One x One Fangs and Claws

[peritwinkle]

       Innocent Truths
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​

       Particles of dust rose into the air as the blond girl opened the old book and flipped the stained pages. Tyrion followed her movements, his fingers tracing lines along the rim of a cup of water. As much as he enjoyed the taste, he refrained from drinking wine in front of the child. 


       "I found it, father," little Caireann spoke, candlelight glimmering on her hazel eyes. She was beautiful, he thought, and he was grateful for that. She looked nothing like him, aside from the eyes- or one of them, at least. The rest, she was entirely her mother, from her flowing honey hair to her spotted skin. 


       "What do you see first?" Tyrion asked, sipping from his cup slowly. 


       "The Wall," she declared, her eyes shooting up at him.


       "Beyond that. West."


       The girl scoured the old map, a finger following the lines and words from a side to another. "Bear Island, father," she said, looking back up.


       "House?"


       "Mormont. Bear on a green background."


       He smiled lightly as Caireann turned back to her map, analysing every detail, with her lips softly parted. "Next?" He inquired.


       "Dreadfort. House Bolton. Flayed man, hanging upside down on a cross." She shook her head quickly, moving her mind away from the sickening thought. "Father, if I am to marry a noble of your choice, I do not wish for him to be a Bolton."


       "You are still young, Caireann," he muttered, his eyes locked on the cup again. "And your marriage has already been discussed in the council, and will continue to be. Winterfell."


        "House Stark, Direwolf on a white field. Is it Trystane?" she spoke hopefully. 


        "You are to marry Lord Willas Tyrell, once we receive a confirmation. Yet this is not your concern. Greywater Watch," he demanded.


        "House Reed. Black lizard on a green background," she sighed quietly. "I am old enough, father. I am eight years old now. My mother would have told me what I wished to know..."


       Tyrion's cheeks flushed and he glanced at her, gripping on the edge of the desk. There was a certain power in that word that made him wonder how much Caireann truly knew. "You've never known your mother. She left after you were born, you know that very well. How could you speak on her behalf?"


       "I know she died," the girl murmured, her small nose hidden between the pages of the old book. "Queen Cersei told me, while we were having breakfast in the garden. She died when she gave birth to me."


       The innocence in her voice felt like a thousand knives cutting through his chest, burning his heart. Rosalind Westerling was dead, and yet, he could not hide her child from the pain of reality- something that he had always tried to manage. Keep her away. Train her mind through books and stories. Prepare her for the real world with no harm. But a part of him knew that a life that lacked suffering was unachievable. Caireann was still too young to know of all these. She could blame herself for her mother's death, all because of words spoken before the time came. 


       Instead, Tyrion only let out a loud breath and jumped off the low chair, then made his way to the bed, taking a seat next to her. She was not shaking, not was she tense; the softness of her words and the firm posture made him wonder what death meant to the little girl in front of him. Possibly nothing, for she had not met her mother; never knew the pain of losing someone you love. Kept between the tight walls of the castle, unaware of the cruelty of the outside world. "You are just like her, you know," he spoke, caressing her hand. "Always straight to the point. Stubborn. Sometimes, I wonder how you only got my wits."


       Caireann chuckled quietly and closed the book. She liked it when she heard about her mother. It made her feel like she was closer to her, like she was not just a dream hidden in the past. "Did you love her, father? Was she as sweet as Ser Jamie used to say?"


       Ser Jamie. Yes, he must have told her enough, no wonder if he would have already told the child about their affairs. 


       Painful.


      "I did care for her, indeed. And I miss her every single day, when I look at you, and I see her. I regret I was away that day, when her time came," he shook his head. That thought still haunted him, and he never wished to bring it up with Caireann next to him. Tyrion arrived home one day later, to the news that his wife had died due to complications at birth. He did not wish to believe it- Rosalind was the strongest woman he had ever met. And yet, there they were, with his wife in the grave and her daughter talking about  death like it were something natural, something happy. He never understood her. Never understood death itself. "I do not want you to talk about your mother again around Queen Cersei, or Jamie alike. I would rather keep her name between ourselves, from now on."


       "Like a secret?" she whispered, bright eyes widening with curiosity. 


       Tyrion smiled. "Like a secret."

