To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.
Lexa wakes to pain. The wound in
her side is deep enough to throb to every heart beat and she lies for a moment,
staring at the darkened canopy above her bed and breathing slowly in and out.
This sort of pain is not unfamiliar to her; several years in the battlefield
has given her plenty of scars to tell stories about, but it has been quite some
time since she last received one. The sensation makes her feel powerless and
utterly vulnerable, and her fingers inch under her pillow to find the cold
touch of the dagger she keeps there. She is allowed only these few moments of
quiet in her dark, painful world, before a hitching of her breath startles her
handmaiden minder into wakefulness.
Cara hurries to her side, fussing
over her anxiously, and Lexa tries to give her a weary smile, which she does
not return. The girl fetches Nyko, Winterfell’s healer, who appears so quickly
that Lexa fears he had been sleeping in the corridor, close at hand. The man is
kindly and quiet, but firm. She had been administered milk of the poppy the day
before, and despite sleeping until first light this morning she still feels
tired. Nyko gives her another, smaller dose, and inspects her wound despite her
protests. What he finds satisfies him.
“There is no sign of infection
and the bleeding has nearly stopped.” He tells her, in his deep voice, and Lexa
tries to get her swimming head to focus on his words. Nyko can see through her
façade, and he laughs, touching at her shoulder in an attempt to keep her from
rising. “Bed rest for at least three days.” He instructs her, firmly, and Lexa
rolls her eyes, but nods her assent.
Confined to her bed, she is
unable to escape the fury of both Titus and Anya, who enter her chamber as soon
as Nyko deems her well enough. Anya paces and threatens and curses the soldier
whose hand she put her sword in. She is still without her cloak and Lexa makes
a mental note to have another one made for her. It is strange to see her
without it. For once, Titus agrees with her, and together they are halfway to
planning the man’s death before Lexa can stop them. She doesn’t dare to say
that she was distracted by the sight of a certain golden haired visitor talking
with her guard and a stranger Lexa didn’t recognise. It takes almost an hour of
convincing to make them leave, and when she eventually pleads that her injury
is paining her, Anya casts her s suspicious glance as she walks out of the door.
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