So Says the Maiden, Chapter 13: Letters

Tenth Moon, 283 AC, Maidenpool

Eleanor Mooton

The past few months have been tedious, trying, and infuriating in turn. Eleanor Mooton had plans, and now she's cleaning up messes that she wouldn't have had to in the first place if she'd been at Maidenpool this whole damn time. 

Luckily, some things are going better than others. 

“The letters were the worst of the trouble, milady. The press machine itself was easy to construct,” master Arlow the smith explains dutifully, watching a carpenter adjust the press. 

"But you believe casting pages for a few short prayer books would be possible?" Eleanor asks. 

"More than possible. We could get it printed by the week's end, so long as you hand over a book today. No clue how you want the paper bound, though. You'll need to look around for a good binder here in the city." 

Eleanor nods, gesturing a hand to her scribe to write that down and eyeballing the new contraption plucked straight from her vague dreams and memories. Brought to life here in Westeros by the expertise of a master smith and carpenter with more ideas about how to make machines than Eleanor has ever had. 

A proper, functioning printing press. And it only took her a few months. 

Gods be good, the maesters are going to gut her for this once they catch wind of it. Eleanor is doing her best to ensure master Arlow and his two apprentices are being paid well enough for their silence, along with the carpenter and his three assistants. That's seven possible leaks to account for. Here's to hoping they all don't gossip about it with their family and friends. 

"I'll have a short prayer book sent down to you from the keep by day's end, master Arlow. Thank you again for your discretion and your work, and that goes to you as well, master Brandon," Eleanor says, offering the carpenter, master Brandon, a nod. 

"Ye're paying mightily well for us to keep our gobs shut, Lady Mooton. A man would be soft in the head not to do well for ye," master Brandon says agreeably, leaning away from the printing press and wiping his hands off on his thick leather apron. 

With a few final notes and swift goodbyes, Eleanor leaves the warm workshop she'd acquired for the printing press production and out into the morning chill of the city. Eleanor can smell the sea in the air and hear the disgruntled squawks of a few seagulls. There's a quartet of the birds down the street fighting over some morsel. A raven seems to be sneaking up on them just as Eleanor looks away.

Steffon Frey, her scribe, stumbles out the door behind her. He's fumbling with a few of his papers as he reorganizes his clipboard. One of them flies out of his grasp in his efforts. 

Ser Jonquil clears the door of the workshop just as the paper begins its descent to the road. His hand shoots out and he catches it just before it lands in a puddle. 

"Oh no-- many apologies, Lady Mooton, Ser Jonquil!" Steffon says, flushing bright red with embarrassment as Jonquil gently returns the paper to him.

"It's alright, Steffon. I've dropped worse things," Eleanor says with a sigh. She reaches up and rubs at her eyes, hoping her tiredness will flee with each swipe of her palm. She's never enjoyed waking up early, and especially not for business. "I suppose I should have brought another scribe, so you wouldn't have to deal with all those papers alone."

"No! It's alright, m'lady. I'm able. I don't need any help," Steffon insists. He would be more convincing if he weren't so young. Every time Eleanor looks at one of her scribes her mind starts thinking about child labor laws and whether she should give them all tutors. Surely their education doesn't need to end at thirteen or fifteen? They're all good with sums and writing, but any growing young man needs time to pursue hobbies and learn histories. 

Then again, they do learn a lot while they're on the job with her. Like how tedious getting much of anything done that isn’t extorting people is. Feudal life is quite well suited for extortion and murder, and not much else. Even farming is inefficient. 

Well. Farming is always at least a little tedious, but she digresses. 

"What do you like to do in your free time, Steffon?" Eleanor asks, starting down the street towards the labor office. That's their next stop of the day. Eleanor wants to see personally what the office needs. Steffon and Jonquil follow, Jonquil with practiced ease and Steffon with just a moment's hesitation. 

"Oh, I don't know. Reading, I suppose. You have many books in your library, and Maester Lark lets us read most of them." 

"And you'll have more books to read soon, provided we can borrow a few copies from the Red Keep when we next return," Eleanor says with a hum. 

Steffon brightens, opening his mouth to speak before pausing and looking around. He continues in a secretive tone. "Because we'll be able to make our own copies with the machine, Lady Mooton?" 

"Many many of our own copies." Eleanor grins, feeling the morning sun warm her face as it peaks over the roofs. Finally her sleepiness begins to pull away from her bones. 

"Do you think it will be hard to convince the Grand Maester to lend us books?" Steffon asks. "I went to the Red Keep's library, and we were told no books were to leave there." 

"With the way I'm about to fix the king's city, I doubt it will matter if the Grand Maester wants to lend the books or not."