 

[peritwinkle]

The Ardent Prince
​

As the wooden door closed shut behind them, Caireann felt any sense of safety slip through her fingers. She had drunk at least a cup of wine, sweetened with honey, as she always liked, and yet she did not feel any different. There was a sour taste on the back of her tongue that made her purse her lips, as she watched Joffrey pull at the door to check the lock.


Joffrey's room was thrice as big as hers, and twice as tall. The floor and walls were adorned with red and gold patterns depicting hunting scenes, in dark forests or vast lands. Surrounding his bed rose four columns, around which were wrapped golden vines that touched the ceiling. A long desk was placed against a wall, in front of a window, books scattered around it, as if the prince had had an outburst of rage and chosen to drop it on the precious documents.


"Better, here, isn't it, Lady Caireann?" he inquired, a small smile on his thin, pale lips that matched his hair. He had a form of pretentious dishevelment to his appearence, a long tuft of hair hanging above his long, slender nose, that made him look like a blond crow. "The music, I have to say, was too loud, made my chest tremble. I'll have that bard hung before he can ruin another feast with those hoots of his."


Caireann ignored his statement, sitting on the chair next to the window as she flipped the pages of an old journal nervously. Her manners never allowed herself to be visibly affected by the presence of prince Joffrey, and she chose to keep her words on her tongue. Those were her father's sayings, 'Let the spoiled yellow rat be, for not even his damned mother's words would shut his mouth'. Afterall, she only had to endure a short evening with the boy, until her escort took her to her chambers, after the feast would have finished.


Joffrey finally gave peace to the old door and made his way to her, with slow and steady steps, his cheeks reddened from the wine and ale, a droplet of sweat on his forehead glimmering in the dim light of the candles.


"Quite a feast we had there, mother worked hard to ensure that your birthday would not be forgotten, and yet, what do you do?" his osseous hand threw the journal away, hitting the floor loudly. Caireann jolted. "You read your stupid words, ignore your prince! I should have you on your knees, asking for forgiveness for your ignorance!"


"Or lack thereof," the freckled girl replied, her hands shuddering with a sudden anger, yet her tone was calm. "I did nothing wrong, my prince, and I am too tired to converse at this very moment."


"You will converse when I ask you to converse," he spoke, his lips and chin wet. Then, with a short movement, he grabbed her by the arm, pulling her onto her feet. His breath smelled of wine, and his hair of an obnoxious amalgam of flowers. "I am your prince, and I do what I wish, whenever I wish, understand? You will not answer my inquiries with such arrogance, or I will have your head thrown to the lions."


Her heart was pounding in her chest as he spoke, words coming out as a storm upon her. She grabbed onto his hand to push it away, but his nails deepened into her skin, through the thin material of her gown. Then, with a swift move, his other hand reached the back of her dress and ripped the laces off with a painful tug. Caireann squealed, struggling to push the slim body away from her, just as a painful hit burnt her cheek, teeth gritting under the impact.


"You will do as I say," the boy shouted, scent of alcohol escaping his lips. He was only sixteen, and yet, his voice seemed strong, fearsome, one that belonged to a mad king. And even then, in his moment of glory, he never resembled nobility. Joffrey tugged at the dress again and pushed her onto the bed, the girl too dazed to respond.


She could only hear the uneven rythm of her breathing, blood flowing through her ears. Joffrey ripped another piece of the red material, and pulled her by the hair, tucking it between her lips, then, with another pull, her corset detached, her back exposed to the cold. As her senses came back, she felt the prince's hands ruthlessly exploring her body, scratching, tearing, gripping.


Yet Caireann didn't move, her eyes locked on the candle next to the bed, and with a last trail of rationality staining her thought, she grabbed it and turned her body towards Joffrey, the ardent wax pressing against his neck.


The shouts and groans accompanied the sizzle of burning flesh, and his rough hands let go of her body. The door opened with a loud thump, hitting the wall, and only then, Caireann dropped the candle onto the floor.


"I'm dying!" Joffrey cried, touching the burn with shaky fingers, as the girl crawled away from him, from the armed guards surrounding her. "I'm dying, and she killed me, she killed me, the witch! Kill her! Kill her, break her neck!"


A pair of arms lifted her from the cold floor, carried her out of the room and into a dark hallway, the prince's screams reverberating into the stone walls. Her cheek was throbbing with pain, her back was wet and aching, and she cried quietly, too afraid and tired to fight anymore.


She only knew that, from then on, she was to hear the lions roar.

