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Chapter Text

Feastfires, the Westerlands

272 Years Post Aegon's Conquest

Marla I 

“The Maiden would weep at your posture, girl, stand up straight. To slouch is unbecoming.” Marla chided, as she lightly thumped her cane against the child's back.

At the elderly woman's words, the girl did as she was bid, allowing the hunching seamstress that Marla had commissioned, an aged woman named Elenda, to get a more accurate read of her measurements.

“I'm sure the Maiden is far too occupied with answering the prayers of the godsworn to worry about whether or not I'm ‘unbecoming’, Grandmother.” The chit replied.

“Don't be smart with me, Jorelle.” Marla warned.

“As opposed to being stupid?” She answered, her tone innocuous and airy.

Marla could feel the seamstress’ gaze on her, the woman probably expecting for the widow to incur a long-suffering, harsh reprimand for the sake of propriety– an earful on how it is blasphemy to make light of the Seven or use their names in vain. Against her better judgement, the old woman allowed herself the faintest smirk on her weathered face; the deep smile lines around her thin lips becoming prominent.

“Unruly hoyden.” The woman said, finally, though her tone lacked any bite. Leaning on her cane, she asked, “I doubt it would bring Septa Moriah any pleasure to hear you disparage the Faith so blatantly, girl.”

“With how many times I've recited passages of the Seven Pointed Star to her from memory, I think she's half-ready to send me to the Motherhouse in Lannisport as a novice.” She replied, lifting her arms so the dressmaker could measure them.

“It would do you some good, perhaps; might curb that tongue of yours.” Marla replied, a round, red brow arched at the thought, as if she was to truly consider it.

The gods knew she'd sooner die than send the girl away– but she didn't need to know that.

“But, then who would keep you company?” She asked, an impish grin to her features. She brushed her hair, thick and curly, over her shoulders as Elenda reached around to measure her bust.

“I have other grandchildren.” Marla reminded her and, for a moment, she remembered them.

Of course, bar Jorelle, her most immediate connections were through her youngest daughter Myrielle, of whom had wed Marla's nephew and became the Lady Prester– thus, all of their children, a brood composed of three sweet-faced daughters and a mewling, sickly son, resided with the widow at the ‘Fires. Then there was Shierle at Silverhill, who's husband had sired a son on her and abandoned their marriage bed since; the boy in question was well on his way to being a blustering oaf. To speak of oafs, there was also that son of hers, Stafford; Marla thanked the Seven heavens every day that her grandson had been bequeathed the sense his father lacked. Then there was Joanna, with her perfect, pretty twins– a rival to Gerold's golden sons, people said.

Oh, how Marla disdained sycophantry.

“That is true,” Jorelle admitted, as Elenda moved back to size up the girl's shoulders, “But, you only have one of me.”

That she did. And, the gods saw it fit that there would never be any more of Jorelle's ilk to walk this world.

When Rollam Lannister had returned from his coming-of-age tour, Marla hadn't expected much. It was an insipid venture that the woman was loath to sponsor, as all it meant was that boys would traipse around Essos in a delusion of what they thought was independence, and return home thinking themselves men because they'd gone without their mothers and maids for a few moons. As much as she loved her son, and poured her time and effort into raising what she believed to be a decent man in a less than decent world, Marla had anticipated such an attitude.

What she hadn't anticipated, was a blushing, Braavosi bride that her son had procured in a hasty elopement all in the name of accursed ‘true love’. Marla had wanted him for a Kenning girl– one of Lord Kayce's sisters; fair maidens, the lot of them. The first had married a Piper of Pinkmaiden, the second had eyes for a Corbray of the Vale and the third was wed to some Reacher lordling whose name Marla failed to recall. It was something she grudgingly commended the Lord Kayce for, due to the severe lack of sons on the marriage mart following the war. His sisters were alive and well with bountiful, ostensibly happy unions whilst her son laid cold and dead in the ground, never to sire another handsome daughter such as Jorelle, or a sturdy son whose likeness Marla could smile upon in her old age.

Her grip on her cane tightened slightly, her knuckles whitening.

“Grandmother,” Jorelle addressed suddenly, breaking the silence. It was as if she sensed the woman's displeasure.

“Yes, child?”

“Are these measurements related to my nameday gift?” She asked, with a tilt of her head.

“What makes you think that?”

“They are taking longer than usual; Amarei was before me and she wasn't in here for this long.” She noted.

Marla's lips pursed. This girl was impossible to surprise.

“Lady Amarei hasn't grown as fast as you have since I was here some moons last, m'lady. It's important to be thorough.” Elenda answered smoothly as she held a pin between her teeth.

Marla met her gaze with a glint of approval in her eyes, before settling on her granddaughter and adding, “And, Amarei at least possesses a modicum of sensibility unlike you; dragging little ‘Randa along for your escapades and diving into the sea at any given chance, soiling all your gowns. Nevermind how you've shot up like a bean sprout in these past few moons; none of your dresses fit anymore. You've had to resort to breeches!”

“They're comfortable.” She argued, her tone almost wan at the subject.

“Perhaps. But, they are also a way to most certainly displease any future suitors.”

“Johanna Westerling wore man's mail and still had a husband.” She answered, triumphant.

Marla made a tut sound, “Yes. After she had been married– and, that is a poor example, girl, for the man had heaps of mistresses of whom he'd sired daughters on.”

“So, her marriage to him would've been saved if she'd worn pretty dresses?” She asked in that small voice of hers, incredulous.

“It might've been saved if she'd a more womanly disposition.” The widow replied, her eyes light at the conversation.

“So, she suddenly wasn't a woman anymore when she put on men's clothes? Championed her people to safety against the savagery of the Red Kraken's fleet?"

“...to some men, yes.” That, and she'd had the man's son gelded and made her own's fool- but, it was too stimulating a conversation to focus on unimportant details.

“Maybe their marriage might have been saved if Lord Jason had kept to one bed,” Jorelle murmured, finally, uncaring or unknowing as she spoke ill of her own ancestor; she then said, with a hard expression and tone amusingly severe, “I'll join a Motherhouse, then and become a novice. I will pray to the Mother day and night that men like that will never find me, or want for my affections.”

Marla barked a laugh, despite herself; it was a harsh and weathered sound, as coarse and old as she.

“You laugh, but I'm serious!” She insisted, though the growing grin on her face said otherwise.

“Mm, I'm sure– stop slouching, girl! Or, do you want to be here all day?” Marla chided once more, with a light thump of her cane again.

“Well, if it means missing Moriah's lessons…” she tried.

“You will do no such thing.” The woman insisted, though she could hardly blame the girl for such thoughts– Septa Moriah bordered on fanaticism and turned every minute, incidental moment of happenstance into a miraculous testament of the Seven's might and mercy.

To call her zealous would be a kindness…and, an understatement.

“Yes, Grandmother.” She obliged, downcast, her little face twisted at the thought of enduring Moriah's presence for more than a half hour.

Marla thrummed her fingers against the armrest of her chair, “However, seeing as you are incapable of standing still for longer than a few moments…I wouldn't be surprised if I had to recall you from the septa's lessons halfway through. To gain a more accurate reading on your measurements, of course.”

At the pretense, a wide grin split across Jorelle's face; she quickly fixed her expression into a more demure one and nodded obediently, “Of course.”

If not before, then in that moment Marla was sure; Jorelle Lannister would most certainly be the death of her.

♟

Myrielle I

It was when she stood before her mother's door that Myrielle Lannister felt like a girl again.

She was a lady of esteem; with her own children, her own husband and her own keep. With a family name as ancient as time itself and the blood, gilded, coursing through her veins being the stuff of legend, she should not have been one to cower before anyone or anything.

Yet, as she was bidden entry into her mother's quarters that evening, she felt the haughty shroud of Lady Prester slip away from her, leaving behind only the little 'Rielle who still sought for the affections of the stone-faced widow.

“Mother,” she greeted, her tone careful and placid. Marla hummed in acknowledgement of her presence.

Green eyes keenly observed the scene laid out before her. Unwittingly, Myrielle's lips tugged downwards slightly– a petulant habit from childhood that had persisted.

Through the sheer drapes of her mother's canopy, the woman spied a still Jorelle Lannister sound alseep. Myrielle watched as her mother sat on the edge of the bed and softly stroked the girl's hair– tight, dirty-blonde curls– absentmindedly. It was a natural, warm gesture; one that looked incongruous to her mother's stony disposition. Idly, Myrielle tried to recall the last time her mother had been so contentedly affectionate with her.

“Won't you sit?” Marla asked, breaking the silence. Her gaze still fixed on a sleeping Jorelle.

“No. I'll only take a moment of your time. I simply wished to speak to you, is all. About Amarei.” Myrielle replied, trying to keep the curtness out of her voice. Marla hummed again, beckoning her daughter to speak. Emboldened, Myrielle's back straightened as she once again adopted the familiar mask of the Lady of Feastfires, “She complained to me, earlier.”

“I see.” She said simply, rocking slightly from side to side as she continued to pat the girl.

She wasn't looking at her, Myrielle realised. She spoke a little louder, clearer, as if it might beckon a glance in her direction from her lady mother.

“She had told me of how you had recalled Jorelle from the girls’ lessons with Septa Moriah.” She tried, her tone a bit hard.

“For her measurements.” Marla answered, easily.

Myrielle narrowed her gaze, “The girls are measured often enough that you might have called upon the seamstress another day. Besides, Amarei's and Myranda's appointments with her did not take anywhere near as long, or encroach on their lesson time."

“It was for her nameday gift. It is important to be thorough, lest they need to be resized and altered later on which will only take up even more time from our days and gold from our coffers– both of which are limited. Or, do you wish to see her resort to wearing old breeches again?” She asked, her voice even. She leaned forward towards Jorelle, daintily plucking a loose thread off of her frayed night shirt. She made a tsk sound before murmuring, “Hm. I should have had her fitted for a new one, shouldn't I?”

Frustrated at her indifference, Myrielle bit out “Mother–”

“Sit.” The woman interrupted, irritation writ across her features.

The Lady of Feastfires despised the quickness of which she obeyed, plopping down on the settee opposite the bed, like a petulant child.

Silence reigned for a long while; Marla Prester was not one to rush. She took her time in adjusting the covers atop of her granddaughter, before rising from the bed and drawing the curtains around it. She then moved to sit on a rocking chair adjacent to where her daughter sat and levelled a long, hard stare at her– brilliant, shrewd blue eyes boring into her skin. Having wanted her mother's gaze, Myrielle regretted it; now feeling like prey being stared down by a hawk.

“So,” she rasped, “it is about attention.”

“You are…preferential in your treatment of Jorelle, Mother. In fact, I am surprised that Amarei is only now taking notice of it.” She allowed herself a light scoff.

“I love all of my grandchildren equally, Myrielle. There is enough space in this withered heart of mine for them all. You know this.” The widow said slowly, patiently. As if speaking to a small child and not a lady of a grand house.

Incensed, she retaliated, “Well, you have a strange way of showing it.”

A sound of exasperation escaped the woman's lips and she placed her elbow on the armrest of her rocking chair, pressing her index and middle fingers to her temples as her eyes fluttered closed. Strangely enough, Myrielle felt as if she was still being scrutinised. There was a long pause before her mother spoke again.

“I love all my grandchildren with equal measure,” Marla repeated, opening her eyes as she spoke, a wistfulness to them, “Amarei, Myranda, Teora, Merlon– even little Tywell, gods rest his soul,”

Myrielle's heart flinched at the mention of him.

“Not to mention the respective broods of your brothers and sisters. Stafford's son, Joanna's twins– you might not think so, but I think of them much and often,”

Joanna. There was a name, one fraught with tension, distance and memories– good and bad; oh, how she was a dove on such a high branch now.

“But, whilst my love for them all is the same, they are not all equal,” Marla remarked harshly. Spying her daughter's impending sputtering in offense, she continued, “Jaime will be Lord of Casterly Rock when the time comes. Cersei, assuredly, will find herself wed to one Lord Paramount or other, if their father has his way. I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted her for Rhaegar. She'd be a jewel of the realm. For Amarei and little Merlon? A Piper, or perhaps a Marbrand, for her and a peaceful ascension to lordship for him, should all go well– another offshoot for the main branch to sink their claws into,”

Myrielle stood from the settee, abruptly, her face hot with what she deemed to be righteous impunity, “To insist that my children are worth less than Joanna's– to compare them at all. Is it that you take joy in being cruel, Mother?”

“Sit down. I'll not have you squawking at me like some common tern whilst I'm forced to crane my neck,” she muttered, unfazed, then adding, “and, I am not cruel. But, candid. It is the world that judges our value and that of our children, not I. You should be thankful that the gods weren't cruel enough to make us all common-folk from Lannisport's bowels."

“But–”

“If your darling Amarei– with her fine features and good breeding– is not of worth in comparison to Cersei, then where does that leave Jorelle? What of her prospects, hm? Rollam lost his life to his foolhardy ventures and his wife abandoned the girl for Braavos not long after, making herself scarce all these years,

“Amarei is a blessed child. To have you. To have Willam– the oaf that he is. To have her brother and sisters. Her gaggle of friends. And to have me, for I am her grandmother. So, then, what of Jorelle? Left to walk this world alone? Who else, bar me, does she have? For her, I must call upon the gods for discipline, for nurturing and for the wisdom to lay plans for her future. I am her grandmother, yes, but I must also be that, the Father and the Mother all at once.”

There was a quiet that reigned after her mother spoke that stung Myrielle's ears. Marla angled her chin upwards, her blue gaze piercing.

“I trust you understand now?” It was a question, softly posed, but in truth it was a statement that her mother dared her to defy.

Myrielle twisted the ring on her finger, vexation coursing through her. In truth, she didn't understand– the girl was parentless, but it wasn't as if she was some unfortunate urchin in a Flea Bottom orphanage. She was housed, clothed and cared for at Feastfires, with an ancient lineage she could readily boast of. Myrielle was not so inapt as a lady that she could not appropriately provide for a child she was kin with. Nevermind Amarei being deprived of her grandmother's affections, was her mother's persistent interference in this child's life just another way of highlighting another failing of hers as Lady Prester?

Through a too tight smile, she replied, “I understand.”

