Gardening at DawnIndex | HomePage | GameLogs | HoldfastGameLogs | Gardening at Dawn As was his custom, especially if he had things on his mind, Rhys rose early to work in the garden--there was something about the cold air and solitude that helped clarify his thoughts. He chose the herb garden that morning. He wanted to gather fresh comfrey in case it was needed later in the day, but he also had other reasons for choosing this particular plot. It was secluded more than the main garden--surrounded by walls on two sides to protect it from the worst of the frost--and it was visible from Syndra's window. If he was lucky, and Syndra noticed him and was so inclined, she might come down and join him and they could talk. Talk. Yes, they needed to talk. He swallowed and bent to his work. Syndra, for her part, hadn't slept well. She merely dozed all night, her sleep troubled by dreams of bloody lances, faceless knights, and ghosts roaming the forest. She awoke before dawn after a final bout of restlessness, her mind running amok with "what-ifs" and "what-will-bes". Finally, she got up and sat in the window seat, watching the pre-dawn activities of a sleepy castle. When she saw Rhys go down to the garden, she hopped up and quietly began to dress, taking great care not to wake Edlyn, who was still curled snugly in bed. Rhys had said last night that he wanted to speak with her. As quiet as it was outside, this would be the perfect time. As she looked for her cloak, she noticed with an embarrassed wince that she had left her mother's ruined clothes piled carelessly in the corner. Fearing Septa Annice's reaction if she saw the rips and the blood, Syndra picked up the pile and looked around, at a loss for what to do with it. Hastily, she opened the trunk and tossed them back in, closing the lid gingerly behind her. Once outside, Syndra pulled her brown woolen cloak tighter against the dewy pre-dawn chill. She had chosen a warm dress, but still it was chilly. She negotiated the flagstone path carefully, trying to keep her feet dry until she reached the garden. As she approached, she could see Rhys looking down, hard at work. Though he made no sign, she was absolutely certain he knew she was there. "Good morning," she said softly when she reached the gate. "Can I help?" As a child, she used to help him in the garden all the time. Lately, with all the activity surrounding Uncle Oswain's illness and the arrival of visitors, she hadn't had the opportunity. She realized now how much she missed it. Rhys straightened and smiled at her. "Good morning. I'd be happy for the help." He gestured extravagantly at the weeds and grinned. As Syndra came nearer, Rhys narrowed his eyes as he studied her face. "You don't look like you slept well last night." She settled in near the houseleek and shrugged as she began weeding. "Bad dreams. Nothing specific, just... images." She chuckled at herself. "I expected it, though. I would've been surprised if I slept well last night." There was something soothing and so utterly *normal* about being here pulling weeds. Rhys, with his professional eye, could see the improvement already. He watched her briefly, then bent down to continue his own work. He was pretty sure he knew the reasons why she didn't sleep well last night and it was territory they'd already covered in a previous conversation. Although he considered talking to her again about it, he decided that their infrequent time spent together was better spent addressing a different issue. "Syndra...I'd like to talk to you about what happened on the stairwell," Rhys ventured, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "Are you up for that this morning?" She glanced up at him nervously at the mention of the stairwell, then resumed her weeding. "I guess so," she said, still looking down. Then she added more softly, "I'm sorry about that. It was... forward of me." Rhys smiled as he shook the dirt from an uprooted comfrey plant. "Perhaps. But you didn't see me running away, did you? That, in turn, could be described as forward of me. So I should apologize as well. I'm sorry." She giggled bashfully. "It's all right." She pulled a few clumps of grass from around the plants before asking, "So what do we do about it?" Rhys didn't answer her for a moment or two, thinking as he weeded and pulled more comfrey. A bird sang in a nearby tree and in the east the sky started to blush, promising a clear day. "I'll bypass the obvious objections and ask the important question," he finally said, "Then we can work our way outwards from the heart of the matter, instead of starting from the outside and working our way in. More efficient this way, I think, for depending on how you answer the next question, the talk may be over." He paused and leaned on the digging stick he'd brought with him. Piercing blue eyes gazed at Syndra. "Are you interested?