 

[Lucyfer]

The letter arrived with the crimson wax and the lion upon it to Castamere, and Lord Roger Reyne read it early that morning. It had arrived in the night, by raven. It was not Tytos who wrote it, nor Tytos who signed it – not that it would have mattered, but it lacked the authority of the Lord of Casterly Rock. Roger could not help but chuckle at the impudent words as he balled up the letter and tossed it towards the fire in his room. “What did it say?” Sybil asked him, rolling over to look at the lord.


“Nothing to worry about,” he said, reaching out a hand to her brunette head and rustling the curls, “The little lordling thinks to command me in place of his father.”


“Mm…Tywin?” She was trying to remember which one the ‘little lordling’ was. Tywin was the eldest. She’d heard Roger use numerous names for him, though. None of them nice. He seemed to find Tywin amusing – all roar and no bite, or something to that effect. “What did it say?” She asked again, as Roger’s hand retracted and he rose to prepare himself for the morning.


“He wants us to repay the debt, as usual,” Roger waved it off. He had no intention of it. Tytos had forgiven it. There was nothing owed, not any longer. Not according to Roger. If he went to Tytos, he’d confirm it, too. Weak-willed, toothless, lion. “If we cannot repay it, he wants Lenore sent as a hostage to Casterly Rock.”


“What?” That caused Sybil to sit right up, horrified at the mere idea, “Roger, you can’t—”


He waved it off, still smiling, “I am not going to send my princess anywhere. She’s not going to be anyone’s hostage,” he stated simply. “I’m sure the other lords will agree. He’ll be demanding this of Hetherspoon and others we have as allies. If we oppose him, he won’t be able to do anything. His father couldn’t enforce anything, he can’t, either.”


It was only a matter of time.


Sybil looked a bit more relaxed, but still, “Perhaps we should begin to repay, though. Just to stall…,” she knew the inevitable. That this would all break apart.


“We’d weaken ourselves,” Roger stated, “We’ll do no such thing. We’re not giving him anything. He is not Lord of Casterly Rock, he has no place to be making these demands. Let him roar into the night. I’m not afraid of a roaring lion,” he smirked as he opened his own hand. “We have claws.” He didn’t. Sybil had to laugh at the short nails, and even he laughed a bit at it, “Well, we have swords, but same difference in this case,” he pulled his tunic on, “There’s no reason to worry. Lenore stays with us, and we won’t send one bit of gold to Tywin. I’ll send ravens to the others and advise them to do the same.”


“All right,” Sybil relaxed back into the bed. She didn’t have to get up just yet. Roger was just going to go write his letters, and so she let him go, drifting back into a deep sleep while the Red Lion went to wage his war of words against Tywin Lannister, spending a good portion of the day in his study, writing letters.


He was eventually disturbed by a quiet knock, “Come in,” he didn’t need to ask who it was. When he turned, he saw his little princess there, with her brother behind her. He stayed at the door, his hair a darker shade of auburn, almost brown like his mother’s. Lenore’s hair was more obviously red, her eyes the shade of wildfire that Roger shared, and he saw the worried look upon her face, “What is it, princess?”


She moved towards him, and he picked her right up when she was close, to sit her in his lap. “You’re not going to send me away, are you?”


Roger blinked, and looked to his son to clarify, “The servants are talking about Tywin’s demand.” He said. “One told her that she would be going away soon.”


“Which one?” Roger’s nose wrinkled in disgust. He’d see that one sent out of his household immediately.


“Hugo,” he said.


“It’s not true, is it?”


“No, dear,” he said, looking right back to her, “I’d never send you away. Tywin can want you all he wants, he’ll never have you. We’re not sending him anyone, or anything,” he glanced to his son with that, “Go see that Hugo is well lectured, and then dismissed,” his son was only 12, but he needed to act the Lord, to learn to be just as strong as he was.


He gave a quick nod, and ran off immediately. Roger continued, “Ser Tywin,” for he was no proper lord. Not until Tytos died, “has been making these requests all around the Westerlands, because he cannot abide his father’s generosity and thinks we should pay back money that was given to us. His lord father said we did not need to.” He tapped a paper, words she was only just beginning to learn to read.


Already she seemed to know so many. To know so much. “He is asking many this, like Lord Hetherspoon to part with his only daughter, Melara. I have heard some have given in already,” he sighed and shook his head. The Swyfts had given in, and advised him to do the same, saying that the lion had awoken.


