The wind had finally died down that day, the trees somewhat still over the horizon. Their branches still wobbled with some errant breeze, whistling through the wood like a song.
The window was pushed outward, the crisp air crossing paths with the smell of smoke, whirling and mingling like lost friends. A small fireplace was warming the room as the lady perched on her windowsill, dark copper curls hanging around her like tendrils. Shera took in a deep breath of air— it was crisp and refreshing, pushing away the errant effects of sleepiness.
Her skin prickled in goosebumps beneath her nightgown as she turned to her bed. A large black mass was snoozing softly still, taking up the majority of the mattress. Slinking over, she snuggled herself close to the giant canine, blowing softly on his muzzle to wake him. Large amber eyes met brown and milky blue, pupils dilating and constricting in tandem, before the wolf let out a sleepy chuff.
"Wake up, my love," Shera whispered, fingers digging into his shaggy mane as she scratched just the right spot. "Moongeist, we must start the day." she hummed.
The direwolf rolled over onto his back, belly exposed to the chilled air. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, one leg kicking as his companion got the one itch just out of reach of his own claws.
"Oh, you're a ham," Shera mumbled into his fur, peppering him with kisses. "You're no wolf, you're a honey glazed ham," she tickled his belly, causing him to let out an almost laughing whine. "With a side of sweet potatoes and winter chard." she rolled next to him, snuggling into him like he was a person. Sprawled out from the tip of his outstretched legs, up to his nose, he outmatched Shera's height by about one and a half feet. Westeros would surely need to watch out if her wolf ever learned to walk on two feet!
They lazed together for the better part of an hour before Shera called in the maids— but not before donning her veil and choker. The maids would only help dress her from the neck down, and were ushered out after for Shera to do her hair alone. She took in a deep breath as they fastened the corset around her form.
"May need to lay off the blueberry hand pies , my lady," one of the maids murmured. "'Tis getting hard to lace you up."
Shera felt a swirling pit in her stomach at the comment— it wasn't a secret that she was no svelte ermine. She had curves and a bit of extra mass in the softer areas of her body, coupled with scarred stretch marks around her sizable bosom and thighs. "... hm." she snorted, not wanting to dignify the maid's comment with a response. This was, unfortunately, the norm. The jabs, the pokes, the insults between sentences— even the serving girls have become brazen, snickering as Shera walked past. She didn't exactly understand it— mayhaps it was because she could hardly speak to defend herself, mayhaps they think her daft and non-understanding of their less than tactful barbs.
As normal as it was, it made it no less tiring. "Just... lace it up," she quipped, a bit too harshly, as she held her thumb and forefinger to her throat at the scratch of pain. "... I have things to attend to..."
"Yes, my lady." the maids responded in tandem, squeezing poor Shera into a corset much too tight.
After they left, Shera picked up a shoe and threw it at the door, startling Moongeist. "Damned ptarmigans... clucking hens... when do they cease?" she groaned, patting the wolf on the head as he, ever dutifully, retrieved her shoe. "I'm... we're the wolves— they're supposed to be afraid of me." she continued, as it usually went. She would whisper and murmur to herself (to Moongeist) while she readied herself. Sitting in front of the open window, her fingers deftly weaved through her auburn locks, working absentmindedly into a braid. She pinned the braid upon her head, glanced at the mirror, then unpinned it.
It became a back and forth task as she meticulously decided on a hairstyle— she wasn't usually so vain , but apparently, Prince Jacaerys was arriving for a meeting. She'd spent some time with him the past few moons as they 'courted'. He was polite, of course, and had grown into himself well since their childhood. But... Shera felt nothing for him, princely charm be damned. And she was increasingly sure he felt the same, more inclined to enjoy the company of Cregan rather than her.
But that was the way of the world, wasn't it? To be trapped in a loveless box for titles, for armies and alliances, for oaths— that was fate. And fate... was usually unchanged. Shera oft cursed the Gods, the Old and the New, for weaving her tapestry of life in such a bereft and depressing manner. If she were to look upon it, it'd be dreary and uncouth, not fit to hang upon a wall, destined to rot and mold in a cellar for eternity.
But what did Shera know of love, anyhow. How could she— for who would love a banshee?
She settled on twin braids that settled upon her back, pinned up into two loops. Adjusting her veil in the mirror and assuring she wasn't too visible, she made for the door, Moongeist pressed to her.
The winding halls of Winterfell had become second nature, muscle memory— but her mind wandered, imploring herself to think... Did she remember such paths at the Red Keep? She hoped her memory, if nothing else, would serve her well one day.
None of the denizens she passed by in the corridors spoke to her, only gave her stiff nods before avoiding her eye line. Was she such an abhorrent sight? Her heels clicked against the stone, fingertips skimming the walls as she stayed close to them, using the familiar winding gait to guide her to the Great Hall. Her stomach grumbled under her tight corset– she hadn't even had time to break her fast before already being shoved to the dragon's maw. She heard the whispers of the 'dashing dragon prince' arriving early, upon his dragon which was the color of a witch's brew, green and sprightly. Shera couldn't help but roll her eyes as she pushed the heavy oaken door to the hall.
