CHAPTER 9 - THE FATHER

**The morning was overcast and grim.** Shella broke her fast with Lord Stark and the girls. **Sansa, still disconsolate, stared sullenly at her food and refused to eat, but Arya wolfed down everything that was set in front of her. "Syrio says we have time for one last lesson before we take ship this evening," she said. "Can I, Father? All my things are packed."**

**"A short lesson, and make certain you leave yourself time to bathe and change. I want you ready to leave by midday, is that understood?"**

**"By midday," Arya said.**

**Sansa looked up from her food. "If she can have a dancing lesson, why won't you let me say farewell to Prince Joffrey?"**

**"I would gladly go with her, Lord Eddard," Septa Mordane offered. "There would be no question of her missing the ship."** Shella was, herself, not pleased to be leaving the opulence of the capital. Why should Arya, so ill-behaved, get what she wants while Sansa is deprived of seeing the handsome prince one more time? And why should Shella be deprived of one last chance to make a favorable impression upon whomever she might chance to encounter? She did not intend to leave the Starks' service but if the queen were to order the prince's betrothed to stay . . .

**"It would not be wise for you to go to Joffrey right now, Sansa. I'm sorry."**

**Sansa's eyes filled with tears. "But why?"**

**"Sansa, your lord father knows best," Septa Mordane said. "You are not to question his decisions."** Lord Baelish was right. Some of my lord's decisions could do with a bit of questioning. Shella knew, just knew, disgrace would dog them all the way north and then where would they be? Another prince was not likely to come about. The highest honor Shella could ever hope to achieve, septa to the queen, was to be snatched away from her and Lord Stark would not even deign to explain why. It was most vexing!

**"It's not fair!" Sansa pushed back from the table, knocked over her chair, and ran weeping from the solar.**

Because she had to, **Septa Mordane rose, but [Lord Stark] gestured her back to her seat. "Let her go, Septa. I will try to make her understand when we are all safely back at Winterfell."**

**The septa bowed her head and sat down to finish her breakfast,** though it tasted like sour grapes.

Still, it was a sin to let good food go to waste. She was the last to leave the table. When she did, Shella went to commiserate with Sansa but the girl was not in her room. Perhaps she'd gone to the godswood? A sneaky voice suggested Maybe she's gone to the prince. Shella sniffed. Good for her if she has. Shella remembered the rumors that circulated about Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns. She maneuvered to get the marriage she wanted and maybe Sansa would have the wits to do the same. Somehow Shella doubted it, though. She thought it was more likely that the girl was weeping to her father. Shella directed her steps toward her lord's chambers.

"Save yourself the climb, Septa," the guard said. "Lord Stark isn't up there."

"Oh, no? Where has he gone?"

"He's meeting with the queen."

Shella's brows drew together. "Was Lady Sansa with him?"

"No, Septa."

Shella didn't know what to make of that so she returned to her own chambers and sat with a racy book she'd disclaim any knowledge of if asked. Footsteps came and went by her door. She chided herself for inattention but she was certain there was more traffic in the hall than usual. When she emerged, none of the family were there. She went to the great hall to eat and was surprised when one of the friendlier septas invited Shella to join her and the other sisters. They spoke of small matters and Shella was relieved that she seemed to be back in their good graces. She sensed an undercurrent but chose to ignore it. There were plenty of gold cloaks around. The atmosphere was watchful so surely they were safe. Yet something continued to bother Shella. When she was brought a bowlful of soup, it struck her: the city seemed to be simmering.

The simmer became a full boil when King Robert and his hunting party came pounding back through the city to the keep. The king had been ripped nearly in half by a boar, it was rumored, and everything was in turmoil. Shella took Sansa and Arya to the sept to pray and made sure they were seen doing so. Arya, naturally, protested but was given a swift reminder that the king was a friend of her father's and hadn't her father been nearly the only one who grieved the loss of her own friend, the butcher's boy?

When they left the sept, they crossed the path of that awful Hound. Before Shella could usher her away, Sansa, blue eyes wide and beseeching, called out to him. "My lord!"

