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Located just thirty miles north of the Reach ensured the lands around Glenfield Hall were soil-rich and well watered. House Rye's primary crop was, well, rye —with chickpeas coming in as a close second— and they were able to harvest enough year-round to be able to support most of the population of Lannisport —undercutting the Reach (and the Tyrells in particular) by nearly thirty percent, and the Old Lion of House Lannister couldn't have been more pleased. In fact, Lady Jalynn's referral to Delmara had come from him as his way of rewarding the small House for its agrarian successes.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

After shucking her traveler's clothes one last time, getting Delmara dressed for the feast was almost as simple as she'd said it would be.

First, she sat at the vanity and scrubbed her hands and face clean as Jalynn laced a simple corset over a fresh chemise. Towards the end of this step, there came a knock at the door.

"Ladies in dressing~!" Bella Anne called out.

"It's me," replied the voice of Queen Cersei.

"Oh!" Bella Anne chirped, rushing to the door. "Coming!" she said, raising the crossbar. The little girl pulled open the heavy door, and admitted the Queen.

Queen Cersei entered, a scowl on her face, and Bella Anne took care of the door. "How far along is she?" the Queen asked.

"She's —uh— almost done h-here," Jalynn said, still tugging at laces. "Maybe —uh— eight more, I th-think?"

"Alright, then," the Queen said, looking for a place to sit. Finding nowhere suitable, sure elected to stand.

"How is Myrcella coming along?" Delmara asked, watching in the mirror as the sour look on her mother's face slowly faded into a tired smile.

She said, "Oh, she's coming along quite nicely. Quite nicely indeed. Have you put on your hose yet, Delmara?"

"Yes, Mother," she answered, carefully —and without trying to move too much— sliding the skirt of her silk chemise to show her mother a glimpse of chiffon hose.

From the mirror, Delmara could see Cersei's pleased look. "Good. I'm glad to see that there has been some improvement since you were little," her mother said.

Jalynn tried to make eye contact in the mirror —likely asking for context, no doubt— but Delmara resolutely denied her.

The words, though meant as praise, wounded Delmara —just a touch— due to the nature of her childhood. The reason she had often forgone her hose? She had been told by one person or another over the years. Her time at Casterly Rock had given her not only distance, but also perspective, over her life at Court. There were things —and people— that she should have been sequestered from, that she hadn't been. Many of those incidents that her mother referred to had been due to external circumstances, and a distinct lack of parental oversight... something Delmara's grandfather had been quick to rectify.

"Come here, pet," Cersei said, calling Bella Anne over. "Bring me a brush and I'll start in on your hair."

Delmara tried not to watch as her mother kindly did someone else's hair, though her jaw did tighten slightly on occasion as Jalynn finished pulling on her laces. Once that was done, Jalynn gave a slight dip, then turned to start dressing herself.

Delmara sat almost patiently as Bella Anne's auburn hair was brushed until it shone in the light. She watched enviously as Queen Cersei made a few quick braids with deft, careful hands. The braids were twisted up into an intricate knot and pinned in place before Cersei turned to her daughter.

"Are you ready, dear?" the Queen asked.

"Yes, Mother. Jalynn and I were thinking violets and goldenrods tonight," she said, gesturing to the assortment of preserved flowers sitting on the vanity.

"Violets would be quite nice," Cersei said, "but goldenrods?"

"We... also considered dill, but thought that that might be unkind. And besides, I think the yellows look good with the purple."

Cersei gave a tight, grim smile. "Yes, I think dill would've been a poor option... Myrcella has chosen white roses and spearmint. You two shall make for quite the bouquet."

"And are you in favor of her dress?" Delmara asked, trying not to sound eager.

"It is.." She frowned slightly. "It is a touch... unusual? A bit of a fantasy, if you will..."

"Myrcella was earnest that the dress should be unique."

"And it is," Cersei admitted, pulling a brush through Delmara's mess of dark brown curls. "I can't imagine what the seamstress must've thought."

"The mister who consulted with us seemed to like it? He at least seemed more eager for her dress than for mine."

"No doubt that's because yours has more lace," Cersei whispered with a grin.

Delmara couldn't keep from giggling. "That... that is probably true." The entire front center panel of her dress was white lace over grey silk, trimmed with an ivory lace ruffle.

