Lady Addison Tarth
She left Tarth aboard the Dear Addison, the ship's name painted in a careful hand along the prow, pale against the dark hull. Addison had smiled when she first saw it, and that night she had thanked Selwyn thoroughly for the gift, though she knew it had been her son's winnings that bought the vessel. Even now, as the island fell away behind her and the wind caught at her cloak, the memory of that night lingered like heat beneath the skin.
The ship was bound for the Weeping Town, but her lord husband had indulged her one deviation, a short stop at her girlhood home of Rain House.
Selwyn had been ruffled by her plans as he always was when it came to House Wylde. He could not understand why she still tried with them. It was foolish, he would say, and Addison knew it. Deep in her heart she knew it, but despite being a grown woman with a husband and children of her own, something of the little girl inside her still yearned for that old family.
They put in beneath its familiar cliffs just before dusk that same day. She had been sick all morning on the ship, but seeing that old castle reinvigorated her. Rain House looked much as it always had, the dark stone weather-beaten and covered in ivy, its short towers rising from the ground round and thick like tree trunks.
Her lord uncle received her with that old mixture of formal courtesy and contrived care, as he always had. Lord Lucas Wylde was a dutiful man. He was never unkind to her, but he also never treated her as more than what she was.
The rest of her cousins filled the hall that night, voices overlapping, cups raised. Even Ser Gawen was present, home from Storm's End by chance or fate. As the master-at-arms to Lord Steffon Baratheon, he was not one to leave his post all the time.
That night, Lord Wylde hosted a modest feast in her honor. She smiled and went through all the courtesies, but she knew that, had she not married the Evenstar and become the Lady of Tarth, they would not have gone to such lengths to receive her.
Addison watched them all with a soft ache behind the ribs. She had lost her parents too young to remember their faces clearly, and growing up, these people had been the family she always wanted but could never truly have. Lord Lucas and his wife would not let her.
At the first opportunity, when she was old enough, she had been sent to live as a ward under Lady Selira, Lord Elmar Whiteheads's first wife, a woman of strict expectations and harsh words who had shaped her more than Addison had realized at the time.
She left the next morning with little ceremony, standing at the rail as Rain House dwindled into stone and shadow, her heart heavy and scarred by the old wound. The ship slipped back into Shipbreaker Bay, then followed the curve of Cape Wrath southward before turning west, cutting cleanly through the gray water toward the seat of House Whitehead.
A week after leaving Dawnrest, she saw the Weeping Town rising from the coastline, and her heart sank at the sight. Lenora waited for her at the docks, just as Addison had known she would.
They embraced with the ease of friends who had once shared beds, secrets, and long hours of whispered complaints about Lady Selira. Just as back in the Rock, Lenora Whitehead still looked beautiful, the picture of a Lady of the Stormlands, chestnut hair reaching down to her waist in a thick braid, dark eyes sharp in the waning light.
The town, on the other hand, looked worn thin. The wooden walls encircling it had seen better days, even patched with timber slats at some spots. Roofs sagged under years of weather, their shingles mismatched or missing entirely. The streets she had once strolled through seemed damp and dim even in daylight.
The Weeping Town had never been prosperous, not truly. Even as the biggest port town in the Stormlands, it could not compare to the major cities of the other kingdoms. But more than a decade ago, when Addison still lived here, it had been lively. Now, she saw empty manses as they rode through. By the market square, fewer merchants hawked their items, and the usually busy shops were shuttered.
At the castle, her small retinue of guards and maids were given quarters while servants took her cloak and bags, and she waited for Lord Elmar to appear, to hear that thunderous laughter of his and feel one of his bear hugs. He did not. Lord Elmar's seat at the high table stood empty, and the great hall of the Weeping Tower felt smaller than she remembered.
The banners of House Whitehead hung along the beams, white, tilted faces against a black background dimmed by smoke and age. Candles burned low in iron sconces, their flames guttering whenever a draft slipped through the hall, sending shadows crawling across the stone.
"I am sorry my lord husband could not receive you himself," Lenora said once they sat for dinner. "You know Elmar, he would rather crawl from his bed than miss greeting you properly if he could."
"I was surprised," Addison admitted. "The last I heard, he was still riding out with the huntsmen and throwing men half his age around the yard."
Lenora's mouth curved into a faint smile that did not reach her eyes. "That was before the winter cough took him. Or before it decided not to leave." She sighed, finally sipping her wine. "The maester says his lungs are weak. He grows breathless climbing the stairs. Some days he cannot rise at all."
