of the Vale, sure-footed and nimble where larger destriers would never dare set hoof along the narrowed paths. A foolish thought struck her then, warm and unbidden, as the mare nuzzled eagerly at her palm: mayhaps the two might breed yet. She banished the notion at once however, cheeks blooming with warmth beneath the chill, even as her mare’s soft muzzle lingered in gentle gratitude.

Once the stable lad stepped forward, Daella reluctantly allowed him to lead the mare back toward the wheelhouse. The horse had been fed and watered, but guilt tugged Daella all the same. She laid one last apologetic pat along the mare’s neck before the poor creature would be asked to face the steep climb back up the Giant’s Lance after the long descent earlier that very same morn.

“Do you no longer ride?” Ned had asked when Daella had rejoined them. She huffed softly at the notion, cutting a brief but pointed glance in her father’s direction before answering, “Only when it is proper, Lord Eddard.”

Ned smiled–amused, but not unkind–and dipped his head politely in quiet understanding.

-

Daella had watched Ned atop his stallion in brief, stolen moments through the wheelhouse window on the long climb up the Giant’s Lance. She was careful about it–always waiting until her father was absorbed in politics, in discussing some household tally upon deaf ears, or drifted into one of his frequent bouts of slumber. Only then would she let her curious gaze slip outward.

He rode well. Far better than the boy she remembered tumbling from a gentle Vale palfrey and landing face-first in the mud. Robert had laughed so hard he’d near toppled from his own mount, but Daella recalled the sharp, sickening drop of her belly once Ned had lifted his head, nose cracked and bloodied, already swelling askew. His child’s teeth landed in the palm of his hand as he’d spit them out. His adult canines came soon still, but she wondered now if the thin scar that once traced across the bridge of his nose still remained. If it did, she had not thought to search for it. Or perhaps she simply had not dared to.

The thought lingered with her throughout the ascent. And followed still through the welcome feast that had followed. Ned had scarcely managed a moment for himself, let alone her. Duty swept him from one courtesy to the next until eventually he vanished into the bustle of the high hall like a grey-cloaked shadow.

Before long, Daella found herself shepherded to the chilled, quiet comfort of her bedchamber. The sun had dipped behind the horizon and the steep, marbled walls reflected the warm glow of the many candles that were alight whilst her lady’s maid worked to dry Daella’s pale hair with soft linen. The rose-scented warmth of her bath still clung to her skin, but the coming snows still nipped at the tips of her fingers and toes. Once the lady’s maid aided in dressing Daella in a fresh chemise and placed a clean rag between her thighs, she left, and the future Lady Arryn was too weary from travel to dwell on how terribly empty her chamber had become.

That is, not until she slipped beneath the coverlet of her feather bed, eyes closing with appending slumber–and even then her dreams turned against her as her body had. The unease was minor at first. A ripple beneath the surface.

She dreamed of the Gate of the Moon; her feet were small, bare, legs so short that even the simple act of running became a tedious, clumsy pursuit. Yet the smack of each step echoed off the greyed stone walls regardless, and her own laughter–breathless and child-like–trailed behind her like a ribbon in the wind. The ceiling stretched impossibly, outrageously high from her reduced height, soaring upward into a hazy void in which feathers floated down like winter’s snow. Falcon feathers; soft and pale–untethered–plucked and discarded.

Hands swept in from the blur of grey and white–closing around her throat, familiar but wrong. A choke disguised as kindness. She squeezed her eyes shut from the shock of it–but when she opened them, the blue of Robert’s eyes stared down upon her. Not the boy she remembered, but something larger, more blurred, more evil and violent in its intensity. As if he had stepped out of a memory only to twist into something more monstrous.

He meant to kill her, she knew. She felt it in the crushing pressure, in the way her small, fragile limbs frailed hopelessly–in the ringing panic that filled the vacant halls.

Something in the way her bones cracked before she woke told Daella he’d succeeded. And though she laid safely in her feather bed, in her ancestral home, with Robert leagues away tucked behind the damp walls of Storm’s End–Daella still could not breath.