The lion could be awake.


It was still going to be groggy and far behind the lions who had never slept. “But I would never do that to you, princess,” Roger said, “You’ll never be anyone’s hostage,” he smiled to her, and she smiled back in full trust.


“Thank you!” She wrapped her arms around him, before pushing off of his lap to rush after her brother.  

 

[Lucyfer]

Exception
​

Tybalt Hetherspoon had never, truly, known what to do about the girl who entered his life, all those years ago. She smelled of smoke then, green eyes reddened by indignant tears. She had been Roger’s child, he would never question that, full of pride and anger even then. Even now, as he felt like pulling his hair out, he did not know what to do with her. ‘I have done my best.’ But now she stared almost vacant at a ceiling, recovering from an overdose of poison she had inflicted upon herself.


Essence of Nightshade.


And he learned that was not her first poison, nor her first near-death. The others had been done under the watch of maester Aeron, who had disobeyed him in teaching her these things, and put her at risk of dying uncountable times. Of course, Aeron then turned into a mess and confessed their entire relationship to him, which only infuriated Tybalt more. He had dismissed Aeron from his sight, and thought of it for a while, before sending for Aeron again.


Now, he was with Lenore, who was going to recover.  


The silence was difficult to break, but he did. “I know of you and Aeron.” He told her then. He saw her eyes shut. It wasn’t fear, but exasperation that cut across her expression. “I have ordered him to teach you what you need to know without the need of sexual exploitation any longer, if he wishes for my silence on the matter.” Otherwise, Aeron would lose his status.


Everyone knew that maesters fucked others. Just like the Night’s Watch. It was still forbidden. If Lord Tybalt revealed it, he lost his chains. He was expelled from the Order of Maesters. A maester was not meant to have attachments, but this was a clear attachment. A clear breach. He could not serve the realm if he was ruled by a woman – and he would be.


Lenore’s eyes opened again, quizzical, confused. “Please do not persist in trying to learn these things without his guidance.” His own eyes shut, the lines of frustration there with the knit of his brow. “I cannot stop you from it, I know that, but do it safely, under his watch, until you understand what you are dosing yourself with better.”


She spoke then, rising to her own defense, “Three drops are only supposed to put you to sleep….”


“And what size is a drop?” Tybalt opened his eyes then to meet her gaze.


She didn’t answer. She didn’t have an answer. Even she knew drops could vary in size. “Exactly.” The drops she had utilized were clearly too large. He didn’t know what device she had used to measure them out, but it had not been effective.


“You’re not angry?”


“I’m angry,” he said, shaking his head, “I’m very angry at you, and at Aeron, but what will happen if I tell you to stop, or if I send him away? You’ll keep doing it on your own, and you’ll kill yourself, and I won’t have a maester here to treat you,” he sighed deeply and brought a hand to his temple. He pressed his fingers there, “I told you not to learn archery, and what did you do?”


“Paid a squire to teach me.”


“I tell you to consider the suitors I bring, and you end up in yelling matches with them instead. The only one you seem to actually like is a Vikary….”


“And that’s a bit too incestuous.”


“Right,” Tybalt sighed. It wasn’t, truly, but it felt that way. A Reyne and a Vikary – the bastard branch of House Reyne. Not to mention Reynard had married someone of the Vikary line.


Yes, too close for comfort. “And I don’t really enjoy hearing you remind me that I’m not your father whenever you try to do something I disagree with.”


“Sorry….”


“I know I’m not,” he added, “but that doesn’t change anything. I promised to look out for you,” and so he was trying his best, “you keep insisting on running headlong into danger…the least I can do is make it safer for you, and keep Aeron on to assist you.” She smiled. It was weak, but it was grateful, enough to warm his heart even if he did not like his own decision. Still, to keep her safe…, “I do not want you to kill yourself when you’re trying to learn to avoid an assassination. As if you’d be assassinated.”


There was a pause. A silence, heavy with words that wanted to be spoken, that always were, “When.”


When.


When she was Lenore Reyne and not Nora Hetherspoon. When her truth was known to the world and acknowledged, then, yes, there would be assassination attempts. The mere thought of it pulled at Tybalt’s heartstrings. The thought of losing another daughter was impossible to bear, and he hated it. Hated it, but like the poison, knew he could not stop her mad dreams of being the exception. She survived the Reynes. She survived poison. Why not Tywin Lannister’s wrath, too? Why not find loyal soldiers to jump at her cause – why not have her name be enough?