"That does not sound like Elmar Whitehead," Addison said, saddened.
She remembered him smiling, broad-shouldered and sunburned, boasting of old battles and daring younger men to keep pace with him. Before coming here as a young girl, Addison had heard horror stories about women of lesser stations being taken advantage of by the husbands of the ladies they fostered under, but Elmar Whitehead was not such a man.
"No," Lenora agreed. "It does not."
Across the table, little Addam shifted in his seat, his legs swinging restlessly beneath it. He was a thin boy, all cheekbones and elbows, his hair a dark tuft sitting on his head like a weed. He had been quiet through most of the meal, watching Addison with open interest.
"Lady Addison?" he asked suddenly, unable to contain himself any longer.
"Yes, Addam?" She smiled at him.
His eyes lit up. "Is it true your son fought pirates? Father says he saved a Lannister knight all by himself."
Lenora groaned. "Addam—"
"It's quite all right," Addison said, amusement warming her voice. "He did not do it all by himself, he would be the first to tell you. But it is true. Galladon is a very brave warrior, much like your father."
"I knew it!" The boy nearly jumped off his chair. "He won before too. At the tourney, I mean. I saw it. He beat everyone."
"He did. You boys grow up so fast." She sighed. "One day they are momma's little boy, the next they are a gallant knight fighting off pirates and riding at tourneys. It's enough to make an old woman cry."
Addam grinned, undeterred. "I want to fight like him one day. Can he teach me? Father says you and mama were friends when you were girls."
"We were," Addison said. "We grew up together. Mayhaps it could be arranged for the new generation to do the same?" She glanced at Lenora.
For just a moment, the woman's smile tightened, something sharp flickering behind it like a blade. Addison blinked and it was gone. She shook her head. It had been a long voyage and she had clearly grown weary.
"A lovely idea," Lenora said, smiling pleasantly. "He talks of Galladon constantly, you know? Ever since the tourney. Your son has become a… hero in this house."
Addison's eyebrows rose. "I am sure Galladon would be flattered. Or embarrassed. Possibly both."
Addam beamed, clearly satisfied, and returned to his food with renewed vigor.
The meal continued, conversation drifting to safer ground, the weather along the coast, remembered stories from childhood, new gossip about Lord Errol's youngest daughter nearly eloping with a bard.
Yet the empty seat remained, drawing Addison's gaze back to it again and again.
When the plates were cleared and sweetwine poured, Lenora told her of the plans. "If Elmar were well, he would have insisted on riding out with us tomorrow. The man would live in the Rainwood if he could, you know how he is. But we can still make a day out of it ourselves."
Addison felt a familiar warmth stir in her chest at the thought. After marrying Selwyn, she had come to love Tarth, its bright forests and hidden valleys, but the memories of riding through the misty woods of the Rainwood still held a dear place in her heart.
"I would like that very much," she said.
Lenora's smile grew. "Good. We will take only a small party and it will be like when we were girls. Fresh air will do us both good."
That night, as she lay in an unfamiliar bed, listening to the wind howling in through the gaps in the shutters, Addison wondered how much of what she remembered still truly remained.
xxx
Galladon
There were still a few hours before dawn when Arianne came crashing into my room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the latch.
I blinked awake and jumped out of the bed before I knew what was happening. I did not sleep with a dagger beneath my pillow, something I was now realizing could be a fatal mistake, but I did pick up a brass candlestick in my daze, holding it in front of me like a particularly short mace.
It took no more than a second to identify the culprit. My sister was barefoot, her hair in tangles, crying like a baby. Ignoring the metal half-mace I was holding, she dove against my chest, hugging me like her life depended on it. Words tumbled out of her in a breathless rush, half-formed and less than half-coherent.
She cried of white-faced giants, their skin pale as bone, hands reaching up to tear down the sun and the moon. She mumbled about our mother, hearing her crying out, her voice distant, muffled, as if carried through water or stone. Then a sudden, sharp pain against her neck that woke her up.
Still a bit stunned myself, I sat her down on the edge of my bed and drew her into my arms. She was trembling, her breath hitched and sharp between sobs.
It was far from the first time she had come to me like this, but it had been months since the last nightmare bad enough to drive her from her bed to mine. Even then, it had never been this bad, her fear raw and oozing like a wound. Usually, she just wanted to feel someone near her so she could fall asleep again.
"Breathe, Arianne," I told her. "Deep, calming breaths. I'm here. I'm right here and I won't be going anywhere, understand?"