“Make sure that little Amarei does, too. I'd hate for the girls to fight.”

"Quite," a beat. Myrielle opened her mouth to speak, but closed it. Abruptly, she said, "Goodnight, Mother.”

“And, to you, my dear."

With that, Marla turned back to Jorelle, away from her daughter, thus ending the conversation. Myrielle was the image of courtesy as she nodded towards her mother– only to be contrasted with her shutting the door with an unceremonious thud.

Chapter Text

272 Years Post Aegon's Conquest

Feastfires, the Westerlands

Jorelle I

Septa Moriah was not a particularly intelligent woman.

Of course, she was well-read. She was in possession of a lady's education, born a noblewoman of House Myatt, before being shipped off to Oldtown so that she might be further reared at their famed Starry Sept.

But, of course it's juvenile to expect that one's academic inclinations and one's intellect are one-in-the-same. After all, would a truly active, self-aware mind marvel at every minute happenstance and zealously consider it the will of the gods?

On the one hand, I suppose I couldn't blame her. She was a septa, for crying out loud. It would be akin to admonishing a chicken for clucking. And, admittedly, my inherent bias against the woman for said clucking might have been overshadowing my good sense. She was just doing her job, after all.

How could I declare someone foolish just because I didn't subscribe to their beliefs (however fervent and incessant I believed them to be)?

“Ah, after seven tries, it seems you have finally perfected your cross-stitch, Jorelle! How wonderful– the Maiden has blessed your hands today!” She exclaimed, clasping her hands, with far too much joviality for what was supposed to be a calm, languid evening.

On the other hand, I had to– quite frankly– resist the urge to strangle her with gold-thread whenever she deigned to unhinge her laughing maw.

Fine. So what, I was piss-poor at embroidery? Was it so great a disgrace that my golden lions looked more like yellow bears, and my strong bulls more like wet dogs?

It most certainly didn't help that my cousins, Amarei and Tya, were trying (and failing) to hide their snickering. For a world teeming with countless unknown dangers, the worst of all was not dragons or fallen dynasties– but having two, young girls mock you to your face.

Sometimes, it was best to accept defeat.

My smile was tight as I replied to the woman, “Thank you for your words of encouragement, Septa.”

She returned my grin, placing one of her clammy hands over mine before squeezing it, “Of course, dear.”

“Maybe you might want to go back to a simple running stitch, instead? I could help, if you'd like?” It was the gentle voice of Cerissa Wicke that spoke up next. The steward's girl; rather sweet, for the most part, if not utterly oblivious.

“Yes, Cery's good at this sort of thing! She helped me with my fishbone a few days ago. You might even use that Myrish thread that Mother got you for your nameday, or else it'll rot.” Randa nodded eagerly.

The words were meant to be an encouraging balm, but to have my skills be compared to that of a seven-year-old was quite the blow to my pride. I smiled weakly at the girls, which they took for my assent, as Cerissa leaned in and began fiddling with my tambour frame, Randa watching intently, her legs swinging in her chair beneath her skirts.

As they fussed over my subpar stitching, the mention of my nameday prompted me to reminisce.

It was hard to believe that I had spent ten years here– and, even after all that time, I still couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when I'd started to remember. Any time I tried, my brain fogged and memories went fuzzy, so I did the sensible (easy) thing and stopped trying.

But, whilst I couldn't recall my exact moment of ‘awakening’, I did remember the life that came before my current one– specifically, I remembered the story of the world I was in. How the vast stage of Westeros would soon host a terrible, terrible play of events.

Whenever I recalled something significant– rebellions, marriages, deaths and the like– I'd scrawl it down in one notebook of mine that I'd stealthily stashed beneath a creaky floorboard in my chambers.

My conscience was split in two halves.

The first was gladdened that I had retained so much information, glad that I was at least armed with some modicum of knowledge in this strange world that I found myself in. Knowing what would happen, who it would happen to– it made me feel more secure in some ways.

Then, there was the other half.

It made me deeply, viscerally afraid. I remembered much, but not everything. What was there that I didn't know? What was there that I was missing?

“Hm, maybe a simple running-stitch for the outline of the mane?” Cerissa suggested, having taken my frame in her own hands.

“That sounds simple enough. What do you think, Jory?” Myranda echoed, her gaze flitting back and forth between us eagerly.

“That's fine.” I pressed the sharp tip of my needle against the pad of my fingers, concealing the act in a clenched fist.

Ten years was a long time; inevitably, I had found myself attached to these girls. To this House Prester. To this new life I led– for all that I knew about the distant Long Night, a war in the name of love and usurpation and, all of the other bloodied devastation that Fate's entrails sought to leave in its wake, the fact that I was blind as to what the girls’ destinies were concerned me. Terrified me, more than it should have.

Amarei rose from her chair and marched over to where I sat, Tya following her like a lamb– the former looked at my handiwork (or lack thereof) with blue-eyed scrutiny, the latter peering over her shoulder.

Ocean eyes, vibrant, red tresses and doll-like features, it was plain to see that Amarei would grow to be a fine, young woman. She'd inherited the typical, Prester colouring of her father but, thankfully, had retained her mother's handsome appearance– to stand her next to the woman, she truly was Myrielle in miniature. Such budding beauty, coupled with being endlessly doted on by her aforementioned lady-mother and given whatever she wished in place of affection by her lord-father, Amarei had the makings of a rotten child.

Having a staredown of intimidation with a nine-year-old to assert dominance had been something that I'd been forced to grow accustomed to. For some reason, Amarei liked to put herself in contest with me– I had a number of reasons, estimated guesses, as to why. Most stemmed from my aunt's pointed disdain of me, to be sure, but I had other thoughts; whilst I was the eldest of us all, Amarei was the eldest child of the Lord Prester, the dunce whose castle I had lived in all my life. Thus, maybe she felt a strange superiority to me– which clashed against the fact that my surname was Lannister, that I was older than her by a year (more, actually) and that I had the unequivocal affections of our grandmother; none of these things she could claim to boast.

Her lips tugged into as cruel a grin as a girl of nine could muster, “Is that supposed to be a lion? It looks more like…a wet pony. Doesn't it, Tya?”

The latter hummed in agreement as Myranda frowned, lightly kicking her older sister in the shin.

“Don't be mean, Ami.” She chided.

“Young ladies do not resort to physical violence to make their point, Myranda.” The crone chided from where she sat, observing them.

“So insulting them to their faces is fine?” I shot back at the septa, though my gaze remained level at Amarei.

“Well–” Moriah sputtered, before Tya spoke up and cut her off.

“Can I have your pony, Jory? Pretty please?”

I knitted my brows at the girl's request, her sudden shift in the conversation, staring at her with a great deal of incredulity, “And why in the seven hells should I do that?”

“Because Mama won't let me have one of my own and you still haven't ridden yours yet!” She pleaded.

“Didn't you like Father's gift?” Amarei asked, gaze narrowing as she crossed her arms in an adorably petulant way.

“That's because it's still too young,” the creature was so dainty that I was afraid that just me mounting it would cause it to faint.

“And, do you realise what you ask of me, Tya? To incur Aunt Perry's wrath for your sake?” I scoffed in amusement at the thought of braving the fearsome Perriane Ruttiger alone, then adding, “You'd have better luck bartering with the Stranger–”

“Jorelle!” Moriah scolded.

Amarei permitted herself to snort.

"Blasphemy is chief amongst the seven vices, you know this!" Moriah chided, incensed.

"Really? You'd think slavery or kinslaying would rank higher on that list..." I murmured, toying with the needle between my fingertips.

My words earned me a sharp elbow jab from Cerissa and a bitten-back smile from Myranda.

Electing to ignore me, the septa fussed over my cousins and ushered them back to where they sat, "Now, now- back to your seats. Let us focus on finishing our embroidery today, elsewise we won't have anytime left for your high-harp practice!"

“And, we simply can't skip out on the high-harp practice.” I murmured, cringing preemptively– my lack of dexterity with a needle inevitably crossed over to instruments. It was a good thing I had a talent for singing and a head for numbers; I'd be useless otherwise.

Amarei, suddenly remembering her burning hatred for me, scoffed as she resumed to delicately stabbing at her frame, “If you're as afraid of horses as you are the harp, I wonder how you'll survive the King's tourney.”

I froze. Tourney? What tourney? Of all the events, the catastrophes, that I could recall, a grand tournament in the year 272 AC was something that had escaped my memory. Was it at Lannisport? No, that was the one for Viserys’ birth…but, surely I would have remembered if it was at King’s Landing ?

Tya spoke where I faltered.

“Hm, what tourney? I didn't know there was a tourney– are we going? Oh, we must go, Amarei, we simply must !” She echoed my thoughts, all in one girlish breath.

Taking my momentary stillness for a sign of weakness, Amarei puffed up and continued, answering our cousin's question, “Well, Father hasn't confirmed it yet, but Mother seems keen to go. I just wonder how Jory will handle the–”

“The Lannisters. Will they be in attendance?” I asked abruptly.

Amarei's face soured, either mad at the reminder that I was a Lannister and she wasn't, or that I'd cut her off– perhaps both. Still, she answered me with a sniff.

“Of course. Apparently Aunt Joanna has already left for the capital with cousins Cersei and Jaime,” she replied, as if such should be obvious, before tearing her gaze away from mine and looking at her  embroidery of which she held at arm's length, “Anyway, you'll probably have stay home with grandmother, to take care of her of course– you are her favourite , after all. I just don't know how you'll fare, stuck here while we're all in the city.”

“With you nagging her ear off whenever she's near, probably better.” Myranda snarked. Cerissa swiftly elbowed her– a signature move of hers, it seemed.

“Ladies do not nag, Myranda.” Moriah chided, her gaze darting back and forth between the girls as she tried (and failed) to diffuse their oncoming spat.

“Well, it seems that septas do…” she murmured, slouching as she toyed with the ends of her mousy, copper hair.

The septa in question sputtered as she pointed a wagging, accusing finger at an unfazed Myranda. I was caught between finding the whole scene amusing and dwelling on the fact that such a major event had escaped my memory– somehow, for a moment, I thought that my mere existence had incurred it, before quelling such an idiotic notion. The butterfly effect was certainly something I believed in, but something so big? I'd probably just… forgotten .

I was saved by the metaphorical bell– the sudden materialisation of my grandmother's most steadfast maidservant, Calla.

The elderly woman gave a practised, deferential dip of her head as she greeted everyone, “My ladies, Septa,”

Her gaze, grey and warm and motherly, fell on me as a smile tugged at her lips, weathered smile lines forming at the corners of her mouth.

“Lady Jorelle. Your grandmother has requested for you to sup with her in her solar this evening. If you please…?”

I all but abandoned my embroidery, and my kinswomen, with surprising ease, quickly filing out of the room without even so much as a curtsy. I had far more important things to worry about that courtly manners– such as the fact that the household was to move temporarily to the Crownlands for the damned king's equally damned tourney.

The floors were cold. My shoes, too thin for the cool weather of the day, felt the chill radiate through the soles of my feet. Left, right, left, right – I let myself fall into a rhythm, my feet moving on autopilot to my grandmother's apartments, as my mind took a backseat.

Evidently, the whole thing made me madly uncomfortable. In part because a royal festival meant big, meant ostentatious – and such splendour came with new faces to learn, great families to schmooze with. 

I wasn't exactly big on that.

But, to be frank, I hadn't truly reconciled with the fact that I was now stuck in a world of fiction . I had yet to actually interact with any main characters of the saga– of course, the Presters were present in the main canon, but it was far easier to view them as real people, to view them as a sort of family, because their roles had been so– so minor . Whilst being so unaware as to the fates of this makeshift family of mine was a source of anxiety, it was also the main reason my struggle to acclimate had been so…minimal.

To meet more major players in this ‘game’-- to know how they'd meet their fates and by whom…it was disconcerting. I had not spun their destinies yet spools of gilded thread spilled through my fingertips regardless.

I almost forgot how to breathe.

I forced myself to think of other things. Of what tomorrow would bring, how the weather would change– I made myself reminisce. As I turned another corner, a wordless Calla hot on my heels, I decided to think of my grandmother.

To win over the affections of Marla Prester had proved to be somewhat of a herculean task.

It wasn't that she was necessarily cruel, or thorny– though, perhaps that was my bias speaking– but she was not open with how she felt. When one had lived as long as she had, loved and lost countless times, it was understandable that she wasn't one to be particularly close with anybody. Not even her own descendants.

Even when my father had passed, she still didn't show me any sort of preferential treatment– rather, it was I that had grasped onto her. And, tightly . She was an unbreakable pillar that cast no shadow, but I took shade regardless. I wasn't blind to the disdain of my lady-aunt and cousin; whilst currently benign, I didn't know if they'd grow from seeing me as a minor inconvenience to an eyesore that needed to be removed.

After clinging to her for some time, doing as she did, following in her footsteps, she had very slowly begun to let me in– Calla once said to me that I kept her young. I didn't think that Marla Prester would be one to die unless she decided to.

It had made me wonder how such an iron-willed woman wasn't even a footnote in the life of her eldest daughter, the beloved wife of Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West– I’d noticed that her bond with Joanna was a sorespot. Her daughter still lived, went on to have children of her own, but they were strangers to each other. That void was empty– so, selfishly, I sought to fill it. It was a strange symbiosis; she gained someone to spill her affections into and, I, a fierce protector and guide on how best to adjust to this new life of mine.

Grandmother’s apartments were positioned in the castle's west wing; originally, they were located in the east side of the ‘Fires, but Maester Dake had suggested the change, claiming that the wealth of salty, sea air on the castle's opposite side would be good for her weary lungs, following a pyrrhic triumph against a bout of Winter Fever. Surprisingly, the change-resistant widow had acquiesced to the man's request– nothing at all to do with the fact that her quarters were now only a door's down from mine. Nonetheless, as a result, she'd developed the habit of having her dinners nearer to the balcony, doors wide open, making for a cool breeze.

As Calla creaked the doors open, by the balcony is where I found her. At the sound, she turned to me and I curtseyed politely as I neared her.

“Grandmother,” I greeted, before taking my seat opposite her.

She raised a brow, breaking honeycomb into her food– some mix of oats and barley, more breakfast than dinner.

