One x One Unbowed [Flashbacks] [Closed]

A collection of scenes from the history of Unbowed, a Game of Thrones RP between Lucyfer and KyloGlenn.

Roger Reyne had returned victorious from the war, a hero, standing in for Jason Lannister when he faltered on the field and fell. Castamere was in full-swing so far as celebrations went – they used to say that Ellyn Reyne knew how to throw a party, but her elaborate notions could hardly compare to Roger, who always felt the need to show up the Lannisters. The subterranean ball room looked as if it were glowing, the play of lights illuminating the stained-glass and making the precious metals in the floor and through the pillars shimmer beautifully.

Roger himself was a sight for sore eyes – as pretty as some women, a lean and feline build, with red hair that fell to his knees. He’d be the envy of any Dothraki, and he wore it proudly, held up high in a ponytail, it swished with each turn of his head like a cat’s tail. He was dressed like a king – or that was how his young daughter saw him, anyway, as her eyes finally found amidst the growing crowd of nobility.

Even if he stood with Cocks and Peacocks – house Swyft and house Serrett. Aemilia knew them both, as she knew House Farman, who stood along her mother, regal in a blue so deep it made one think of a stormy sea, especially with the way it seemed to ripple along the skirt. She stood with an arm around Roger’s shoulders, blue over silver.

“I’m telling you, Roger, you shouldn’t ignore him,” Harys Swyft was saying, a bald man in his own blue suit. “The lion has awoken.”

Roland pause, arm looped with Aemilia’s, and they paused outside the circle of adults. The young squire seemed uncertain if they should approach, knowing what the conversation was about, but Aemilia did not seem to care for his hesitation. She broke from his hold.

“Just send him a hostage – send it to Kevan,” Harys was saying, “You seemed to like Kevan enough to knight him, I’m sure he would take good care of your Ami.”

Aemilia paused just as she’d reached for Roger’s arm. “Kevan Lannister?” Why were they talking about Kevan Lannister and her? Why would he take care of her? “I don’t want to go with Kevan.” He was boring. She remembered him; he’d been nice enough, but he was boring. She was smarter than him.

Roger chuckled, letting the serious mood dissipate with the rumbling sound as he moved his hand behind her head, ruffling the red mane, “You won’t be going anywhere with any Lannister, kitten,” her hair wasn’t put up as ornately as her mother’s, so he didn’t disturb much, but it did earn him a sour look and she batted at his hand, the painted nails missing, before he placed his hand lightly on her back. “I appreciate your advice, Harys, and Ser Tywin may have woken, but I’ve never slept.”

More confusion, from not hearing the full conversation. “You sleep a lot. And you snore.”

Ah, innocence. The group laughed at it, the moment of seriousness breaking as Roland stepped forward, giving his father an apologetic look for letting her join them. “Roger Reyne snores. And here I thought you were perfect.”

“I don’t snore, I hum, just like Ser Tywin shits gold.” More laughter. He wasn’t sure where that rumor began, but he also didn’t care. For how rich the Lannisters were, it certainly seemed through. It was just a pity that brains didn’t come with all that pretty gold. “Regardless,” he waved the topic off, “I’ve already sent my answer to Ser Tywin. If he wants to push it, I’ll just speak with his father and have our debt erased as a gift,” Tytos gave in so easily. It was laughable, and there was nothing Tywin could do. He had to respect his lord father.

“All right,” Harys sighed, “Just please, Roger, be careful.”

“We will be,” Sybelle said, her smile gentle, “But we aren’t here to chatter about the dangerous future, are we? We’re celebrating tonight, for all our victories.”

“Especially mine!” Reynard popped up then, copper-haired and mischevious eyes, he picked up the little Sebaston Farman, earning a surprised shriek from the man that caused Roland to double-over in a laugh and Sybelle to cover her lips. Roger rolled his eyes at his brother’s antics, as the little lord was quickly put back down. “Now, someone here is going to dance with me, or I’m dragging Roger away from all of you.”

“Take Roger!” Sybelle and Aemilia said it unison, both even moving to step back and push him forward, which startled the Lord who stumbled a step into the circle. Reynard caught his brother’s hand as Roger steadied himself once more, and bowed before it, placing a kiss on the hand.

“My Lady.”

Roger’s look basically translated to, ‘boy, I will wreck you’.

Reynard didn’t ask formally for a dance, only pulled Roger out of the circle and among the other dancers, earning laughs and hoots from others, though this was not an unusual occurrence for the Reynes themselves – Reynard, as quick-witted and clever as he was, was also full of boundless energy, being nearly twenty years younger than Roger himself.

Reynard never kept the lead. That fight for dominance was always short-lived, as Roger always manipulated Reynard back into line with his steps and steering, and soon he’d swung Reynard out and drew him back, dipped him, and dropped him right on his ass.