And it won't. One word from Robert will likely mean Eleanor can borrow as many books as she likes. It does help that Robert doesn't care for reading and likely wouldn't care about how expensive it will be if she accidentally damages any of his books. Which she will not. She would rather do any number of unpleasant things than risk damage to any of the Red Keep's old manuscripts. 

In an ideal world, she could bring a printing press back with her to King's Landing. This is not an ideal world, not yet. Not until she can organize some sort of deal with the faith to provide chapters of the Seven Pointed Star for them. With the faith's backing and stake in the press, the Citadel won't have as much room to fuck with her. She doesn’t want them pressuring her into handing over the blueprints or sabotaging her machines. 

She would like to encourage more people within Maidenpool to take up writing so not all of the market is holy books, but she'll need to improve literacy rates first. Schools are in order, likely also in conjunction with the faith. 

A meeting with the Septa of Jonquil's Pool will need to happen, Eleanor thinks. And with the Septon of the adjoining Sept. 

Eleanor turns the corner of the street, getting a view of a growing line before the Labor Office. She sighs, deeply and with great feeling.

"Are you ready to do more writing, Steffon?" 

Steffon shuffles his papers again, and Eleanor starts towards the office. Hopefully going early in the day will mean she won't get mobbed. It would be a very unfortunate way to die, and she’d feel bad for poor little Steffon. He may be a Frey, but he’s the least objectionable of the Freys she’s met.

—

(A letter written in a sloppy hand, not unlike the one Eleanor received months ago thanking her for swearing to his cause. Now with far more familiarity and complaining. The titles at the end seem to have been added by a different, far more elegant hand.)

Mooton, 

Ned said my letter was welcome, but that he won't be coming to my wedding. “His lands need to be put to order.” Damn him. His wife named his son for me, did you know? Robb Stark. I know he misliked the way the princess and her children died, but what was I to do? The lion had them killed before I even got through the gates. Will he assign blame for the rest of our lives for that? Will I ever meet the boy named for me? Was my apology not enough?

I don't usually write. Not a man for reading, but all I've had around me are Lannisters and Jon since you left. It would drive any man to words. I'd take even Stannis's straining silences over Tywin Lannister's glaring and Jon’s muttering about weddings. 

How fare your lands? Any bandits in need of killing? Gods, say yes. I'll be there within the week. The war is almost through and there's no killing left to be done. I wish I had foisted the chair on Jon and left for the Stormlands. Damn my blood, damn my Targaryen grandmother. She’s glaring up at me from the sixth hell. 

Write back soon. The only thing I've been looking forward to is drinking and whores. But you have asked me not to overindulge, you septa, and you said the whoring would anger my wife. What lord doesn't visit whores? Besides her damned father. That man has no passion for anything besides gold. He's funding the wedding by himself, making up for his late arrival to the war. He's almost as bad as the Frey.

Baratheon

First of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord of Storm's End

Ours is the Fury

—

(A reply. Far better handwriting, though hurried. An air of irreverence bleeds through each letter. There’s a little smudge at the edge of the paper that looks almost as if someone had too much ink on their hands and left an imprint when holding the sheet.)

To the King Robert Baratheon, First of his name, etcetera etcetera,

There are no bandits. At least, none my own men cannot bring to justice. Do not come here, lest my good-sister hang me for having her organize a grand feast. She is pregnant, as it turns out, and I am not one to irritate a woman in such a state. You will irritate her greatly. Before you ask, the child isn't being named for you. I'm sure you'll have plenty of courtiers with squalling little Roberts and Berts and Robins for you to contend with in the next five years. 

If you do suggest any names, I will be obligated to share them with her. Whether she listens is another thing entirely.

On the matter of Lord Stark:

Lord Stark likely is putting his lands to order, even if he may be angered still by the deaths of the royal children and Princess Elia. You know how many men the north raised for you far better than I. All of those men must be returned to their towns and villages and farms. The next harvest will depend on them. 

I will say that you having apologized for the whole affair likely bought you more good-will with him, even if it wasn't enough to bring him back south so soon. 

Be patient, though I know it brings you physical pain. Your brother Lord Stannis is still trying to secure the queen and her children, if Rhaella even lives. Should he take them, you will need to ensure they aren't killed if you don't want all to remember you as the king who had the last of the Targaryen children killed. I have a feeling Lord Stark will dislike that even more, atop of the business with Princess Elia. 

All I will say is betrothals and the Wall are convenient ways to avoid Blackfyre related problems. Though I am loath to say a boy of seven should be sent to such an awful place. The rest of the council will probably say to kill him instead. You can assume how I feel about such a plan of action. I hate to even put such words onto paper, the old and the new know your new Grand Maester and Master of whispers read all of your correspondence.

