The Winter Takes It All

The Winter Takes It All

I

James presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. His father stands before the shell of a man and raises his longsword, light catching on its edges. It comes back down again and he watches, glint of steel, fade to black. It is a crisp morning, the grass beneath his feet stiff with the night’s frost. His mother stands beside him, furs shifting over the slope of her shoulders.
She turns her face to the watery winter sun, and her features catch in its rays; her skin, the white flesh of an apple, left to go soft over time, bruising under her eyes.
When James was a boy, he would sit by the big fireplace in the main hall and pretend he was a mighty lord of the north, that he was not just a child dwarfed by the cavernous stone belly of his own home. When his father had first asked for him at an execution, he had been so excited that his hands shook over the reins of his horse on the way.
The blood was enough. He had emptied his breakfast into the cold earth.
Now a man, he sees his father and the struggle in his eyes, the stiff arch of his back, the shaking in his arms as he wields the longsword. He understands what his father had told him, that first time.
Justice is fair, but never clean.
He sees his Father’s sins in the folds of his face.
…
Peter stares at his broth like it’s just saved his life. Sitting across from him, James can’t help but chuckle.
‘What?’
‘No, no nothing. Carry on ogling your broth like it’s your first and only love,’ Peter scowls.
‘I haven’t eaten in an age! My stomach was starting to hurt,’ he holds his hand to his belly in emphasis.
‘Besides, it’s getting colder.’
James scoffs, ‘We’re in the north, Pete. It’s always cold.’
‘I know that, but you know, I think that winter is almost upon us. Actual winter. As in the ten year long one.’
‘I think you should eat before it comes then,’ he says, laughing as Peter attempts to shovel his entire bowl into his mouth. He stands and Peter follows, as he always does.
They cross the courtyard, twin clouds of steam, boots on frosted earth. It smells like wood and stone, rain soaking into thatching. It smells like home. His father stands up on the wooden terrace, braced against the beam before him, the look on his face one of a man observing his kingdom and not his courtyard.
‘How was this morning,’ Peter, from beside him, ‘I’m sorry I missed it.’
Sucking in a breath between his teeth, James is already walking away,
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yeah, no I’m not. Never been a fan of violence myself.’
Peter pauses, as if I’m thought.
‘Or early mornings,’ he sighs almost wistfully, ‘definitely not early mornings.’
‘You’re such a shit scribe Pete,’ says James.
‘I’m not your scribe, I’m your manservant,’ Peter counters.
‘You’re whatever I say you are, now wait here,’
James ascends the darkened stairs to where his Father stands.
‘Father,’ he sidles up beside him.
‘James,’ a smile ghosts his lips, ‘you were there this morning.’
A statement. A question. Hard to tell these days.
‘I was.’
Silence. The awkward absence of comfortable topics.
‘It’s a lovely morning, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, nice and cold,’
Fleamont chuckles slightly.
‘Always cold.’
His lips form a straight line as they always do before bad news.
‘The king wishes to make a visit.’
‘What? Why? I thought he preferred the warm climate of King’s Landing. Southerners don’t fare well up North.’
‘He wishes to discuss my place on his council.’
‘You owe him nothing,’ James feels a tug or irritation beneath his sternum.
‘We have helped each other before. He only wishes to visit. Use that charm of yours, James.’
‘Hm’
Truth be told, James doesn’t remember much about the king’s last couple of visits. He had not been as present. A boy of ten, he’d spent most of his time with the small prince who had come with the royal party, a loud dark haired boy named Sirius related to the queen. They had run around the stables and tormented the house servants, laughing until their ribs were sore and they had to say goodbye. After that they had come when he was thirteen, and again when he was fifteen. That last time, he and Sirius had gotten drunk and ran around the crypts like maniacs until Peter, nervous and considerably more sober, had calmed them down.
Despite this, James has never been keen on the king. Lucius Malfoy fancied himself too much and it would probably get him killed or otherwise dethroned someday.
Hooves slapping hard against the ground, pulling him out of his head. A horse comes barrelling through the gates, frantic as it’s rider, a bulking fur coat on a fishbone body, dismounts and looks around with the hysterical expression of a man scared of what may have followed him.
Fleamont, already down the stairs and crossing the space towards the newcomer, calls out to him.
‘A traveller or a messenger? State your business here.’
A shadow, James follows with curiosity.
‘I-I,’ the man, a boy really, looks around with wide eyes. A caged animal. The whinny of a distressed horse.
‘I’ve come from beyond the wall,’
‘A deserter of the watch?’
The man gapes at Fleamont.
‘No my lord! No! I- our party it came across- I ran, yes,’
‘You are aware that leaving the wall without permission from your lord commander is a crime punishable by death?’
Harsh words dropped one by one into the packed dirt.
‘Dementors! We saw ‘em! The party- dead! I tell ya,’
The boy wheezes out, adjusting his furs with gloves hands, gawking at the crowd around him as it forms.
‘Dementors, hey?’ His father. Voice of reason.
‘I didn’t mean to- they’re dead.’ Blunt tone, silent realisation.
‘Dementors, that’s an old wife’s tale.’ James finds himself speaking.
The outburst.
‘They’re real!’ The man half-screams, like a wild animal who refuses to acknowledge that it is prey, clawing its way to safety.
Blink, and the boy is being dragged away, screaming bloody murder, eyes half bulging from their blackened sockets.
…
Euphemia Potter sits beside the Weirwood tree, bracketed by its crimson foliage. Reaching, grabbing. James approaches her carefully, reluctant to disturb her.
‘I’ve finished praying,’ she turns to him, eyes mirroring his, the pine, the fur of a wild animal.
James clears his throat, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. The deserter from the wall sits, unwelcome, at the back of his mind. He plays it off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘I wasn’t sure, I didn’t want to disturb you.’
His mother smiles back at him, rosy-cheeked; the rustling of skirts, the drag of her hair.
‘You’re a good boy James.’
He feels a surge of unbridled affection at this, a feeling he often experiences in the presence of his mother. Euphemia has a kind way about her.
At her hand, a large brown direwolf. He tips his wet muzzle into Euphemia’s hand as she rubs strands of his long fur between her fingertips. She is quiet for a moment, absorbed in the animal. James finds his smile is beginning to creep up his face again. Genuine.
‘You’re going to steal him one day.’
She sucks her teeth.
‘He’s just looking for attention. He’ll nuzzle up to anyone willing to pet him.’
The wolf grunts softly as she rubs circles behind his domed ears. James moves to sit beside them.
‘ Quite the attention whore, hm Pads?’
Upon hearing his name, the creature’s head snaps around. James chuckles.
He looks up to find Euphemia studying him.
‘I suppose you heard about the king.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I heard.’
‘It won’t be terrible. He’ll be gone in a matter of days. Besides, you used to get on well with the prince.’
‘Eh. I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling about it.’
His mother cranes her neck towards the pale sky, as if looking for an answer.
‘Neither do I.’