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, "or is this a girl's passing fancy?" She looked up at him and nearly stopped breathing. Then she looked away as she stepped backward, searching with her hand for the edge of the stone wall around a raised herb bed. So many thoughts chased through her mind that the ground felt uneven under her feet. She sat and hugged her knees as she cut to the heart of the question she had been skirting since Rhys returned to Holdfast. Was it love or a passing fancy? Syndra looked into his eyes and Rhys could see how seriously she was taking this question. She was clever enough to understand the implications of her decision and she would not make it lightly. What it came down to was this - if it were just the two of them, with no maester's chains and no highborn prejudice, with no Boltons pounding at the door and no false promises, would she marry this man who stood before her? If it were just the two of them, standing before the old gods, would she be his wife? Bear his children? Stand his vigil? Looking at it that way, Syndra knew the answer. 'If it is truly love, let nothing stand between you and him,' Wolf had said. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, spreading her wings and preparing to leap. "I'm interested," she finally whispered, hoping she could fly. At her answer, a rush of warmth filled Rhys's belly and flushed his cheeks. "I feel the same way," he whispered back. She flashed a sudden smile at that, before the concerns of the world flooded back and she grew serious again. He gazed at Syndra's bright eyes for a moment, the fullness of her mouth, the curve of her chin, and unable to contain himself any longer, he started to grin. Torn between wanting to touch her and knowing he could not, he instead sighed deeply and fiddled with the digging stick. "Looks like the talk continues," he said, and bent back to his work to keep up appearances and give himself a moment more to think. "There are several substantial obstacles to a relationship between us," he continued academically, "of which you're no doubt aware. My maester's links, my low-born birth, my promise to your father, the whole Bolton affair...have I missed any?" "My promise to Ser Corryn," she offered, leaning over to pick at the weeds in the raised bed of thyme and rosemary. At Rhys's inquiring look, she explained, "I suppose it's not a direct obstacle, but it could be a hindrance. Shortly after my mother died, we promised to watch out for each other. Swore it before the gods, actually. I take it seriously and if I have to act on it..." she trailed off with an apologetic look and a shrug. "On the other hand, he might be an ally," she continued optimistically, but in a low voice. "He knew about us. He caught our glances in the hall yesterday and called me on it.” "I'm sorry. I thought I was discrete." "Don't worry. I don't think anyone else did. He just has an eye for such things," Syndra reassured him. “Anyway, he seemed sympathetic. After all, he knows a lot about impossible loves." Her smile caught on a hook of irony and went flat. Rhys looked back and blinked at Syndra, catching that there was perhaps something more she was referring to than the matter-at-hand. Not knowing what it could be, he instead addressed the immediate situation. "Not impossible. There are answers to every question, solutions to every problem--one only has to be persistent to find them." He brought up his digging stick to tackle the next comfrey plant. "For instance," Rhys continued as he worked, "the first obstacle I mentioned was these links around my neck and what they represent. In actuality I'm not a full maester, so I've not said the final binding vows--only the preliminary ones." Rhys paused and met Syndra's eyes. "I don't have to say the final vows," he said softly. "I can turn my back on becoming a maester and marry instead. And I'd do that, should...should you...want..." He trailed off, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders, he started again. "I am willing to change my vocation should it become apparent that our mutual feelings are strong enough to warrant a more permanent relationship--and if that is something you, after getting to know me better," he said, his grin returning, "still desire." Syndra's shoulders sagged at the thought of him giving up his career. "But what would you do? You're so gifted as a healer. Is there any other way to make use of that?" Rhys spread his hands. "I can still be a healer--it's too much a part of who I am to not continue it in some fashion. I just won't have the Citadel-backing." Sewell's words came back to him, then--a mind such as yours would be wasted outside the Order--and his expression faltered, unsure. To touch Syndra, to know Syndra, have children with her, to grow old and die with her--was this selfish of him? Were the lives that wouldn't be saved and the discoveries that wouldn't be made his responsibility if he decided not to become a maester? "It's stupid," he said angrily. "I don't understand why the Citadel won't allow their maesters to marry. I mean, well, my uncle explained it to me, but that doesn't mean I agree with their conclusions." "It IS stupid," Syndra agreed. "Children take after their parents. It makes no sense to lock the brightest minds away behind a wall and not allow them to create more bright children." She sighed. "But whether we agree or