Her, raised a Hetherspoon, with not enough gold to her name, and not enough men in the realm. Still she dreamed that mad dream. Lived it. “More likely I’ll poison him at some event in Casterly,” she sighed, as if that was utterly dull. “And he won’t even know who or why….” Which was the worst fate, but the fate she’d take.


“It isn’t necessary,” Tybalt always reminded. “You could live this life.” Simpler. Marry. Have a family. Be forever hidden from Tywin’s eyes, unknown and unconcerning to the Lion of Casterly.


“I know,” or so she believed she knew. Believed it would be easy to ignore the pleasures others would have, and find her comfort in nursing her hatred. “Thank you.” She did always thank him for the option. It always disappointed Tybalt to hear it, because he knew the next words too well, “but I can’t until he’s dead.”


‘I’ve nursed a viper in your lands, Tywin.’ Before another would claim the title of Red Viper, he had thought of Lenore as just that. A viper, more than a lion, lying in wait. He brushed the red hair off of her forehead, and she smiled at him, that apologetic smile of hers. It was the closest she got to an apology.


That, and, “I can always leave and keep you out of it.” Because she loved him. Love meant removing herself to protect him.


“No,” he shook his head, and sighed heavily, “when that day comes, I will be here, ‘Nore.” He hoped every day that it wouldn’t. He hoped every day that she would find a reason to leave this path. Some good man. Some pregnancy and some child to protect. Any reason at all to turn her from this. Even if Tybalt hated Tywin, he would prefer life. Life and peace. Yet, if it came to it…he would protect her, as he should have protected Melara.

 

[peritwinkle]

Her Grace


       The rose folds of her dress brushed against the golden carpet in waves of silk and satin. She stopped for a brief moment, hesitated with her fingers tapping on the side of the embellished goblet, before she resumed her pacing. Her gentle steps disturbed the silence, but complimented the crackling fire with a similar rustling, calm and mellow. Her head was turned away, red hair rippling in a cascade over her shoulders and stopping at the small of her back in timid curls.


       Then, when she shifted back to look at him, Rosalind's eyes were filled with a sardonic joy. Lips curled, the woman twirled on her heels to fully face him again. "You think I do not know why you're here," not louder than a murmur, but her voice maintained an unquestionable firmness. "I am not a naive bird, Ser Jaime, as much as they enjoy to implement that into your head." 


       "Oh, I know," Jaime nodded, but the smile on his lips did not fit her jeer. "I wouldn't have come if I thought you to be a naive bird, would I?"


       Rosalind breathed in, chest lifting in the tight corset. She was aware, no doubt, of what she could do to him. What her body inspired in that candlelit glow. The man shifted his weight and waited for an answer as she seemed to think, but never did. Her hesitation was merely theatrical, a way build the tension she very much enjoyed. "And then I suppose the purpose of your visit is not to admire my eyes, is it, Ser?"


       "Never." 'Of, if only you knew...' Now the simper twisted into a smirk and she caught it before turning her head away once again. She was watching the moon now, through the darkened window with a false interest. "I know that what you have said to Cersei was untrue," he continued after the short pause. "Frankly, I have to say I am surprised with your skills in deceiving. Such ease. Does it come naturally?"


       She chuckled faintly. "What gave it away?"


       "Your lips," he shrugged. "You part them after you say a lie... Expectant." 


       "I must say you are quite attentive to my lips, then, Ser."


       Jaime stopped and narrowed his eyes. She was playing him again, and he despised the feeling of vulnerability her voice gave him. This woman was cunning, vicious, but something about her contrasted with her name. Indeed, as dangerous as a rose, but she was no Lannister, and nor did he know of any Westerling to be as manipulative as the girl before him. "I want to know why," he started again as he regained his composure. "Why you have lied to her, and why you are telling me the truth."


       A sigh parted her lips and Rosalind stepped closer. The moonlight scattered through her scarlet hair and rested on her pale temple, as if she were an unmoving painting and not a breathing being. "After you've established by betrothal to your brother, Lord Tyrion, I was brought here by force. Ripped away from my family to come and belong to you," her mouth curling in a disgusted grimace at that word. "And I obeyed... You know I have. What a dear sister to Cersei I was, while I listened to those around me..." 