Her eyes flickered to where it lay on the bed, a small smile on her face. It was an understated dress compared to the ones she wore in the Red Keep, but she hoped it would be 'comfortably exquisite' by Northern standards. The dress was grey silk, the sleeves tight to the elbow and then flaring gracefully with a slight ruffle. The bodice was tight fitting and the skirt was full-circle. She hoped it would make a good first impression on the "practical" Starks.

Or, at least, on Robb Stark or the bastard brother... John?

She knew of her father's plan to join their houses. The elder Stark girl... Sansa, would be betrothed to Joffrey before the night was over. If they weren't already.

But she knew Joffrey. Knew of his cruelty and how it would tarnish things between the two of them. She hoped that by inflicting fondness for herself between the two elder boys might help to further the alliance.

She knew that including the bastard in her plans was... odd. She hoped that since the Starks were so well-knit, they would see it as a sign of her generosity and poise her more closely to them.

Cersei finished brushing her hair and started braiding little portions of it. She bound them together, making a wreath out of them, and then added a vanilla-scented perfume to the rest of the hair. She then arraigned the violets and goldenrods in Delmara's hair. And then rearranged them. And rearranged them some more until she was satisfied.

"There, love. You're all done," Cersei said, patting Delmara's shoulders.

Delmara turned in her seat slightly to face her mother. "Would you like me to do your hair, Mother?"

"No, sweet. I'll tend to it myself. Finish dressing."

"Yes, Mother. Thank you."

"You're very welcome," Cersei said, reaching for the door.

As soon as it shut, Jalynn asked, "Can you do mine?"

Delmara smiled. "Of course."

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

 

Lord Stark was dressed in both dress leathers and silks, though he looked tense and a touch pale. His sharp grey eyes kept flicking between his elder daughter and Joffrey.

Father has likely asked him... Delmara reasoned.

Joffrey cut a regal figure dressed in red and gold silk, a far cry different from the Lady Sansa. She was wearing a handmade grey wool dress with white trim. She could've been a commoner if it weren't for her strong Tully features.

Queen Cersei was in a red jacquard gown, her golden hair done up into braided roses. Next to her, Lady Catelyn was wearing a blue cotton dress with grey ruffle trim. Two opposites of splendor and comfort.

King Robert was already half-drunk and shifting anxiously on his feet,  eager to eat, no doubt. He was dressed in simple silks, and his forehead was breaking sweat.

It was startlingly easy to picture Lord Stark on the throne, with her mother by his side. For a moment, she let her mind drift down the road of has-beens and could-haves. It wasn't an unpleasant journey.

She turned her eyes back to her father and Lady Stark. It was almost impossible to do the same with them. She had a feeling that Lady Stark simply would not suffer a drunkard at her table, much less in her bed.

Robb Stark looked just as princely as Joffrey, though ruggedly so, in simple dress leathers. His copper curls glistened in the torchlight and she tried to picture the two of them together, arm in arm.

She could easily picture them strolling through the gardens at the Red Keep, watching the ships come and go. He would be a gentle, firm husband, though possibly too kind.

Then, she realized the image was wrong. She'd be dressed in simpler dresses, thicker materials, and she'd be wandering these very halls. Lord Robb Stark was heir to Winterfell, and so this would be her home. She imagined him taking her for tours of the castle's great expanse, showing her little nooks and crannies that most guests would never get to see. Ideal places for spies, but they'd be blissfully empty.

That last thought alone almost brought an unbidden smile to her face.

Myrcella was talking with Lady Arya Stark about the knights that had arrived. Like her sister, Lady Arya was wearing a simple wool dress, though of a lighter, bluish grey. Myrcella, meanwhile, was done up in a little girl's version of grandeur: black velvet a-line dress with a silver veil cape studded with rhinestones and embroidered silver and gold stars. The cape was fastened in place by a silver brooch of a howling wolf --a choice made in good faith.

Tommen was dressed in simple silks and a brocade waistcoat of red and gold. Bran Stark, next to him and also talking about knights, was in dress leathers that looked like they'd never been worn. The youngest Stark, little Rickon, was seated on the floor with a little wooden horse in his grasp. He was, like most wild toddlers, dressed in nothing of value.

Delmara's uncles, Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion, were dressed with just as much pomp as the other Southoners. The apparel of one of them, though, nodded towards comfort, while the other hinted at martial prowess.

Two strangers there were as well. A man who looked like a dark, gaunt shadow of Lord Stark, and she figured them to be brothers, though she had no idea his name. The boy, the last to arrive, had a mess of curls and was dressed almost as nicely as the Stark boys. She recalled Lord Stark having a Greyjoy ward, and figured that to be him. Theo? Thedrick?

