She'd never ventured south before and her nose wrinkled at the thought. What does the south have that the north doesn't? Warmth, mayhaps– but you can easily make that with a fire! Pretty silks and lots of fruit, she was told. Shera wasn't entirely sure what use she would have for pretty silks, as they'd dirty right away if she ventured in the snow– and fruit. Surely there wasn't anything better than freshly picked blackberries and blueberries.
The little girl couldn't sit still in the wheelhouse as she poked her head to the sliding wood window, brown eyes trying to gauge the landscape. It was certainly green! They had been on the road for a moon and a half and Shera was about to pull out her hair from boredom. The stewardess, Warra, that her father had stowed away with her for the journey, irritated Shera to no end.
'Sit down!'
'Stitch inward, not outward.'
'You're fraying the thread, be gentle.'
If looks could kill, the poor stewardess would be dead within the first week of the journey. Warra glared back at the impudent child, thinking the exact same thought.
"You must be Shera Stark," a young woman cooed, who had greeted the little girl at her arrival to the keep. Her hair was the same shade as Shera's. She was dressed in a green dress, and it reminded the little girl of the pine forests beyond Winterfell. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Nice to meet... you," Shera returned, curtsying with a small wobble. "M'lady."
Shera felt an odd connection to the woman almost instantaneously, her arms held out for a hug. At the age of five, she was still very much a baby, and craved the warm touch of another person. "Are you my mumma now?" she whispered.
"Oh," the woman murmured. "You may call me Alicent," she added, looking slightly confused at the little girl's request for an embrace. Alicent stared at the child for a moment, seeing herself reflected in her huge brown eyes. She scooped her up and held Shera to her hip. "It's scary being here all alone, isn't it?"
–
The south was no place for a wolf, she feared. Not only her own wolf, but herself as well. She heard their whispers as she arrived in the city, the stares of prying eyes, wishing to catch a glimpse of the infamous Banshee of Winterfell.
'Twas an ugly name, Shera thought. Banshees were decrepit creatures with haunting yowls and spindling claws like cracked branches– was she truly so ugly? She hardly spoke, no less screamed, lest she awaken the still tender pain against her neck. Sometimes she would hum a broken tune from her girlhood days, but she would hardly call that a song.
The journey had taken over half a moon and was as agonizingly long as she remembered from her girlhood, even more so now. Cregan opted to leave her alone in the wheelhouse while he rode outside on his horse. She'd much rather be upon horseback than in the sweltering carriage— the movements made her ill, and she spent much of the time with her face firmly supplanted into Moongeist's fur.
Jacaerys had offered to take Shera to King's Landing by dragonback before they left.
"It would be a much faster and easier journey, my lady. It is even easier than riding horseback." he exclaimed, his dragon just now grown enough to saddle two. Vermax loomed in the background on the snow laden grass, sniffing the air and making soft trilling noises. He reminded Shera of a whippoorwill.
"I... I would very much love to, my prince— but I would be blind without Moongeist with me upon arrival and I do not think Vermax would take kindly to another passenger who weighs more than you and I — and is a wolf." she said softly. Shera wished to keep both feet supplanted on the ground— she would never acclimate to flying upon a dragon or being ferried by ship. She was prone to seasickness, and imagined dragonback no different.
Moongeist pressed to her hip, guiding her and keeping her on a straight path. Shera's fingers laced through the thick fur of the wolf, who'd become somewhat of a guardian for her since the incident ten years ago. The loss of vision in her eye threw off her calibration of the world, often leaving her lost and clinging to walls. Cregan had procured the wolf as a pup, six moons after Shera's return to Winterfell– she hardly remembered Moongeist as a puppy, as she lived on milk of the poppy and venison stew broth for a year.
The now gigantic wolf, Cregan citing him as a Winter King's direwolf, acted as Shera's eyes and balance. She could still see , of course, out of one eye– but her chronic pain debilitated her, rendering her into that sobbing, sniffling, poppy-addled child she was a decade ago. Cregan, whom Shera hardly knew when she returned, was very much the depiction of an angry wolf, pacing back and forth in the maester's chambers for weeks. She didn't remember much during those months, but she remembered the movement of Cregan's shadow, bristled and looming like a creature out of fantasy.