       For that bond was long broken, and there was nothing which would repair it. Jaime had made sure of that.


       "And I listened to you as well, Kingslayer," tone now turning bland, "and obeyed you. You've made me want you." Her eyes weighed him from head to toe like meat – scenic, but suggestive. "But I do not want Tyrion. I never will, and I will not allow him inside of me, be it for the greatest price." Simple and honest. Sour, but it was better than avoiding the truth for so long. Jaime did not believe she would be smitten by his brother, either. 


       "Yet you love him," he murmured. Rosalind's lips remained shut.


       An owl howled in the distance and she lightly shuddered at the sound. It was well past midnight, but the guard at her door did not need more than a warning to keep his voice down. Still, unease was written all over her face, breaking through wall. She walked away from him and set the goblet of wine on the table, untouched, before returning to look him in the eye from a distance, as if she feared him still. "I have a sense of duty," a response that promptly avoided his question.


       "What of the duty you have to me?" Jaime canted his head with a faded smirk. "You refuse him... Now you seem to have forgotten me entirely. Leaving me to rot, alone..."


       "Spare me the banter," she rolled her eyes and let out an audible breath. "I do not intend to deepen myself in any more trouble. The last thing I want is to have my drink poisoned by your sister at dinner." Only half a joke, for the irony had seeped out of her, altered by a concern that left him dumbfounded. He could almost see the trepidations of her heart in her chest, cheeks now turning florid. "I can no longer..."


       She stopped again, and that very break stung Jaime through his chest. He knew what it meant before she could say the words. Knew what he had done, by the sudden change in her tone. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword to tap it, release his anxieties for a moment. Rosalind's eyes sought him, wet and fearful, before returning to the floor. "It is late," she whispered in a shivering voice.


       "Ros-"


       "Go," she demanded.


       And he left.

 

[Lucyfer]

Dry Eyes​

“Long time no see, Nora,” Lymond wore an easy smirk as he came into the room in Fair Castle, “You got stuck with us this time, huh?” This time – this war, this battle. He noticed Tybalt, and his expression faltered a bit, “Lord Hetherspoon?” Shouldn’t he be at home?

“Lady Hetherspoon is the one who asked for this meeting, actually,” Sebaston Farman said, sitting in the high-backed chair he had claimed as ‘his’. They were around a table, formal for the setting, only a few lords and their knights, and the woman with the striking red hair. “We are to be discussing our newest war with the North, though.” Before Lymond could ask.

“Why the hell are we meeting all the way out here on the Fair Isles then?”

“Privacy,” the woman answered, hands clasped in her lap. “I would like to request that we not fight for Tywin Lannister,” and before Lymond could protest it, she met his gaze, “We have a unique opportunity to change the future of the Westerlands and take it away from the Lannisters.”

“Why would we do such a thing?” Sebaston asked. He did not sound unopposed, but he was hesitant. “If we rebel against him and fail, then—”

“But now the rains weep o’er his hall, with no one left to hear.” Lymond interrupted, making the point that Tywin had made years ago when he sent a minstrel to the Fair Isles.

“We aren’t weeping.”

Those three words punctuated the air and stole the breath of it, as every man in the room looked at her differently, immediately. The only two who remained poised were Ser Adryan Hill and Lord Tybalt Hetherspoon, who flanked her on either side. Ser Maro Clifton openly gaped, and Lymond looked confused.

Yet, it was Lord Farman who truly reacted, rising to his feet and crossing to where she was, pulling her from the chair in one swift gesture by the collar of her dress and holding it firmly as he held her close, examining her face, her eyes, everything. “You are not Sybil’s daughter.” He denied it, as if he would know it.

He remembered his aunt. He remembered Roger. He was furious that this Hetherspoon, this bastard, would dare to assume the name, "You are not Roger's. No child of the Reynes would humble themselves this way. I bet you don't even know the name of their daughter!" He remembered….

“Lenore Reyne,” she spoke her name. She didn't let his anger scald her. In his position, she would react the same. She would not believe herself. That was why the act was so good, “Do you remember when I came to visit you? You were nine,” he was the one who had to verify it. He had known her, before everything came tumbling down around them, “Jeyne was only just born, and Sybil wanted to see her,” she felt his grip relaxing, “You wanted to show off to my brother, and you took us to the cliffs before the ocean. You said you dived from them regularly. Do you remember?”