“It took you long enough. Your food was getting cold– I nearly asked for it to be reheated.” She chided, wiping her fingers with a kerchief before mixing her food with a spoon. At my silence, she looked up at me from her food. I glanced from my plate, to the wide, open balcony doors and back again. Her lips tugged, “ Hush .”

“I didn’t say anything.” I defended, my voice airy and innocent, before picking up my knife and fork.

For my own supper, I'd been given a very generous slice of venison pie, served with mushrooms, parsnips and stewed lentils– perhaps too hearty for what should have been a light, evening meal, especially when compared to my grandmother's light bowl of cereal, but I could already feel myself salivate. I leaned forward and began to eat, only to feel a withered hand on my shoulder. With a mouth full of pie I looked up.

“What is it exactly that the septa teaches you? Sit up straight– or do you want your hair to stink of roasted venison?” She said with gentle reproach, toying with the end of my braid.

I swallowed, answering, “Haven't you heard? It's a new trend of sorts at the Rock.”

“I'm sure,” She mused, blue eyes alight with amusement.

Even after straightening my posture, she still continued to toy with my hair– I watched as her piercing gaze melted into something softer. As if she were reminiscing.

“It is your crowning glory, these tresses of yours, girl,” she began, idly, “a true mane, fit for a true lioness. Like that mother of yours– if good for nothing else, I should be glad you inherited such a feature from her.”

There it was; when it came to Rollam Lannister– rarely my father, never my father– her unfettered, aloof nature gave way to something hard and unforgiving. As it always did whenever the topic of Aleaya Volentin cropped up in conversation.

I'd always wondered if that was the reason Marla had been resistant to warming to me at first– not because she was the solitary sort, but because she saw Aleaya in me. Was deterred by the fact that, in appearance, her grandchild was more her mother's daughter than her father's; to be sure, my eyes were green and hair was blonde; but, the former was the green of the deep-sea, unalike the verdant, emerald green flecked with gold that was so becoming of my Lannister kin. And, my hair was blonde– a shade of it, anyway; a dirty-blonde as opposed to the gleaming, yellow of the rest of my family. Not exactly gold, but a pale imitation.

Chewing slowly, I struggled to formulate a response– how was I supposed to speak of a woman who'd left me when I was still an infant. With anger? With resentment? All I felt was wonder and apathy.

After a moment, I said, “Well, lionesses don't have manes, first of all.”

She let go of my hair and leaned back, lightly sipping her honeyed oats, “Don't be smart, Jorelle.”

I smiled with a mouth full of lentils, to which my grandmother rolled her eyes in a most unladylike gesture. She continued to sup on her cereal, before motioning to my body with her spoon.

“This shade of yellow clashes with your hair.” She scrutinised.

I looked down at my gown; I had been right, a half moon ago, when I'd guessed that I was being measured for an assortment of new gowns for my nameday– that, and a surprise riding habit, which was later contextualised by my uncle's gift of my new, trusty steed.

“Should I have worn my breeches instead?” I asked– I couldn't help how comfortable I found them in comparison to my skirts.

“You and your obsession with breeches– I got you that new pair specifically for riding, girl. And, you and I both know that your shivering equine is nowhere near ready to ride.” She reminded, tone sharp. Promptly, she finished her plate, handing it off to Calla wordlessly, before angling her chin at me, “Now. Tell me about your day.”

That was how conversations usually went with my particular grandmother; less of asking questions about how I was and more of doling out demands as to what I did– I never minded, though. There was never any mal-intent. It was simply her way.

Thus, I listlessly recalled what had happened throughout the day; from my handmaid, Tess, scrubbing me down and dolling me up, to my lessons under Maester Dake alongside my cousins (mentioning how particularly insufferable Cousin Forley was about his advancement in his own lessons under the master-at-arms),  to my further lessons with Septa Moriah in the womanly arts…finally, the tourney cropped up in conversation again. I chose my words carefully– this was my chance.

“...and, then Amarei mentioned something about a tourney–”

“That girl can never keep a secret. She's inherited Myrielle's loose lips– the things your mothers bequeath you…” she chastised, cutting me off. Reclining slightly in her chair, she regarded me with a tilt of her head, “What say you, girl?”

“To the tourney?” I confirmed, quietly, as I toyed with my cutlery, plate long empty. I answered, “Well, it all sounds very exciting, but– but, I'd much rather spend my time alongside you here. Plus, the ‘Fires will be quieter with everyone gone for a moon's turn, or so.”

There was a lengthy pause after my words and, with each passing moment, a sinking feeling settled in my gut upon the realisation that my words had been seen through.

Suddenly, my grandmother began to rise– Calla and I flocked to her side, but she shook off our aid and stood on her own, like a flower unfurling. She held her hands behind her back and walked to the balcony, watching as the sun bled into the horizon.

“The maester has said that my health has improved, thank the gods,” she began, as I neared her from behind, “A change of scenery would be good for me. For us,”

She turned to face me, an inscrutable sort of expression marking her features.

“It is rare that someone your age prefers the peace and quiet to the hubbub of the capital– ultimately, I could argue it to be a good thing, but you mustn't be allowed to miss an opportunity such as this.” She said, a finite note in her tone. She would not be moved.

“What opportunity is there to be found among horses and mud and–”

“Don’t be stupid, Jorelle. Don’t insult my intelligence or yours by pretending that an event held in King’s Landing by our sovereign isn’t laden with opportunity.” Grandmother was serious, I realised. She turned to face me and, upon seeing my face and whatever was writ upon it– most probably anxiety– her own features softened momentarily. “Your tenth nameday has just passed and, any day now, you'll flower,”

I forced myself not to flinch at the mention of it.

“Certain things must be considered. Plans must be made– this, my dear, is a good start,” she assured me, her hand finding my shoulder once again, “Whatever your aversion, I do not intend on allowing you to miss it– not on my account, at least. These are the burdens of our status, girl– the faster you grow accustomed to them, the easier you will find them to be.”

Somehow, I struggled to believe that.

Calla came to interrupt our conversation, ushering us back inside the apartments as she brought the balcony doors to a close, lamenting how the chill might damage my grandmother's health– in all honesty, any other words they exchanged sounded like white noise. I'd made my way back to my own chambers to retire for the night; I didn't bother to call Tess to help me change into my evening shift, I rarely did, shuffling out of my gold-yellow kirtle into my nightclothes. They felt scratchy against my skin, for some reason.

I laid in my bed, wide and soft, pillows stuffed with partridge feathers, staring at the ceiling as silent noise coursed through my head. Nerves wore away at my stomach's lining as I tossed and turned.

“Damn it all.” I murmured to myself, before standing up and padding my way over to the loose floorboard in the room.

I crouched down to my knees and pried it open, getting out what was the physical manifestation of every ‘memory’ I'd ever had. I dipped my worn quill in the little ink I'd had left, most of it dried, and pencilled in,

272 Years Post Aegon's Conquest – The Anniversary Tourney of King Aerys II Targaryen.

Chapter Text

272 Years Post Aegon's Conquest

The Goldroad, the Westerlands

Myrielle II

Myrielle had never felt so ridiculous as she had in that moment, toying with a string of marble prayer beads that the zealous septa had bequeathed her.

Ostensibly, it was a faultless show of piety; a fine, Andal noblewoman that headed an ancient house, consorting with her gods in silent prayer. The same gods that had abandoned her in her time of need. The same gods that had saw fit to rob her of her eldest son and cripple another.

She scowled, her hand flexing.

Eyes closed as the carriage rocked, the woman tried to temper her nerves like a smith would steel, by thumbing her rosary in the hopes it would abate her ever petulant nature. She sighed as a prayerful ditty from her childhood snaked it's way into her head.

The Father guides, the Mother rears, the Warrior's blade culls all our fears,

The Smith moulds, the Crone's age-old, the Maid guards virtue as if it were gold,

The Seventh, lest we speak their name, reaps –

A sudden jolt of the wheelhouse forced Myrielle's pious thoughts to a halt and irritation to make itself plain on her features.

If the damned thing jolted again, she would clamber her way out and rip the wheels off herself─ nevermind the fact that she was the one who'd insisted on taking it in the first place. Willam still didn't understand it, reminding her of the fact that she was a capable horsewoman, as if Myrielle would suddenly forget overnight.

Her lips pursed. Her simple-minded husband would simply never understand the importance of such a thing; he wasn't the sort of man who paid attention to finer details. Nor were most men for that matter─ unless said man happened to the Hand of the King, then such meticulousness was a given.

If said Hand's wife arrived to the continental capital in a tiered, wheelhouse of gleaming wood and gilded metal, yet her sister arrived on horseback like some common tradeswoman...well, it would thus be obvious that the prestige of House Prester was not equivalent to that of their more senior, paramount house.

Not obvious enough, it seemed, to her dear lord-husband! A bitter sigh fell from her lips.

"Do you not tire from all your groaning, Myrielle?" Her mother's voice, hoarse from sleep, frightened her, "Because I certainly do. What is it that troubles you so?"

The Lady Prester's eyes shot open and she was met with the irritable gaze of her mother, blue eyes bloodshot.

"I am not troubled, simply weary from travel is all." She answered quickly, more hot and defensive than she would have liked.

"Calm yourself. The children still sleep." Her mother chastised, to which Myrielle tried not to let her burgeoning frown deepen.

Even as the clunky, wooden behemoth chugged along, the other passengers in the wheelhouse remained unperturbed by all the bumps in the road. Despite the space, it was still a snug fit for them all; Amarei and Jorelle flanked either side of their grandmother, practically burrowing themselves into her arms as they slept. Jorelle in turn was flanked by Myranda. Teora's head rested upon Myrielle's lap and little Merlon nestled himself into Moriah's arms; the steward's daughter looked snug with her friend, Rosamund Stilwood, sister to the captain of their household guard.

It might have made for a sweet sight had the girls not been so insipid with their ceaseless giggles just hours earlier.

Whilst her good-sister Perianne had elected to ride alongside her son, Garrison, being more wild than woman in recent days, her daughter, Tya, had opted for comfort and rested inside. The girl's head rested uncomfortably upon the particularly bony shoulder of Myrielle's other good-sister, Elissa Parren; a woman with a build so slight that it was still an unfathomable marvel as to how she birthed so big a child as Forley, who rested against the wheelhouse's wall, padded with thick wool to keep heat in.

Remaining calm, Myrielle's voice quieted as she echoed her previous words, "I am calm, Mother, merely weary..."

The dowager arched a disbelieving brow.

"Even when a prayerful mood has struck you, I see you are still overcome with the urge to play pretend," she chided, before nodding slightly to the beads, "Lying is a vice, you know. Especially to one's own mother."

One that you begrudge only me for , Myrielle thought, but bit her tongue. The young Lady Prester was suddenly overcome with the urge to crush one of the pretty, little rosary beads between her fingers– not that she could, anyway, as they were formed from a fine, opalescent, Myrish glass…it was not for any lack of trying however.

“Oh, put that dreadful thing away,” Marla hissed, irritated by the silence, “with all the noise it's making– nevermind how it's mere inches away from whacking little Teora in the face.”

“She is safe from harm, Mother, I assure you.” Myrielle answered in turn, with a faint roll of her eye. She acquiesced, however, and placed them aside.

Her hands free, she was now confronted with her daughter’s head resting on her lap. Red-gold strands rested awkwardly across the bridge of Teora’s nose; with hesitance, the woman brushed it aside before her hands tentatively hovered over the girl’s head. Following brief deliberation, Myrielle settled for leaving her hands at her side. Looking up, she saw her mother’s gaze still on her.

She nodded, “Before, you would not even let her touch you.”

“I am her mother.” Myrielle answered, looking away, “I was behaving childishly.”

Marla’s eyes softened, a rare thing, “You were grieving .”

“Regardless, I let my affection for one child sour my bond with the other,” she said, harshly, trying not to flinch at Tywell’s memory, “that isn’t what a mother should do.”

The words were more pointed than she’d intended but her mother didn’t notice, thankfully– that, or she elected to ignore her daughter’s tone.

“Time can heal, Myrielle, if you let it.” She said after a short bout of silence.

The wheelhouse trudged along a particularly cobbled path; the sound and feel of the jerking wheels filled the gap where the young Lady Prester debated on whether to respond, and how.

Simply, she replied, “It can harden, too.”

Marla sighed before resigning from the conversation. Glad for the quiet, Myrielle tugged at the slider for the wheelhouse's window and peeked through, the last glows of the sunlight streaming into the oaken behemoth of carriage.

They were in some sort of woodland, it seemed– which wasn't a helpful descriptor, as everywhere was woodland. They should have been on track to Deep Dan, if Myrielle's estimations were correct; they might have passed it already if Willam hadn't insisted on riding his old, fat destrier out of misplaced sentimentality. They'd had to keep stopping every few hours to grant the beast a brief respite.

Drawn away from her musings by a particularly abrupt snort, Myrielle's gaze fell on Jorelle who had managed to snore herself awake at the sudden light in the relative darkness of the wheelhouse.

“Are we there yet?” The chit asked with a yawn.

Myrielle's brow twitched, “Is that how a young lady greets others in her presence?”

“Myrielle…”

“No, Mother, Jorelle must start to internalise these things. Such a blatant disregard for manners will not be tolerated in King's Land–”

“Grandmother,” Jorelle sleepily greeted, turning to face the woman with a sleepy dip of her head, then turning towards her aunt and mimicking the gesture, made awkward by the fact that she was sitting down, “Aunt; good morning. Are we there yet?”

Marla scoffed, amused, “Trust me, my dear, you would smell that wretched city before you'd see it.”

“We have yet to even make our way out of the Westerlands.” Myrielle admitted with a purse of her lips.

“But, we've been travelling for days!” The girl lamented, slumping back into her seat, resting against her grandmother.

Teora shuffled in Myrielle's lap at the sudden uptick in noise; the latter narrowed her budding glare at her niece, lips curled downwards in distaste.

“If you would cease your lamentations , you could open your own window and see it for yourself. I don't believe we've even made it to Deep Den yet.”

With curl of her own lips, Jorelle did as her aunt bid and, reaching over her sleeping kin (particularly Forley who snorted in his sleep as Jorelle's elbow slightly knocked his forehead), slid the wooden panel open slightly as the the warm glow of dusk poured in all the more, illuminating her side of the wheelhouse. Nostalgia, in all its abruptness, struck Myrielle like an arrowhead.