They all were gathered in the hall, and she stood close to Uncle Jaime and Uncle Tyrion, head downcast to avoid catching anyone's gaze. She was resolute, but unspoken, on who would be escorting her once they paraded in.

Through the thick double doors, music and laughter were whisper soft. Through the thick double doors, the scents of roasted meats and ales were coiling about them cloyingly.

Everyone could hear the grumbling of King Robert's voluptuous belly.

"I think we're all here?" Lord Stark announced softly. "Are we ready to enter?"

"Been ready..." King Robert muttered, glancing at the doors.

Lord Stark gave a signal to the two doormen.

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A quick hush fell over the hall like a burial shroud. Lord Stark and Queen Cersei entered first, followed closely by King Robert and Lady Stark.

Next to enter was Rickon Stark, the youngest of the group. He waddled after his mother, though he took a moment to stop by someone in the crowd.

Behind him were Robb Stark and Myrcella, a dazzling pair. He floated through the aisle, a large grin on his face, and she glided on his arm, blushing softly.

Next were Arya Stark and Tommen. Tommen's hair was longer and finer than hers, and they made a reluctant pair that hazarded the aisle, neither of them graceful.

Sansa Stark and Joffrey made for a radiant, though contrasting pair. Joffrey towered over the girl, and she preened on his arm, eyes glazed as though she were dreaming.

Next entered Delmara and her Uncles. She recognized the Stark bastard in the crowd as the one that little Rickon had stopped at. She gave him a quick smile and nod of her head in recognition. He looked back, eyes and brows scrunched in suspicion.

Last were the Stark brother, dressed all in black, and the Greyjoy ward.

The adults all sat at a table in a raised dias while the children sat just below. Uncle Jaime kissed her hand as they separated paths.

Lord Stark gave the first toast, a message of greetings and hope. King Robert was next. His was short, full of thanks and old memories... and a command for food and drink.

The feast had begun.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

It was some time into the meal, and Delmara was picking gingerly at a pheasant wing, when she caught sound of her name.

"The Princess Delmara would sooner have me for a husband," the Greyjoy ward boasted to Lord Robb Stark and some other freckled boy.

"Now, now, Theon," Robb said, "What could you offer the princess? A spare bedroom?"

Greyjoy --Theon-- went red with consternation. "I'm a Greyjoy of the Iron Isles! I have ships! And an army of hardy soldiers. My father would be most pleased with the match and would likely grant me a great boon." He took another swig of his summerwine before continuing, "Why, I reckon he might even grant us our own tower."

"That's if your father recognizes you," the stranger boy said.

Delmara hid her smile behind her chalice of berry-juice. The Theon-boy glared down at his trencher and hissed something too quickly and too quietly for her to catch.

"Oi, what father wouldn't recognize his own son? I'm sure Lord Balon would be delighted to see Theon again --with or without the princess on his arm."

"My Lady," Jalynn said softly, pulling her attention away from the boys. "I think they're talking about you!" she whispered.

"Let them talk," Delmara whispered back, "so long as I can listen."

"I don't believe the princess has come to find a husband," Robb said, glancing behind himself. "I fear what the King wants from my father."

"She's of age to marry," Theon pointed out. "She's fifteen, just a year younger than you. It'd be a suitable match," he said, taking a bite out of a muffin.

"If that was their goal, I would've escorted her in," Robb argued. "I didn't, none of us did but her own family. She's not an option for marriage. Besides... I've a worse thought," he said lowering his voice as he continued to speak.

His words became obvious as the three boys all shifted eyes farther down the table, to where Lady Sansa sat across from Joffrey. The two weren't speaking, but they were sharing glances and chasing smiles.

"A tower?" Jalynn muttered, swirling her own wine. "How... uh... 'romantic'?"

Delmara shot her a furtive look masked under a smile. "Oh, hush. He was evidently trying."

Jalynn giggled. "He needs to try harder."

Delmara rolled her eyes in a very un-princess-like manner, causing Jalynn to snort.

"Do you think that's true?" Jalynn asked softly. "About your brother...?"

Delmara's eyes flicked down at where the two were sitting, not quite flirting, and a stone sank in her belly. "It is..." almost certain "A possibility. My father has long grieved..." Lady Lyanna "the missed opportunity of joining houses."

Jalynn raised an eyebrow. "So, it's a done deal?"

"I wouldn't say that," Delmara argued, wishing the other girl would drop the subject.