Aemilia was engrossed in watching that she didn’t hear how the conversation returned to its serious tone, though Roland was paying attention. Roland also sent a silent cue to Sebaston Farman, and the young lord moved to Aemilia and lightly touched her arm, drawing her eyes up to his, “Would you dance with me?”

Her eyes lit up, “Of course!” She already knew her cousin was a good dancer – not one of those who only knew the waltz good, either, like boring Kevan. She even heard he was learning something called ‘water dancing’, but her father said she couldn’t learn that ‘just yet’.

Sebaston was only a few years older…it wasn’t fair.

Still, he took her hand, and led her out as Roger left his brother on the floor, Reynard shouting as if he was a broken-hearted maiden after the Red Lion of the West, who just let his hair swish, back and forth with the jaunt of his walk, expressing all his disdain and amusement in the swagger, while giving Sebaston and Aemilia a passing glance before he returned to his wife’s side and the idiots who were giving in to Ser Tywin.

Lannisport was always bustling with activity, and that day was no exception as Aemilia held Melara’s hand and led the young girl through the city and towards the docks, to pick up a shipment of timber from White Harbor, in order to help repair some of the homes in their lands, as well as some of the fences. The Westerlands weren’t exactly known for their trees, but the North was, and now that winter was on its way and the harvest done, it was high time to get to those repairs.

Tybalt Hetherspoon had remained back at home, overseeing how things were going with their current supplies, so he sent Aemilia with a retinue of guards, just in case there was any trouble on the road, and a couple of carts to transport all the timber back.

It didn’t take long to come to the boat they needed in the port, though Aemilia’s eyes lingered over many, quizzing Melara all the while.

“Who’s crest is that?”

“House Greyjoy! We do not sow!”

“Where are they from?”

“The Iron Isles.”

“And their liege?”

“They are the leaders of the Iron Isles, aren’t they?”

“That’s right. Who does that banner belong to?”

“Redwyne. Um, Ripe for victory?”

“That’s right. Where are they from?”

“The Reach.”

“And what is the Reach known for?”

“Wine!”

Close enough. “Who is their liege?”

“House Tyrell.”

“Good.”

“Why can’t you teach me?” Melara asked then, looking up, “Why does the Septa have to continue teaching me? She doesn’t teach you any longer….”

No, the Septa absolutely did not, thanks to an incident where Aemilia finally snapped and demanded to be taught by the maester a couple of months ago. Her faith was no longer in line with the rest of Westeros. She couldn’t stand praising the gods who condemned her entire family to death. Where was the Mother’s mercy then? Where was the Father’s justice? “I learned these things from her, Melara,” she reminded, though it wasn’t wholly true. She knew her houses under her mother’s tutelage.

Melara did not have that luxury. “But you know them, you could teach me,” she whined, “She’s so strict….”

‘I would be worse.’ She didn’t say that, but just smiled, “But you’re learning them well. You’ve known all the houses I’ve pointed at today. She’s a good woman.” No she wasn’t, but she couldn’t say otherwise to Melara or Tybalt would be upset with her. She couldn’t disparage the faith of him and his daughter. He still believed in the gods, even if she did not, and he would hear nothing against them to upset his daughter’s faith.

“Why don’t you have to learn from her anymore?”

“I’m too old,” she said, “Ah, there it is,” she saw the ship then, and hurried on, the guards moving with them, the carts, along, as well. “Good morning,” she called out to the merchant, recognizing him from when he came to do business earlier that year. They had arrived in Lannisport the night before, and would be leaving that afternoon with the goods.

“Good morning, Lady…er…,” he realized the error. Lady Hill was not proper.

She smiled. “Aemilia,” she said. She hated it, every day she hated it, felt it peeling away at her identity, but she had to endure it. “This is Lady Hetherspoon,” she introduced the younger one, who smiled up nicely at the man.

“And what a heartbreaker she will be, with chocolate eyes like that,” he chuckled, and then let his attention return to Aemilia, “Do you have the rest of the payment?” Two installments, one to bring it here, and the rest at pick-up. Aemilia nodded, and glanced back to her guard. The larger of the men stepped forward and handed her the coin pouch. She counted out the amount for the timber, and handed it over to the merchant while the timber was being loaded up into their carts. Aemilia didn’t leave until she had counted every piece, though – she wouldn’t be ripped off.

Another thing her mother taught her – sometimes, she wondered if she was more Farman than Reyne.

With everything in order, Aemilia took the coin pouch for herself, and dismissed most of the guards to get lunch and prepare their horses for departure in a couple of hours. She let the larger one remain, while she would show Melara around Lannisport and let the young girl enjoy herself a bit. She so rarely got out, as the overly protected daughter of Tybalt. She was all Tybalt had left of his beloved wife. The only child to survive beyond infancy….

Aemilia missed Lady Hazel, as well.