She nodded against my shoulder, but it still took her a few minutes to calm down. When her shaking eased, I asked her to begin again, and she did.
Not only was it the nightmare that had scared her the most, she said, but it had been the first one she had at all since they left for Casterly Rock. In it, she saw white-faced giants stealing the sun and moon from the sky as though they were lanterns hung too low.
She told me she dreamt of our mother's voice. She sounded younger, like a little girl crying for help, but Arianne was sure it had been Lady Addison Tarth calling out. And it all ended when she felt a sharp lance of pain against her neck, like a blade pushing against her throat.
Then, finally, she told me something new. She told me of Lenora Whitehead, back at Casterly Rock, and how she had seen her aura when the lady spoke with our mother—how the colors had been wrong.
Not warmth or affection, not even polite indifference, but envy twisted tight around rage and something darker still. Hatred, she said. All of it hidden beneath smiles and courtesies, beneath the easy familiarity of old friends.
She looked at me then, searching my face, as though afraid I would dismiss it as fancy.
My head was swimming. I still felt half-drunk from sleep. Either that, or my sister had just given me so much to think about that I felt like turning to the bottle.
"Why didn't you tell me this before? About this Lady Lenora." I asked, trying to get my thoughts together.
Her head snapped up, eyes flashing despite the tears. "Because you told me I could be wrong," she said, indignant now. Leave it to Arianne to switch from fear to wounded pride in a matter of seconds. "Back during the tourney. You said I couldn't trust the emotions I saw, that I might end up putting meaning where there isn't any. And after all the talks here, after you kept helping me sort what I was seeing, I thought you were right. It makes sense that I can misinterpret things."
She drew a breath, steadying herself. "But this isn't that. This isn't a mistake. It's not a coincidence that I dreamt of this now, when Mother has gone to visit the Whiteheads. Their banner is a white face. White-faced giants. And ours—" She gestured vaguely, as if the sigil were painted on the air between us. "The sun and the moon. They took them, Galladon. I saw it."
I sighed. Whatever sleepiness I still felt quickly washed away. This was bad. Truly bad. Arianne watched me expectantly, but I did not know how to answer her. Didn't know what to believe.
Dreams were not nothing in this world, I knew that too well. I remembered Bran Stark dreaming of the sea rising to swallow Winterfell, only for Theon Greyjoy to take the castle not long after. The Targaryens had their dragondreams, Danaerys had her visions in the House of the Undying, and Melisandre and Quaithe also wrapped their prophecies with symbolism.
Oftentimes they went dismissed, half-heard and half-forgotten, until they could no longer be ignored. I knew, too, that Arianne had something—some gift, some door cracked open where others remained firmly shut. Even, perhaps, powers beyond what I knew of this world.
And yet. I also knew my sister.
I remembered the feast where she had accused Ser Endrow Tarth, my father's second cousin, of plotting to steal Lady Addison away from Selwyn, flinging the charge across the table in front of half the household.
She had heard him one day muttering about a ladylove, married, longed for, and she had woven the rest from fear and imagination. The truth, that he had been speaking of a serving wench at an inn in Dawnrest, and that Selwyn himself had been his confidant, had come out only later, leaving many bruised prides to be soothed and relationships to be smoothed over.
Another time, she had come to tell me that the foster boys sent to Evenfall to be my companions, sons and nephews of our bannermen, meant to kill me, when in reality they just wanted to prank me with water buckets and chicken eggs.
So I sat there, my sister clinging to my sleeve, caught between what I knew of this world and what I knew of her. I drew my hand against my hair before massaging my temples.
I could never dismiss her dream out of hand. Not with Mother a week away across the sea, and with the Whiteheads' arms so clearly shown tearing down our own. And not with what Arianne had seen before of Lenora Whitehead's aura.
Pulling back the blankets, I picked the girl up and brought her over to my pillow.
"Go to sleep, Arianne," I told her. She opened her mouth to complain, but I stopped her. "I believe you, don't worry. I'll tell Father and—"
"You can't," she said, gripping me tight again. "You can't tell him about the dreams and the aura."
"But—"
"Please." She looked up at me with big, red-streaked eyes.
"Fine." I sighed. It'd be easier if I made something up anyway. "Now sleep. Nothing's going to happen to our mother. I'll make sure of it."
"Promise?"
I held up my little finger, and she took it.
Five minutes later she was fast asleep, and I waited five more to dress up and leave the room.
xxx
POWER STONES!!!!
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