Thankfully, Myrcella cut in, changing the subject. "Mara, can you pass me the juice?"

"Of course, Love." Delmara handed the flagon over and supervised her pouring. It wasn't like Myrcella to make a mess... but she had also never been so excited for company."

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

 

Eventually, the heat of the hall got to her, and, to her relief, she saw her Uncle Tyrion stumbling for the door. Eager for an escape, she followed him.

The chill of the outside air met her much like a hard wall, knocking her breath away. Gooseflesh prickled at the skin of her arms, but she refused to cross them.

"What are you doing out here?" her uncle asked.

"I could ask you the same."

"Could. But you won't." He gave her a cheeky grin and it twisted his features into something others would find to be a horrendous snarl.

She knew why others feared and dreaded the sight of him. She understood them. But for all the world, she could not  bring herself to judge him so harshly. She gave him a polite smile, then asked, "How are you, Uncle?"

"I could piss myself, I'm so drunk."

"I mean beyond that."

"Yes, yes... you're always so patient. I want a bed. And my youth. I wish to drink myself into a drunken stupor like the ones your father is known for. I wish that people wouldn't snicker when I walk by."

"I'm sorry," she said weakly. It was the least she could offer.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"No," she lied, knowing he'd give her his velvet cloak without a thought. "Would you like me to sneak you a flagon so you can continue drinking in your room?"

"There's an idea..." he muttered, swirling a silver flask. He pressed it lightly to his lips. He quickly pulled it away and vomited into the snow.

Though disturbed, she stood patiently as he heaved and emptied his stomach. Then, she offered him a handkerchief. 

"Such a pretty sight," he mocked. "I'm always such charming company, aren't I?"

"More charming than some by half."

"Very diplomatic. To whom are you comparing me?"

"The Mountain," she replied dryly.

He grimaced, looking up at the balcony overhead. "D'you reckon I could climb that?"

Her eyebrows climbed upwards and she tried to school her face against the shock of his question. "Um, no? Not in your current state, surely."

"Is that a challenge?"

"No," she said quickly, hoping he wouldn't try.

To her horror, he replied, "I'll meet your challenge," and grabbed for the ivy that clung to the wooden supports.

"Oh, Uncle, please don't... You'll hurt yourself..." she said, but he was already a foot above the ground. She watched, wondering if she should leave him to fetch Uncle Jaime or trying to coax him down herself.

The man was successful in his climb --though there had been slips and close-calls that made Delmara's heart leap into her throat-- and he sat straddling the rail and drinking. "I told you I could do it," he called out.

"Yes, yes," she snapped. "Please come down..."

"I actually quite like the view from here. You look so... small. I miss when you were small," he confessed, taking another drink.

"I'm still small compared to some?" she ventured.

"You used to fit in these arms --not that your mother would ever let me hold you. 'You'll scare her!' " he cried, imitating a woman's falsetto.

Her heart sank. She... hadn't known that. She tried to recall moments where he'd held Myrcella or Tommen, and found out that she couldn't. He played with them, sure. He'd helped them walk, yes. But hold them? The memories just plainly didn't exist. "I-I'm sorry..." she said, voice trembling. "I-I never noticed..."

"It's not your fault, child. Your mother has never liked me." He took a quick drink. "Besides... I did scare Joffrey once." He said it like a dismissal, but she could hear the edge behind it.

"Children are only scared of what they don't understand... If you deprive a child of knowledge, it will stay forever scared and ignorant," she said, trying to imply that it wasn't his fault that Joffrey had been scared, or that Cersei had deprived him of precious family time.

"You do this wonderful thing where your lips move and Father's voice comes out." He took another drink. "It's a neat trick you picked up."

"My time with grandfather was very educational," she said carefully, hoping he wouldn't launch into a rant against him.

He muttered something she couldn't hear. She had the feeling that she didn't want to hear it.

Her relationship with her grandfather was decent. But they had exactly one point of contention: Tyrion Lannister. She loved her uncle and thought the world of him. Her heart ached for his pains and she simmered with his fury. But Lord Tywin Lannister would not hear a decent word about him. He was resolute that Tyrion would only ever be a blight on the family tapestry.

She struggled for something else to say, something soothing, when the heavy doors burst open and Delmara ducked to get away from their momentum.

A boy with black, curly hair and dress leathers was standing in the snow, a large white puppy behind him.