“What is chocolate?” Melara had to ask then. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that her eyes looked like it, and she knew it was a dessert, but she hadn’t ever seen it.

‘Heaven. Literally, heaven.’ Aemilia wasn’t sure if she was making that up any longer. The last time she’d had it…well, she didn’t like to think of that. “Let’s see…there should be some here I can show you,” it was beyond their price range, but she could see it, and at least understand the color. It didn’t take long, either. She just had to find some of the Summer Isles vessels, and then find a flamboyantly dressed man shouting about what he called ‘aphrodisiacs’ and sweets, and other sorts of things to woo others.

“The man over there has some,” she could see the delicious treat, and meant to walk Melara up politely, but the young girl broke from her hand and rushed ahead, forcing Aemilia to jog after her through the crowd that the smaller girl was able to more easily maneuver between, and when she arrived, she found that a blond man was holding her up not to look at chocolate, but at a beautifully colored bird in a gilded cage.

“He says I can teach it to say anything I want, but I need one that can mimic my voice,” the blonde was telling the girl, before he began to sit her down, and noticed the glare that Aemilia was giving him. He smiled, “Hi.”

“Ser Gerion.” She recognized the young knight easily enough. Blonde hair in curls, green eyes – and the lion of Lannister was still on his finger, though he was otherwise dressed down.

He put a finger to his lips immediately to silence her, a smile remaining on them, “My apologies for handling her, my lady.”

Aemilia didn’t correct him, just took Melara’s hand, “She was curious of the bird, and as I was telling this man, I need one to mimic my voice.”

“Lyrebird,” Aemilia told him without a second thought, “She was curious of chocolate.”

“Yes, she told me,” he chuckled, “Ah, he has plenty, I won’t—”

“No, we’re not here to buy,” Aemilia shook her head, cutting him off. She saw the immediate irritation cross his features, the way his eyebrows bunched together, before he seemed to find it amusing. Gerion was known for that, though – quick to laugh, and quick to bring laughs. He, more than any other, was the son of Tytos.

“Ah, forgive my presumptions,” he chuckled, and then there was a shout. His name. He froze, and looked right at her, “A Lannister pays his debts,” and with that, he bolted.

Aemilia didn’t need to ask twice what that meant. There was an opportunity, if she wanted to take it – and she absolutely wanted to take it. As her guard finally cut to the crowd to them, Aemilia offered Melara’s hand to him. The guard looked quite irritated – Aemilia wasn’t supposed to go near any Lannisters, and even he recognized that head of blond hair before it dashed out of his sight. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She said, and cut through the crowd as someone shouted for Gerion once more.

It was a knight, evidently one in the employ of House Lannister, running after the wayward son of Tytos. It was well-known that Gerion was something of a troublemaker, and Aemilia imagined he was not supposed to be in Lannisport right then. There were plenty of rumors of him to offer her any number of reasons as to why he would be there, and it didn’t matter to her why.

“Excuse me,” she quickly called out to the knight, who fixed her with a rough glare, “You’re looking for Gerion Lannister?”

“That’s Lord Gerion Lannister to you,” he assessed her quickly, the attire not speaking of someone noble enough to refer to Gerion without a title. “Unless you have something useful to say, wench, I suggest you move on.”

Aemilia had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from interrupting him. “I may, Ser. I saw Gerion not five minutes ago.”

“Where?”

“Follow me.”

And she immediately led the knight in the opposite direction, and towards a random stall, and asked of some ‘blonde kid’, a vague enough description for the clerk to think of someone and send the guards running off in another direction after Gerion.

She was able to return then to her sister, and the guard, and quickly leave after thanking the man for allowing them to look over the creatures of the Summer Isles in her absence, and trying not to apologize for the fact she couldn’t actually buy anything.

A couple hours later, as they were gathering at the gates and making sure everyone was present, a head of blond hair popped up with an impish grin on his lips, as if he’d just gotten away with the largest crime of the century. “Good thing you made an impression here or I’d never find you, Aemilia.”

Great. Now he knew her name. She gave him an annoyed look, but it faltered when he held out a box. “I hope this will do. I appreciate you getting the guard off my tail. I wasn’t quite ready to go back and deal with my brother.”

Aemilia had to pry, “Problems with the twins?”

“Oh my gods, they’re midget menaces,” Gerion laughed, and it did bring a smile to her lips, “I can’t even tell them apart some days, I swear, I had to get out of there, Tywin expects me to teach Jaime how to fight, but I got in trouble for teaching Cersei. I didn’t know it was her! Apparently she had too many weird bruises and she outed herself to Joanna, who told Tywin, and…,” he sighed, and shook his head, “Well, never mind, here. My debt is paid.”

“I feel like you owe me more.”

“Look and see.”