disagree, it's tradition. They're not going to change the rules for us." She looked away and narrowed her eyes in thought. "Suppose you could find a lord who would take you on as a healer without the official title. Someone who had a tendency to play by his own rules. Would that be something you'd consider? If we could find such a person?" By the glimmer that had arisen in her eyes, it was obvious she had such a person in mind. Rhys considered it. He would no longer have access to the Citadel and any new learning...but he would be free to heal, and perhaps even experiment on his own. "Yes," he replied, nodding. "Yes, that would work. You have an idea of someone already?" Then the connection sparked. "Ser Corryn." Her sly grin showed he was correct. "I don't know if he'd do it," she qualified. "It would put him in direct conflict with my father, and that might not be a relationship he'd be willing to jeopardize. On the other hand, he has holdings at Leaning Stone now and he'll need a maester, or something like one. He also said something about needing someone to care for his new son. I could do that. It sounds like the conditions are pretty squalid there now, but with all of us, plus the Laughing Knives, we could get it cleaned up." Her enthusiasm increased the more she talked about it. Then suddenly, her face fell. "But the next obstacle might be harder. My father," she frowned. Rhys smiled at her. "He wants what's best for his daughter--how can we fault him for that?" That brought a warm smile to Syndra's features. "If Ser Corryn champions our cause, perhaps he can talk to your father on our behalf. In the meantime, I think we should skip this particular obstacle and come back to it later. "Which brings me to the last two, both intertwined with one another: my promise and the Boltons." He hesitated. "Have you had a chance to talk to your father yet about the conditions of the promise?" "Some," she replied, "but we might have to come back to those as well. Everything depends so much on what happens this afternoon. If Father is successful, I might be able to convince him to change his mind once the Boltons leave. *If* they leave. But if he's not..." She shrugged, more casually than she felt, "it won't matter anyway. Father's made Ser Corryn my guardian, so the decision will be his." "Oh, that reminds me," she said suddenly, dropping her voice lower, "I'm worried about Father. I heard Ser Herys in the hallway last night telling Eryk to help his brother win somehow. I don't know what he meant, but it sounded bad." She looked up at him, blue eyes wide with worry. Anger passed over Rhys's face at the mention of the Boltons. "Can you remember exactly what was said?" Syndra looked up at the fading stars as she tried to remember. "I was going up the stairs and I heard Herys and Eryk in the hallway below. Eryk said he had done all his father asked, but 'the girl hates all by the name of Bolton. She won't have me.' I suspect they were talking about me," she added unnecessarily. "And then Eryk mentioned the challenge tomorrow. Herys said it was unlikely Evan would win unless he was 'given some help.' But it was the *way* he said it, like there was some hidden meaning behind it. Eryk hesitated, then said 'I will respect your wishes.' Then they both left." She looked up with a grimace. "That was all they said. It's not much," she apologized. "Not so," Rhys chided gently. "It gives us direction and purpose. Perhaps that sellsword from the other night--Mal?--could be persuaded to keep a watch on the Bolton whelp this morning and make sure he stays away from both Tamm and your father and their weapons and armor." "Perhaps. I could ask Kenrith," Syndra nodded. She turned away and returned her attention to the weeds for a moment. Doing something mindlessly physical always helped her think. After a moment, she mused, "I just wish I knew what was going on. It can't be a coincidence that everything is happening at once. The Boltons arrival, Herys's long-lost son showing up, the murder, Maester Merivel's disappearance. There's a goal here somewhere. All of this ties back to something, but I can't figure out what it is." She looked up at Rhys. "I heard there was another murder last night in town?" "Tovis was murdered yesterday morning and his cart stolen. We found the cart yesterday in the forest--it's what Dobbin brought the dead men home in.” Syndra winced. The situation kept getting worse. "Syndra...if something bad happens today, if your father falls or we're attacked, I want you to run and hide." Rhys stopped his work and turned toward her, deadly serious. "Edlyn will be all right--she's Lady Celia's daughter--but they'll be looking for you and Kenrith and Godwyn. I will take care of your father as best I can--I promise--and I want you to promise me that you'll run and hide without pausing, without stopping to grab something, without regard to anything else." She regarded him for a long moment and chewed her lip, his seriousness reflected in her eyes. Finally, she said softly, "I can't promise that, Rhys. I can promise you I'll do my best to stay out of danger. But if my father needs