Work Text:
Tom is shifting from foot to foot warily outside the inn common room when Renfry returns, looking grim.
“Forget the sept,” he says. “Goldcloaks are herding people there and I like it not. Seven know what they have planned.”
He does not have to say who ‘they’ are. Tom nods tightly and glances into the packed common room, which is full of talk of the treason of the King’s Hand. Former King’s Hand, now. If the goldcloaks are pushing people towards the Great Sept, she thinks it very likely some sort of justice will be handed down today, in sight of the gods. Whether or not that justice will be divinely ordered or not is anyone’s guess.
“Well,” she says, “we can forget about our blessing, then.”
And any chance of a sizeable donation from the realm’s wealthiest sept. If she could have gotten an audience, even briefly, with one of the Most Holy, they could be walking away with enough coin to see them safely back to Bechester. And perhaps a tidy extra to help finance a new water mill for the motherhouse.
“We’ll be blessed to get out of the city today,” Renfry says darkly, but she can tell from the set of his jaw that he is determined. Their only other option is to hunker down here for another eve or two, and they don’t have the money for it. Best to try to leave now, while the city is riveted by whatever is like to happen.
“We have notes of passage,” she says, laying a hand on his arm. “They have no cause to refuse us departure.”
He exhales. “They can make one up on the spot. They say the Queen is like a lioness on the prowl, these past few moons, and we are in the bloody den. Pardon my language, Septa.” But he says it with a dry edge; she had known Renfry since he was a lad of fifteen- and her a newly ordained sister herself, scarcely nineteen.
Over the course of the seven years since then, he has worked his way up to serjeant in the motherhouse’s small garrison, and she has garnered enough trust- or exasperation- to be regularly sent out to recruit novices. The larger motherhouses need not bothering sweeping gutter rats from the streets, but a place like Bechester is small enough that they need all the extra hands they can get.
In the month since they arrived in King’s Landing, Tom and Renfry have scoured five separate orphanages looking for girls- no younger than five, no older than fourteen- to bring back to Bechester. They cannot afford to transport a huge party, even if the distance is not so very far, so they’ve had to limit the number to twelve. They ended up with eleven, after one of the girls they’d chosen died from an fever in her sleep a fortnight ago.
They could not have picked a worse time to arrive in the city- a mere turn of the moon after an attempted coup against the Queen Regent and King Joffrey, in the wake of Robert’s death. Some might say they could they have picked a worse time to leave Bechester, with outlaws rampaging through the Riverlands- some even said it was the Mountain, unleashed by Tywin Lannister after Lord Stark’s wife took his son hostage.
But they saw none at that at Bechester, on the very southern edge of the God’s Eye. The butchers from the West only went as far south as Mummer’s Ford, they heard. So having already delayed their travel by several weeks, fearing the Riverlands would soon be ablaze while the high lords bickered, they had no choice but to go before the year ended, or cancel the mission entirely.
That is not something Tom was willing to do. She is better traveled than most of her sisters at the Motherhouse- she’s been as far north as Seagard and as far west as Maidenpool- and she is six and twenty, a mature woman and not the timid orphan she once was. She promised the Revered Mother that she would do this, and so she did.
They saw no trouble on the road to King’s Landing on the way south- beyond the tide of refugees from Pinkmaiden, Sherrer, and Wendishtown- and the weather has held fair. It still feels like high summer, despite autumn being nigh. They will likely be able to bring in one more harvest at Bechester before the weather is too cold for planting.
She can see the dust motes dancing in the sunlight as she walks into the rented room upstairs to wrangle her charges. Besides Renfry there are three young men, also of the Motherhouse garrison, though they seem like boys still to her, barely able to grow beards, with spots and creaky voices. She’s had to keep them strictly separated from a few of the older girls- it would not do to deliver novices with bastards in their belly. These boys have pledged their devotion to the motherhouse, but they are not septons themselves, after all.
“Girls,” she says, clapping her hands together and trying to keep her voice strong and clear, belying no sense of anxiety or fear. “We are leaving within the hour for the Iron Gate. Gather up your things and wash your faces. We want to look presentable and neat.”