If one were to be frank, the girl didn't really have the typical Lannister look about her. For sure, her hair was yellow and eyes green but not the vibrant gold or verdant emerald her kin could stand to boast. This, coupled with the swarthy tone of her Essosi mother– a Braavosi chit with the summer's blood coursing through her– it was hard for Myrielle to see the traces of her brother in his daughter. But, wisps of him lingered on her person; it was in her smile, the way light highlighted the flecks of blue in her eyes…Myrielle felt her heart squeeze with a stunning abruptness as she remembered Rollam's laugh, and that she’d never hear it again.

To speak of abrupt things, Teora's head almost bucked off of her mother's lap as the wheelhouse in a rather savage sort of way, making everyone inside jerk forward– forcing them awake from their slumber.

“Mother's mercy!” Moriah yelped as she snorted herself awake.

Gripping the wall of the carriage to steady herself, Myrielle used her free hand to hold a now whining Teora as she looked out of the window frantically, eyes darting to try and glance out of her peripheral view to see what had caused such a violent stop.

“Is everyone alright?” She asked, as she moved to stand up from her spot.

“I can feel my bones rattling, girl, of course I'm not alright.” Her mother spat, clutching her chest as Jorelle rubbed her arm up and down soothingly.

Why she insisted on coming in the first place was beyond Myrielle.

“The rest of us are fine, Sister, go ahead and see what caused the commotion.” Elissa answered sensibly as she checked Forley's head for any bruises, before turning to her good-sister to offer her a small, half-smile.

The Lady Prester felt relief at not being the sole, sane person in this family.

She banged on the wheelhouse's door, hand forming a fist as she hit against it two, authoritative times, before a faceless servant swung it open for her and another aided her in disembarking from the behemoth. Blinking away the waning light of dusk from her eyes, Myrielle stepped down to the ground and looked around to see Willam idly tending to his horse– as if his assumed order to stop the wheelhouse so abruptly hadn't almost tipped them over.

She forced her lips to curl up instead of downwards, and marched over to her husband in as genteel a manner as she could muster.

“Husband,” she began sweetly, glaring at his insipid beast, before back to him, “why is it that we have stopped?”

He finally turned away from his greying creature and to his wife. Willam was not a handsome man, nor was he an ugly one; his unremarkable features being an indication of his equally unremarkable person. Bar his staggering idiocy, nothing about him truly stood out; his Prester-red hair looked more copper-brown than anything, of which complimented his hazel-coloured eyes. He had the beginnings of a pot-belly, evidenced by the way his stomach had started to strain against his doublet and how his breeches seemed far too snug on his posterior.

“Why, to make camp, of course.” He answered, hand gesturing to their men and servants, led by sers Sumner Wicke and Alfred Stilwood; their steward and captain of the guard respectively.

Lips pursed. Brows narrowed; Myrielle's mood only became more dour as she asked, “ Here ?”

His confusion mirrored her own, “Yes?”

“ Here and not the clearing with a lake, good soil and good cover from the elements that we passed not even two hours ago?” She clarified, incredulity bleeding into her tone.

As opposed to answering, Willam at least had the sense to detect his wife's irritation and settled on a simple, abashed smile cast in her direction. As if to soften the blow of his idiocy.

After a series of sighs and her own lamentations, the settlement was erected; swathes of cotton and canvas transformed the area from a forest green to a pale ivory. The sun had long set and fires had been started by the time the canopies were being oiled– Willam had insisted to Myrielle that there was no need, that there’d be no rain, but she would be remiss to trust in his lopsided judgement for a second time that day.

Amarei, ever the obedient child, had elected to sit herself by the campfire with her father; eyes filled with a girl’s wonder as he regaled her with one of his stories. Myrielle resisted the urge to roll her own. Merlon and Teora had been handed off to their nursemaid the moment they’d disembarked; Merlon had been irritable since the moment he’d woken up, wailing and shrieking at the slightest disturbance. Myrielle had reached her wits end and, as she toyed with her prayer beads once more, she almost wished she could slip him the littlest bit of sweetsleep; thankfully, their nurse had managed to soothe him and put him to sleep without any aids.

The septa had retired when it was made clear that the children wouldn’t internalise any of her sermons for the evening; they were all too busy running around in a most peculiar game of monsters-and-maidens– except little Forley had somehow ended up as one of the maidens, alongside the girls, that was being relentlessly chased by Garrison. Myrielle’s eyes fell on her little niece, sat at the base of a leafless tree as she thumbed through the pages of a book, illuminated by the moonlight. She seemed so far away, so wrapped up in whatever it was in her story that gripped her so– until Forley barrelled into her and frantically begged for her help in the game, only for Jorelle to join Garrison as a monster and the screaming resumed.

The Lady Prester had accepted the fact that she was not to get any sleep that night– the same could not be said for her mother, however, who’s snores could be heard resounding through the campsite whenever there was a lull in the children’s shrieking. Myrielle was deeply envious.

Soon enough, the embers of the camp’s hearth began to wane as the fire died. Myrielle rose, hugging her cloak closer to her person as the chill began to set in; she loathed travelling, and especially loathed Willam’s willingness to camp out in the woodlands as opposed to finding more comfortable lodgings in an inn. Something about being closer to nature being akin to being closer to his manhood– whatever that was supposed to mean. Dwelling on his backwards logic drained her even further as she made her way back to their shared tent.

“My lady.” Her handmaid greeted as she entered and Myrielle nodded back in acknowledgement as the woman helped her to disrobe. 

Her fur-trimmed cotte was swapped for a simple nightgown, the former being placed into a neat pile to the side of the makeshift bed. Myrielle dismissed the girl, then tossed her beads atop of them before combing her fingers through her hair.

No sooner than her head had touched the pillow, did commotion bloom outside. Determined to ignore it, Myrielle fixed her eyes shut and tried to let sleep take her.

It was only when the sound of hooves beating against a dirt path grew louder that the woman sat up, pin-straight. She hurriedly gathered her robe over her person and hurried out of the tent, looking around frantically.

“Sister!” Perianne called out as she and Elissa had rounded up the children, ushering them to one of the tents farther away from the hubbub.

“ Go !” Myrielle stumbled as she yelled at them over her shoulder, before continuing to forge ahead as the sound of hoofbeats slowed to a halt, the horses braying.

She allowed herself to descend into a speedy walk, almost a run, before slowing upon seeing Willam converse with the riders– some had their hoods up whilst others were down with their hoods. At seeing a familiar face, Myrielle’s unease faded into irritation.

“Don’t tell me…” she muttered, a growl of annoyance creeping into her tone.

Symeon Serret sat atop of his hulking destrier, cutting quite the heroic figure as his cloak draped over the stallion’s rear, the wind billowing beneath the ink-back fabric. Shaggy brown hair peaked out from beneath his hood and his eyes, stern, looked tired of the conversation– the heir to Silverhill was a man who grew bored of most things. To speak of things that bored him, the figure next to him atop a handsome palfrey, removed her hood and grinned; Lady Shierle Serret, his wife. Formerly a Lannister.

“Sister!” She announced, a smile splitting across her face. Myrielle could only frown.

“Ah, Wife! Come, come,” Willam beckoned, as he turned away from his good-brother, ushering Myrielle towards him as if she were a small creature that needed to be heralded.

“Was it entirely necessary to terrorise our entire settlement just to make yourselves known?” She sighed out, bitterly.

“Ah, my lady, how I missed your vibrant disposition.” Symeon remarked, as if his mouth were full of chalk.

Shierle glared at him and he looked away, electing to remain silent. The woman dismounted in one, swift, agile motion before taking large strides towards her sister, arms open wide to embrace her.

“We saw the Prester banners in passing and thought it best that we all travel together– we didn’t want to lag behind, so we rode on ahead. Father is behind us leading the rest of our little caravan,” She explained, before her tone lowered, “forgive me?”

“Of course,”  Myrielle sighed, before reluctantly accepting the hug, only to pull back almost immediately. She allowed herself a small smile, “It is a virtue after all.”

“You and Joanna with your talk of virtue– the pair of you together will make my ears bleed once we reach the city.” Shierle japed.

Myrielle’s grin grew taut and silence was her response. She went to reach for her rosary, only to realise it wasn’t to hand. Where she would clamp down on a bed, she simply pressed her thumb and index finger against one another until the tips of her fingers went red– such an action didn’t go without any notice as Shierle looked down at her sister’s hand, her smile fading the slightest bit.

May the Mother give her strength.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep, King's Landing, the Crownlands

272 Years Post Aegon’s Conquest

Gerion I

The deceit that ran rife within King's Landing began with its sky.

A rich, cerulean blue that was flecked with white, formless speckles that slowly swirled overhead. It tricked Gerion's senses for a moment, forcing his mind back to a simpler, freer time only a few moons prior when he'd been traversing Essos by its seas– wind whipping in his hair and the potent smell of sea salt burning his nostrils.

Even as they approached the Red Keep, the stench of the city’s lower echelons was inescapable; the only smell that burned his nostrils, now, was that of shit .

Gerion spat off to the side as they neared the top of Aegon's Hill, gleaming, bronze gates coming into view. Tygett, atop his thoroughbred destrier, cast a sharp look of disapproval at his younger brother that the latter made a point to ignore.

"Brother," He called, a faint growl of exasperation coloured his tone, "Don't be crass. You're not the helmsman of a rowdy crew of seamen anymore. We are to enter the king's court. You must uphold-"

"Emmon, do you hear something?" Gerion asked loudly, making it a point to slouch atop his saddle.

His fretful good-brother blinked rapidly as his name was suddenly dragged into conversation- ripping him away from whatever daydream his empty head had concocted. The apple in his throat gawked and his thin lips opened and shut like some sort of trout as he tried to come up with an answer that would please both his brothers.

"W-Well-" The man stammered.

Tygett saved the man, scoffing, "Pretending as though you cannot hear me? Really, Gerion, I thought you'd be beyond such childish games by now.”

“Hm, yes, it seems my coming-of-age tour was all for naught.” The younger brother answered easily, stretching as he did so, prompting Tygett to purse his lips.

There was a strange hierarchy to their off-kilter, gilded brotherhood. In Tywin’s perpetual absence, the order of things fell to Kevan who had assumed the role of his eldest brother’s right hand, foregoing any firm identity of his own from a young age. Kevan had remained at the Rock for the tourney, serving as her seneschal while everyone else had left for the capital. Thus, seniority then fell to Tygett– Gerion had gotten used to being last in their pecking order, but it still grated on his nerves at times (Genna was her own creature and did as she pleased with rare censure from others– on occasion, she’d serve as a mediator between her four brothers…or, an instigator depending on her mood).

“I still can’t believe you blew your stipend on such a wasteful excursion.” Tygett muttered, tightening his cloak around him as the air became particularly brisk for a moment. The man shook his head slightly, strands of chin-length hair  falling loose from the neat knot he’d tied, “Nevermind how you practically stole away in the dead of night like some common bandit.”

“As if I hadn’t informed you all a sennight prior.” Gerion muttered.

“Ah, it seems we’ve finally arrived!” Emmon exclaimed, sounding far too relieved as the bronze portcullis pulled into view as they reached the hill’s peak.

The Lannister cavalcade was nothing short of grand. Gerion rode alongside his brother and good-brother on horseback, flanked by fifty or so odd household guards that wore cloaks of brilliant vermillion. The men were led by the particularly grisly Ser Vylarr Hill, looking especially menacing as they approached the Keep’s gold-cloaks who stood at attention. Following the riders, were two respective carriages, with varnished ebony and gilded steel, the Lannister emblem engraved on its’ doors, of which held their women and children, protected by the rest of their guardsmen at the rear. Almost gaudy banners, lions insewn, whipped in the cool air overhead; summer had distilled into an autumnal chill when Gerion returned and he'd wager that the Citadel's white ravens would populate their skies soon enough.

The keep's portcullis was staffed by stern-faced gold cloaks whose scrutiny remained even at the impressive sight of their party's banners. The hulking gate was lifted, granting them entry to the castle’s cobbled outer bailey.

Theirs was not the only entourage to dock at the castle that day; in one, swift motion, Gerion slid off of his horse effortlessly– a contrast to his brother's structured dismount. The younger man stretched as he surveyed his fellow, tourney attendees– there were a wide variety of Westermen houses; the Lannister creatures that were House Clegane, their black and yellow blazon looking especially malevolent. Then there were the silver Marbrands, the pink Pipers, Crakehall, Algood, Kenning, Falwell and countless other offshoots of offshoots that cramped the courtyard with their steeds and carriages. Several other highborn flags littered the scenes, from the Stormlander Tarths to the Reacher Oldflowers. He'd even spied some Northern banners in the mix.

“My, it's rather packed in here, is it not?” Emmon remarked over the hubbub– of which there was an uptick at the sight of a Great House's banners– dabbing at his brow with Genna’s old hanky.

“How you are in a perpetual state of perspiration never ceases to amaze me, Emmon.” Gerion remarked, feigning genuine wonder.

“Don't tease him, Gerion.” Tygett scolded in spite of the twitch upwards of his lips.

“I am merely hot, is all. Surely, the heat ails you two also?” The Frey defended; an ill-timed, cool gust of wind whipped through the bailey.

The footmen put out the stool before the carriages as the Red Keep's stablehands  led away their mounts.

“--would never lose to the Mountain!” Jaime was first to tumble from the carriage, Cleos spilling out after him.

“But, he's unbeaten isn't he? I don't think–” The boy tried to argue.

The twin, spotting their uncles, ran off towards them and his cousin followed; Jaime had always been like that. Eager and active and too fast for his own good– bar his leonine features, he was a stark contrast to his severe father.

“Woah there!” Gerion laughed as his nephews all but barrelled into him, his exclamation followed by an immediate reprimand from Tygett in the form of an eye-roll and facepalm.

“Where’s Father? Has he come out to greet us yet?” Jaime asked in a flurry, bouncing on the balls of his feet to try and peek past the crowd.

“In due time, Jaime.” Tygett assured, taking on a patient tone with the boy.

“Father,” Cleos came up to Emmon, posing the question with a confused, weaselly little frown, “Jaime says that he can slay the Mountain but I don’t think that's true.”

