A Game of Thrones - Winter Chills | AGameOfThrones-WinterChills / Life is What You Make of It browse

Syndra sat on her window seat, staring off into space, as was her wont these days. This wasn't at all how it was supposed to be. Not at all. Everything was supposed to get better when Papa brought her home to their manor. She should've been happy, finally away from the horrid confines of the sickroom and that hateful castle where she'd lost almost everything. In truth, she'd never been more miserable.

When they had first arrived at the manor, Syndra had been excited. She leapt from the carriage before her father had even stopped the horses. Septa Annice clucked her disapproval at her gross lack of daintiness, but Syndra didn't care. She was home. She could run without being scolded, she could climb trees with.... She stopped cold.

Gavrin. Gavrin was dead. So was Mama, and Trey. Septa Annice caught up with her and even passed her, opening the door and tsking at the dust on the bannister. Syndra followed slowly, wandering into the foyer and looking around. Why did it seem so dark? Syndra reckoned it must have always been dark, but she had never noticed before. Mama had always been there to make it light.

Godfrey seemed to notice it too, because as he entered with the bags, he paused; his face bearing the same expression Syndra imagined must be on her own. He dropped the bags in the foyer and placed a hand on her shoulder, biting his lip to control his emotions and looking around as if lost. The septa finally hustled them both along, though even her voice seemed a little hoarse.

Things just got worse from there. Godfrey had always been a stern father, like many men accustomed to military discipline. But he had been loving, too; often playing with the children in the evenings after dinner. Now, though, he withdrew. He rarely spoke more than a word or two to anyone. He worked with his swords furiously, or rode, or hunted with the kennelmaster to the point of exhaustion. Every night after dinner, he retired to the small godswood to do only the gods knew what. He never returned until well after Syndra was in bed.

The manor staff tried to help. The stablemaster, Noran, helped Syndra with her riding and let her feed the horses. The cook, Misha, made her favorite dessert, blackberry tarts, several times a week. Septa Annice, though, was the best.

Syndra's septa had been Morna's own septa when she was a girl. To quell her own grief, Septa Annice threw herself into her work, becoming both mother and nursemaid to her grieving charge. She was never far away, with a smile, a hug, a story or simply a lap. She was the taskmaster to keep Syndra busy and the storyteller to help her sleep at night. Syndra appreciated her presence more than even Septa Annice could know.

Still, it was becoming too much to bear. Syndra remembered her promise to Mama that she would look after her father, but, in her estimation, she wasn't doing a very good job. She had begged him this afternoon to let her help with his sword work, but he merely told her to run along. When she mentioned it to Septa Annice, the elderly woman tsked. "The poor man's got no idea what to do with a girl," she said disapprovingly. "It's his loss." She often said that, but this time, it struck a chord.

Syndra cocked her head and looked thoughtfully into the distance. "I think you're right," she said idly as she toyed with an idea. She rolled that idea around in her head all day long. Now, as she sat there on the window seat watching out the window, she waited put it into effect. All she needed to do was wait for her father to go to the godswood.

Darkness was falling when she saw the familiar tall, lean figure make his way across the courtyard and towards the small, private gate that allowed people to slip away quietly into the godswood.

Syndra hopped down from the window seat and stripped off her bedclothes. She donned a linen shirt, soft doeskin jerkin and breetches that she had swiped from Gavrin's things. She had planned to use her own playclothes, but found that she had outgrown them since her family had last been in residence. No matter. Gavrin's fit well enough and were probably better suited for what she was about to do.

She dug deep into the chest she had brought from Holdfast. She had carefully packed it herself without prompting or argument, flooring Septa Annice with her unusual display of cooperation. In a moment, she drew out the reason for her helpfulness - the wooden sword Ser Corryn had given her in secret back at Holdfast. He had often practiced with her surreptitiously on his visits. Mama, Septa Annice and Lady Celia all disapproved of Syndra's boyishness, but Ser Corryn seemed charmed by it. And Papa used to let her train with Gavrin. Knights were so much more fun than proper ladies.