She took the box and she did open it, finding not only chocolate, but various fruits covered in chocolate. A whine escaped her, part because of how good it all looked right then, and part because she had to share with Melara and she knew it. Damn sharing. Gerion laughed at the sound, and she blushed, closed the box quickly.

“Yeah, my debt’s paid,” he determined, “You all have a safe trip.” He offered, before heading away from them.

“That may be poisoned….” The guard noted idly, if only because of the warnings about Lannisters and the bastard girl.

“You take this chocolate from me, and you’re going to be poisoned, Ser.” Aemilia stated calmly, “If I die eating chocolate, I will die happy.”

“I don’t think that’s wi—”

“Chocolate!” Melara jumped in, interrupting, “I get some, right? Please? Pleeeease?”

“Yes, of course,” Aemilia said, “First, up on your horse. We’ll share on the way home, mm?”

“Yay!”

The knight sighed, but didn’t get between them anymore and the chocolate lust of the bastard. He was relieved when nothing happened as the girls shared the chocolate on the way back, and was even allowed a bit himself…as, eventually, were the rest of those with him, though Aemilia had seemed quite reluctant to share, she did, and seemed happier than the knight had seen her before.

The waves lapped at the shore below the bastards as they sat between the bones of Nagga, listening to a sermon by one of the Drowned Men, and eating apples from their perch. Ser Arlyn Pyke was already bored with it, but the one who paid his wages was not, and she easily leaned against one of the dragon’s bones. “I thought we were here to steal a sword?” He was pretty sure she had been talking about stealing the Red Rain from House Drumm.

“You believed that?” She sounded amused as he bit into his apple, “No, we’re not here for that, this is just a layover while we wait for a ship back to the mainland.” She answered. Not that she’d mind Red Rain. It was her family’s…once.

He was silent again, as the sermon went on, until it ended and the drowned men with their wet hair and roughspun robes started to move away from the shore and Nagga’s Hill. “You know,” he said, after he finished his bite of apple, “You’ve never told me why you like the Drowned God.” He knew she was a fan of the God of Death. He’d seen her go through the House of Black and White enough times when they were in Braavos together. Her respect for Death was unnatural in Westeros, and when he’d spoken of the Seven, she discarded them.

“I don’t pay you to be my friend, Ser.”

“No, that comes free,” he smirked, “Or maybe I just want to know what I’m dealing with, besides a mad woman who wants to kill a certain lord. I’m not trying to get myself killed in the process, you know.”

Though he smiled, she didn’t. Her gaze was distant, but after a few moments of silence, she did answer him, “You know my sister drowned. She’s not the only one dear to me that has drowned.”

‘Everyone has…I fear Tybalt will….’

She swallowed. “Besides, this…seems the oldest religion. The Iron Isles never converted to the Faith of the Seven. It makes you wonder why…my only conclusion is that there must be some truth to it.”

“So how come you aren’t going to go get baptized in the waters?”

“I’m afraid,” said too simply, and Pyke actually laughed aloud at it.

“You?” When he realized she wasn’t laughing, or even smiling, his own faltered. “You’re afraid?”

“I don’t even know how to swim,” she laughed then, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “I’m terrified every time I get on a boat. If it goes down….” She was dead. She knew she was dead. Yet she didn’t want to die any other way – only drowning. That would take her back to her family. However, she wasn’t keen on dying any time soon, either.

“You don’t know how to swim?” He sounded dumbfounded.

She shook her head.

He rose, and she glanced up at him quizzically, only for him to reach down and pull her to her own feet, and then over his shoulder. “Pyke! Put me down, now!” He didn’t, of course, and as his intention became obvious, she started to struggle more to get out of his grip. She tried to pull herself all the way over his shoulder, she tried to kick him, but it did little, and when she felt the water at her feet, she froze. “Please, please, please go back, Pyke.”

Her goal instead became to hold herself as high out of the water as she could, hands pushing up on his shoulder, before one lifted to the top of his head, keeping herself as straight as possible so she was as high out of the water as she could be. “If you don’t relax yourself now, I’m going to pull you under.” He said.

Her nails dug into his scalp at the threat. She did not relax. “You should know how to swim, Lady Aemilia.”

“Yes. Should. Not going to. Go back.” Her words were stiff, swift. She could see blood pooling around the nails that had dug into his shoulder, near his neck. She imagined the same was true at the top of his head. “Go back or I swear I am going to fire you and send you right back to Essos.”

There was a catch in her voice, and when he glanced up, he saw that her eyes were shut tight, but there were the beginning of tears. She was always so calm upon a boat, watched the water lap against it, and seemed utterly at peace. Yet, this…she was not comfortable with.

He decided not to try and fight it. He turned back and deposited her on dry land, sat at her side once they were there, and watched as she fought to steady her breath. “So…how come boats don’t scare you?”