And now she had returned to the place that started it all– 'twas her home for eight years. Cregan was here, too, meeting with the Queen and Princess Rhaenyra on matters pertaining to Shera's betrothal, a sign of goodwill from Alicent to somehow mend the rift between the Starks and the crown.
It all seemed very dreary to Shera. She didn't wish to be looked at, perceived, much less married to a man, to whom she would have to share the intimacies of her disfiguration with and lay bare beneath.
Shera walked through the halls of Keep, fingers skimming over the familiar yet so foreign stone.
She looked very much like a ghost or banshee in her gown and veil, one she preferred to wear to conceal her scars, flitting through the corridors. She was often dreamy eyed, when people did see her eyes, and certainly was a touch maddened — especially since the accident at Driftmark.
She was a quiet, solemn woman now, tamed by the Queen into a proper young lady as a child under almost solely Queen Alicent's eye as her ward— an unexpected oath that Viserys upheld, as he'd made a promise to Rickon Stark, the girl's father, many years before. She had come to King's Landing at the tender age of five.
Alicent brought up Shera as she saw fit—sheltered and safe, softening her rough edges and wild nature. Shera became the perfect Hightower daughter that Alicent never had, who attended prayer, read the Pointed Star of the Seven front to back and served the Gods with honor, much to the chagrin of Cregan once she returned.
She adjusted her veil as she walked towards the holdfast, thankful for the shield from the resplendent sun. Her hair was coiled into a braided bun, pinned with silver jewelry.
Shera was much a Northern lady in her appearance now, with copper hair in billowing curls. Her hair hadn't been trimmed much in her lifetime, and when unleashed from its braided confines, it would fall past her bottom. Her unblind eye was a deep brown, edging on black, and her blind one was a milky, pupil-less blue.
Her stomach churned with anticipation and she mostly felt like vomiting. Her hands were now clenched together tightly, white knuckled, as to distract herself. She wished to see the Queen first— a way to anchor herself to reality, and would be the easiest, along with Helaena, to reacquaint herself with.
As she reached the corridor that held the queen's chambers at the end, it was oddly bereft of people. She watched as the heavy doors swung open and a svelte figure dressed in black receded from the solar. She blinked profusely, seeing the white hair, long and taken pristine care of— and pin straight. That couldn't be Aegon, could it?
The figure turned after closing the doors, facing Shera's direction, who was still at the very end of a long corridor. It was not Aegon. The leather eyepatch gave it away instantly— Aemond. He had gotten tall, much taller than she by at least a foot.
They made eye contact, violet to brown— he paused, lips pursed. His form went rigid as he clearly acknowledged her presence; but said nothing.
Shera said nothing, either. The wind was taken out of her lungs, stolen by him, it seemed.
His one eye widened in surprise, then narrowed. She couldn't parse the nature of his expression besides cold, hard steel. His fists clenched and unclenched— and he walked away in the other direction, a corridor off to the left, towards the ramparts. Away from Shera. Purposefully.
"A-Aem," she attempted to raise her voice to call to him, but was stopped by the sting of pain. "Aem—!" she croaked again, persisting past her limits.
He looked at her again and kept going, going... until he was out of sight. Gone.
Shera wracked a cough, clutching her throat. What... was that? Did he just flee from her? She pushed her utter confusion (and ever creeping despair) aside, knocking on the queen's door.
A handmaiden, Talya, answered. "Her grace is expecting company— if you haven't a prior engagement, you must return later."
"'Tis... 'tis the company," Shera murmured, suppressing the urge to hack up a lung. "Shera Stark."
The handmaiden's eyes widened with a gleam of recognition, confusion, and then pity— she stepped aside, bowing her head.
How Shera tired of those expressions being thrown in her direction. She passed through the threshold, a shaky hand gripped into Moongeist's fur.
"Oh— Shera?" Alicent echoed, standing up from the settee she was perched upon. She was radiant , to say the least— her hair was shorter than it had been before, but she hadn't aged much. Aside from a lingering shadow beneath her eyes and in the depths of her irises. She was tired . "By the Seven, I hardly recognized you, my dear."
"Your grace," Shera whispered in greeting, once again curtsying with wobbly legs. As much as she anticipated seeing Aemond, she wished it'd been after she greeted his mother— she felt the part of a ruffled hen, her fragile demeanor temporarily cracked. "It's... good to see you— you haven't aged a day."