The brute turned, trailed his filthy eyes all over Sansa's becoming gown, and remained silent. His gaze must have taken in Shella and Arya but he didn't acknowledge them. Shella nearly took Sansa's elbow to steer her away from this folly but the girl did persist.

"How fares the king?" She bravely took a step forward and somehow withstood staring full into the Hound's face.

"He lives . . ."

My lady, Shella corrected automatically in her head.

"For now."

Sansa sagged in relief. "Our kind queen must be ever so thankful, as we all are."

When the Hound snorted in response, Shella pointedly looked away. How dare he address his future queen like she was a winesink slattern? She would have a word with Sansa about tolerating that kind of disrespect.

"Would you . . ." Sansa glanced over at her septa. "Would you please tell Prince Joffrey my thoughts are with him at every hour?" Her voice trailed off to a mumble. The Hound was squinting at her.

"You want me to chirp your pretty words for you?"

"I would gladly tell him myself but I have been unable to see him."

"He's been busy -"

"Oh! I didn't mean to imply he wasn't!" Sansa babbled. "I -" Shella could feel the irritation rolling off of Arya and was close to hoping the girl would force their exit but she seemed content to glare at the prince's sworn shield.

"He's been busy readying himself for the king's death. You should do the same." He gestured toward her. "Get out your black dresses and your veils. Practice your sad looks."

"Sansa," Shella said, thinking that if the Hound was dictating fashion choices for the prince's betrothed the conversation had gone on quite long enough.

"We were just praying for his recovery, my lord."

The Hound barked out a laugh. "Then I'll tell Joff the funeral is off. Your prayers have robbed him of the throne. Robert's as good as healed." He laughed again at his own wit and looked Sansa over once more, his eyes glinting with amusement. Shella's own eyes darted around to see who was noticing this shaming display but people were giving them a wide berth.

His rudeness discomfited Sansa. When she didn't respond, he added, nastily. "Prayer isn't going to stop his guts from leaking out all over. I thought you'd know that by now."

Gods, that voice. Like a choir of demons. Shella thought she should probably contradict him but he wasn't worth the breath. She wasn't intimidated by him. It wasn't that. And, besides, he was speaking to Sansa, not her. A lady knows when to speak and when to hold her tongue.

"Will you tell the prince, my lord, if it please you?" Sansa murmured.

"If it please me," he sneered.

Shella curled her lip in distaste.

Sansa dropped him a curtsy he didn't deserve and she, Shella, and Arya continued on. The keep was crowded and it seemed everyone was looking at them though Shella failed to make eye contact with a single person. Sansa is looking especially well today, she thought, that's what has caught everyone's eye.

Soon, there were bells tolling. The king was dead. Shella felt only relief. Now there would be no leaving. Prince Joffrey would become king and he could overrule Lord Eddard's foolhardy decision to remove Sansa from his reach. It was not, she realized clearly for the first time, Lord Stark to whom her legacy was tied but to Sansa. A Warden of the North did not need a septa but a gently bred queen did. Shella starched her skirts and waited to accompany Sansa to the coronation.

Only the coronation didn't happen. There was talk. Talk of a delay. Something about Lord Stark wanting Stannis Baratheon to take the throne. Shella was most annoyed by this and refuted the rumors to anyone who would listen. Why would he not want his daughter to be queen? she'd ask. No one could give an answer that made sense. Someone suggested Lord Stark's sense of right was greater than his want of sense but wordplay was never Shella's forte and she just laughed at the joke and smiled and changed the subject.

The castle was alight with rumors. Shella saw one of the septas she knew and pulled her aside. "What is going on?" she asked, trying to keep panic from her voice. But the septa just gave her a pitying look, shook off Shella's hand, and walked on.

And then it all fell apart. The halls were flooded with gold cloaks. The Stark retainers seemed to vanish. Shella didn't know what was happening, she only knew it was bad.

She bolted her door and tried not to be sick. They'll spare you. You're godsworn. They wouldn't risk the gods' wrath. But where was everyone else? Where were Lord Stark and Sansa and Arya? Were they safe? Did they take the galley and leave her behind?