“If a boat breaks apart I can grab floating wood.” Stated evenly. No doubt she’d had to convince herself of that a thousand times over before she ever set foot on a boat. She needed some measure of control, something to promise herself that it wasn’t all so bad. “If I fall off of it, someone will notice and go after me.”

“Uh huh…and do you believe that?”

“No.” Not in moments like these. “Not really. But it’s better than you just…walking me out into the water.”

“I wouldn’t kill you. You pay me.”

“….” The silence then said enough, and he realized what a bad joke it was, considering who she sought to kill. Tywin Lannister, the man who shat gold. Yes, he could pay more, but his ‘debts’ weren’t always paid in the fashion that one wanted.

“You pay me and I like you. Bastards have to stick together, eh?”

A slight smile crossed her lips then. “I didn’t think you were really that scared. You always seem so calm. I’ve seen you cut off lords and ladies without thinking of reproach or anything. How was I supposed to know you were actually afraid of deep water just because some people you knew died in it? Hazel died in childbirth, didn’t she – you afraid of that?”

“What woman isn’t?” She laughed it off, not confessing the fact she didn’t intend to have kids or marry. She’d never get to have them as a Reyne, never get to teach them the truth…she didn’t want that. She’d drink tansy before allowing such a thing. “Come on,” she finally found the strength to pull herself back to her feet, “Let’s get back to the port. You can tell me all about your fears.”

“Nope,” he pulled himself up, and walked alongside her, “I am not that stupid to tell you my fears.”

“Fine,” she gave an overly dramatic sigh, “I’ll just have to get them out of you with a bit of Shade of the Evening….”

“…Shade of the…how would that…what do you know about Shade of the Evening that I don’t?” The smile that danced on her lips worried him, “Aemilia….”

“Two flutes are needed to really drug someone,” she said, “but one…one is enough to open the mind, and that usually prevents people from lying. It’s interesting what they’ll say. Best if baked in a cake, people don’t question it, then.”

“…I’m afraid of you, I think.”

She gave him the sweetest smile for that, and it didn’t help at all with his fears.

Aemilia Reyne stepped into the House of Black and White in Braavos not for the first time, but for the first time with some resolve as she clutched a coin tight against her palm, imprinting the design into her flesh as she made her way over to the pool of clear water. A poison she could not discern, and was told it was no poison at all, but blessed by Death itself.

The Lion of the Night.

The Stranger.

The Drowned God.

So many statues were there to represent the singular truth of life: death was the cost of it. It was the only thing that Aemilia found any faith in. Any comfort. She’d find more comfort in it if she knew the legacy that Tywin Lannister was building would die, and that was what brought her there that day as she approached the water – the thought that she could cut it off.

End him, and end his legacy, before it became as memorable as Aegon the Conqueror. “A girl has been here many times.” A lilting, feminine voice spoke. Aemilia looked back. “People of Westeros come here once, maybe twice, to visit the temple. A girl comes here every time she comes to Braavos, after seeking a man who sings of death.”

Aemilia turned more fully, but stilled her tongue on asking if she knew him – the supposed ‘Last Lord Tarbeck’, Ciaran, who sung the most beautiful ballads. Not all of them inherited Roger’s skill. She had never known if her cousin did…but Aemilia followed the whispers, which always led her back to Braavos. Braavos always led her here. The woman behind her appeared of Lorath, but Aemilia at least knew better than to trust that. Her hair was dyed half black, half white, and her lips were painted black, her eyes glimmering a deep purple.

“Isn’t it sad that death has no song?” Aemilia countered instead, “I should find the one who sings of it and commission such a song.”

“The Many-Faced God has a song. A girl has heard it – a girl wishes to hear it again.” Her smile was feline. Everything about her seemed feline then, as she came forward and tip-toed forward, circled around as if to peer around Aemilia’s back. Aemilia turned as well, bringing her hands forward and opening her fist to show the coin. “Who would a girl see dead?”

Aemilia opened her mouth, but paused. Closed it. “What is the price?”

“It depends.”

“Tywin Lannister.” She said the name quickly.

The woman did not seem surprised. “A name.” The woman said, stepping closer, “An identity. A true one,” her fingers touched Aemilia’s face, and she barely managed not to recoil, though she did reach up and grab the woman’s wrist and pull it away from her flesh. “Once spoken, to never be had.”

“My name is Aemilia Hetherspoon. Or Aemilia Hill.”

“A girl lies poorly. A girl has another name.”

Aemilia knew that the woman didn’t know what it was. Yet, the woman understood she was lying, and knew too well that this price was one that Aemilia did not want to pay. A name. The only name she wanted to hear, and the only name she could not say. Perhaps even killing Tywin would not make it safe. What would she even do when Tywin was dead? She couldn’t just rise up and take back Castamere.

There remained Kevan.

Tygett.

Gerion.

So many damned golden lions, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask if that price would pay for them all. For genocide. One name, and it could be over.