Alicent rushed to her, only slightly phased by Moongeist, who stood now off to the side in preparations for the Queen's no doubt touchy-feely welcome. "Your voice," Alicent murmured, her large brown eyes wide, lips downturned. "It's... you're very quiet now, my sweet." she swallowed, putting her arms around the woman— who now, inherently flinched. Shera, as a child, loved to be showered in physical affection, and loved to be hugged, kissed and snuggled by Alicent. But now, she flinched. Only for a moment— she had to get used to it again, she was much a spooked horse, skittish.
Shera nodded slowly as Alicent led her to sit. "Yes— I... I cannot sing any longer, I am deeply sorry, your grace." she looked down at her hands.
Shera loved to sing as a child, Aemond listening to her songs, usually ones associated with the Faith of the Seven, and hummed along while he studied. They were both outcasted children, bullied and poked at to a point where they recused themselves into one another, communicating in a language that they made up— a combination of High Valyrian, which Aemond had lovingly taught Shera at the same time he was learning it, and gibberish.
"It was a terrible thing, what happened that day," the queen said, pouring them both tea. "It was a terrible thing with naught justice brought."
Shera sipped at the tea, letting out a soft sigh as the warm liquid soothed her irritated throat. "... I remember nary a bit, your grace— only..." she clenched the cup tightly, the memories of that day flooding back.
"You!" one of the twins bellowed.
"'Tis I."
"You claimed my mother's dragon– you stole Vhagar!"
"You cannot steal a dragon." Shera huffed, proverbial feathers already fluffed.
"I do not remember." Shera corrected herself.
"I wish I could forget– I still remember it... all too well." Alicent echoed. "... you must know, I– we rejoiced with the Gods when we heard we hadn't lost you. I am remiss that we did not get a chance to say goodbye, though."
The scream that she would never forget– the slash of Lucerys' blade piercing and mangling Aemond's eye.
It was a wail that haunted her dreams still.
Shera could hardly react– did they want to kill him? Were they going to kill her? She moved, shoving Lucerys down, his head hitting the wall, the blade skidding in the dust. Where were the guards? Where were the adults? Where was anyone?
As Lucerys began to cry, blood trickling from his head, Jacaerys went into a rage– fists swinging with a crooked look in his eye that Shera was afraid he would kill her. If she were to die in a skirmish, she would go down with a fight! Barreling toward Jace, she supplanted her weight into the center of his chest, scratching at his face and snapping her jaws like a rabid dog.
Then she was pushed back– but not by Jacaerys. 'Twas Baela, the more brazen of the dragon twins. She shoved Shera back, brandishing the same dagger that Lucerys had used– it was still dripping with Aemond's blood. She wasn't as close as they had been, but the cut was the same, slitting up Shera's eye as her vision filled with blood. She felt dizzy and could hardly hear herself scream over Aemond's wails– she was silent, sputtering for breath.
"Kill her! She's going to tell on us, Baela!" one of the other kids had cried. Shera couldn't remember who.
Her body went into shock– she didn't even feel the knife slice her throat, her mumbles coming out as garbled choking, spitting up blood–
Her hand went to her throat absentmindedly, feeling the raised scar where she'd been slashed by that damned knife. The maesters said it was an act of the Gods that it didn't hit a prominent vein— but as the Gods give, they taketh away. She couldn't sing any longer, nor hardly talk above a whisper, and was not able to see out of one of her eyes. It wasn't taken out like Aemond's, but muted into a milky blue color.
"... I've missed you much, your grace," Shera uttered, her hand snaking to Alicent's as she clutched it with a small tremble.
"We cannot change the past, Shera– we can only... forge our future," Alicent returned her squeeze with a smile, brows downturned. "... do you wish to marry him, my dear?"
Shera breathed audibly. Did she want to? Was that her wish? No– of course it wasn't. It wasn't– Jace had changed much since the incident on Driftmark, but she feared how to tell him that she would wake up sobbing from nightmares about him , about him and his brother and his cousins, brutalizing her. It was twisted, in truth, how when they would share a bed, how they would have to conceive an heir, how she would have to let him touch her. He would be gentle, she knew, he would let her take her time and be studious and princely and all the things encompassing the future King after his mother– but she wouldn't be able to truly look at him without thinking of that, of the pain, the blood filling her throat, gurgling and drowning in her own life's essence–
"... yes, your grace." Shera responded. "I wish to... marry Jacaerys Velaryon and mend the rift between the crown and the Starks."
