Chapter V: Winter’s End
As it turned out, Alayne loved running her own shop. She had been skeptical at first, but she had no problem being in charge, as she discovered. In fact, she was very good at it. It was still more work than she had ever imagined, even with Sera helping her, but she loved every moment of it. She didn’t even notice the cold.
Each morning, at the beginning of the sixth hour, she and Sera rose from their beds to start with the chores. Their apprentice—an eight-year-old girl called Amorri with an open, round face and lovely chestnut curls—was too small to carry heavy buckets full of water, so they had to go to the nearest fountain themselves. It wasn’t even dawn when they started out, with their faces wrapped in scarves. Sera had to teach Alayne how to make them since she had never deigned to learn from Old Nan. On some days, a man had to hack the ice that formed on the pools at night into pieces for the waiting people to take with them. They would bang against the wooden buckets when Sera and Alayne shuffled back home.
There, Amorri had already cleaned the chamber pots, and was busily cleaning the rooms. Alayne boiled the water and did some odd tasks—running the numbers, going to the market, doing the washing—while Sera took care of the food. They had worked out quite early that Alayne knew nothing about cooking and they soon had so much work that they could not take the time for Sera to teach her.
The rest of the day was spent on that work, and there was, it seemed, no end to it. There were so many dresses to make. Few Braavosi had a proper winter wardrobe after a ten-year-long summer. Moths had eaten half of what people had stashed in their closets, and the rest no longer fit those who had grown tall or fat off a prosperous summer. Alayne didn’t sew for the poorer people, of course, but the rich wanted to dress finely, as well as warmly, when they left their comfortably heated homes. And so she had dusted off her knowledge of working with furs, fusing it with Southron and Braavosi fashions and embroidery, adding collars and cuffs made of pelts imported from the North or the northern coast of Essos. She rarely used silk any more—it was wool and heavier fabrics she made her dresses of, now. And for once, the usually rather reserved Braavosi preferred brighter colors to add some light to the gray darkness of winter.
If time allowed, Alayne and Sera taught each other—and their apprentice—in between working on orders. Amorri learned how to make sleeves, Alayne improved her knowledge of the impossible Braavosi writing system, and Sera learned what Alayne remembered from her lessons about Westerosi history. Sometimes they went out to look at the newly-arrived stock of the cloth merchants. They were busy enough that much of that had to be done in the evenings or mornings. Mistress Sarnel had stayed true to her word, and sent those that wanted Alayne’s work to her shop, so they managed to repay the loan within a few moons. Alayne had some coin in her account with the Iron Bank now. Even Sera, who loved to spend hers on dresses, jewelry and sweets, had a little left over.
And so their days went as the sun rose later and set earlier, as snow fell more often than rain, and the cold crept under layers of blankets at night. Then one day, Alayne rose in the dark and for once, the cold felt a little less oppressive. Even the sun came up a little earlier than the day before, or so it seemed. It was a welcome reprieve, yet Alayne thought it was no more than an illusion. But the next day was warmer as well, and the one after. Alayne could barely believe it when she could walk outside again without a scarf protecting her face.
Spring had truly arrived, and Braavos marveled at it. Nobody had expected winter to end so soon, and Alayne heard some of her more wealthy customers posit the oddest theories. One woman said that the shadow binders of faraway Asshai had sacrificed a dragon to their fiery god. The truth, however, was much more fantastic.
Alayne and Sera went to Ragman’s Harbor on one of their free days, to see if any new ships had arrived that carried fabrics they might buy. Now that winter was over, the merchantmen could travel freely again without worrying about icebergs. There were indeed many ships berthed at the harbor, far more than in moons past, and many merchants and errand boys ran around. It felt a little like stepping into an ant hill that was your own size, Alayne thought. People scurried about everywhere. Only in one place were they standing, watching something in front of them, and curious, Alayne stopped to see what was going on.
In front of a ship flying the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen stood a man in Westerosi clothing. He was deep in a heated argument with one of the men—an elderly Braavosi, probably a merchant, by the looks of him. The crowd had formed a half-circle around them.
“You lie!” the Braavosi accused the man. “Something like that could never have happened.”
“I do not!” the man insisted vehemently. “I swear this is the story of my king and queen and how they saved not only the Seven Kingdoms, but also your sorry hide!”
“What are they talking about?” Alayne asked the young boy standing next to her, keeping her voice low.
The boy shrugged. “Some fantastic tale about the dragon queen returning to Westeros and saving it from some evil men made of ice that tried to invade from the north. Says they were the ones responsible for winter.”