And she swallowed it, pushed the woman’s hand aside. “A girl refuses?”

“A girl refuses.” Aemilia confirmed. “I am sorry for wasting your time.”

The woman shook her head, the white and black hairs dancing together, “A woman understands. In your world, a name has power. Many are forbidden from speaking names for the power of them, so many gods with so few names. A woman knows,” her eyes returned to Aemilia. “A name has power. Power enough, in a girl’s dreams, to topple a lion. Should a girl find her dreams are only that…a girl knows where to come.”

Aemilia gave a single nod. “Valar morghulis,” Aemilia said as she bowed her head.

“Valar dohaeris.” The woman answered, and Aemilia turned to take her leave. She heard the steps of the woman leave the area as well, and as she started to shut the weirwood door, a male voice was heard.

Trailing lyrics, and Aemilia opened the door once more, “Ciaran?” Stepped in again, to silence and echoes. She felt her heart fall to the floor and shatter in the moment of hope, from the voice that sounded impossibly familiar. She never heard Ciaran, and yet…if he were to sound like anyone, he would sound like a memory.

Death, perhaps.

‘A story. A lie. No one saved him. No one saved me.’ And Ciaran was too young to save himself, younger than she had been.

Was her name worth it? The coin dug into her palm again, and she bit down on the thought, turned, and shut the door behind her, walking away from the House of Black and White. ‘Yes.’ May she never get to use it again…may she never be called it again…if she gave up on her dreams or hatred, she would not be alive.

She eventually rejoined Pyke, who was drinking himself into an early grave outside one of the taverns. “Well?”

“I couldn’t afford them.”

He frowned, “They take all…they find a way—”

“Let me rephrase: I’m not giving them what they want.” She settled into her chair, annoyance written over her features.

Pyke arched a brow, “Anyone ever tell you that you’re difficult?”

“Everyone, basically.”

“Juuust making sure.” He wrapped his knuckles on the table, “Can we get some more rum over here! My blood is getting red again!”

Aemilia chuckled, and drew up the coin to look at again, turning it over in the light, “What did they ask for?” Pyke asked then, observing the longing in the gaze. He’d grown familiar with it, that distance and that longing. He didn’t need the details of her desire for death, but he was curious about the House of Black and White, and what they craved. He knew some offered up their own lives.

Aemilia wouldn’t pay that price. “My life,” basically. She didn’t need to say a name. He’d think that was silly and she didn’t want to explain. “I suppose it would be worth it….”

“No it wouldn’t,” he said as another glass was set before him, the bartender warily eying the coin. Pyke dismissed him with a wave. “For your man, maybe 5 of you.” He smirked, only to see her glare. He expected it. She thought too highly of herself sometimes.

“There’s only one of me,” she said, wrapping the coin back under her fingers, “I’m a rare treasure, Pyke.”

“Really? How much could I get for you in Volantis?” He leaned forward, a wry grin twisting his lips as he let his eyes appraise, and she laughed, rolling her eyes.

She hadn’t caught the song that was strummed up nearby, until she heard the voice.

“He rode through the streets of the city
Down from his hill on high
Through the winds and the steps and the cobbles
He rode to a woman’s sigh
For she was his secret treasure
She was his shame and bliss
And a chain and a keep are nothing
Compared to a woman’s kiss.
For hands of gold are always cold
But a woman’s hands are warm….”

Aemilia relaxed. The song always made her happy, and she turned a lazy smile back to him, “Priceless, Pyke. Priceless.”

“That doesn’t help me.”

“I pay you enough, don’t I?”

“I could get more elsewhere….”

“You could. And you would have to pray to all the gods that I didn’t survive.”

“Trust me, Aemi, that’s not a bet I’m willing to make just yet. I’m almost positive you survive solely on spite, poison, and chocolate.”

“You forgot music.”

If he wouldn’t have spilled his rum, Pyke would have flipped the table just for the effect. As it was, he left the table be, and let the conversation segue into other topics, though he noticed that when they left the area, she tossed the coin to the musician.

Embroidery was tedious. It was boring. Yet, bit by bit, the needlework came together in Melara’s chambers. Aemilia was tuning out the conversation between Melara and Septa Kella, having lost her care for the Septa’s teachings ages ago, but continuing it if only for the image. ‘My father wouldn’t make me endure this.’ Her father wasn’t there. Just Tybalt, who did his best to give her a proper Lady’s education, to make it seem as if she was losing out on nothing with her family destroyed.

‘I’d rather learn from the maester.’ The maester knew interesting things about war strategy and poison, but apparently that wasn’t proper. ‘A woman should know how to defend her household too, not…sewing.’ Sybelle knew. She didn’t do a good job, but she’d known. She’d been too much of a mess to really do anything. It all fell to Reynard, and Reynard fucked it up.

“Lady Aemilia!”