She was unsure how much time had gone by when there was a shout and a grunt and a crash like a body hitting her door. She didn't dare open the small window in the door to find out what was happening. Let them forget I'm here. Let them forget all about me. Please. Mother, save me.

Eventually, one of the Kingsguard came for her. She was ordered to open her door and she did. There was a rough voice calling, "Stand aside!" and then the crunch of wood splintering. A girl was screaming and crying. It was not Sansa. It was Jeyne. She was trembling and her arms were purple. The Hound had her. Shella opened her mouth to protest but the one called Boros called out first. "What are you doing with her? Keeping her for yourself?"

"I'm following orders, Boros. I suggest you do the same. Round them up." The Hound had Jeyne's wrists in a loose grip, a warhammer hung from his belt. Jeyne's head was bowed and she was crying. Shella stared as the prince's dog opened Sansa's door and shoved Jeyne inside. Shella meant to call out, to say something encouraging, to remind them of their courtesies, but then she was wrenched into the hall.

"Hound!" she cried, shocking herself. She'd never liked him but she was terrified and if he could help her, if only he could help her . . .

The hulking man turned and looked at her and Stranger damn her to torment if he didn't seem reluctant. "I hope you taught her well, septa. The little bird will have to chirp now for true."

What? Shella was struggling to break free of the brute clutching at her and the Hound was talking about birds and then she was yanked backward and courage left her and she was dragged not to Sansa's room but down the staircase. There were limp bodies and scarlet smears and drips and streaks on the steps and Shella goggled at them without comprehension. Only shock kept her from falling apart.

She was shoved into a room she'd never seen before. It was pitch black. When the door was shut and locked behind her and the footsteps faded away, a voice whispered, "Who's that?"

"It's me, Shella, Septa Mordane. Who's that? Who's in here?"

A few voices from the household responded but not one of them was from a man-at-arms. "Pray for us, Septa," someone asked but, for the life of her, Shella couldn't think of a single thing to say.

In her silence, someone suggested that Lord Stark would save them and that there must be some mistake and this person kept repeating the words like a prayer and kept on and kept on until Shella thought she would scream if she didn't stop.

"Septa, where is Jeyne?" came a broken voice immediately to her left.

"Vayon?"

"Yes."

"I just saw Jeyne!" Knowing something, anything, for a certainty was an incredible relief. "The Hound brought her to Lady Sansa's room." She didn't mention the bruises blooming on the young girl's arms.

She felt the gust of an exhale. "Thank the gods," he murmured.

Shella nodded, though she knew he couldn't see her.

The next morning, the door was opened and a torch was thrust inside. "Who's first?"

When no one responded, a man from the City Watch entered, grabbed one of the maids, and pulled her as she struggled and cried and was eventually dragged into the light.

"Where are you taking her?" someone asked.

The slamming door and the turn of a key were the only replies.

Shella lost all dignity when she was fetched. She'd meant to demand an audience with Lord Stark or the queen or the High Septon or the king, the kind king who had once poured her iced summerwine. Instead of one of the Kingsguard, an ugly low-ranking man with ale on his breath, grabbed at her arm and she'd instinctively pulled away so he'd cuffed her about the head, dazing her, and then grabbed her arm anyway.

When she finally found her voice, Shella shrieked, "But I'm godsworn! Godsworn!" What had been the point of it all if it offered no protection now, when she needed it most? Her beauty, what there was of it, had been wasted, shrouded by her septa's garments. Surely age should afford some consolation but no, she was manhandled, shoved, pushed, and even kicked into some courtyard. Shella blinked in the sudden light. She'd only just spotted Vayon Poole when she was seized again and her arms were bound behind her. She wanted, desperately wanted, to stop all this, to summon whatever words would return her to her former security. And she wanted these brutish underlings punished. Her mind had just started forming a prayer to the Father when she was spun around again. She saw some birds in the distance, their wings beating the air. Then she was shoved down, the stump hard against her sternum, her breath taken away, her view mud and horse shit. She sucked in a great breath to protest and heard, incongruously, the loud whoosh of a bird taking off nearby, very closely by, but in her heart she knew it was no bird at all.

"Father," she whimpered.