“You jumped when we were arguing over it.”

Lenore smiled, and like that, Sebaston pulled her into an embrace. No one else would have known. Her brother went right over the cliff after her, and Sebaston ran down, but she had been fine, laughing and calling them both cowards. They swore never to tell Roger about this – and swore her into secrecy, too, though she hadn’t kept it. Not really. Once they were on the boat back home, she bragged to her father of what she’d done.

As if jumping off a cliff was something to be commended for. “Lenore.”

“Tybalt, you scoundrel!” Lymond laughed, slamming his palm on the table as Sebaston pulled away, moving back to the seat of honor, “You kept a Reyne from Tywin, all this time?”

“No one suspects the spoons,” Tybalt said with a self-depreciating shrug, as Lenore walked back to her seat and grazed his shoulder with her fingers as she sat.

“And you! Adryan! How long?”

“Not much longer than you,” Hill confessed, “But still before you.”

“Asshole,” Lymond grunted, then frowned, “Still…going against Tywin…that’s not child’s play.”

“That is why we need to align with Lord Stark.” Lenore answered, “Stannis doesn’t have the army.” And she could not support Renly, in truth. His challenge to Stannis’s claim bothered her; siblings should support each other. Yet, Robb had reason. He had lost a father, and would stop at nothing to avenge him.

Lenore could understand vengeance. “You do not need to decide now,” she added, “Take some time to think it over. I won’t hold it against any of you if you choose not to move, but we should have an answer by tomorrow morning.”

That answer would end up being positive, as they discussed it in more detail through the afternoon, and figured out their numbers, and how they would convince them of their intent as allies. It was as they talked that they realized they had one delicious piece of information: that the vanguard was moving, with Jaime Lannister in it.

That was something Robb Stark would not be able to turn away.

 

[Lucyfer]

A Needle's Point​

The high harp sat in the garden as if it were stuck there, besides a stone that everyone knew as a landmark, even though there was nothing extraordinary about it. It was simply the place where Roger when to play, or went to think, or a bit of both. The chords rung out that dreary morning as the clouds above threatened to rain, but the Red Lion did not seem to care that his fun might soon be spoiled as he plucked at strings, trying to pull together a song from his mind that he hadn’t quite finished, all while the princess watched, knees pulled to her chest, arms folded over them.

“You should play the Valyrian song,” she said, disrupting his focus. He glanced to her, “The sad one.”

“How do you know it is sad if you do not keep up with your lessons?” He knew the song that she meant, though. She could sing it, memorized the sounds, even if she did not know the meanings. Not of the individual words. Sybil had told her the story, of a lover whose beloved drowned in the sea.

A pout formed on her lips, so like her mother’s, despite all the features she’d taken from him. “I don’t need to know the words to know it’s sad. The way it’s played makes it sad. Mom’s told me what it means, too.”

“She could be lying to you. We could both be lying to you.”

The pout turned to a scowl, “Why would you?”

“To make you study your lessons.” He said, legs slipping so they were upon the ground, no longer curled. “Do you not like Valyrian? You wanted to learn it.”

“I like it,” the child sighed, “but it seems…pointless.”

“Poetry is never pointless, nor beauty,” Roger said, and he saw it did not seem to please her any, “What is wrong?”

“Everyone is talking about war…and I don’t know what to do. Royce is a squire now, becoming a knight. Can’t I do something?” It pulled at Roger’s heart, but there was nothing she could do, of course. Still, he knew that feeling of helplessness. He’d felt it enough in his own life to know the futility of trying to fight it. He patted the rock, and she came forward, and he immediately picked her up and sat her in his lap.

“Your brother prepares to fight, and so does your uncle. Your aunt, your mother, and I are gathering our allies, but we are not at war yet.” It was going to happen, but he intended to play the long game with Tywin and wait until it was on his terms, and he had more of a backing. “You can help, though,” he promised. “You know the needlework you’ve been learning that you find boring?”

“Yes….”

“Stitching is a skill required to heal, as well. You can bring skin together when it comes apart,” he saw her wince, and laughed a bit, “It’s ugly work, but women are often quite good at it because of their years spent bringing clothe together. If you keep that up, you would be able to help us.” She let out a sigh, far deeper than any child should be able to pull from the depths of their soul, as if already world-weary, and Roger laughed again at it, turning her towards the instrument with him once more. “Or, you can create our victory song. I cannot seem to find the words or melody.”