“Really?” Sera asked. Alayne had told her some of Old Nan’s stories in the evenings when they were shivering in the darkness. Like Bran, she liked the dark tales of Others and skinchangers and the Rat King.
The boy nodded. “Ask him yourself when they’re done screaming at each other.”
After the argument was finally over and done with, the Braavosi left, throwing his arms up in the air as though he had decided it wasn’t worth the effort to continue fighting. The other man—obviously the ship’s captain—turned back to the dockhands who were unloading his cog. When Alayne approached, the captain scowled at her, as if she was planning to call him a fraud as well.
“Please,” she said in the common tongue. It felt a little odd on her lips now. “I come from the Seven Kingdoms and would like to hear of home.”
For a long moment, the captain stared at her and the others who had stayed to listen. Then he sighed and sat down on one of the stone pillars lining the quay.
“Very well, then,” he began. He spun them a tale of war and woe. Some of it Alayne had already known. And it didn’t surprise her in the least to hear of some of what she had not, like Cersei’s depravity and the South ignoring the threat in the North. The captain was a talented storyteller who had soon captured his audience as if they were little children listening to their grandmother’s tales. Only Alayne truly mourned when she heard of sweet little Tommen’s death and of Margaery’s fate. To her, they were more than just characters in a story.
“So Queen Cersei the Cruel took his place, ready to conquer the whole realm,” the man continued, pausing a little for effect, “when Queen Daenerys arrived from the east, together with her three dragons, her army of Unsullied, and hordes of Dothraki.”
That caused some incredulous murmurs among the crowd. The Dothraki, while never a threat to Braavos proper, had raided towns and villages on its periphery for centuries. They had ever been unpredictable, and never followed a king or queen.
“The Dothraki hate the sea,” Alayne heard someone whisper loudly behind her.
“And yet they braved it for their Queen,” the storyteller responded with a sharp glance that threatened to leave the story unfinished should they accuse him of lying. He then told them of the War of the Queens, as they apparently called it. Alayne—and the crowd—laughed when they heard of Cersei’s fate. It seemed the story was over, the heroine had won—
“Except by then, the Wall had fallen to the Others from north of the Wall, monsters that are ice made flesh. Lord Stark and the Lord Commander,” Alayne’s heart skipped a beat when she heard that name, “had rallied their forces at Winterfell after the Final Battle of Castle Black. They sent ravens begging the queen for help, and she agreed, leading her armies north, despite the cold and the snows. There was a great battle before Winterfell, Lord Stark leading the army on the ground, while the queen rode her big black dragon. The Dothraki horses died miserably in the cold and men could barely see in the flurry of snow. There were huge spiders made of ice, undead mammoths and giants, and every man who died joined the ranks of the enemy. Then, one of the queen’s dragons fell. The living thought that all was lost. But the Lord Commander of what was left of the Night’s Watch managed to get through to the Night King. The two fought a duel and after trading many blows, the Lord Commander felled his foe.
“The wights dropped like puppets, dead once again; their masters melted like ice in the summer as the sun rose again and the battle was won. In recognition of his heroic deed, the Queen took the Lord Commander as her husband and disbanded the Watch, since it was no longer needed. Now, they rule together and the realm is finally at peace.”
The man concluded his tale and looked at all of them in turn, daring them all to call it a fairy tale for children and fools, but none did. Alayne doubted it was the entire truth, although she did not doubt the kernel that made up its core. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, even after she and Sera returned home. Westeros was safe again. She could go home. But did she want to? She pondered the question as she lay in bed that night, trying to remember the faces of those she once knew. After all this time, did anybody really miss her?
She was content with her life now. She enjoyed the work and having friends. She enjoyed being Alayne Stone. If she was being honest with herself, she didn’t much like Sansa Stark any more. Did she want to be Sansa again?
*
Alayne was minding the shop and working on a dress for the wife of a man of some import at the Iron Bank when the door to her shop opened. That in itself wasn’t unusual; customers always came and went, or sent their servants come to make an appointment. It wasn’t even that unusual to see a man enter the shop.
The man was huge and maybe a handful of years older than her father, with a large walrus mustache. Alayne had never seen him before, to her knowledge, but she recognized the sigil on his green surcoat: the merman of House Manderly, whose lord had sometimes sent men to talk to her father when she had been a little girl. Alayne was so shocked by the unexpected sight of the familiar sigil that she almost didn’t notice that the man looked like he had seen a ghost. Almost.
“Can I help you?” She spoke in the common tongue, she realized too late. The words were already out of her mouth.
“Gods, girl, you’re the spitting image of your mother,” the man croaked. Then he rubbed his hand over his bald head. “Where are my manners? Ser Wylis Manderly, heir to White Harbor. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady. Your family will be so pleased to know you’re all right.”