“Now, there's a fight I'd like to see.” Gerion japed.

“Really?” His nephew asked, a bright sort of mischief in his eye.

“Don't encourage him, Gerion.” Tygett remarked tiredly.

In the meantime, the ladies of their house had begun their disembarkment from the carriages. Genna was first; draped in a gold mantle lined with aged, ivory fuzz from a lion's mane. Gerion remembered how she'd especially demanded it from their father years ago for her nameday. The cloak complimented her golden curls and her verdant, green eyes poured over her surroundings with her ever-present air of faint dissatisfaction.

Aided down by one of her ladies-in-waiting, Genna turned back to usher a thin-lipped Cersei out of the wheelhouse in a manner not unalike coaxing a stray kitten down from a tree, repeating the phrase ‘Come quickly, come down’ ;the girl was in an emerald, fine frock that matched her eyes, of which had evident wonder in them that the usually petulant girl couldn't shield. She took her aunt's hand and soon enough her features morphed into a frown.

“Mother,” Cersei called over her shoulder, looking up as their house's matriarch was assisted down, “It's so crowded here. And, loud .”

“It is, isn't it?” The Lady Lannister followed her daughter down from the chariot, extending a lithe hand to her good-sister as her feet kissed the ground. Joanna looked down at Cersei, blonde brow arched and lips tugged as she asked, “Whatever do you think that I am to do about it, sweetling?”

In spite of the lazy smile that played on her lips, Gerion's good-sister looked imperious as the cool light of the sun gazed upon her; she wore a mantle of a similar style to Genna, but it was a deep, acrid crimson to his sister’s gold. Her silvery-yellow hair had been braided in some intricate fashion and pulled back into a fine, ruby-studded hairnet that of course matched the rest of her jewellery, namely the blood-drop earrings that dangled from her ears and the large, lion pendant and pearls that hung elegantly off of her neck and collarbone.

Of course, his brother could wed none other than his equal amongst women- the implications of said woman being a fellow Lannister mostly amused yet slightly perturbed Gerion.

"Tell them to be quiet!" Cersei replied hotly.

" Tone ." At the warning in her mother's hushed, monosyllabic response, Cersei's blooming annoyance diminished. The girl merely looked aside as she tried to fight the purse of her lips.

"Come now, Sister, you needn't be so harsh with little Cersei- it doesn't hurt to exercise your authority should the opportunity arise." Gerion called out as his female kin approached.

Genna had practically cornered Emmon and Cleos; she adjusted the latter's hair, smoothing it out and fussing over him as all mothers did their sons, before mimicking the same action- but with a faint air of exasperation- towards her husband.

“Why is it that you seem especially hellbent on encouraging such misconduct today, Brother?” Tygett asked, smiling in incredulity as he shook his head.

“I’d say he encourages such every day– come here, Jaime. Let not your uncle corrupt you further,” Joanna remarked, unimpressed, but there was no true bite to her tone.

Gerion ruffled his nephew’s hair just before the boy ran off to his mother and sister; Joanna placed a firm hand on his shoulder as he joined her, keeping Jaime to her right side and Cersei to her left. The young matriarch raised a brow at her youngest good-brother, smoothing out her son’s now-messed hair.

“But, I do expect all of us to be on our best behaviour while we’re here,” She said, though her pointed gaze was fixed on Gerion, “We must be…cautious. Walls have ears, to be sure; they have eyes too.”

There was an atypical worry that coloured Joanna’s tone– but, before Gerion could express his concern (disguised as a jest, of course), there was a sudden hubbub of commotion north of them, towards the entrance of the Keep. As the small crowds surrounding them began to splinter off and part, Tywin Lannister– attended by a thin retinue of what seemed to be guardsmen– came into view.

His long, unhurried strides allowed for his pin– a bright, gold hand– to gleam all the brighter in the cool light of the sun, which served as a fine compliment to his dark, garnet-coloured tunic with an even darker pattern woven into the damask fabric. Hands behind his back, he neared the group and came to a slow halt before them; his piercing, green gaze was largely unreadable– bar when it cast over his wife, Gerion thought he his brother might have softened a fraction, but he blinked and Tywin’s expression was impassive once again.

“Be welcome.” Even his supposedly warm greetings to his own kin were brief and to the point, any levity absent from his tone.

“I feel about as welcome as a septon in the seven hells.” Gerion muttered– unflinching as Tygett nudged him, though he could've sworn he'd seen the beginnings of a smile.

If Tywin had heard his brother's remark, he'd elected to ignore it as he greeted his wife and children; Joanna, whose smile was radiant and unrestrained as she met her husband, was a puzzling contrast to the unaffected neutrality of the Lord Hand. The only sign of affection that he displayed to her was when Tywin placed his hand over hers, squeezed it momentarily, before acknowledging his two children.

Jaime, who'd been so eager and restless and a flurry of excitement, now stood still– as still as a boy of his temperament could be, anyway. He tried to imitate his father’s impassive expression but it was too serious for a boy his age. After exchanging words with Jaime, picking off what Gerion assumed to be some sort of invisible lint, Cersei greeted her father with a smile akin to her mother’s and budding in its radiance (as if the girl hadn’t been all scowls mere moments prior).

Then, Tywin was met by Genna– he glossed over his good-brother and paid little mind to his nephew, of whom hid behind his father trying not to shake like a leaf in winter wind. Such a reaction of indifference did not surprise Gerion; he’d never been for Emmon as a prospect for his sister, and any good relations between the men that might’ve been fostered were killed upon Tywin’s ascent as Lord Lannister– he and Genna had a falling-out of sorts that neither of them had deigned to tell the rest of their siblings about. The tense thread of their relationship was a common one that ran through their family. 

With Tygett it was especially knotted; whatever storm had plagued his brothers as children was one that had followed them into manhood– and, there seemed to be no silver lining in sight, as they exchanged a particularly frosty greeting that had nothing to do with the growing chill in the air.

Then, the Lord Hand turned to face him– where Tygett had stood taller, Gerion almost seemed to purposefully slouch, grinning when Tywin's lips pursed downwards in disapproval.

“There will be no trouble from you.” It was not a request– Gerion knew that his eldest brother wasn't in the business of making requests. He made demands and oftentimes got what he wanted.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Brother.”

“Willful ignorance does not suit you, Gerion.” Tywin said.

The younger brother's gaze flitted to the top of the elder's head, before coming back down for green to meet green; Gerion smiled, rather wolfishly, “Getting a little thin across the top, aren’t we?”

“Shall we head inside? Or do you mean to continue squabbling?” Genna suggested, following a loud cough from Tygett.

Thus, through the keep's massive, curtained walls they went– as they entered, Gerion glanced upwards, taking in his surroundings as the wind whipped through his hair. He remembered the maester telling him how Maegor the Cruel had brutally slaughtered all the builders, stonemasons and architects that had constructed his great, bloody keep, any secrets of the castle dying with them, being known only to Maegor and perhaps those that succeeded him. A part of him wondered how something could be so great and terrible; he thought of Tywin for a moment, glancing at his brother's back as he strode ahead.

Ears and eyes, Joanna had said; Gerion watched as she easily linked arms with Tywin, a casual gesture that spoke to the muted affection between them. Gerion wondered what the walls of this cursed Keep would speak of them.

Feeling eyes on him, the young man met the watchful gaze of a gold-cloak that stared down at their party from the barbican's crenellations. Gerion winked and he could've sworn he saw the guardsman scowl in response.

Pale, red-stone walls adorned with Valyrian-style carvings of sphinxes and dragons and firebirds greeted him– not that he had time to focus on the decor, with the dizzying amount of people that flooded the gallery. Lords, ladies, their companions, kin and servile staff rushed past in their gaggles– momentarily, they'd come to a halt to bow or curtsey or flatter the Lord Hand, before moving on to wherever it was that they were doing.

The sound of marching steps caught Gerion's attention as he peered over his shoulder, raising a brow as everyone behind him proceeded to bow their heads yet again and began to part. The lordling heard the king before he saw him.

“I hope this sweet reunion will not delay you in your duties as my Hand, Tywin.” Aerys called, a laugh in his tone, approaching the family flocked by two of his famed kingsguard– the two, more senior members of the guard, sers Harlan Grandison and the bold Barristan Selmy; the severity and impassivity of their expressions a stark contrast to the saccharine mirth in their king's eyes, “Bosom friend you may be, but I cannot allow you anymore leeway than I have granted already.”

The king wore a heavy crown of red gold with three dragons, their eyes rubies, glaring at those he passed. His hair, silver-gold, was pulled back into a neat braid and he had a faint shadow growing along the sides of his jaw. He sported a fine, black, leather gambeson lined with animal fur over what could only be a satin tunic dyed a deep, blood-red coupled with a matching sash.

“Your Grace.” Was Tywin's only response as the king came to face him; as his brother dipped his head in acknowledgement, Gerion noted how Aerys’ eyes seemed fixed on Joanna, of whom played the placid and genteel role of an obliging subject well. 

“My apologies.” Tywin offered blandly, raising his head as he followed the king's gaze; soon enough, he looked visibly displeased.

Tetchy , Gerion thought, as the king fell into step alongside them, escorting them with his guard as they followed the path to what Gerion assumed was the Hand's Tower.

Winding arcades that had mosaics of dancing dragons etched upon their ceilings, tapestries of the Targaryen sigil glared menacingly from their place upon the wall– Gerion was so invested in his sightseeing that he had been delayed in acknowledging the far more fascinating attraction that was unfurling before him.

For every not-so-thinly veiled barb that Aerys would poise at his supposed, dearest friend, Gerion watched as his brother responded differently, reticent to reveal the ire that Gerion knew bubbled beneath his brother’s veneer. At times, Genna would try to offset the tension with one of her flowery quips or a list of queries as to the progression of the tourney’s preparations, to which it was more than clear the young king had little, if any interest at all in answering.

Any levity to the  atmosphere that his sister had managed to salvage was all for naught when Aerys rounded his attentions on the twins, more so Jaime than Cersei– he didn’t truly acknowledge the latter aloud, but his gaze would stay on her, lingering a half moment longer than needed. Than Gerion liked.

“And, who would you crown your queen of love and beauty, then?” The king asked, entertaining Jaime’s boundless effervescence.

Having been so subdued upon greeting his father, Jaime couldn’t stop himself from bouncing around on the balls of his feet, Tywin having to put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder as a means to subtly calm him.

“Well…” The boy pondered aloud. He looked to the left of him. Before Gerion could see what he was glancing at, his good-sister cleared her throat and blocked her son’s view with her bountiful skirts. Jaime looked up at his mother and she cast an indecipherable sort of look at him, briefly. He then deigned to answer the king’s question and said, “Mother! Or, Aunt Genna…”

“A second choice.” Tygett remarked, a smile in his voice.

Genna, casting him a sidelong glance, soon fell into step with her brother and linked arms with him– it was only when Tygett made a faint, hissing sound that Gerion realised that she’d pinched him in his pits like she’d done when they were children.

The entourage made their way into the castle’s gardens, of which were overlooked by the weeping faces of the Keep’s godswood and the strong, tall Tower of the Hand that loomed overhead. The mood almost seemed lifted at that, whatever dark smog entrenched the tenuous relationship of King and Hand was momentarily lifted.

“Yes,” Aerys agreed, his expression contemplative as he said, “A crown would suit your mother quite.”

And, just so, the mummer shed his masque.

Supper in the Tower of the Hand was a splendid and plentiful affair; the centrepiece of the feast was a spit-roasted swan , head still attached as a perfectly red, round apple nestled in its beak. It was on a platter served with thin slices of lemon that adorned the edges and faint smatterings of sage and lemongrass. There was a decadent spread of food that followed, including a piping-hot leek and lentil soup to chase away chill, decadent cream-cakes, summer greens and other such delicacies that Gerion was more than eager to pack upon his plate.

“On the morrow, I am to meet with Lord Chelsted and his financiers to discuss the uptick of vendors brought into this city by this folly.” Tywin remarked, slicing methodically into a tender cut of the meat, “They are to be hosted in the Small Hall from as early as the wolf hour. I expect no disturbances.”

Gerion felt irksome as he felt eyes on him again for what felt like the umpteenth time that day alone.

“And, yet again, another scornful gaze falls to me.” Gerion said through a mouthful of greens, before washing them down with a brandy that left a very pointed burn at the back of his throat– Myrish…Norvoshi? Something to that effect, he knew.

“I said nothing. Sensitivity does not become you, Brother.” Tywin answered smoothly.

“Nor you,” was the younger’s rebuttal, “You said nothing, that much is true, but you had even less to say when faced with Aerys. Whatever ire you suppressed then that you wish to express now–”

Joanna slammed her chalice on the table and glared at the two, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she cut Gerion off. Tygett sighed and Genna’s eyes rolled as she peered at them all over the rim of her own cup. Emmon seemed very keenly focussed on his food suddenly.

“Are you quite finished, Gerion, or must I call on the children’s nursemaid and have her take you to bed also like she did with them?” Joanna’s voice was controlled and tight, which was a jarring contrast to her prior, little burst of explosivity.

Gerion stood up, his chair screeching against the floor as he stretched, “A woman to take me to bed is perhaps the most welcome suggestion anyone has  made all evening. I shall bid you all good night.”

“Seven give me strength.” Was what he heard Genna mutter, before he shut the door to his brother’s solar.

The sun had set by the time Gerion had reached the bottom of the tower’s staircase, stepping forth into the Great Yard. Though dusk had fallen, the Keep wasn’t sleepy by any means; servants and highborn alike milled around in the yard for one reason or other. He could see faint illuminations of light from the windows of the Kitchen Keep and some godsworn talking in hushed tones as they made their way into the royal sept.

The blond man blinked himself out of his trance when he saw a gaggle of maids hurry past him with various baskets of what appeared to be fine fabrics and spools of wool and thread. From one of the baskets, a small piece of parchment fell– insatiably curious and too invasive for his own good, Gerion felt no qualms about picking it up and reading through it.

“Bri– Brigands ? What in the seven hells is this meant to say…?” He muttered to himself in confusion as he tried to decipher the chicken scrawl before him.

Abruptly, it was snatched out of his hand and Gerion was met with one of the maids that had walked past, basket still in hand, she held it to her hip as she hurriedly folded up the paper and shoved it into the pocket of her apron.