me, or if Wolf or my cousins need me, I won't run away. I won't leave them." Her voice fell to a whisper. "I won't leave you." Despite the softness of her words, there was steel behind them. Syndra Hardy was every bit as stubborn as her father. Rhys smiled gently. "There's this look you get when you get adamant about something," he commented idly. "Your chin tilts just so and your eyes flash and I find it very...appealing. Almost enough that I'm tempted to say things just to see the look." Feeling his face go warm again, Rhys bent down to pull more weeds. "I don't doubt your spirit, Syndra. I understand what you're feeling. But consider this--you're a fourteen-year-old girl. These men are stronger than you and have had more training at-arms than you. If you get into a tussle with one, there's every good chance he will win. What I'm betting you can do better than them is run. Put you in good shoes and a dress that doesn't hamper your movement and you'll run like a deer--I'd pit you against any man here, maybe even Godwyn." Syndra nodded somberly. Rhys straightened suddenly and caught her eye. "I just...I fear for what might happen to you if things go really...badly. You can be used as a hostage to ensure your father's cooperation...or you can be--forgive my forwardness and indelicacy--you can be raped." She nodded again and looked down at her hands in her lap. "I know," she whispered gravely. In that moment, the faces of all the men in her life - her father, Wolf, Rhys, Godwyn, Kenrith, all of them - flashed before her, on the ground, in pain, dead or dying. Given the choice in their last moments of life, would any one of them rather have her kneeling over them in danger, or gone but safe. Would staying to see them into the other world serve any other purpose than to get her killed along with them? No. She sighed heavily. "How about this?" she proposed softly. "I'll run to a place where I can watch, out of sight. If Holdfast survives, I'll return to tend to the wounded. If not..." She breathed deeply, forcing herself past that heartbreaking outcome, "I'll run for Winterfell." She looked up at him, her blue eyes moist with tears. Rhys's heart ached at the sight of her distress. He longed to hold her, but he dared not even reach out to touch her cheek. He nodded somber approval of her plan. "Can you tell me where you'll hide?" She thought about that for a while, even getting up and beginning to pace as she evaluated each spot for defensibility. "The old tower on the wall beyond the frog pond," she decided finally. "No one uses it since they built the new one." 'New' was a relative term. Nothing was new in Holdfast. The 'new' tower had been built almost two hundred years ago. "The stairs are all rotted out, but Godwyn and I have climbed it before," Syndra explained. "I'll try to hide a bow and quiver sometime before the tournament so I can grab it in a hurry. And I still have my knife. I can stay out of sight, but still see a lot of what's happening, except at the very front." Rhys nodded again. He knew the place. "Hide some food along with the bow and quiver, in case you need to run to Winterfell," he suggested. Then he was quiet for a few minutes, pulling weeds with a greater force than was needed. She nodded and went back to her own weeding as well. The morning sun rose over the horizon, transforming the predawn grey into pinks and oranges. The sky was clear and bright and promised a beautiful day ahead. Around them, Holdfast stirred and awoke. "Do you remember when we were little, before I went to the Citadel, on mornings like this drawing pictures in the frost with our feet and watching them melt away with the sun?" Rhys asked, smiling once more. "Godwyn always drew pictures of sers and horses." Syndra chuckled at the memory. "Yes. He did," she remembered with a wistful sigh, silently adding her own recollections. "How long ago that all was." She looked up at the brightening sky thoughtfully. "It's strange, Rhys. My life seems to go in seven-year cycles," she mused. "Seven years before the fever changed everything. Then seven years until this..." she gestured outward at the general situation in Holdfast. "I wonder what the next seven years will be." "And I seven years at the Citadel... What did you do here at Holdfast while I was gone?" Rhys asked. "Grew up," she teased, grinning over at him. "Actually, not much has changed here. As I recall, Kenrith left a little before you did to go to Riverrun. I started hanging around with Godwyn more then. I knew what it was like to lose a brother, so I felt for him. He seemed so lost. Eventually we started having our fun by annoying Lady Celia. That was after Father left, of course. I couldn't have done that while he was here," she smirked evilly. "I got in as much arms training as I could. While Father was here, he trained me on the bow. Ranged weapons, you know. So I wouldn't get too close to the enemy," she smiled affectionately. "Wol... I mean, Ser Corryn, on the other hand, taught me more about basic self-defense." She pulled up her left sleeve to reveal a shiny thin stiletto in a leather wrist sheath. Rhys looked