Sansa blinked at him. Outwardly, she kept her manner calm, yet on the inside, she was panicking. Her heart was pounding; it felt, she thought, as though it were about to leap out of her chest. She worked to keep her hands as steady as she could as she put aside her sewing. She had to say something, but what?
It was Sera who saved her. She must have heard the bell and called from the workroom. “Do we have a new customer? Or is it Moqorro with the new samples? What do they want?”
Alayne took a deep breath. “A customer,” she called back, before turning to Ser Wylis and forcing a smile onto her face.
“The other seamstress,” she explained. “Can we help you with something?”
“My lady, there is no reason to be coy with me. You look quite like your mother and are impossible to mistake. Are you being threatened? Is that why you stay here? If so, I assure you, I am a more capable warrior than I look. I fought in the Battle for the Dawn!”
Ser Wylis drew himself up to his full height—which was impressive, if only because of the added width—and put his hand on his sword belt. He thinks himself some sort of hero, Alayne thought, and he saw her as a maiden in distress. But she had learned long ago that there were no heroes.
“You must be mistaken, Ser,” she explained, trying to keep her voice pleasant and somewhat bemused. “I do not know who you take me for, but I doubt I am her. My mother died when I was still quite young and I barely remember her, while my father died a few years back. My name is Alayne Stone, and this is my shop. I must insist that you stop talking like a madman or I will call the guards.” Or one of the bravos eager to prove themselves, Alayne reckoned. They were usually faster than the city guards. Then she smiled with a confidence she didn’t feel. “Now, is there anything I can do for you?”
Ser Wylis deflated. “Are you quite sure, my lady?”
Alayne nodded.
The knight sighed. “I wish to buy a dress for my daughter. She likes exotic things from Essos. She’s a little shorter than you, but has about your figure. It doesn’t need to fit perfectly and I don’t have her precise measurements, but she’s good with needle and thread and can adjust it if need be.”
“An exotic dress?” Alayne asked.
Ser Wylis nodded. He had trouble looking her in the eyes now. Instead, he stared at the dresses around the shop, the ones displayed for customers and the one Alayne had been working on.
“Then I’m afraid I’ll be of little help. My dresses are inspired by the Westerosi styles,” she told him. “But I can tell you where you’ll find a seamstress who will gladly sew you something more traditionally Braavosi.”
“But they told me you were the one to go to for something exotic,” he huffed. His mustache fluttered comically with his breath.
“And I am, if one’s idea of exotic is something Westerosi. For many Braavosi, it is.”
“Ah,” he said, blushing a little at the mistake he had made. With three more sentences, Alayne explained where he could find Mistress Sarnel’s shop and encouraged him out of the door. There were two men-at-arms waiting politely for their lord, while some street urchins stared at them as if they were particularly juicy bits of sausage.
“Are you sure you are not who I think you are?” Ser Wylis asked one last time as he stepped outside.
Alayne didn’t deign that worthy of an answer other than a disapproving frown. When she sat back down and took up her needlework again, she felt light and heavy at the same time. It was over and done with, yet the whole affair seemed also unfinished to her. Like something that was just beginning.
Why had she lied? House Manderly had been sworn to her family for generations. They were no Lannister men, if there were even any left after all the wars. She could go home. She had the money. Why didn’t she? The question felt like a knot in her chest that just wouldn’t unravel, no matter how much she poked at it. She liked Braavos, to be sure, but did she like it more than Winterfell? Did she love Sera more than her parents?
“Who was that?” Sera asked suddenly, causing Alayne to flinch and prick her finger.
“Nobody,” she answered, putting her finger into her mouth. Better to lick away the blood, lest it ruin the dress. “Some knight from Westeros, looking to buy an exotic dress for his daughter. I had to explain to him that the Braavosi had a different idea of exotic than he did. Hopefully Mistress Sarnel will appreciate the work.”
“A real knight?” Sera asked. “Did he look like they do in the stories?”
Sometimes Sera really was more girlish than Alayne. Or maybe she would still be like this too, if it hadn’t been for King’s Landing.
“He was old enough to be your father and twice as wide,” Alayne joked. “Knights get old and fat, too.”
“Not in the stories they don’t.”
“Well, this one clearly wasn’t in a story.”
“And what a shame,” Sera lamented theatrically. “If he were, we would be, too, and there would be princes and noblemen in our future.”
“Oh, go back and help Amorri,” Alayne replied, shoving her friend a little. Sera shuffled back to the workroom with a giggle, leaving Alayne to her work.