I will return for your wedding, perhaps with Margery, my good-sister, in tow. She is not far along, but I worry for her health at Kingslanding. I'll likely need to employ a taster. 

On whores, since you must complain to me as though I am your personal septon and not a friend giving excellent advice: 

Your soon to be wife does not suffer competition well, nor does she like even the implication of being supplanted. If I were you I would be afraid to even look in the direction of a brothel, let alone a serving woman. And I have on good authority Lord Tywin does go to brothels, he's just discreet. A trait you may need to emulate. 

Perhaps spar more instead? There are plenty of bored knights in the castle with you. I hear hitting things is almost like fucking, and it may help you find the last few members of the Kingsguard you need. With more Kingsguard, you’ll have more excuses to get up to things Lord Jon wouldn’t approve of. 

Be well, write back when you have more complaints. Be careful what you write down and who you hand the letter to. Or don’t, I am not the King between us. 

Your friend, 

Eleanor Mooton

Lady of Maidenpool, Liason to the smallfolk, Terribly bored of looking through tax reports, bereft of other titles in comparison

Wisdom and Strength

—

"Should we be worrying about names when we don't know if it will be a boy or a girl?" Eleanor asks from her desk, looking up from a few reports to watch Margery Mooton flip through a dusty Mooton genealogy book. She's sneezed at least twice so far from turning pages, and it's making Eleanor wonder about the state of care in the library. 

"Better to get things over with early, in my opinion. Maester Lark thinks it will be a boy, on account of me already showing so much. I'm not so sure," Marg mutters, scowling down at the names of Eleanor's ancestors. 

"I heard you could pee on a toad to show if it's a boy or a girl," Eleanor replies thoughtfully, pondering about where to procure a few toads. It does seem unfortunate to subject a toad to such a thing.

"You sound like Lark! I'm not relieving myself anywhere near a toad!" Marg says with a huff, shutting the book swiftly. She sneezes again. 

Eleanor shakes her head, looking back down at her reports. She'd just sent off a letter to Robert, and now she's left worrying about more important things. Like all of the empty farms and depopulated villages on her land.

And names, apparently. How odd it is to decide on someone else’s name. It seems like the sort of thing that is easy to fuck up.

“William, if it’s a boy,” Eleanor offers. It’s a paltry suggestion, she doesn’t really want to risk her possible nephew being much like his father. This will be the person she is trusting to keep Maidenpool running and treat her people well when she’s dead. William was a poor steward and a poorer leader. For all that he was her brother. 

Marg curls her lip. “Myles, or Willis, for your father.”

Marg and William hadn’t been very good at being married, for the short month they were. Eleanor blames it on Marg having been raised with them. It’s a bit like marrying your sister, and when you aren’t a Targaryen (or a Lannister) that doesn’t really have much appeal. 

“Poor boy. We’ll just hope it’s a girl. Girl names are far more varied,” Eleanor says dryly. 

“If it isn’t, I’m afraid I may have to pick a girlish one in protest.” 

“Jonquil would be my choice. Ser Jonquil would surely appreciate the gesture.” Eleanor skims another report, frowning deeply at it. Three deserted villages close to their border with house Paege, several farms looted and in disrepair close to there as well. It’s to the west, closer to where Rhaegar's armies would have had to run through to reach the bulk of the riverlands. 

Eleanor wishes she could kick the dead man for it and his army’s “foraging”. She settles for being satisfied he died sopping wet and at the other end of a very big hammer. 

Eleanor makes a few quick notes for her labor office, then sets the report onto a related pile. 

“My mother was named Alysanne,” Margery says suddenly, tone different. There is no teasing. Just a sudden soberness that has Eleanor looking up and paying attention. 

Marg is looking down at the Mooton book, fiddling with her long sleeves. She’s wearing a gold dress today, paired with a necklace of interlocking rose-gold salman and ruby earrings. She looks beautiful. 

Marg’s mother died just before she was sent to foster.

“Then your daughter should be named Alysanne,” Eleanor states, as though there is no other way of things. “Or a son should be Alyn. Simple.”

“There haven’t been any Alysanne’s in the Mooton family. You did try and kill the good queen,” Marg says, looking up and tapping the Mooton book with a wry twist to her lips. 

Eleanor rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t there, don’t lump me in with them. And I could have sworn it was the septas who tried to kill her. The Mootons have always been good friends of whomever is warming the iron throne.”

Good friends of Targaryens, mostly. Eleanor is just broadening the family tradition to include all monarchs. How modern of her. How progressive.

