𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 [𝟏]

CHAPTER VII

Chapter VII

King's Landing

The entourages rode even closer in less then a fortnight after nearly a month, faintest stir of wind pushing against them as the Stark household traveled through the towering doors of the Red Keep. Small and rich folk seem to gather with curiosity to see the newly appointed Hand from the North disappear past the battlements on his snowy stead. Hooves shifted and picked up dust and dirt, warm weather contrasting effortlessly from where Lyarra sat next to Sansa and did not hinder a concealed look awe as she gazed upon the once landing site of Aegon The Conquer; now built up to be the undisputed Capitol of Westeros. Generations worth of history all noble children grew to learn of fire and blood. Many scents profusely laced the air as if the soul of the sky bled life. Some odors stronger then others while many were mixed concoctions of congestion. Blooming flowers, manure, fresh lavender, rot, and salt from harbour down-looking the road that snacked up the slope to civilised cobblestones; atop where King's Landing sat looming powerfully on an escapement of jagged bedrock over watching the ocean. The structure's limestone walls seemed like a towering mountain of red, bronze and white shining victoriously in the sunlight. A primitive seat for a Conquer.

Despite the mass of a teeming, lavish city, Lyarra noticed how populated and taut Southern people appeared to be. After catching the faces of many, next would be another, followed by several more, then a dozen trailing. The small folk looked a lot more skinny and rather short, their children either grubby or vastly unclean as was the case in the North. Her homeland was such an isolated place, too wild for an outsider, with every long mile possessing a lonesome inn or quiet village aside from sundry ancestral homes. Winterfell was truly out of the abundant jurisdiction.

Finally, the Northern party ventured further into the courtyard of the Red Keep and the creaking of the wagon came to a slow halt. A stark man motioned with leisure pulls on the reins to two light chest nut horses. Parched bark of tall trees feathering long branches of leaves silently shivered in the warm day breeze above them. Lannister men were scattered and stood attentive; a slight surprise to Lyarra as she expected a skeleton convoy of Baratheon banners to hold a significant guardship of men. Of course, the Stark rationally thought to herself. Cersei Lannister was the blood of a rich House and gold favoured a larger host.

The Warden of the North and Hand of the King dismounted off his horse. A stable hand was quick to station his attention in receiving a Noble's stead and led the horse toward the stables. Then, a willowy man, whom Lyarra later understood to be the Royal Steward, soon approached her father.

"Welcome, Lord Stark," He clearly greeted the Northern Lord, hands clasped behind his back and bowed low as father stepped forward. "Grand Maester Pycelle has called a meeting of the Small Council. The honour of your presence is requested."

Ned looked to Septa Mordane with envisage. "Get the girls settled in. I'll be back in time for supper," He addressed the older woman cloaked in her faith's clergy, who politely nodded in absorption at the instance. His grey eyes flickered to the Guard Captain sat atop of his horse. "And, Jory, you go with them."

Perched with fealty, the brown haired man answered. "Yes, My Lord."

As the orders were given out with no such haste, Lord Stark's attention was removed from the pair and turned to the unnamed royal loyalist. The man looked uncomfortable, clearly evident at the mud and dust stains on father's riding leathers. "If you'd. . .like to change into something more appropriate," He began pityingly. However, the Northman held his stare and simply peeled off his brown leather boiled gloves to silently respond with a mere decline.