The World Aflame

Chapter One:

MARIANA

They drug the traitor inside the keep walls thrown over the back of a black horse like a shadow. He was slim, from what she could see of him, with his hands tethered together and his tangled hair obscuring his face. She had never seen a traitor before, so she couldn’t be sure if she was surprised that with his youth or not. Did one have to be grown to be a traitor? Did one have to be of age to know what side he was fighting on? She was barely of age, and all she knew about loyalty was her family and the North.

She stood on her tiptoes, leaning forward over the stone ledge, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. What did a traitor look like? She supposed he must be dastardly looking, with dark eyes and a snarl across his face. A traitor must certainly look like a traitor, wasn’t that right? Though from the snatches she had heard among her family was that the Lannisters were now the enemy of the kingdom and the every Lannister she had ever met were golden haired and beautiful. Lannisters didn’t look like traitors, but perhaps that was because the enemy looked different from a traitor.

“Mariana,” Her father grumbled in warning as she leaned an inch further out over the ledge. “You should go inside. This is not something that a lady needs to witness.”

“But I thought you said you weren’t going to kill him. That’s what you told Natan, you said that Robb Stark wanted him alive.” She reminded, recalling the conversation she had overheard between her father and her oldest brother.

He focused her with his intense blue gaze and she widened her own blue eyes in feigned innocence until he smiled. “You hear too much.” He muttered. “War ramblings are not suitable topics for young ladies to overhear.” He glanced down to the courtyard where they were dragging the traitor off the horse. They dropped him in the dirt unceremoniously. “But you’re correct, we’re not to kill him. Robb Stark wants that honor for himself.”

Mariana had never met Robb Stark, the eldest of the Stark children, but she had heard of him. Her brothers had met him of course, their castle wasn’t far from Winterfell, the Stark residence. Her brothers had sometimes traveled the few days journeys across the White Knife to train at Winterfell with the knight that resided there.

The King of the North, they were calling him. It seemed that except for curses about the Lannisters, his name was the other that came up with certain frequency in every conversation. Robb Stark, the King of the North, they were calling him. She glanced down at the man in the dirt of the keep below. He was young, perhaps only a few years older than herself, with tangled brown hair that fell into a pale face like seaweed. What could he have done to betray the King of the North so terribly that Robb Stark wanted to kill him personally?

She leaned forward, pressing her gloved hands against the cold stone of their castle. Castle Windsong, steadfast of the Wysong family, was small, dark, and cold. Their holding was set off into the North between the White Knife River and the sea. Her father didn’t enjoy fighting or politics, and generally kept his gate closed to travelers. She knew, from the set of his jaw, that he didn’t approve of being responsible for the traitor in their yard. But her oldest brother, Natan, was descending the steps down towards the yard, her other brother Ryeland close behind him. Her other brother, Kirk, was off with Robb Stark, along with three hundred of their men, fighting the rebellion against the Lannisters. Her brothers were desperate for news of the war and eager to participate, though their father was set against it.

“Theon Greyjoy.” Natan called out as he reached the snow flecked dirt of the courtyard. “I’ve been charged with keeping you alive until Robb Stark can see you to himself.” He drawled, in a voice she had seldom heard out of her eldest brother’s mouth. She glanced from the sneer on her brother’s face to the man that was trying to rise to his feet. A stone knocked him in the head , and he jerked back into the frosty earth. “A task that will not be easy, I fear. Let’s pray His Grace comes soon to deliver you death, I can’t promise to keep a traitor to the North alive for long.”

“Mariana!” A voice hissed and she turned to see her mother standing just outside the green doors to their great hall. “Come inside this instant! You’ll catch your death out there in the cold.”

In truth, it was a rather mild day, the wind was a bit blustery and it was spitting a few snowflakes, but that was considered quite acceptable this far south. Her mother, however, was always convinced that her only daughter was going to catch her death if she stood outside for more than a few minutes time. Mariana turned back to the scene below. The Greyjoy boy, for the traitor now had a name, was bleeding, the red stark against his pale face, and she could see the men shifting closer to him. She was afraid he wasn’t going to live long enough to make it to the tower, let alone for Robb Stark to come claim his vengeance.

“Mariana!” Her mother hissed again, beckoning for her to come inside. “Come now, this isn’t the sort of thing a young lady should witness.”

She glanced once more at the traitor in the yard, before following her mother into the warmth of the castle. Her mother immediately launched into a lecture about the dangers of catching a cold and how she didn’t have the constitution to fight off an infection. Her septa joined her quickly, pressing a hot mug into her hand and bundling her up the stairs towards her chambers.

“Get warm quickly, my sweet pearl.” Her mother cooed, once she was back in her own tower and bundled in furs in front of a fire that a serving girl was stoking. “Remember my daughter, that it is a miracle you are alive, you must be careful.”

Mariana closed her eyes as her mother repeated the story of her birth, as she did everytime Mariana did something that was potentially dangerous, such as stepping outside. She had heard the story so many times that she could recite it in her sleep.

Her parents were older, they had both thought they were done having children, her mother had done her duty and produced three strong sons to carry on her husband’s name. A fourth son, had died as a toddler, when a fever took him. She had given up hope of having a daughter by the time she realized that she was pregnant again. It was a rough pregnancy and an even rockier birth, when Mariana was brought into this world, her face had been blue and she hadn’t been breathing, the cord that connected mother to child wrapped around her neck. The Maester had just turned to her mother to tell her the news that her child, a daughter, hadn’t survived, when Mariana opened her eyes and sucked in a great gasp of air.

Ever since then, she had been a sickly child, and the older she got, the more her mother confined her, certain that this next sickness would be the last. Mariana’s name day was celebrated rather somberly every year that she had survived a year that her mother was certain would be her last.

“You are a miracle, Mariana,” her mother told her as the story came to a close. “You must be careful.”