Cregan was there, beard trimmed so as to not be unsightly, and laden in dark aurochs fur. Their ancestral weapon, Ice, was strapped to his back like a second spine, rigid and unyielding. He was faced towards the fire in the hearth, while Jacaerys was to his side, the two already deep in conversation.
The sound of the door opening was as good of an indication of her arrival as she would get, and they both turned to her in tandem. Jacaerys, gallant and princely as ever, rushed to her side, but not before stopping a few paces before, as Moongeist was pressed to her thigh with a wary look in his eye.
"My lady," Jacaerys exclaimed, flashing his dazzling smile, his brown mop of curls bouncing as he approached, albeit cautiously. "You look radiant as ever."
Shera's brow rose from under her veil– her facial expressions were hardly seen, and she was able to give her unabashed reactions to things quite often. She was woe to master the art of masking, so she simply did not. He called her radiant – an alluring lie if she ever heard one, he couldn't see her face, how could she possibly be radiant? She presumed his mother had been schooling him in the art of politics. That is what this is, isn't it? It's all just... politicking.
"My prince," Shera responded softly, giving Moongeist an ever subtle command to sit to the side, allowing Jace to take her arm. She didn't much like being touched by other people, it made her skin crawl, but she too needed to... continue the charade. "Thank you– you are quite early, I hope I look... presentable."
"We were waiting for a bit, Shera," Cregan commented offhandedly, cracking his knuckles slightly. He was a bit annoyed, she could tell. "But, ladies do take long to get ready, do they not, my prince?"
"It wasn't a long wait, no worries," Jace responded coolly. "But yes, it takes a small army and frequent turning of an hourglass for my mother to finally be ready. I imagine it's similar for most ladies."
Ah, yes. As if it doesn't take Cregan an hour to pick out his furs for the day, pompous ass. And did Jacaerys don himself in that heavy dragonscale plated armor? Doubtful. Shera suppressed the urge to give an indignant huff. "My... deepest apologies," she murmured. "I do hope my dear brother wasn't such a terrible conversationalist."
Cregan snorted as Jace guided Shera to her seat, pushing it in for her. "My mother– she wishes to meet you, of course," Jacaerys prattled, scooting into the chair next to her (and Cregan). "We are going to go to the Queen for approval for the official betrothal... and subsequent wedding."
Shera blinked slowly as she absorbed the information. She expected to have to meet Princess Rhaenyra at some point and for the Queen to become involved in the betrothal– but the wedding? Subsequent? The nail on her pointer finger dug into the nail bed of her thumb idly, picking, picking, picking as she mulled over her next words. "... will the wedding be soon, my prince?" she asked, sneaking a glance at Cregan, who had a glazed over look in his eye.
"... my mother wishes to secure the... union before her ascension, my lady."
"The King is not yet dead– I don't understand the rush." Shera blurted out, her nail sinking deeper into her flesh. She felt like there was some sort of secret she was not a part of, some undisclosed plan that she wasn't privy to. Oh, yes, of course– she was just the pawn, wasn't she?
"That is well and true– my grandsire, the King, has been in poorly health for the past few years. It is... only a matter of time." Jace stammered, trying to regain the upper hand in the conversation.
"Rhaenyra's ascension will happen sooner than later, Shera. It is only a wish that you and Jacaerys are well bonded by then, mayhaps even producing an heir." Cregan interjected.
She wanted to vomit, she wanted to scream, she wanted to lash out at everyone– she was a vessel, a puppet for a greater vision of Westeros that nobody cared if she was specifically a part of– 'twas only her luck she was the sister of the Warden of the North, who held an amassing army and ferocity for those he was bidden for. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Warmth spread onto her fingertip and Moongeist shuffled at her feet, a low whine coming from the back of his throat. She felt such a rage come over her for a split second, her vision blurring as she felt the overwhelming need to sink her teeth into someone and make them feel her despair.
"Okay." she finally said, her voice sounding far away and small, as if it wasn't even hers.
Jacaerys and Cregan conversated further while Shera stared off into some small point in the distance until her eyes watered from not blinking, blood pooling and staining against her nails.
"Thank you. I must break my fast now," Shera suddenly spoke up, not caring if the two of them were in the middle of a conversation. "We will leave within a fortnight."
The journey from the hall back to her room was a blur, she remembers curtsying to Jacaerys and bidding him goodbye and some other innocuous pleasantries. Sitting back at her desk, she tore off her veil in frustration, bracelets and earrings alike jingling. She put her head in her hands, feeling the all too familiar ache of tears building.