over in interest, eyebrows raised. "He gave me this on my tenth nameday. Father nearly had a fit until Wolf took him aside and calmed him down. Father made him train me well then - not that Ser Corryn minded. I think he had as much fun training me as I did learning," she chuckled, obviously quite fond of her untamed friend. Narrowing his eyes thoughtfully at something Syndra said, Rhys nodded. "I didn't know you had that," he said, indicating the knife. "I'm glad you've been taught how to use it." "And I learned a lot about swords second-hand from Godwyn. Father used to let me work with the master-at-arms, but Lady Celia put a stop to that the moment he left for Winterfell. Godwyn still trained me, though. He said it was because every Hardy should know how to use a sword, but I think he just enjoyed sending Lady Celia through the roof," she giggled. Rhys smiled and moved over a row to continue his work. "So that was how it was until about two years ago. That was when Edlyn arrived. She had been living with her grandparents in the Vale, but they grew too frail to take care of her, so they sent her here. I didn't think it would work out at first. She almost caught her death of cold the first week and she seemed awfully prissy. But it didn't take us long to learn she had heart. She sat right beside me the time I sewed up Godwyn's leg. She was white as a ghost, but she didn't faint. I'll give her that," Syndra said with admiration. "Sewed up Godwyn's leg?" Rhys said. "Was this the time he rode into those men's camp and one of them stabbed him in the thigh? He told me about that last night." "Yes, that's right," Syndra nodded. "How did that come up?" "Strange men in the woods reminded Godwyn of the incident two years ago. He said Ser Corryn was here then, too, and Godwyn wondered if there was a connection." Rhys glanced at Syndra out of the corner of his eye. Syndra cocked her head and narrowed her eyes in thought. "Oh. I don't know. I guess I never thought of it that way. Godwyn stumbled upon some bandits in the woods and they stabbed him and ran. Just before that, someone had tried to murder Ser Corryn in his bed at the inn. The forester, Tamlin I think, went back to look for the bandits and found their camp, even though the guards hadn't seen anything." Her eyes widened as she remembered something. "There was a coin...," she revealed softly. "The forester found a gold coin stamped with the Lion of Lannister at the bandits' camp. I bought it from him and showed it to Godwyn later. I wanted to show it to Wolf too, but he had already ridden out. He had received word that his mother had been injured and had to go to her. That was the last time he was here until yesterday." "A coin?" Rhys blinked. "Strange...Tovis's hand was mangled after he was killed...we're pretty sure he was holding a coin and for whatever reason, someone deemed it important enough to come back and get it, even though the chance at getting caught was high. "I can't say I see what it all means, or even if the coins are connected. Just an interesting..._coin_cidence," Rhys joked. He grinned rather wickedly, hoping to see Syndra smile. Syndra groaned. With a vicious smirk, she threw a clump of sod at his shoulder, then turned back to her weeding, giggling. Smiling, Rhys turned back to his weeding as well. "Do you still have the coin?" he asked after a moment. "Somewhere," she replied. "In my dresser, I think. I can show it to you later if you like. I want to show it to Ser Corryn too. It might give him some clue about who tried to kill him." She yanked at another weed, forcing a new worry from her mind. She had too many already. "Later is fine. Thanks." Rhys came to the end of his current row. He straightened and stretched and looked back at Syndra. The sun shone redly through the stray strands of hair curling around her head and face and Rhys watched her work, entranced, savoring the simplicity of the moment. "Time for me to be getting back to the Tower," Rhys finally said, forcing the words out. Syndra signed wistfully and looked up into his blue eyes, lit by the early morning sun. She smiled warmly with their shared secret. "All right," she said. She turned and sat once more on the edge of the raised herb bed. "If you don't mind, though, I'm going to stay a while longer. I just like being here," she smiled. And indeed, she did look more relaxed than he'd seen her since the Boltons' arrival, sitting on the stones with dirt under her fingernails, surrounded by living, growing things. Rhys reached into his basket and snipped off a bloom. He handed the cluster of small pinkish-purple flowers to Syndra. "Comfrey is a binding herb. It helps bones knit together, helps wounds to stop bleeding. Maybe it will help bind us together too, despite all the obstacles." Syndra's smile widened. She accepted the flower with thanks, touching just the tips of Rhys's fingers as she took it from his hand. It was all she dared. She weaved the blossom into her hair and looked back up at him. "Let's hope so," she smiled. He smiled back. "Take care." Rhys picked up the basket of comfrey and turned to walk back to the Tower. |