Aemilia lifted her head quickly at the sharp tone, finding the scrutinizing gaze of Kella and noting that Melara seemed to be hiding laughter behind her hand. ‘What did I miss?’ She didn’t ask that, of course, “Yes, Septa?” She used a polite tone, even if she was exasperated to have to speak with her.

The Septa seemed equally exasperated, “How do you ever expect to become a proper lady if you are so inattentive?”

“I don’t.”

Melara was now obviously fighting laughter. “Then why do you waste your own time being here? You could go be as any other bastard in the realm.”

“My father requested I learn to be a proper lady, so I am respecting his wishes.”

Kella sighed and moved to be nearer to her, taking both of her hands in her own. Aemilia was careful with the needle she hadn’t let go of so she wouldn’t stab the Septa, tempting as it may have been. “Child, if you wish to honor your father’s wishes, you would also listen to my authority.”

‘You haven’t earned my respect.’

“He wants you to be a proper lady, he wants you to have a good life, to marry well, and be happy. To do that you will have to learn to listen to others and to heed them. He’s told me of your problems with authorities.”

“Perhaps those in positions of power should learn how to earn the respect of those they are in service to.”

The Septa narrowed her eyes a bit. “Would you say that I am in service to you?”

“Yes. Hired by my father, to teach me how to be a proper lady, and you are failing miserably.”

Kella’s cheeks flushed a bit, “And your liege lord, Tywin Lannister, is he in service to you?”

Aemilia couldn’t help but smirk, “Absolutely. He owes service to all his vassals, as their liege lord. If he does not fulfill his service, then his vassals owe him nothing.”

“And he’s not done his service?”

“He killed two vassal houses, so…I’d say not.”

Melara was visibly amused now, observing the back-and-forth between them, and how annoyed the Septa was getting. She tended to get amused with her sister and how she talked to others, as if she was better than them. She should probably not encourage it by being amused, and yet, it was amusing. “A good lord would have found a way to prevent such murder.”

“A good vassal wouldn’t have rebelled – no matter the reason. The gods have lifted the Lannisters up to their position for a reason, as they’ve blessed the Targaryens to hold theirs in spite of some of their…obscene practices.” Incest. She didn’t say that, of course, “You must trust the judgment of the gods in all things, Aemilia, the Crone is guiding this world and has foreseen which leaders would be best to guide Westeros.”

“So the Crone aspect,” she added emphasis to that, a subtle reminder that the Seven were One. Sometimes, she thought her Septa believed otherwise. “guides everything in this world? The Crone guided Roger Reyne to rebel?”

“No, the Crone would not mislead him. That was his own judgment.”

“Couldn’t it be human error that is keeping the Targaryens and Lannisters in their place?”

Septa Kella opened her mouth. She closed it. Scowled. She didn’t like this train of thought at all but she wasn’t sure how to immediately correct it or contradict it. “Lady Melara, dear, I need to speak to Lady Aemilia, would you min—”

“Don’t order the Lady,” Aemilia said, pulling her hands out of Kella’s and setting her needlework down, “I’ll leave.” Tybalt probably wouldn’t approve of too much questioning of the gods. Melara seemed to think this was just her being obstinate, but if it went on too long, she might start to wonder, too.

Aemilia was able to get out the door, and walk some steps away from the room, before she heard the hurrying steps of the Septa behind her, and the woman tried to wrap an arm over her shoulders. It was immediately shrugged off, and she was almost pushed away, but Aemilia had enough restraint not to do that. “Now, Lady Aemilia, I’m not sure what’s gotten into you, but you know better than this. What is wrong? What has you upset?”

‘You think my father deserved his death.’ She couldn’t say that. “The hypocrisy. Everything good is the will of the Gods. Everything bad is human error. Those in power are there because the Gods want them to be there. If Roger Reyne succeeded, would you say it was the Gods who made him successful, who wanted him to be successful?” Aemilia demanded.

Kella pursed her lips. She didn’t understand any of where this was coming from, and she spoke gently, “That is not what came to pass. The gods do not smile upon oathbreakers. Roger Reyne was an oathbreaker. He tried to get away with not paying debts he took, and he sought to usurp his liege lord who gave him all of that money in good faith. The Lannisters never wronged him, but still he sought to destroy them. He was wrong, and he deserved what befell him, as any house would who rose up against their liege lord.”

It was harder every day to think that Roger was right, fully. In truth, Aemilia couldn’t, though she wanted to preserve the thought. No matter, “But genocide. Genocide was what should have happened?”

“It is known in the faith that a traitor’s blood is inherited. The Boltons and the Starks have had issues through the centuries because of it.”

“So your faith approves of genocide….”