“Sincerest apologies, my lor–”

“What did it say?” Gerion asked, hands behind his back as he looked at her inquisitively. He watched, a smile budding as she paused mid, apologetic curtsy at his interruption.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“The note. What did it say?” He stepped closer to her.

“It is of no consequence, sire, I assure you.” She took a step back, unable to prevent an involuntary brow from raising.

As she stepped back, the dim glow of the moon in tandem with wisps of candlelight allowed him to see her better. There wasn’t anything particularly striking about her appearance– undeniably, this was a pretty, fair maid, perhaps only a year or two Gerion’s senior. Her hair was a dark, teak colour which was a match for her brown eyes. She had a small mouth with thick lips and round, rosy cheeks that injected some colour into her pale skin. She wore a simple, blue cotte accompanied by a white apron. Some hair fell into her eyes and she pushed it aside with her hands– callused.

“What if I believe it to be of consequence?”

The maid visibly frowned and Gerion resisted the urge to laugh, feeling immensely pleased by how thinly she veiled her displeasure, “You are… insistent , my lord.”

“I prefer inquisitive,” a beat, as he frowned, “You aren’t being pursued by brigands, are you?”

She blinked her displeasure away, and it was replaced with confusion, “Whatever do you mean? I–no,  of course not. I hope not, anyway, if the gods are good”

“It is just, that is what you wrote, no?”

“I wrote my name, my lord. Or, I at least tried to.” She laughed quietly, finally– he was struck by the sound, surprised by how delightful it sounded.

He sucked in air through his teeth, shaking his head as he feigned sympathy, “An unfortunate name for a girl.”

She laughed, “You cannot seriously believe that to be my name?”

“What about unseriously, then? It is not so unbelievable, anyhow– I once came to know of a man who–”

“Briony,” She confessed at last, “My name is Briony, my lord…now, by your leave?”

It was posed as a question but at the first, brief instance of silence, the canny maid completed her curtsy and turned on her heel, heaving her basket and making her way to catch up with the rest of her group.

“Briony.” He echoed, trying out the name on his tongue. Gerion’s lips tugged upwards as he watched her figure grow smaller and smaller, “Hm.”

Chapter Text

The Red Keep, King's Landing

272 Years Post Aegon's Conquest

Jorelle II

The apartments we'd been assigned were a welcome sight after a near moonturn of sleep in damp forests and inns dotted across quaint little hamlets. 

Sprawling rugs of shadowskin and finely plaited rushes lined the floors whilst imposing tapestries of black-and-red adorned the walls; high, arched windows of frosted glass allowed the waning light of dusk to bleed through, casting a dappled glow, illuminating pale mosaics of Valyrian drakes and sphinxes. I'd had myself a bowl of cold fruit soup for supper but there was a distinct smell of salted meats and baked confections wafting through the air, making me sorely regret my choice of meal. To be assigned the Kitchen Keep as our temporary place of residence was to be in a perpetual state of hunger, it seemed.

“M'lady.” Tess said, beckoning me from thought with the sloshing sound of water from her bowl.

I murmured my thanks, before dipping my hand in the basin to clean them, taking a cloth from the girl– for, in spite of her being a few years my senior at three and ten, she was still a girl– to pat them dry. To rub them dry; I practically scraped them raw as I became lost in my own thoughts once again.

I was not at ease. 

It was not a foreign thing, for me to be uneasy. When one was granted the ability to see what was yet to come with the potent inability to change any of it, you very quickly got used to the cloying feeling of uncertainty.

But, to be specific, I had been restless from the very moment this unpleasant tourney had been announced. From the moment we disembarked from Feastfires and made our way to the flaming hotbed of strife and subterfuge that was King's Landing. So, to be here, in the snug luxury of these apartments, at the epicentre of where so much dread would soon unfurl…

“You've gone again, m'lady.” The handmaid remarked softly, probing what had probably been for her, a deafening silence.

“I’m still here, I promise.” I answered in the same tone, stilling my hands for a moment before handing back the towel to Tess. Clunkily, I tacked on, “Sorry.”

Tess took the cloth with a small grin– as if she found my apology novel; more specifically, the notion of a great house's offshoot making it a point to be courteous to her, novel. Or, it might have been that she wasn't quite so sure what I was apologising for (I doubted I knew, either). Or, maybe it was that I made for an amusingly morose child of ten. Most likely, all of the above.

“Would you like help with your hair?” Tess asked.

I allowed myself a snort at that, picking at one of the damp  strands like a frayed thread, “If you think you can conquer it.”

“I’m no Visenya, m'lady, but I shall try my best as always.” She answered, her lips curling upwards the littlest bit more.

I had all but demanded a bath when we'd arrived– there were few things that I allowed myself to be particular about. In a world where lineage was everything and a name meant even more, the boon of my Lannister heritage made it unlikely for me to ever be met with the word no . Of course, being what I was (which was, to put it simply, not an ordinary child, by any means), I was rather prudent in most things– but, I was intolerable when it came to hygiene.

Bathing once a week ? Out of the question.

I felt childish whenever I requested that the water be drawn up, but if it meant my bath-time being protected? I had no regrets. My aunt, for all her carping and reproach, could never say in earnest that I smelled bad. And, just because this wretched city reeked ( especially because it reeked) didn't mean that I had to follow suit.

But, this was all to say, that I'd had my precious bath and now I was sat at the vanity in damp, cotton nightclothes with even damper hair. My mother's hair; the brown-faced, dark-haired woman that I could barely remember who'd left behind not so much as a note and thick, frizzy curls that were only even slightly tameable when wet.

A comfortable silence had fallen over us as Tess’ hands deftly untangled my vexing tresses, humming a little, Westermen ditty to herself as she did so– for a moment, I forgot my unease. I allowed myself to.

Then, the door creaked open and her grandmother came in.

“Eyebags do not make for a becoming accessory to a young lady, Jorelle.” The woman chided as Tess’ hands fell from my hair to acknowledge her in greeting.

“I'll sleep soon, I promise.” Not that I imagined our fusspot of a maester would be pleased by the crone's tendency to be awake at ungodly hours of night, “My hair was keeping me.”

With a slight incline of Marla's hand, Tess was dismissed and she padded out of the room to the adjoining servile quarters. The girl's hands were shortly replaced with that of my grandmother's surprisingly gentle touch.

“Wet,” She remarked, toying with a strand, “Well, I suppose I cannot blame you for wanting to rid yourself of the city's stink and the grime of weeks of travel.”

“There's a verse on cleanliness and godliness in the book of the Maiden. How cities of squalor are an affront to the heavens,” I replied, thumbing the marble ferrule of my hairbrush, before Marla plucked it from my hand and began to tend to my tresses. I mumbled, “If the stench is anything to go by, I think this place is godless– ow .”

The hiss was more due to surprise than any actual pain– through the mirror's reflection, I casted a confused look at my grandmother, when I felt her fist suddenly gather my curls into a tight ponytail at the back of my head. It made for a difference to her light touch from before.

“What was that for?” I watched as her grip softened slightly as she began to braid it.

“Petulance doesn't suit you, girl, these walls have ears. Remember that,” She replied, blue eyes crinkling in the dim candlelight from the wall sconces. Her head then tilted, in consideration, “Piety might, though. But, my daughter has never been one for such zeal. Quips and candor, of which fall from your lips so well, are the things that court her pleasure. She was such a little snark of a child. Not unalike you,”

Ah. There was that unease again.

Jason Lannister and Marla Prester had a brood of a dozen children between them, blessed with both a bounty of sons and daughters, most of whom reached adulthood– but, of course, I knew of the daughter my grandmother spoke of in particular. It was strange, how she spoke of Joanna– my aunt was like a raw wound and it was as if the mere utterance of her name was the metaphorical equivalent of salt.

“Really? Aunt Shierle seemed nice on our journey here.”  I feigned, feeling uncomfortable. The nuclear fallout that festered between my aunt and grandmother was something I didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole.

“Shall I yank your hair again? Don't play the fool, girl, you make a poor job of it.” Marla remarked, unimpressed, as she deftly tied off the bottom of my braid.

“That's a compliment, though, isn't it?” I asked, turning away from her with an impish sort of grin before stalking off to the four-poster central to the room.

“ Jorelle .” 

My name– for it was my name, now– was said with such a tone that I froze for a moment, before continuing on my way to the bed and taking a seat at its edge, leaning against one of its posts. Marla said nothing else, just watching me with those keen eyes of hers, before leisurely coming to join me on the bed, making a little dip beside me.

“I will not live forever.” She said, softly. Placatingly, as if talking to a child. Which she was. Which she wasn't.

The lump in my throat was embarrassingly immediate.

“You must.” I replied, stubborn, making it a point to avoid her gaze. I changed the topic so I did not burst into tears, “I like it at the ‘Fires. I was born there.”

“Where one is born matters not, nor does it their future make. The Targaryens are the progeny of Old Valyria; if they'd lingered out of misplaced sentimentality, they would've been doomed along with the rest of them.”

Likening her own daughter to the Doom of Old Valyria might've earned a chuckle out of me if I had been in a better mood.

“Myrielle does not hate me so much,” I replied, stroking the braid that Marla had plaited, still avoiding her gaze. I murmured, “She hates the idea of me. That I am here and my father is not, among other things.”

I wondered about that sometimes. Whether or not it had been a rueful accident that had truly killed Rollam Lannister, or if there was something more to it. Whether or not fate operated on a set of scales that had to compensate for the imbalance my existence caused. Rollam had been well-loved, by his mother, by his brothers, by his sisters, by his lady-wife– so much so that she’d left everything behind for him…he’d had his own hopes and aspirations, as every enterprising young man did, he'd brought joy to the lives of others…

“If, by other things, you mean that she resents and envies the prestige of her maiden house and projects that onto you, you who is in possession of a Lannister name, then it means me raising you has not been in vain.” Grandmother's words made for a nice distraction to my guilt.

“I wouldn't want to disappoint.” I answered her, blandly.

Her lips pursed, “It has been more than half a decade since our family has all been together in one place. Most certainly, the Lady Lannister will want to reconvene with her kinsmen, feast with them and flaunt her status– no doubt goading Myrielle into a fight, those two…”

Myrielle. Lady Lannister…against my better judgement, I couldn't help but wonder once again what had happened between them all?

“I can't see what that has to do with me.” I huff, obtuse.

“Are you not among her kin? And, just because, ostensibly, a matter might have naught to do with you, girl, does not mean it cannot do anything for you,” Marla chided, tacking on, “Your cousin is fast becoming a thorn in your aunt's side, according to her letters,”

What an odd relationship they had, I thought to myself. It was on the rare occasion that I strolled into my grandmother's solar and spied her at her desk, writing a letter to her eldest daughter. Moons would pass before the latter would reply– in a year, the pair would perhaps exchange three letters at most. It made me wonder why they even bothered at all when, clearly, something in their youth had turned their bond sour.

“So she should be a thorn in my side? I don't see how that solves anything, she'd still be a thorn.” Gods above, do not send me to Casterly Rock, I’d thought– to go from one bloody, great keep to another…

“She needs companions.”

“She has companions!” I exclaimed, louder than I'd meant.

But, was it a lie? How many lords and ladies had packed off their children to the Rock and had them beggar the girl's attention in the hope that they might gain footing into their region's most paramount house?

When I heard no response from my grandmother about my pesky, little outburst, I found that she was simply staring at me. Doing that annoying, crushing thing that all parental figures did when they were met with a lacklustre response from their charges– her lips were tugged downwards and her eyes narrowed, before she turned away to sigh. With a plethora of children and even more grandchildren, she must have had years to perfect that stinging gaze of disappointment she wore on her weathered features.

“I forget, at times, that you are still a child.” Was what she said to break the silence.

I'd wanted to laugh at that but I knew if I did, it would come out bitter.

She didn't know, and how could she? How could one even begin to explain what I was, what I knew ? The tenuous peace I'd enjoyed at the ‘Fires was one that, selfishly, I'd wanted to guard for as long as I was able. I had no desire to play games with the lives of others, to embroil myself in plots that could bring about my day of reckoning for a second time far sooner than I'd like.

I was not sly like Littlefinger, nor did I possess vast, sprawling webs like the Spider with his poor birds– I wanted to live in my bubble, where it was safe and undisturbed and the worst evils I had to face were a snippy little girl and her messed-up mother. I'd spend my days diving off the cliff sides and cursing my inability to sew even one, half-decent stitch. Then, when I was a woman grown, and only then, I would claim religious fervor and devote myself to a quaint little cloister or, if marriage was unavoidable, a third son of a fourth son of a fifth son would do.

Idealistic, to be sure, perhaps even nonsensical– Marla's thoughts for my future made sense. Perfect sense, even. In the west, lion’s den it may be, but Casterly Rock was the courtly and cultural epicentre of the Westerlands. For any young lady to receive her education there, to become a steadfast friend and lady-in-waiting to the daughter of the Lord Hand…if one remained in the family's good graces and remained vigilant about maintaining their good reputation, it could only result in a good marriage.

“Sleep, girl. We'll resume this conversation on the morrow, hm?” She said, voice gentle once more.

“Goodnight.” I replied, quietly. 

A short while after my grandmother had left, Tess returned to put out the candles that littered the room. My gaze remained fixed on a particular ember, watching as it fought to remain alight even after my milk-sister had tried to snuff it out with a brass douter.  A stubborn, little huff fell from her lips as she tried again, to no avail.

“You can leave it, Tess.” I assured her. I attempted a smile, “Go. Before Calla has my hide again for keeping you so late.”

Tess’ lips quirked at that and she bid me goodnight. The door clicked shut for a second time that night. Uncomfortably, yet again, I was left alone with my thoughts. As overwhelming, cloying , as they were, I allowed myself to get lost to them– after all, it was better than dreaming. That was how I'd begun to remember– through the dreams. The older I grew, the more memories flooded my brain of a life from before that was forever out of my reach. At times, it felt as if my soul was split in two.

The ember finally died as the thought coursed through me. Because, that wasn’t at all a bad omen.