She didn't want to go— why did she have to be married? Why was it her destiny to be a pawn? To be a wife? Especially to someone who was there . Her throat clenched as she tried to hold back the tears— to no avail. They burned and stung, her already tender demeanor withering.
Prying her hands away, she looked over her desk. It was strewn with miscellaneous books to which she struggled to read, along with some half-done charcoal sketches of prospective sewing projects. Shera wasn't known for outbursts, as her quiet and ghostly prefecture was one that stayed in the background of things. But, she felt a roiling in her stomach, wrought over like forged castle steel, molten and aching and hot— it burned in her like a plague, working its way through her and exiting her body in the form of a wail, coupled with her arms sweeping off the contents of her desk to the floor.
The momentary feeling of anguish subsided as soon as it came and her throat ached from her cry. Her eyes felt heavy as she tried to get up and subsequently failed, sinking to the ground like a discarded rag. Moongeist let out a whine, propping his head under Shera's arm, having her rest some of her weight upon him.
"I'm pathetic, my love," she whispered, feeling all the part of a fallen porcelain doll, placated on her bottom upon the floor, legs out in front of her as if she were a child on a playroom floor. "Nothing like the Winter Kings of yore. I'm sorry." Shera's thumb rubbed on the wolf's ear as she wallowed momentarily in self-pity and self-loathing.
Gathering some strength, she pushed the papers below her desk to the side. The sweeping motion befell something new— no, not new. 'Twas old, upon inspection. It was a stack of letters, covered in dust now, but neatly tied together with wool twine. Unveiling one, she skimmed it over to the best of her ability.
Dearest Shera,
It isn't the same without you here. My head hurts all of the time, I keep bumping into things and I can scarcely write. In fact, I am having Helaena pen this to you right now. She says hello.
Mother is in shambles, frayed at the ends like your old blue dinner dress. Her and grandsire are constantly whispering and she cries more often. I think she misses you.
As does Helaena. As do I. Mayhaps even Aegon.
Does your head hurt as well? What do you do to help with the pain? Are you able to walk without bumping into things?
I hope to hear from you soon.
Best,
Aemond Targaryen
That had been the first letter sent to her from King's Landing— Cregan, to his own dismay, sat down and read it to her after she had spinned herself into a crying fit, sending the maesters into a tizzy as she threatened to reopen the stitches upon her throat.
In her poppy-addled young mind, she hadn't recognized that it was not Aemond's writing or words, but most definitely Helaena's, as the letter Shera sent back were those of Cregan, and not hers.
Prince Aemond,
It is an honor to hear from you. I'm recovering quite well, at the behest of my brother. Winterfell is very different from the South, but I am finally finding my footing here in the cold.
I have been a wolf at heart this entire time, like my forefathers.
My ability to walk has been improving, as the maesters here are excellently equipped for such a feat.
It is my hope that we can both find a sense of normalcy in our lives once more.
I wish you well.
Regards,
Shera Stark
She'd hardly remembered when Cregan read it aloud, and she didn't catch the cold, rigid wording, bereft of any warmth and camaraderie that she would have included. Truth be told, at the time of it being written, Shera couldn't even hold her own spoon to sip at bone broth, much less walk.
It was unclear to her still, to this day, why Cregan felt the need to lie about her condition— but it was apparently a well placed one, as the next letter to come was in another tone all together. It was about three moons afterward, and the handwriting was different. It was a bit shaky, but proper and dignified.
Lady Stark,
I am most gracious for your reply. It is a balm to the Queen to hear you are doing well.
Let us both hope we are well on the road to our full recoveries.
Stay warm.
Signed,
Prince Aemond Targaryen
Shera's fingers traced over the letter, she could still recognize it as Aemond's handwriting— but the tone seemed clipped and cold, colder than even Cregan's letter was.
There were a few more envelopes in the stack, but if she remembered correctly, there was nothing of substance. Her chest ached occasionally when she thought about it all— did Aemond think of her still? Or was she just a silly footnote in his life? She abhorred to admit to herself, much less anyone else, that she still did. Aemond Targaryen still had a place in her mind, an undeterred host in the recesses of her brain that she couldn't rid herself of— if she even wanted to. She wondered what he looked like now. Was he finally as tall as Aegon, mayhaps more? Did he finally get his hands upon the book he had been wanting to read? She hoped he spent his days flying upon Vhagar's back— a gift that he had paid the price for.
She did as well. But her price wasn't for Vhagar. It was for Aemond.
Her throat burned and constricted with the threat of tears once more as she pulled herself from the floor, Moongeist's body pressed to her hip to guide her. Padding to the fireplace, which was nursing a few hot coals and sparse flame, she fed the letters into the fire one by one. The flames grew as they burned, the ink upon the pages fettering into nothing but ash and sickly memory.
Were they strangers now?
Does he remember her?
... why does she still wish to see him?
A wolf travels south at the behest of one dragon– but her mind upon another.
How sordid.