She struggled–for a moment. Sitting upright with the featherbed with a heaving chest and tight belly, wrapped in the suffocating tangle of coverlet and pillow, her chemise clinging to the dampness of her skin, pale cheeks tacky with tears long shed. Daella moved when she remembered how–swiftly, and with a quiet sort of haste–minding neither the chill nor her own modesty as she slipped from her apartments without candle nor guide.

She walked the halls like a somber ghost, her bare feet whispering over cold stone as she descended the marbled steps of the Maiden’s Tower. The winds of the moon door whistled thinly through the dark of the slumbering castle, but Daella passed the High Hall without a moment’s pause, crossing the cold, dimly lit corridor that housed the steep, winding stars of the neighboring tower.

Most would be lost within the Commander’s Tower, especially in the owl’s hour–but Daella had walked these halls before: in candlelight, in moonlight, in the bright of day. She had hidden behind these sharp, stone laid corners in childhood games, had slipped past armored guards on stormy nights. There were no guards here now, however, not as there had been when she was small–but her reason for coming remains all the same.

She found the plain oaken door with ease–his door–and Daella raised a trembling hand, fingers curling hesitating into a loose fist, and knocked. Once, quick and unsure–then twice more. Her fingers moved eagerly whilst her mind practiced restraint. However, silence answered the call of knuckle and wood.

Jeyne had once told her beneath the spring blooming branches within the embrace of the Godswood, that Northern boys did not rouse quite so easily as Southron lads. By her sly tone and slyer smile, Daella had not thought she meant from slumber. The memory flickered strangely in the draft of the Commanders Tower, half-formed, half-understood. She knocked again–less meekly, but keeping the same pattern of unsureness. And for a heartbeat, she thought it would go unanswered once more—but then; the faint rustle of linen whispered behind the thick wood, soft footfall followed suit, and the rusted iron hinge gave a groan as the door began to open.

Ned’s solemn features were shadowed by the late hour; the moon, bright and full, spilled through the narrow window of his chamber, casting the outline of his figure–and mussed wisps of his dark hair–in silver-gold. He was still wrapped in the fog of sleep, and said naught when he found a slip of a girl standing just past the threshold of his private chamber.

His confusion was soft, yet clear–unmistakable. He seemed caught in the snare of it—frozen, and unsure. Gray eyes, heavy-lidded and bleary, swept over her form before his brows drew tighter. Lips parting just barely with the breath of words, half-formed and misshapen… yet they would never come to pass.

Daella did not want the rejection, if it were to be so. So she stepped forward–quiet and demure in her determination–and slipped past the narrow opening between his body and the oaken doorframe. His knuckles brushed the thin linen of her loose chemise as his hand hung limp at his side. The accidental touch was a torch beneath her bare feet, sparking through her like fresh fire, and she startled, scurrying deeper into the chamber like a frightened sept mouse.

She climbed into the featherbed as if it were her own, small fingers clutching the coverlet as she slid beneath it, engulfed by the lingering warmth his body had left behind upon the finely woven sheets. Not until she was swallowed by it did she dare spare a glance Ned’s way–wide-eyed, mouth pitched and sealed tight, bracing for quiet ire or northern displeasure.

Daella was met with neither…

Ned sighed–whether it be from the long journey or from her invasion upon his bed, she could not say with certainty. Yet he stepped toward the featherbed all the same, lifting the coverlet in quiet acceptance, letting a brief shiver of chill spill in only to replace it with his form. In his tunic and undershorts, her betrothed slipped beneath the thick fabric, shifting closer still–offering warmth simply because it was needed.

The nearness did not frighten her–no, quite the opposite. He smelled of mountain air, and worn leather–clean linen underlined with the steady scent of sweat and skin. It was not a scent she had ever known before, but her belly twisted and cheeks warmed whilst he settled as though she had always been there. His head sinking into the pillows with a tired ease, as she lowered her own to rest upon his broadened shoulder, as though guided by something older, and far more comforting, than mere memory.

His arm slipped beneath her, his hand resting at the slight slope of her waist. The touch drew a memory she did not want–Robert’s hands, greedy and violent–and for a breath she almost fled. But Ned’s palm was warm through the thin linen, steady and gentle, and the fear ebbed. Her eyes drooped instead.