She really should get to designing some guillotines. Not for her, but maybe her grandnieces and nephews will appreciate it. Better to set them up to lead the mob than be eaten by it. 

Hm. Then again, they might deserve the mob. She’ll simply strive to raise children who aren’t stupid enough to think they are immune to consequence and hope for the best. A great emphasis on charity, public works, and paying people well. 

Better yet, Eleanor should just look into writing down more laws protecting the smallfolk, ones with Robert’s signature and a big stick attached. In case of dissenters. 

Marg leans back upon Eleanor’s sofa, letting out a soft breath. She presses a hand to her stomach.

“Alright. Alysanne or Alyn Mooton. It feels a bit more real when they have a name,” Marg mutters. 

“It’ll be even more real when you’ve got them in your hands,” Eleanor agrees. “I wonder, will I become regent when they’re born? I inherited Maidenpool on account of them not being born yet, but one would argue I’m just here to keep the seat warm until they’re six and ten now that we know of them.”

Marg grimaces, probably recognizing that any teenager who isn’t Eleanor will likely be far worse at governing. “It’s a mother’s duty to protect the claims of her children, isn’t it? Perhaps we keep them well distracted and educated until it’s time to retire to some Dornish estate. Five and twenty, at least.” 

“I do love fruit, they have plenty of that in Dorne.” 

This is likely the least maternal conversation two women expecting to raise a child have ever had.

To all the gods, save the red one and drowned one, Eleanor prays they don’t fuck this up. 

Eleanor stands from her desk and stretches, listening to her bones crack and feeling her muscles ache from all the sitting. 

“Oh, would you like to go to the royal wedding?” Eleanor asks, walking around her desk to stand before Marg. Eleanor picks up the discarded Mooton book at her side and fiddles with it, checking if it’s truly as dusty as she thought. She opens it and blanches at the state of it, before sneezing. 

Marg huffs, tugging the book out of Eleanor’s hands and tossing it to the far side of the sofa. “And risk someone slipping me moon tea?” 

“We’ll have a taster, and anyone who looks too suspicious can have a stern talk with Dorin,” Eleanor says, wiping her hands off on her gown. 

“I suppose it would be nice to watch if the couple is as poorly matched as you say.” Marg reaches up and takes Eleanor’s hands, before she wipes any dust and ink too deeply into the fabric. Her own hands have charcoal on them, likely from sketching. It’s funny, seeing the splotches of dark dark ink on Eleanor’s fingers intertwined with the smudges of charcoal. 

She hasn’t been painting as much since she got pregnant. Eleanor doesn’t blame her, medieval paint is terrible for you. 

“They look like an excellent match, but then they open their mouths,” Eleanor says, smiling as Marg rubs a thumb over her knuckles. 

“I suppose I could be convinced to leave the keep,” Marg sighs. “But you have to ride in the wheelhouse with me, I won’t be able to ride a horse.” 

Ugh. The things Eleanor does for love. 

“We’ll bring my horse, just in case. Never know when a woman needs to make a daring escape with a damsel in hand.”

Marg guffaws. “A damsel? You needed me to save you from a rat!” 

Eleanor flushes, sputtering. “It was a very big rat, monstrous, even. Maybe I’m the damsel in this analogy! You’re pregnant, not incapable!”

Eleanor doesn’t want to talk about the rat. She didn’t know they got that big until she came to Westeros. She feels ill even thinking about it. And really, Marg has always been better at using sharp implements than Eleanor. 

Without preamble, Marg laughs some more and presses a kiss to Eleanor’s hands, then releases them. Eleanor blinks. Before she can register what’s happening Marg is already standing and leaving the room. 

“Don’t stay up too late, El, I expect you to break your fast with me on the morrow!”

Marg opens the door to Eleanor’s solar and leaves with a quiet goodnight to the guard outside it. The door shuts, and Eleanor is alone. 

Eleanor stares at the door, then her knuckles, then brainlessly wanders back to her desk and starts drafting another letter to Robert. She’ll probably burn it before sending it, but one really must express their feelings somehow.

—

(A burned letter with far too many scratched out thoughts related to Harrenhall, the old gods, and beautiful, olive skinned and dark haired women.)

—and I haven’t a clue how you bed so many women. Just loving one is making me mad. Maybe that kiss at Harrenhall wasn’t just because she was excited for me? Jaime had just been sworn to the kingsguard, you see. Neither of us wanted to be married to each other. 

Gods. Why am I writing to you? You would say just bed her and be done with it, and bed the rest of my household while I’m at it. Then to tell you all the entertaining details over drinks. Scandalous and likely to get me killed by the faith. I should just talk to Edmer and hope he doesn’t gossip.

—