She slipped the sword into her belt and crept to the door. She opened it quietly and listened as she had been taught, again by Ser Corryn. One had to be able to listen carefully, and to move silently, if one expected to be a successful pirate, he had always told Syndra and her brothers. They had become very good at it. Well, all except Trey. He whispered too loud.

When all was clear, Syndra crept silently down the servant stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door.

She found herself in the courtyard her father had already crossed. A sleepy watchdog raised its head but - recognising the Hardy scent, gave a deep sigh and settled its head back on its paws.

There was no-one else to stop her before she reached the narrow postern gate that led to the godswood.

Syndra quietly crossed the courtyard, the dew-covered grass soaking the toes of her shoes. She was almost at the gate when a wolf howled in the forest, up on the ridge behind the manor. Syndra froze. She hated the dark, and she was terrified of the godswood. Even in the daytime, the pines, sentinels and weirwoods made long shadows that the sun could never penetrate. Grass could not even grow there. Papa had tried to take her there the last time they were home, but she refused to go near it. Her breath became ragged as she looked back up at her window. The warm glow of the candle beckoned her back inside. But she resisted, trembling. This was too important.

She crept through the iron gate and paused one last time. She could not turn back, she told herself. The Hardys are not craven.

Papa had once explained the difference between being scared and being craven. In front of the fire one night, Gavrin had proudly proclaimed that their father could not possibly have been scared at Storm's End because he was no craven. Papa had wasted no time in correcting him.

"Of course, I was scared, Gavrin. Anyone who said he wasn't was either a liar or a fool." At Gavrin's horrified expression, Godfrey had grinned and continued. "But I wasn't craven. They're not the same. Everyone gets scared sometimes. It's what your fear makes you do that matters. If you do your duty honorably, even though you're scared, then you're brave. But if you don't... if your fear makes you run away from your duty, =that's= being craven."

Remembering this, Syndra knew she could not turn back. She had a duty to look after her father. She had promised. He needed her, whether he knew it or not. Shaking with fright, she entered the godswood, walking silently and listening for some indication of where he might be.

She was almost upon him before she saw him. In the very heart of the godswood, he was kneeling before the heart tree, gazing up at the face of it which showed cold and remotely beautiul in its lineaments in the moonlight.

Syndra gazed upon the face as well, touched by its raw beauty. How could she have been fearful of this, she wondered. The gods help us find our strength. She stepped forward resolutely. "Father?" she addressed him in a firm, clear voice.

For a moment she thought he had not heard, so still was he. Then, slowly he rose to his feet, and turned to look at her. Perhaps he saw Gavrin's clothes, Gavrin's shape, for she heard his sharply indrawn breath. But then he spoke, and she knew he saw her truly.

"Syndra?"

Shoring herself up with all the courage she could muster, Syndra spoke again, her chin high. "Father, I have come to attend you in my brother's place," she stated formally.

For a long moment he was silent. His back was to the moon; she could not see his face.

Her father's silence was beginning to frighten Syndra. For a moment, she wondered if she had only made matters worse.

Then, slowly, he lifted his hand to her.

"Come to me, child." His voice was little more than a whisper.

Syndra bit her lip and stepped forward, gently placing her small hand into his larger one.

She saw by the angle of his head that he was gazing down at her. For a long minute he was silent, and then he said, "Syndra - are you not afraid of the weirwood?"

"A... a little," she admitted meekly. Then she dredged up some more courage. "But I had to come," she told him. "I...I promised Mama."

He made an awkward sound - a sort of choking - and then he reached out and drew her close within his arms. "You promised your Mama," he said, and then she felt his body shake, and heard a sob half-wrenched from him. "Morna!" he said. "Oh ... Morna!"

Syndra wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, under his dark grey cloak. Her head was pressed against his stomach and she could feel his warmth on her cheek. She squeezed him, trying to send all her strength back to the one man who throughout her life had always been so strong. She found herself crying too, for him and with him.

She wasn't sure how long they stood there holding each other. When she could speak once again, she said softly, her cheek still resting on his chest, "She's all right, Papa. They all are. I saw. It's peaceful there." She paused, unsure if her words would upset him. "Do you want me to tell you?"