She busies herself with making sure they all have their knapsacks and their cloaks- she brought fine blue and white cloaks for them all, to show that they are not just some horde of cattle, but decent young women destined for a holy life. She has some hope it will give any would be harassers pause. Though, in truth, if they are outright attacked as a group of women, she will have to run with the girls while Renfry and the young men hold them off. They only have six horses between them, and a single cart. She can ride, but not very well side-saddle.
When she is satisfied that all of them, from lanky Alyssa, the eldest of the group, a straw-haired maid pushing fifteen, to chubby little Meddy, who claims to be five but looks closer to three, have their things together and look alert and ready for the journey, she herds them down the smoky corridor and stairs, through the common room, which has now begun to empty as more people head in the direction of the Great Sept, and out onto the cobbled street.
They are at the base of Rhaenys’ Hill, in the shadow of the Dragonpit, one of the poor but not quite desperate areas of the city. Several streets over, though, is Flea Bottom, where crime runs rampant and the pot shops are said to skin cats and dogs for their stews. Tom has always liked cities, and she was born in King’s Landing. She scarcely remembers it now- she was just five years old herself when her mother gave her up to a traveling septa and septon- but this place is in her blood, and she will not be cowed by it.
These girls, too, are tougher than they appear, she reminds herself. The orphanages of King’s Landing are rough and tumble places, and most of them spent years on the street before winning a prized place in a children’s home. Even then, it was often no sanctuary. Children go missing or turn up dead all the time, and disease runs rampant. Most of these girls have seen a sibling or friend die of a fever or sweats or a rotten throat.
She is proud she is shepherding them to a better life- they will never be living the life of luxury and ease at Bechester, but they will be safe and well cared for- but she also knows better than to patronize them or treat them as helpless infants. They have streets smarts and nerve enough to know to keep cool in a crisis. And this is not a crisis yet.
“Is this everyone?” Renfry’s gaze rakes over the group, before he nods his head at one of the boys. “Start helping the youngest into the cart. Everyone else can walk.”
“Can’t we ride with you?” one of the bolder girls begs, tugging on his cloak.
He shrugs her off, though not cruelly. “No. I want my hands free today, lass.”
Tom glances at the worn hilt of his sword. He shoots her a reassuring look, and she turns to the girl instead. “You can ride with me, Jace. I’ve no sword to swing about like Ser Renfry.”
Jace giggles, and lets Tom pull her up into the saddle before her.
With the youngest and frailest girls in the cart, and the rest walking ahead of or alongside it, they make their way towards the Iron Gate, keeping their heads down and their ears open. The streets are quieter than normal, however. More and more people they pass are walking in the opposite direction, south towards the Great Sept. As they near the Iron Gate the bells begin to toll, ponderous and slow. A few of the boys flinch, but the orphan girls are used to them by now.
The sound reminds Tom of thunder rumbling in the distance.
Finally, they see the gatehouse up ahead, and join the throng of people waiting in line. Most are merchants or farmers, far better dressed than the average citizen of King’s Landing. Tom is relieved by the sight of families and children in line; it makes her feel more secure. She lowers the hood of her pale grey cloak so her face can be seen; it’s not an attractive face, but neither is it ugly. She has a wide brow, small dark eyes, a hooked nose, and thin lips. Her hair is dark brown, almost black, and hidden under a starched white wimple.
She twists the ring on her finger; it is real gold and a token from Mother Rowena, who is herself of the nobility. An unwanted fifth daughter, but a lady all the same. If need be, she can bargain with it. The line inches forward, more and more travelers joining it. The cart is jostled, but most of the girls remain calm, except for one or two who are complaining of the heat.
“Use your cloaks to keep the sun off your hair,” she reminds them, without looking around, and sighs as she hears arguing over whose cloak is whose. She tunes it out as they continue to creep forward.
Finally, after nearly half an hour, they reach the gatehouse and the redcloaks manning it.
“State your business and destination,” one barks, looking at Renfry, who frowns but defers to Tom.
“I am Septa Tomyris of Bechester,” she says. “I come from a motherhouse led by Mother Rowena, born a Bigglestone. These children are orphans we are taking to the holy life.”
“Tomyris?” the redcloak scoffs; he is a beefy man with greying hair. “What is that, some Essosi name?”