A thorn in her mother’s side . In need of companions – I tried to recall the last time I had seen the main branch, had seen the Rock. it had been the year 267– Tytos Lannister, the infamous Lord of Misrule, had taken a tumble down the stairs and decided to make it the rest of the kingdom’s problem, forcing all from a landed knight to the chiefest of the paramount house’s bannermen out from their keeps and fortresses to attend his funeral. The twins had only just been born the year prior– all red and splotchy even in their silk swaddling clothes and lace bonnets.

To think that their vices had led to the downfall of a dynasty might have been commendable if I didn’t share their name.

The door creaked open and I succumbed to the immediate urge to close my eyes– lest I be scolded by my grandmother yet again.

My ears perked at the sound of quiet footsteps against the floor.

“Jory? Jory – are you awake?” A small voice asked.

I blinked my eyes open as I felt a small dip in the bed beside me; little ‘Randa stared at me intently, green-blue eyes owlish and afraid.

“Well, if I wasn’t before, I am now– what is it?” I sounded groggier than I felt.

The girl lifted the covers and ducked under them beside me before I even uttered my assent. Her toes brushed against my leg and I jerked away from her as if she was down with the pale mare.

“You’re like ice!” I yelped.

“My room was cold.”

“And, that’s why you came here? To infect me with your coldness?”

“No! I just…” She faltered and pulled up the covers to hide her face, eyes just peeking over.

“You had a nightmare?” I guessed. She’d looked so frightful when I first opened my eyes. It made sense; ‘Randa was a light sleeper and, just before bed, all the girls had been all but forced to join with Moriah in prayer– oftentimes, her vigor for her faith overpowered her and she went from praying to for the safety of Prester’s champions in the tourney to proselytizing about what lurked in the seven hells. 

Not the best way to cheer a child before they went to sleep in a new, foreign place.

“ No !” She insisted, “Those are for babies…”

Said the girl of seven who still wet the bed. At that thought, I was suddenly concerned with the integrity of my bedsheets.

Putting the concerns aside, I give her a nudge under the covers, “I struggle to sleep too, you know.”

“You do?” I nodded wordlessly in response. Myranda let the sheets fall slightly before she added, “I got scared.”

“So you admit it then?”

“To what? The nightmares?”

“To being a baby– ah !” I winced as Myranda kicked me in the shin.

“ Jory !” The girl exclaimed, embarrassed, before turning her back to me and falling silent.

With all my nudges and apologies, Myranda didn’t budge. She probably heard the smile in my voice and decided to give me the silent treatment in protest to my teasing.

Within minutes, she was asleep. And, I was alone again.

The Presters were an undeniably dysfunctional, kooky sort of clan. An ostensibly mindless lord of the house, his deeply bitter wife, their small brood of daughters with one dead son and another sickly, a grisly matriarch with a glare like a hawk– not to mention that they boasted extended kin in abundance, myself included. But, there was dysfunction and there were the Lannisters . Power-hungry, image-obsessed and incestuous– all they needed to be Targaryens were some dragon eggs and a crown.

Were they truly in such dire need of my help– whatever it was that the concept entailed? Should I even get ensnared in their web? It wasn't like they were good, or– or deserving . Was not Cersei still a child when she first took another human life? And, how young was Tywin when he suppressed the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion, driving two entire houses and their progeny to extinction– generations washed away overnight, leaving Castamere in ruins and her ghosts eternally weeping. If the root festered, then surely its yield would almost certainly be rotten?

Myranda turned in her shallow sleep and her arm all but whacked me in the face. For a moment, I couldn't discern whether this was to be her form of petty revenge or if she truly was just that restless of a sleeper. 

Regardless, I ended up succumbing to a dreamless sleep and, the following morning, I was littered with what I was sure were a plethora of developing bruises.

I wasn't particularly one for early mornings– which was to my disadvantage, given that everyone in this kingdom was mad enough to wake at the first light of dawn– but the smell of freshly baked oatbread and a cloying scent of honey were enough to stir my stomach and force me to blink the sleep from my eyes.

“On such short notice!” Were the words that greeted me upon entering the small hall.

Like the rest of the Keep, it made for a cosy and intimate atmosphere; the windows were oval-shaped and plated with a gleaming bronze that caught the dewy glow of morning. There were plush rugs spun from some sort of pure, white, animal hide that lined the floors and an oaken longtable was the main centrepiece of the room; overhead hung a silver, ornate chandelier, wicks unlit as the blazing hearth made for enough light and warmth to coat the room.

Ordinarily, Myrielle would scold me for not dipping my head in greeting and addressing her– she would remark that it was simply in good manners to first greet the lady of the house, but I failed to see how picking on a ten-year-old was little more than vanity and projection– but she was far too busy pacing up and down the room’s length to care.

The seat to the right of my grandmother remained empty– I had to walk past Cousin Garrison to get there. The brat stuck out his foot to trip me– I deftly avoided it and pinched his shoulder as I passed, his yelp of pain being drowned out by the sounds of my aunt’s protestations.

“It seems all the children are fighting today.” Marla was amused, if her sly smile was anything to go by. I greeted my grandmother with a peck on the cheek before assuming my seat beside her– I picked a small handful of grapes off of her plate and turned my gaze to Myrielle.

“Did something happen?” I quietly asked, feeling the flavour of the fruit burst on my tongue.

“Years have gone by, summer snows have melted in the time we have not seen each other, and yet she summons us– her own sister and mother– in such a common fashion.” She exclaimed before pausing to take a bite of her oatbread that was coated in some sort of fruit jam.

“Simply terrible.” Marla nodded, feigning sympathy as she coaxed her daughter. The dowager turned to me and said to me in a lower tone, “A messenger came. Our liege lady wishes to dine with you all for a women's luncheon.” 

She placed some boiled quail eggs and ham onto my plate. I happily pop one into my mouth before my brow knits in confusion.

“ ‘You all’ ?” I asked.

“I am unwell and, as such, cannot attend.” She said simply. Marla reached for her goblet and nursed it with little sips. There was an undeniably potent scent of tisane.

“Grandmother.” I said with reproach, a little incredulous.

“Grandchild.” She answered back in a matching tone.

“What is it that ails you?” I asked, lips forming a line.

“Age is a pestilent condition all on its own; my bones are weak and frail and I am overcome with fatigue.” She put the cup back down as she replied, her sleeve slipping to reveal toned arms. I remembered Calla telling me of my grandmother’s love for archery in her youth as she braided my hair once. The handmaid insisted that even at the age of sixty, Marla Prester could shoot down game from a half-mile away with ease, even besting her late husband on many occasions.

Weak and frail my left boot. She might have been advanced in age and sported a cane, but the woman simply had no desire to cross the chasm that divided her and her eldest daughter– which made me even more wary of her obvious intent to have my education sponsored by her. Nevermind that Dake had deemed her to be in good health before we'd set off, exclaiming how great my grandmother had fared for all she'd endured, pleased with her hale spirit.

As if reading my thoughts, the elderly woman quietly asked, “Have you given more thought to what I told you yesterday?”

“Yes.”

Her brow lifted, “So you agree?”

“No.” I helped myself to another quail egg.

“Obstinate.” Marla sighed.

“ Insistent .” I shot back, mouth full. I swallowed, “There is no guarantee that Cersei will like me. In fact, I think she’ll hate me.”

“Joanna is the only one who needs to ‘like’ you– and she will enjoy you for the very reasons your cousin will loathe you. You will temper her.”

“So you agree that she’ll loathe me?” I asked miserably. Grimly, I thought of Melara Hetherspoon and wondered what it would be like to plummet down a well and die a second time.

“You will enjoy the Rock.” She stated with finality. The growing grin on her face made her look positively feline.

“You speak as if she’s already–” I flinched at the loud screech of Myrielle’s chair at the head of the table; she took her seat wordlessly as if in deep thought. I continued, “–taken me as her ward.”

Grandmother was silent at that, sipping her tisane again, and there was an abrupt realisation that struck me.

Had she written about me?

Before I could vocalise my betrayal, my aunt Myrielle found her inside voice again and spoke, “I expect you all to be on your best behaviour today– as well as throughout our stay here. I will not have our house be seen as lacking.”

Myrielle looked away for a moment to her maidservant, gesturing for her to fill her cup with a brusque wave of her hand. Garrison, in the moment she looked away, launched a small forkful of peas at Tya from across the table, to which the girl sputtered and grew red with girlish rage. Best behaviour indeed.

“I’m always on my best behaviour, Mother,” For some reason, Amarei decided to very pointedly look at me as she said those words. I saw Aunt Elissa fuss over Tya as she pulled the peas from the girl’s hair, “Septa always says so! She always compliments me on my curtseys and remembering all the heraldry of–”

“Amarei, sweetling, you will wear that beaded, samite gown you received for your nameday from your father; with the cloth-of-gold trim, yes?” Myrielle interrupted and Amarei brightened, hands clasping together– all for her to immediately deflate as her mother tacked on, “Hm, Myranda you should wear that red one of a similar pattern that I had made for you, so that the two of you might match–”

“Mother, I can’t match with Myranda!” Amarei yelped dramatically, fork clattering against her plate as it fell from her hand.

Myrielle massaged her temple and her reply was wan as she said, “Amarei, is it truly so terrible a thought that you and your sister at least try to look as if the pair of you get along?”

The girl didn't answer but her wide-eyed glare and the defined pout of her lips made for a resounding yes . In Amarei's defense, Myranda didn't look all that pleased either– my sweet young cousin sullenly slurped on her cold fruit soup.

“Nevermind that the gowns in question are two entirely different colours.” Marla remarked.

I snorted at that.

Breakfast passed without any further incident. Myrielle engaged in quiet discussion with Aunt Elissa– which is where I learned that Aunt Perianne had elected to go horse riding, foregoing food and gaining her sustenance from existing in the great outdoors . In a similar vein, our great Lord Prester– as well as the other men of our household– were amongst the many who populated the castle's training grounds. The moment they'd stepped foot in the Keep, Willam had announced that he would crown Myrielle his Queen of Love and Beauty.

As I gingerly sipped some sweetened milk, I tried to recall the last time I'd ever seen my uncle train with any such vigour.

It was when I was back in my quarters, laying absentmindedly on my bed once more, that my brows furrowed in remembrance.

Of all the things that they could have discussed– that had been left unsaid for so many years– how was it that I had come up in conversation?

“This one?” Cerissa had retrieved yet another dress from one of my chests– this time it was an ivory coloured kirtle trimmed with red thread.

I propped myself up slightly, resting on my elbows, as I regarded the gown before shaking my head.

“No,” I said simply. I tilted my head as Cerissa held the dress up against herself– it suited her, what with her pale blonde hair, fair skin and hazel eyes. I slump back down and resume my very important task of looking at the ceiling, “You should keep it.”

Cerissa sputtered, cheeks flushing as a smile split across her face. Then, she coughed abruptly and put the dress back in the chest as she tried to clumsily, earnestly compose herself– every inch a budding lady.

“I couldn't, no. Lady Marla had it made for you!” She tried to insist. I waved her off.

“Consider it your early nameday gift.” I decided, remembering that Cery was to turn nine in two moons time. It was disguised as a favour but, truly, I hadn't the faintest clue what to give her– she loved little else but embroidery and music. How many times could you gift someone a tambour frame?

Would I even be there to give her a present in person? Now that was a scary thought. I envisioned it unwittingly– Tywin would be Hand for the foreseeable future so I wouldn't have to bother with him…Joanna would die, though, and leave the twins behind to their relatively uninvolved family members– oh, Tyrion would come into the picture too, of course, completing their quasi-incestuous, terrible trio, all rotted in their own special way.

“Thank you.” Cerissa breathed; her face was still red and her smile shyer, but no less genuine.

Abruptly and suddenly, I was overcome with the violent hope that all would go well for her. If the powers at be had any sort of pity, I dared to hope that they allot it to her– to her, and her future that I was uncomfortably blind to.

I stood up, stretching, “Let me go through them with you– Calla shoved practically my entire wardrobe in that box. It'll take you hours alone– and, Aunt Joanna expects us at noon.”

Cerissa toyed with the sleeve of her new gown, worry manifesting as a crease in her brow, “You're so brave, Jory.”

I had crouched down by the chest as Cerissa had said those words. I glanced up at her, blinked, and then looked back down at the pile of clothes before me. I tried to fight my smile of surprise but it coloured my voice.

“What's there to be scared of?” I said, though I had a braying sense of anxiety settle in the pit of my stomach.

“I've heard the Lord Hand is terrifying! Aunt Perianne said that when he smiles, he has fangs like a lion .” Cerissa exclaimed animatedly, putting the dress aside and revealing her own canines by lifting her upper lip.

“Aunt Perry always tells strange stories to spook us and anger the septa. I don't think his lordship is one to smile anyway, Cerissa, so you needn't worry on my behalf about his fangs.” I remarked a little dryly. I then added, “Thankfully, it is my aunt I dine with, not him besides.”

I froze for a moment, only just realising that this made the man my uncle– through marriage, of course, but still far too close a relation for my liking.

I held up a blue cotte at arm's length; I zeroed in on the details of the gown, as a means to distract myself. The body of the dress was a pale cerulean with a darker thread used to sew winding adornments on the bodice. Its sleeves were long and slashed, and there was white, crisp lace affixed to the neckline. It was plain. It would do.

“How about this?” I asked her, holding it against me. There was a beat of silence and an unsure expression coloured her features. I urged, “Be honest.”

“It's pretty!” She said quickly. A little reluctantly, Cerissa then confessed, “But…some of the ones Lady Marla had made for you are more– more…”

She tried to find the words and I grinned, satisfied. I slung the dress over my arm, “Know this, Cery: sometimes, less is more,”

Especially when it came to a particular Cersei Lannister who detested the thought of being outshined in any way– whether the perceived slight was real or imagined.

“Hm…if you insist,” Cerissa's acquiescence was a soft sigh. In a futile effort, she argued, “What about the green one you wore for your nameday? With the lovely, long sleeves and– and all the frills –”

“And, have Aunt Myrielle scold me for reusing the dress for this grand occasion ?” Was the excuse I conjured up. I shook my head, “Not a chance. This is perfect. Now, let's hurry– come help me with my hair.”

Cerissa visibly blanched. I made a sound that was half a sigh and half a laugh.

Shaking my head, I said, “Just go grab Tess.”