Again there was the long silence, and then he sank down to sit on the mossy ground of the weirwood, drawing her to sit on his lap within the warm circle of his arms.

"Tell me," he said.

Syndra adjusted herself to sit comfortably in his crossed legs, like sitting in an easy chair, and rested back against his chest. She gazed up at the face on the heart tree. As she began speaking, it faded away into memory.

"Gavrin woke me up," she began softly, remembering. "He was dressed for outside. He said I should come say goodbye. I was scared 'cause the last time he said that, Trey ... died. But it felt like I should follow him, so I did.

"He led me outside. Into the courtyard. It was all covered in snow, y'know the fluffy kind that's real pretty? But it wasn't cold. I was barefoot and it wasn't cold on my feet. It was real quiet, like it gets when the snow's falling, and there were no guards. Not anywhere. Gav led me to the gate. Mama and Trey were there, and when I saw Trey, I got really scared 'cause Trey had already died and that must mean that..." Her voice started to waver and she paused to get it back under control.

His grip on her tightened, although he said nothing. But she knew from the small shifts of his body next to her that he was listening intently.

"But Gav was good. He was brave, Papa. He said Mama wanted to say goodbye and he held out his hand for me, so I went with him. When I got to Mama, I cried and said I didn't want to say goodbye. I wanted to go with them, but Mama said no. She said I had to stay here, 'cause you would need me."

She felt a movement, as though a shiver had passed over him.

She cocked her head thoughtfully, as if suddenly remembering something new. "Y'know, she never did ask me to promise. But somehow it felt like a promise, so I guess it was, sort of. She let me hold the baby then. It was a boy, Papa. And he was big, like he'd been born a long time. He smiled at me and tried to pull my hair," Even though her back was to him, Godfrey could hear her smile at the memory.

"I held him down so Trey could see, and Gavrin put his arm around me and it was all of us," She started to tremble in her father's arms as her voice began to break. "It felt warm, and safe, and I just felt... good. Happy. Like... everything was going to be all right."

She began to sob. "Then I was back and they were... gone." On the last word, she buried her face in his chest and wept.

She felt his hands holding her, soothing her as gently as ever her mother had. His big, strong hands, trained to arms and battle, and yet so comforting, so secure.

"Forgive me, Syndra," he said softly. "I've been a long, long way from you. I've tried to do the impossible ... to follow them ... to go after them and ... "

She felt the light pressure of his lips on the top of her head and then a sudden touch from his tear, like a spring raindrop on her head to mark the end of winter.

"Thank you for bringing me back, my daughter."

And then he wept, rocking her gently too and fro under the gaze of the heart tree.

Syndra's response to his apology was to simply smile and nuzzle snugly inside his warm woolen cloak. The combination of the rocking, the warmth, and the heart tree's gaze was hypnotic and Syndra found herself yawning.

Once her father's tears had tapered off, Syndra asked sleepily, "Papa, can we go back to Holdfast? I miss Godwyn and Rhys. And even Kenrith a little." Because it had occurred to her, in this sacred place before the old gods, that even though she lost her blood brothers, she had found three brothers in the sickroom. They were different, to be sure, and would never replace her own brothers, but they were family all the same. As were Septa Annice and Ser Corryn, Maester Sewell and Uncle Oswain. And perhaps even Lady Celia, in time.

"If you wish, Syndra," he said. "I know ... it is your home too. I had thought to .... No. You are right. We'll go back to Holdfast, in a little while."

He set her down from his lap, without releasing her hand. "But first ... we both of us need to sleep. And tomorrow, we shall ride out - just as we used to with ... with Gavrin." His hand tightened on hers, but she saw he was smiling. "They had to make their journey, Syndra. Ours will be as hard, I think. But we will have each other."

Syndra smiled back at him fondly. That was really all she wanted. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. When he tried to rise, though, she didn't let go. Godfrey recognized the "carry me" gesture.

"Almost too old," he murmured, but he lifted her regardless, and together they proceeded back to the Castle.

By the time they reached Syndra's bedroom, she was asleep on her father's shoulder.

Categories: WinterChillsGameLogs, CastleHoldfast