“It is from the Seven-Pointed Star, Ser.” Like many septas, Tom chose a new name when she took her holy orders.
He has likely never read the Seven-Pointed Star- in fact, she doubts he can read, which is reinforced when he has to wave over a younger guard to read her papers.
“You have all the girls’ names listed?” he demands, but the younger guard skims over them lazily, then hands the papers back to him.
“It’s just a bunch of street rats. Better out than in.”
A few sniggers break out, but the older guard seems annoyed by the laughter, and scowls at Tom as though it were her fault. He looks over the girls one more time, and then pauses. “Who’s that boy, then? He going to be a septa, too?”
“What boy-,” Tom turns round in the saddle, holding onto Jace, and sees a strange boy has is huddled alongside the cart, his eyes cast down.
He has a hand on the cart, as if he belongs with the group, which she realizes must have been his plan, to slip out with him. Dressed in filthy rags, the only thing of note about him is the stick at his hip.
Renfry has seen him too, now, but he is waiting to hear what she says. This is ridiculous. She should tell them he is a little sneak and have him dragged out of line.
Instead Tom finds herself saying, “That is my serjeant’s child, Ser. I know he looks a mite unkempt, but he is always getting into trouble, at his age. Look at those fine clothes you’ve ruined, child! No wonder they think you a ragamuffin!”
The boy glances up warily at her; eyes pale and grey in his long, skinny face, and then back down again. Renfry’s stare is burning a hole in her skull, but when he snaps, “Look alive and walk behind your father, boy,” the boy comes around the cart and stands obediently behind his horse.
“You keep a stern discipline with your lad,” the guard tells him approvingly. “Let him walk in the mud if he wants to carry on like a guttersnipe.” Seemingly appeased, he waves them through.
It is only when they are perhaps ten paces out of the Iron Gate and onto the Rosby Road that Tom realizes the boy is not the only interloper. There is a disheveled brown-haired girl sitting in the cart, perched on the very edge of it, her long, freckled legs hanging off the edge. She looks nothing like the boy, except for the tense way she holds herself, shoulders hunched, eyes cast down.
A few of the girls are whispering openly, and Renfry opens his mouth to say something, then looks at the boy still following behind his horse and at her. They silently agree to wait until they are further from the city, and once the sound of the bells has faded entirely, and the redstone steeples are far in the distance, Tom finally calls a halt.
“Make your water or sit and rest,” she tells the girls- the walkers immediately sink to the ground, already exhausted from their tedious trek out of the city.
Tom crooks a finger at the strange girl on the cart, and the boy. “You two, over here.”
They both traipse over. The boy looks like he’s debating darting at any moment, while the girl comes more readily, but shyly. They stand close to each other, but don’t quite touch.
“Who are you?” Tom asks sharply. “And don’t lie to me. Why did you attach yourselves to us? You put my party in grave danger, carrying on like that.”
“I’m….” the boy trails off, then says, a little bolder, “I’m Jon.”
“Why does he sound like that?” one of Renfry’s men mutters; another elbows him.
Tom has traveled enough to know a northern accent when she hears one. “And you?’ she rounds on the girl.
“I’m Cat,” the girl squeaks out, voice high and shrill.
“Jon and Cat,” Tom says. “Are you from the city? Where do you think you are going?”
The two exchange a glance, and then the boy says, “North?” It sounds like a question.
“Are you of the North, Jon?”
He nods, slowly. “And you, Cat?”
She flushes bright red, but nods as well.
“Are you siblings?”
“Yes,” says the boy, at the same time the girl mumbles, “No.” Now they glare at each other.
“I thought-,” the girl begins.
“You thought wrong, stupid!”
“Don’t call me stupid! You’re the stupid one!”
Tom is startled by how quickly their fear seems to vanish and replace itself with fury, but it fades as quickly as it came, as they look guiltily back her.
“She’s a septa,” says the girl, who seems a little more confident now. Her voice grows smoother, more poised. “She has to help us, Ar- Jon.”
“Is your name Jon or not?” Tom snaps, looking at the boy.
“It’s Jon.” He pinches his sister, hard. She shrieks and swats him; he smacks her back.