Alicent's brow furrowed and she regarded Shera for a long moment before nodding. "Then... it shall be done."
–
Shera felt her skin prickle into goosebumps as she left the queen's solar. She felt flustered, like she'd been pricked in the bum by a thousand needles– she sorely needed to go to the Weirwood and pray. As she turned to abscond to the ramparts, she was stopped. A pair of arms boxed her against the wall, the scent of dragon and sandalwood overwhelming her senses. Moongeist let out a growl at the intruder, but Shera silenced him with a hand gesture. She knew who it was, of course– she carefully lifted her gaze to him. Aemond.
"Ñuha dārilaros," My prince, she murmured in High Valyrian– she had rehearsed her greeting to him so many times over the years in her head. Her eyes roved over his form, taking in all of the changes of nearly a decade. He was tall, so much taller than she was now, his once curled hair straightened to a point. His aquiline nose led to his mouth, pursed in anticipation, in challenge . "... it's good to see you."
Aemond's brow furrowed, his hands still boxing in, as if he were the wolf and she the prey. He looked like a shadow of the boy she once knew— he had all the makings of a predator now, a true dragon in his own right. "Shera," he grunted. "I'm surprised you remember our lessons, I can't imagine you use it much anymore, talking to weirwood trees and wolves, or not talking much at all, I've heard." his voice was so laissez-faire, but it held an unmistakable edge to it, like a sheathed blade.
Her jaw clenched at his tone. She wasn't expecting a warm reunion like no time had passed, but she wasn't expecting to be iced out, either. Her mouth twinged in irritation, bleeding into a pang of sorrow in her chest. They had been so close all those years ago, so close that at times it felt they were fused as one— was he so unhappy to see her? She instinctively thumbed over her choker again, poking the tip of her finger into the cool threading to anchor herself. Moongeist pressed to her hip, sensing her change in emotion. The wolf stared at Aemond before nudging Shera's hand atop his head in an effort to calm her. "I may not speak it much anymore... but I still remember. We learned it together."
Aemond's hand reached out to inspect the veil concealing her face between his thumb and forefinger, as if testing its worth. His violet eye roamed over the outline of her face— he couldn't quite see all of her from behind the wretched garment, which seemingly agitated him. "You always had such an excellent memory, my lady. You look much like the banshee they say you are with this... veil. Why do you insist on wearing such a thing, it mustn't be so terrible under there, is it? Not like mine– they took it out. I heard you still have yours, don't you?" he paused, "Why have you returned?" he tugged on the laced curtain, earning him an annoyed whine from Shera and a rumbling growl from Moongeist. He was so callous now, so rough— like unhewn wood, splintering at the edges.
"I wear it for the same reason you wear your eyepatch– It appears that my brother, your mother and sister, as well as the Gods have other plans for me. I'm to be betrothed." Shera whispered back, her hand going to her throat as she felt an acute pain from raising her voice a bit too high.
Aemond's pupil wavered as he looked her over, concerned over her mewl of pain, then the realization of what she'd said coming over him. "Betrothed," he said, his voice flat and clipped. "Betrothed," he repeated again, his grip on her veil increasing. "And who is it? Who dares to try and claim the banshee of Winterfell? I always thought it would be me to claim you, hm? But you ran away to the North and replaced me with a dog." he eyed the giant black and gray wolf with a curled lip.
A flush of heat came to her cheeks. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me such things, it's a nasty name. I didn't expect you of all people to pay attention to court gossip," she scoffed. "It's none of your concern whom I'm to marry, Aemond." Shera let out a breath.
"Who. Is. It?" he continued, spitting each word through gritted teeth.
"That isn't for me to say. Your mother wishes to announce it formally at dinner tonight." Shera distanced herself from him as he rescinded now, allowing her some breathing room. She smoothed down her dress and fixed her veil. She sighed inwardly, based on his reaction now, that once Alicent announces her betrothed tonight, he will lose it. She can only speculate how severely he will react when he finds out that his once close companion is being betrothed to someone he loathes.