“Our faith, Aemilia.” Kella said gently. Whether or not she believed it was another matter, but she hoped to turn Aemilia back on the right path, to finding some way to accept the guidance of the Seven, to accept the world as it was, and to trust in the Gods. “You may dislike it, for you are a woman, and we all inherit the Mother’s Mercy, we all wish for men to be wise and follow the proper paths, but they do not. They suffer from too much heat – the Warrior’s blood, the Smith’s forge, they are creatures of fire and irrational emotions, and that is why men and women must be together, so the woman can try to guide the man – may they say that they guide and lead, we know the truth.”

Aemilia was hearing, but barely. Perhaps men were fire, emotional and rash, but she had a temper as fierce as her own father’s at time and it was threatening to boil over with each word. Each hypocrisy.

Genocide was all right. The Gods would let butchers lead them because people weren’t individuals, people were families – because Tywin was right to butcher when he could have talked to Roger, or done anything else. Anything at all. Killed Roger in one-on-one combat. Killed the men, killed the heirs, killed many, but not all.

Except he did kill all. And the Seven approved it.

The Septa must have said more that Aemilia missed, still walking, though her path had taken her into the wing that Tybalt occupied most often. “Lady Aemilia.” The tone wasn’t sharp, but it was penetrating all the same. When her eyes focused again on the Septa, she asked, “Do you understand?” Aemilia gave a mute nod. “Good,” she took her hand in her own two, “Then let’s go—oh!”

Aemilia pulled her hand out of her grasp, glaring at her as if the touch burned, “I understand, Septa, and I no longer wish to be under your tutelage.” Aemilia stalked away, and the Septa again hurried after her, but Aemilia threw open the door to Tybalt’s quarters, finding him away from his desk with a cup of wine in hand near the balcony, looking down on his nephew and brother training in the yard. He turned at the sound, and saw Aemilia stalk in, followed by the Septa. “I want to be taught by the maester!” Aemilia demanded.

The Septa looked startled, and then angry, “My lord, with all due respect – your bastard is being ungrateful and should be given no such rewards. She needs to learn to respect the gods and the authorities they have set up.”

“Fuck you, and fuck your gods.” Aemilia snapped immediately, “If they’re the sort to support genocide, I want no part of their worship!”

Tybalt needed no other explanation than that. “Septa Kella, allow me some time with my daughter. I will speak with you after, please see to Melara.” Kella didn’t question it – good little Septa, she followed the words of her employer, but not without shooting a look to Aemilia before leaving.

Tybalt stepped back into the room, pulling at the curtain to cut them off from the outside, as the door was shut. He approached Aemilia, and without a word, curled an arm around her. Her head fell onto his shoulder and he let out a deep sigh, “What am I going to do with you, Aemi?” The man asked, his brown hair stricken with silver already. He felt her take a deep breath. “How did you even get onto the conversation with the Septa?”

Her words were muffled, not moving from her place, “She told me the gods guided the Targaryens and the Lannisters and they were right to rule us, but didn’t guide Roger.”

“How did you get there?”

“She said I needed to respect authority because the gods decided who should rule.”

Tybalt let out a sigh then, patting her back. While he believed in much of that himself, he quite frankly believed that very few were listening to the gods anymore. “I don’t want to see her again.”

“I can’t get rid of her, kitten,” he said, “Melara must continue to learn from her. I can put you under the care of the maester, if you insist.”

“Mmm.”

“Okay. Don’t tell Melara why…we’ll say you got too old for now.” Melara would figure it out later in life, but not now. Not yet. “And don’t speak ill of the gods. The Septa and Septons don’t know everything…there’s nowhere in the book that says the gods support genocide, or anything of the like.”

“I won’t,” she murmured. “but….”

Tybalt felt her shift, squirm, and he allowed her to move away, to hold her gaze. How people believed they were related was still beyond his understanding at times. Her green eyes bore into his chocolate ones, her angular features so different from his softened ones, so feline. Perhaps they only thought he was a fool for believing the child was his when it looked nothing like him, deceived by a woman he had relations with.

No matter. It worked. “Why didn’t the Gods stop it? If they aren’t in favor of genocide…why didn’t they stop it?” She knew her mother prayed for Mercy. She knew Roger prayed for Justice.

“I don’t know,” Tybalt said. He didn’t try to soften it. He didn’t try to make anything up. “I have never tried to understand the gods, I’ve only tried to follow them.”

“But you don’t believe they would support genocide?”

“No…and if they did, I would not wish to follow them, either.” He smiled, “When you showed up, I knew what Tywin had done. I knew the risk, and if the gods condemn me for it when I stand before them, I won’t apologize at all. Children are innocent of the crimes of their parents. Tywin should know that better than anyone,” perhaps now he did. “He is nothing like his father Tytos. You do not have to be like Roger.” It was his own small way of reminding her that her path didn’t have to continue.

He knew it. Knew why she had wanted to learn under the maester even before that point, and she tilted into his hand as he lifted it to her cheek. “I won’t be like him,” she answered, “I won’t lose.”