“Keep your hands to yourselves,” Renfry growls, and they both freeze.
Tom is staring at the girl, now. She does not sound like a commoner. Not in the least. She looks more closely at her face- heart-shaped and fine, with unusually high cheekbones for a girl of twelve or so, and bright blue eyes. On closer inspection, her hair seems more dirty than brown, as if she’d deliberately rubbed grease and mud in it. It is cut short and jagged, no longer than her ears. The boy’s hair is similarly a hack job.
“I will ask you once more,” Tom says, crisply. “Where are you going?”
“To Darry,” the boy says. “We’re going to Darry to meet our mother. She works at the castle.”
“Does she?”
“She’s a maid,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact.
“A lady’s maid,” the girl cuts in, pursing her lips at her brother. Though they don’t look very similar at all, it is obvious they are siblings, simply from the way they behave around each other.
“And where is your father?”
Cat’s blue eyes well up with tears, and she flinches as if slapped. The boy shoots her an angry glance, but flushes as well, and his voice cracks slightly when he says, “He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“He- he’s a sailor, and he went to sea,” Jon says weakly.
“And left you alone?”
“Our mother was supposed to come get us, but she couldn’t, with all the fighting,” Cat offers, her tone wavering wildly. She wipes at her eyes, and recoils as she smears dust across her pretty face.
Renfry is giving Tom a sidelong stare that she knows well. She clears her throat. “Well, we are going to Bechester. You might as well come as far as the God’s Eye with us, and then we’ll see about getting you to Darry.”
They both seem relieved; she gives them her own flask to drink from, and shoos them off. A few of the guards follow, looking suspicious she did not denounce them immediately.
Tom walks some distance away from the group, towards the sparse treeline. There is little to no forest this close to the city.
“Well,” she says to Renfry, “what did you think of that?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment; he is rummaging at a pouch on his belt, before he produces a crumpled pamphlet.
“600 gold dragons,” he reads aloud, softly, “for the return of Lord Stark’s missing daughters. Sansa, a maid of twelve. Arya, a maid of ten. The elder auburn haired and blue eyed, the younger brown haired… they don’t even list her eye color.”
Tom snorts, though nothing about this is funny, and fiddles with her ring again. “So?”
“So, I think if we are found with them on the road, both our heads will be on spikes above Maegor’s Holdfast. I think if we turn around right now and hand them to those goldcloaks, we’ll have enough coin to give us a very comfortable winter, and fine clothes and warm blankets and plenty of food for all these starving girls. The Lannisters will not kill or harm them. They will be be well-kept hostages.”
“But you can’t know that for sure,” she murmurs.
He exhales. “I can’t.”
“So?”
“It is your decision, Sister.” He swallows, then says, “We will do what you decide, Tom.”
Tom glances back at the girls. They are sharing the flask of water, drinking so greedily they are like to make themselves sick. Jon’s throat is bobbing frantically, while Cat is picking some of the grime out of her greasy hair.
“They say there is a septa’s head on the wall over Maegor’s Holdfast,” she says, after a moment. “A holy woman, denounced as traitor to the realm. For what crime, I wonder? Serving a treasonous lord? But her vows were to the Mother Above, not Eddard Stark. I pray she did what she felt was right.”
“And what do you feel is right?” Renfry asks, gently.
“I will not give those girls over to men who would murder a holy woman,” she says, firmly. “We carry on. We are out of the city, we just need to move quickly. They say Stark’s heir is gathering a great host. They will be spilling down from Moat Cailin soon enough.”
“Tywin Lannister is also gathering a great host,” he warns her. “And if even a rumor emerges that Bechester is harboring Starks…”
“There will be no rumors,” she says, “because you keep your men in good hand, and I do the same with my girls. We will think of a story. They are Jon and Cat. Their mother was a maid in the service of Lord Stark, who fled the Red Keep during his treason. They were separated from her in the confusion and now we are keeping them safe until she is found.”
“And their father?”
Together, they look back into the distance, where King’s Landing can still be seen, jutting up from those three hills. If she listens hard enough, she can still hear the tolling of the bells, faster and more furious now.
“Their father,” Tomyris says quietly, “is a dead man.”