He squinted slightly, resting his hands behind his back, foot planted carefully on the ground. "I pray then," he said with somewhat condescension, "that they aren't terribly important— all the easier for them to be charred fodder for Vhagar's belly."
Shera snorted, twisting her sapphire signet ring on her middle finger, shaking her head. "You jest, my prince."
"Not a jest, sweet wolf. Think of it as a promise."
"You cannot," she glanced up, her veil rippling with the sudden movement of her head. "You're unbelievable, do you know that?"
"What is so unbelievable about my promise?"
"You act as if you have a claim over me, Aemond," she whispered his name, her voice taut as she swallowed a sting of pain from the sudden change in tone. "No one has a claim over me, least of all you." she coughed, her hand clutching her throat as she awkwardly took in a breath, stretching the limits of her injured vocal cords. Shera let out a strained sigh, shaking her head.
Aemond's nostrils flared at her words, his jaw clenching. "No one? And yet, you let your brother sell you off like a broodmare. Or mayhaps a prized bitch." he glanced at the wolf at their feet. "You'll let him sully you? That basta–,"
Another voice broke the heated conversation. "Brother," a cool tone said. It was Rhaenyra, on her way to Alicent's solar. "... Shera." she squinted slightly, violet eyes darting between Moongeist and the pair.
"Sister." Aemond responded, clipped and short.
"Princess," Shera greeted shakily, bowing her head.
"We shall see you tonight at dinner, won't we, Aemond?" Rhaenyra asked, cocking her head.
"I suppose I can be persuaded. I'm quite busy, though and don't have much time for idle pleasantries." he dipped his head, facing away from Shera now. "Ladies." he bid his farewell, stalking off like a half-cocked dragon.
Once he was out of earshot, Rhaenyra leaned close to Shera. "You should steer clear of my brother. You were companions once— but he's different now," she paused, taking a breath. "I only have your best interest at heart, dearest. For you and Jace."
"... thank you, princess," Shera swallowed, grasping her skirts. "I will... keep that in mind."
Rhaenyra gave a nod before disappearing into Alicent's chambers– leaving behind an exceedingly frazzled Shera, who retreated to the Godswood.
–
Kneeling down before the ancient weirwood, she clasped her hands together. "For guidance... for peace..." she murmured, staring at the face etched into the red wood, its eyes bleeding. It felt familiar, in a way.
"So, which is it? The Old Gods, or the new?" a deep voice interjected into her prayers. She didn't recognize it at all. Glancing over, she took in the figure of an older man, dressed in black leather and cloth with white hair cropped to his shoulders. A sword was strapped to his waist. Dark Sister.
"Prince Daemon," Shera sighed, not entirely up to verbally spar with the Rogue Prince. "... I am praying to the Old Gods, as is custom in the North."
"Ah? And here I'd heard you were quite the little septa in your youth, singing hymns like a... delightful little sparrow."
"... that isn't untrue– I... I hold both the Old and new ways–"
"What does your brother think of such a thing? Northerners are so rigid in their worship."
"It isn't my brother's concern–"
"Well, mayhaps you shall start learning of the Valyrian gods, if you're to be married to Jacaerys."
"I know... a few, my prince. Tessarion, Meraxes, Shrykos...." she paused, brow furrowing under her veil. "Vhagar." Shera gave a pointed stare to Daemon.
"Ah, knowledgeable you are. You must be a bookworm like my dear nephew. But, you forgot quite a few– Syrax, Meleys, Arrax, Vermax, Caraxes... the list goes on. I won't fault you for forgetting them. You have quite a few Gods on your plate already, young wolf." Daemon gave a toothy smile, extending his hand to her. It was ungloved and looked calloused, old scars littering over his skin like shells on a beach. "Do you need assistance getting up?"
Against her better judgment, Shera took his hand. It was warm, unnaturally so like all of the Targaryens. He hoisted her up to her feet, steadying her with an overreaching hand upon her waist. It made her skin crawl.
"Very good," he hummed. "Enjoy your prayers, Lady Stark."
Moongeist grumbled uneasily next to her, eyeing the Rogue Prince with a wary amber gaze. Shera felt sick.