An hour later and I practically had to drag my feet as I followed along my aunt and brood of cousins. When I had last worn the gown, it had not felt nearly so stifling as it did in that moment– I felt hyper-aware of how the cool fabric rustled against my skin and the scratch of the lace against my clavicle.

My eyes winked at the afternoon sunlight, shielding myself from its rays momentarily with a handkerchief Cerissa had made me. We had emerged from the Kitchen Keep, walking the length of a small corridor before finding our way to the stretched, covered bridge that connected us to the rest of the wider castle.

As my eyes adjusted, I took in my surroundings– I chanced a look at the bailey below. With the tourney drawing closer, the king had permitted the entry of some of the city's foremost merchants and vendors; they'd been flitting in and out of the Keep for days now, having discussions at length with the (reportedly very beleaguered) Master of Coin– one Chelsted or other– about various expenditures and other such droll things. In addition to merchants with their own issues to petition, lords and their ladies promenaded below in their fine clothes of many colours, bowing and nodding in acknowledgement to their noble peers– alongside servants who bustled in large gaggles, rushing off to attend to the whims of their lieges or make their way to the fair grounds to erect the viewing boxes and pavillions. I felt an abrupt jolt of pity for the king's master-of-games.

Amarei's hair caught the light splendidly, her red locks looking almost akin to tendrils of fire that had been tamed into a plaited bun. She sported an ornate hairnet, its gold chains foraged from Prester mines and dotted with emeralds that matched her dress. I pursed my lips. Green – was that not the favourite colour of our lovely cousin? I hoped for Amarei's sake they did not match.

To speak of matching, Myranda sported the gown that Aunt Myrielle had told her to– it was more of an off-white than ivory and, in spite of the pout that her lips had curled into, it suited my young cousin well. She'd tied some white ribbons in her copper-hair that hung slightly loose and framed her round face. Whilst grandmother had been right that they were two obviously different colours, the style of dress was the same– both were embellished with lace on the sleeves, bodice, neckline and the hem of their skirts, not to mention the lavish use of cloth-of-gold.

I felt remarkably underdressed, suddenly, in my pale blue dress. I'd only added a girdle-belt and pearl earrings that I'd received as a gift at Cerissa's insistence. My hair was unadorned, styled in a rather bland half-up, half-down style with two braids that crowned either side of my head. Myrielle, imperious in her satin gown of red-and-white, topped with a black mantle lined with white fur, had sighed upon seeing me but said nothing, not being one for lateness.

From the covered bridge, we were led to a postern by a pretty servant-girl and wandered down winding, serpentine steps that seemed to go on forever– we were enshrouded in a momentary darkness, with only flickering wall sconces and minimal light pouring through the windows, before daytime found us again in the outer yard.

The servant had insisted that it would not be a long journey from our lodgings to the Tower of the Hand– knowing that the Red Keep was full of liars, I shouldn't have been surprised to know that even servants uttered falsehoods here. Though an unintentional deception on the girl's part, I sighed with impatience as Myrielle stopped to smile and sweet-talk her fellow lords and ladies. 

Oh, yes, Lord Crakehall– it had been far too long! Of course I could make time for you, my good Lady Stokeworth. Say, aren't you Ser Harren of House Clifton– what a joy it will be to see a proud Westerman compete in the lists!

Myrielle’s smile only ever seemed to widen with the attention she was receiving– for all the things I could say of the woman, she wasn’t one to flounder, making easy conversation with an even easier smile, flaunting her eldest girl with an unabashed sense of pride; no, rather than flounder, she soared . For a moment, I wondered if this is how my grandmother would have looked in her youth– vivacious and clear-eyed, unblemished by age.

I quickly grew bored of pondering when Myrielle decided to engage in a simultaneously animated yet droll conversation with a lady sporting Lefford colours.

Gods above , could we not have just made haste for the Hand's Tower to get this wretched reunion over with?

My hands flexed. Unease pooled in my gut, making itself at home.

Reflexively, I'd found the beginnings of a loose thread on the handkerchief and begun pulling as my mind raced. Why was I so nervous? I was to dine with my extended family, make myself as unnoticeable and uninteresting as possible, endure the blasted tourney and go home when it was suitable to do so. I would not court pleasure or displeasure, wrath or wonder and just make do with my lot. Joanna Lannister was a woman, not a lioness, and her children were just that– children. To be sure, the sheltered bubble I'd enjoyed for so many years was at risk of being popped– but, I shouldn't have been this nervous. I had a violent, sinking feeling that things were about to be upended.

Finally, the Lefford noblewoman bid Myrielle goodbye and relieved us of social obligation. I made a move to follow our small gaggle but felt my skirts snag uncomfortably on something.

“Pardon me, but I believe you're stepping– oh. Hello there.” I blinked, looking down to meet the gaze of a thin, slip of a cat that looked at me with wide eyes. I think I remembered something about the Keep and its influx of strays. Very politely, I cleared my throat and continued, “I would like for you to let go please, my good ser.”

The thing– older than a kitten, to be sure, with white whiskers grown in that complemented its orange-gold fur– simply kept the hem of my skirt in its greedy little maw, refusing to let go. I tugged on the fabric– the creature tugged back.

“You little bastard.” I remarked, but a smile betrayed my features, to be sure. I looked back over my shoulder– of course Aunt hadn’t thought to wait for me. She had already vanished out of my line of sight, damnably fast. I turned back to the cat and wagged my finger at him, “See what you've done! Now I'll most certainly be late…or maybe, maybe you've saved me.”

I crouched down to the cat's level, skirts fanning out beneath me. I pondered and absentmindedly gave him an obligatory scritch behind the ears.

“I could lie and say I got lost– which isn't entirely a lie, really. It's not as if I have any clue where anything is. I could say I ventured into the royal gardens, caught a rash off some ivy and feign illness for the rest of the festivities, avoiding those lot like the plague. Doesn't that sound like a plan to you?” The cat had begun purring, leaning into my touch without any resistance. I tilted my head and rested my chin in the palm of my free hand, “No, you're quite right. Grandmother wouldn't believe it for a second and Myrielle would probably blather about how unruly I was for running off.”

Nevermind that I had a plethora of courtiers and guards and servile staff to ask directions from.

“Damn it all.” I muttered, rising to my feet.

Cat meowed in protest.

I had to bid farewell to my newfound friend and try to catch up with my impatient aunt– I passed by some stern looking men-at-arms who spoke of having lunch at the training grounds.

I grumbled, “So I'm already late.”

There were a flurry of people around me and my unease had now manifested as an uncharacteristic social anxiety– the guardsmen looked severe, the courtiers would prattle on and delay me even further and, being burdened with the manual labour of physically preparing things for the tourney, I felt awkward at the prospect of beggaring the already overworked servants into giving me directions. I felt awkward at the fact that I was to be served at all– but, I had little time to unpack the thought at present.

Salvation came to me in the form of a lithe nobleman with yellow hair and greenish eyes– I spotted him at a distance, he appeared to be smiling at a young maid. I almost looked away, but then I spotted that familiar lion on his chest– the Reynes had long since been reduced to memory so, of course, it could only be Lannister heraldry. All roads lead to Rome– so all Lannisters would make their way to the same place, no?

Akin to a stalker, I tried to make myself appear inconspicuous as I loitered behind a pillar. Thankfully, the woman had made herself scarce almost immediately after I had spied them, as if sensing me from afar. And, so began the game of cat-and-mouse– yet, strangely enough, though I followed the man, I felt more like the prey than predator.

Thankfully, the Tower and its adjoining hall came into view– the red brick made its battlements look especially imposing.

“You're following me.” The Lannister man called out to me– his voice carried over the few yards between us, causing me to start, but I judged there to be no anger in his tone. Only, perhaps…amusement?

“I got lost.” I decided to tell the truth– it wasn't as if I had committed any wrongdoing. Better that than a clumsy lie. After a moment of consideration, I tacked on an apologetic curtsy.

“Hm.” Was his thoughtful response as he neared me. He was in possession of elegant features; bright green eyes framed by long lashes. His long, blond hair was tied in a loose knot and his nose might have been aquiline if not for the fact that it was so obviously crooked– with a scar across the bridge?

As I was regarding him, he was regarding me. How strange it must have seemed– a young lady, of clear, high birth, unattended to by any sworn sword or maidservant, wandering alone in such a vast Keep.

“Yellow hair, greenish sort of eyes…you must be one of Joanna's little nieces, aren't you?” He appraised, smile on his face, though his delivery had none of the pomp of a certain silver-haired wizard.

“Yes,” I nodded, curtsying again, “Jorelle Lannister, my father was a younger brother to her ladyship; my apologies for being so unruly and following you around, Ser…?”

He waved me off, then clasped his hands behind his back, slowly starting to encircle me– because that wasn't at all unsettling.

“ Gerion – and, you needn’t beg my forgiveness. It seems you have received your comeuppance as another unruly creature has followed you in turn.” He motioned behind me, and I turned to see that orange cretin padding towards me.

“The very reason for my lateness.” I grumbled, and the man laughed.

It registered, then. The man was Gerion Lannister– it had all started to become uncanny then.

“Go, off with you! I haven't got any food!” I pleaded, trying to shoo the creature away. He just stared unblinkingly.

“So harsh, young cousin!” Gerion exclaimed, kneeling down to play with the clingy cat, who seemed more than happy with the attention– I recoiled at the word.

“We aren't cousins.” My insistence was quick and I couldn't control how harsh my tone had sounded– not at all becoming for a girl of ten.

He ignored the blip in conversation and easily amended, “I suppose you're right. Let's think– whatever you are to Tywin, you would be to me. Joanna is your aunt, so that makes us your uncles…oh, how marriage connects us all!”

I couldn’t help the way my lips tugged downwards at that. 

Jorelle Lannister, daughter of Ser Rollam and Jorelle Lannister, niece to the Lord Hand were two entirely different and separate entities– one was a carefree ward of the House Prester who was like to join a motherhouse the moment she reached majority, maintaining the decided respectability her status required all the while being happily unmarried. The other was an uncomfortably close relation to one of the most powerful men of the realm– and, could be pawned off in the marriage mart to the highest bidder, of whom would happily settle for a niece when denied a daughter; she was important.

Decidedly, I did not want to be important.

Reconsidering his remark, Gerion seemed to rankle at the word. “The title ages me, I think. I much prefer cousin as a form of address.”

Nevermind that we had only met a moment ago.

“Whatever you say, ser.” Was my placid albeit bland response. I clasped my hands together against my skirts to conceal the way my fingers toyed with the thread of my kerchief, “Might you be so kind as to guide me inside?”

“Of course– though, I must say, you look like you'd rather have me spirit you away from this place to make your grand escape.” He laughed again, a saccharine sound, and began to take long strides towards the tower, Lannister men bowing their heads in greeting, and I followed after him; the little, orange scamp had vanished.

I grimaced, “Is it that obvious?”

“Terribly so.” He nodded, “You needn't look so afraid. We don't bite.”

The smile he flashed following that statement made me rather disinclined to believe him but I said nothing, not wanting to provoke the proverbial, bored lion. Unfortunately, said bored lion was rather intent on provoking me– though perhaps provocation was too strong a label for an idle attempt at conversation. Perhaps I was merely just projecting my own blatant unease.

“Remind me which one of good-sister’s brothers is your father– I only recall of Stafford, but you resemble him little…of which I’m sure you are glad of.” He quipped.

We crossed the length of the foyer– servants and guardsmen mutely deferring to Gerion as we passed by them– I was overwhelmed with how shiny everything was. Marble floors that squeaked against my feet, lacquered, glittering mosaics and masterfully carved bas-reliefs. I almost forgot to answer him.

“My father was Rollam Lannister– he died when I was still a baby.” I was far removed as I spoke– calling him father still felt strange, “I never knew him.”

“Rollam, Rollam…yes, I think I remember him now– Joanna has spoken of him to me before, if only to chastise me for my flippancy that is apparently so akin to his own. Well, my condolences. If it is any consolation, I lost my own father when I was young.”

“We should form a sort of club.” I muttered under my breath, though I was sure Gerion heard me if his faint snort was anything to go by.

We stopped before the Small Hall’s entrance where a slight man donned in Lannister livery awaited– he opened his mouth to speak as the doors opened, but Gerion silenced the herald by forging on ahead into the hall before he could be announced, causing the man to sputter. I hurried after the self-admittedly flippant knight– who, the longer I stared at him, could have been no older than a boy of eighteen– flashing an apologetic glance at the spurned herald.

I was greeted by a small gaggle of red-and-blond heads turning to face the sudden source of noise– in spite of the massive size of the hall, there were only a few attendees, making for an intimate affair and not an intimidating one. Myrielle sat to the right of the woman at the head of the table– of whom could only be Lady Lannister– whilst Aunt Shierle sat to her left; the three were joined by two other vaguely familiar women I couldn’t quite place. I spied my Prester cousins sitting opposite two girls– I recognised Janei Serret, who was her mother in miniature but with her father’s brown hair. Her placid smile and quiet demeanour made for an almost comical contrast when one looked at the girl next to her– emerald eyes narrowed in a cross between boredom and irritation as her gaze found mine.

Cersei had been far lovelier as a baby, I’d decided at that moment, long before she’d ever learned how to scowl.

Joanna looked at her good-brother with undisguised– albeit fond– exasperation, before her gaze flitted to me. She looked through me for a moment, and I knew that she was looking for a ghost; Marla often casted that same look, even Myrielle at times.

“My sincerest apologies for the intrusion, my ladies, but I believe this one belongs to you?” He lightly pushed me forward by my shoulder, “We crossed paths on my way to the training grounds.”

My brows furrowed at that– the training grounds ? My thoughts went back to the fair maid I’d initially spotted him with– was he using me as his unwilling alibi? And, to think, I’d suggested we start a club.

“As of late, you have developed a particularly queer habit of picking up strays , Gerion,” She remarked, pointedly, but waved him off. There was a lilt in her tone as she addressed me– her eyes, that had looked through almost vacantly just seconds ago, now seemed kind and lively. She gestured for me to take a seat, “Come, child, sit. Be welcome, be merry– you are surrounded by family, we won’t bite.”

She didn’t wolfishly smile with teeth as Gerion had and, yet, I think I believed her even less.