The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ARYADNE - XXIV

THE CAMP WAS QUIETER than usual. In the few days since Robb's departure, nothing had happened. Aryadne had little to do without the company of her husband, and Talisa's friendship and tutelage. She spent her mornings in Small Council meetings over the running of the camp, and — if she was not asleep in the afternoons — she would help as much as she could in the infirmary. Her energy seemed to wane with each passing day.

On this particular afternoon, she could not bear to stay in bed a moment longer, though the thought of going anywhere was just as daunting. She had studied the list of prisoners to the point of memorisation. Inaction was a curse she refused to suffer. A plan had started to form.

Making herself as presentable as she could, she waited in the war tent. A tray of tea and bannocks sat on the table before her. She traced a fingertip around her ceramic cup, feeling the warmth of the steam rise against her skin. Stumbling footsteps prompted her to look up. "Ah, Ser Alton."

The young man did not raise his head, though he gave a small bow. "Your Grace," he said. Chains hung between his wrists and his clothes had not been changed since the last time she saw him.

She sent his guard a grateful smile. "That will be all, Alric. Thank you. You may wait outside until we are done." The soldier bowed, too, and left. Alton followed her gesture towards the chair opposite her and sat. The reek of sweat and other unspeakables was strong but, with all her work as a healer-in-training, it did not repell her as much as it used to. Sitting forwards, she poured a cup of tea for him and slid over the plate of flat, round cakes, all fried to a perfect gold. "Bannock?" she offered. At his wary eyeing of them, she helped herself to one. "It is only bread. A charm of the North I have become rather fond of, if I may say so. They are particularly delicious with honey."

Still, he did not move. There was a hunger in the way he stared at them, but he did not indulge it. "I am a prisoner, Your Grace."

"Did I dispute that?" A bite was enough to make her forget about the metallic taste that she had been plagued with all day. She swallowed and it returned. "We may care for you far better than any other army would — in fact, I'd wager you would most likely be dead now if anyone else had captured you — but I doubt your meals have been up to their usual standard. Please, take one. You do not even have to eat it, simply humour me."

Though hesitantly, he plucked one from the pile. His gaze remained on the floor. "Thank you, Your Grace," he mumbled timidly.

"If you wish to conceal another in your pocket for later, I shall pretend not to notice."

This time, a hoarse laugh was coaxed from him and he did so. "If I may ask... why did you wish to see me?"

She sipped her tea, allowing its fragrance to waft towards her, calming her nerves. A moment passed and she set the cup down, her hands clasped and resting on the table. "As before stated," she began matter-of-factly, "our hope is to detain prisoners as humanely as possible. This war is not your fault. As Queen, it is my duty to see to the caretaking of this camp and all its residents. That includes you. You have cooperated with us so far and I hope that you will continue to do so for the benefit of all your fellow soldiers."

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, clearly expecting the worst.

"I want you to be my liaison between myself and the prisoners."

The suggestion did not help him to relax. His eyes narrowed. "You want me to be your spy?"

A quiet laugh escaped her. Bringing a hand to cover her mouth to stifle it, she shook her head. "A spy? Gods, no!" She sighed and tried again, "No. I want you to be my consultant. Help me to see to their needs. I have a list of their names, I'm hoping that you will help me."