"Boy," Uncle Tyrion called out, and the black-haired boy flinched, spinning on his heel to see Tyrion looming overhead like a gargoyle, and her cowering against the wall. "Is that animal a wolf?" Tyrion continued.

"A direwolf," the boy said, and she realized who he was. Jon Snow, Lord Eddard Stark's bastard. "His name is Ghost. What are you doing up there? Why aren't you at the feast?" His eyes flickered between her and her uncle.

Oh, how to explain... Delmara thought dismally as she lightly pushed off the wall. 

“Too hot, too noisy, and I’d drunk too much wine,” Uncle Tyrion dismissed. “I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?”

“Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?” Snow asked.

Delmara opened her mouth to snap at him, then realized his words held to venom, only genuine question. 

"Bleed that," Uncle Tyrion was already saying. To her horror, he leapt from the balcony and landed in a crumple at Jon Snow's feet.

"Uncle!" she cried, rushing to help him stand.

"Bugger... You reckon I'm drunk?" he asked, a wry grin twisting his face. He stood and brushed the snow from himself. “I believe I’ve frightened your wolf. My apologies.”

The direwolf, Ghost, was standing protectively between Jon Snow's legs. She'd never seen a puppy so big. Its paws were as large as saucers and its eyes were a shimmering red. Its white fur blended into the snow almost perfectly. She could tell that he'd be huge later in life. And if the stories were true, that wouldn't be far away.

“He’s not scared,” Jon said. He took a step closer, then knelt and called out, “Ghost, come here. Come on. That’s it.”

The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled at Jon’s face, but he kept a wary eye on Uncle Tyrion, and when he reached out to pet him, Ghost drew back and bared his fangs in a silent snarl.

“Shy, isn’t he?” Uncle Tyrion commented.

“Sit, Ghost,” Jon commanded. “That’s it. Keep still.” He looked up at the dwarf. “You can touch him now. He won’t move until I tell him to. I’ve been training him.”

“I see,” Uncle Tyrion said, reaching out a cautious hand. He ruffled the snow-white fur between Ghost’s ears and said, “Nice wolf.”

"He's adorable," Delmara said softly, offering her hand for the beast to sniff.

“If I wasn’t here, he’d tear out your throat,” Jon boasted.

Delmara didn't fake the smile that came to her face.

“In that case, you had best stay close,” Uncle Tyrion said smoothly, still ruffling the wolf's fur. He pulled his hand back and appraised Jon as Delmara pet the wolf. For fur that looked so stiff and wiry, it was surprisingly soft once you got past the prickly ends. "I'm Tyrion Lannister," he greeted.

“I know,” Snow said, rising to his feet.

Delmara pulled away from the wolf and her uncle helped her rise.

Uncle Tyrion continued with the introductions, "This is my niece, the Princess Delmara." Snow gave a quick bow and Ghost shifted, cocking his head to one side. "You're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you?" 

A shadow passed across Jon Snow's face, his expression hardening. She gave her uncle a sharp look that he failed to see.

“Did I offend you?” Uncle Tyrion asked. “Sorry. Dwarfs don’t have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in motley have won me the right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head.” He grinned sharply, daring Jon to contradict him. “You are the bastard, though?”

“Lord Eddard Stark is my father,” Jon Snow said stiffly.

"And Lady Stark is not your mother, making you, a bastard." He took a sip from his flask. “Yes,” he said. “I can see it. You have more of the north in you than your brothers.” 

“Half brothers,” Snow corrected, trying to hide a smile, but his dark eyes sparkled.

“Let me give you some counsel, bastard,” Uncle Tyrion said, trying to be nice. “Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” 

"What do you know about being a bastard?” Snow demanded, eyes flicking between the two foreigners. 

“All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.”

“You are your mother’s trueborn son of Lannister,” Snow said, brow furrowing.

“Am I?” the dwarf replied, sardonic. “Do tell my lord father. My mother died birthing me, and he’s never been sure.”

“I don’t even know who my mother was,” Jon Snow admitted.

“Some woman, no doubt. Most of them are.” He gave Jon Snow a rueful grin. “Remember this, boy. All dwarfs may be bastards, yet not all bastards need be dwarfs.” He sipped from his flask again, then offered his arm to Delmara. "Come, Love. I'm surprised your mother hasn't noticed you missing yet."

With all the grace that their height difference allowed, she took his arm and gave a respectful dip to her new acquaintance. "It was lovely to meet you, Lord Snow," she said as they turned away. If the older boy had argued, she didn't hear.