“You can’t write a victory song until it’s happened,” she declared, with all the logic a child could have. Roger raised his eyebrows.

Perhaps she was onto something, though.

“You didn’t write my song until I was born. You couldn’t.”

“How do you know that?” He asked, playful smile on his lips.

“Because you didn’t know what color my eyes were. They could have been like mom’s.”

He shook his head, “All Reynes have these eyes.”

“Well…you didn’t know I’d be a girl.”

There he smiled his consent. “No, I did not. I was happy you were, my princess of fire and gold,” and she seemed to light up at that, as his words turned to a low hum, the melody of a song she thought she would never forget, before lightning lit the sky and thunder cracked the air. She let out a yelp, and Roger gathered her up in his arms to sprint for Castamere Hall, but by the time he made it, they were both drenched from the downpour and laughing, and Sybil was scowling at both of them as he set Lenore down on the stone floor.

“You’re going to catch your death,” Sybil complained bitterly as she tossed a towel over her lion’s head, and another was dropped upon Lenore’s head. She messed up her own hair with it, as Sybil lovingly tended to messing up Roger’s hair herself, “What were you doing out there? Did you even look up at the sky?”

“I did.”

“He was making a victory song before his victory, and I told him it was a bad idea.” Lenore piped up, and Sybil eyed Roger after smiling sweetly to Lenore.

“Good, it is a foolish idea to start such a thing. What if the losers hear how you’re going to win, hm?”

‘What if Tywin hears what you have in mind, you dunce?’ She didn’t say that, of course. Just more violently used the towel on his hair.

Roger waved it off, waved her hand away from its violent assault on his mane, “Fine, fine,” Roger rolled his eyes, as if giving in to the two women, “I will wait until I am victorious, then I will know how it goes.”

“And I’m going to help!” Sybil’s alarm returned as Lenore came up to her, “We can both help.”

“Needlework,” Roger said, not caring for the way Sybil was eying him, “It’s useful for stitching people up, isn’t it?”

“Mmhm.” Judgment was in Sybil’s tone, but she kept that for a time when Lenore wasn’t present. Instead, she just looked down to the girl, “Of course. We can resume your lessons any time you would like, Lenore. And perhaps when you are older I can have our maester teach you a few things,” if she found it appealing. It would be useful. She had helped stitch up the masts of her father’s ships once upon a time. However, Sybil imagined Lenore would soon grow bored of it. She grew bored of so much, so quickly, always jumping from one thing to the next.

It made her impossible to teach sometimes.

 

[peritwinkle]

Faithful​

The leaves of the weirwood tree were rustling in the light wind; right after the rain, the sky was still darkened by thick, grey clouds, so much that it seemed the bright red was a source of light on its own. The sun did not seem as bright, nor as warm, hidden as it was. The tree itself radiated like flames, as though it had caught ablaze, against the faces of those who were watching it so attentively.

"It is pretty," Rosalind murmured, her arms crossed at her middle. "What is it that you wanted me to see?" She lifted an eyebrow as she always did, taunting and playful at the same time, yet never offensive. She had a way of handling things and digging into wounds without others feeling immediate pain.

Tyrion only rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. She was young. She likely expected more from the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Unfortunately, the first thing she had seen, or felt for that matter, was the reek of scorched fur and animal waste. Not a place for a lady, nor a princess, nor a queen, but strangely enough the seashell had never truly considered herself as any of those.

"It is the only place where I can take you where... We can be alone." Not that she enjoyed it. He knew she disliked him as much as Tysha must have. It was still something that he blamed himself for, even if it was not entirely his fault. Of course, he could have offered a better first impression. Could have struggled to convince his father against that marriage as a whole, yet what would that have brought them to? Nothing. They needed alliances if they wanted to bring that legacy to a propitious future. "Are there no weirwood trees in your homeland?"

Rosalind shrugged. "I do not know." She did know. That half simper did not leave her lips, nor did her eyes leave the tree. "I just cannot understand why Northerners pray to plants. They do not listen. Neither do the Gods." Had they listened, she would not have been there, but with her family. King's Landing was even less than what she had expected it to be.

'Leave home,' Gawen had said. 'Live your life in a lively city, more as a Queen than the lady you are now.' It was as lively as a cemetery. To her, noise meant nothing: there was no point to chatter if it did not have any sort of essence to it. To her, it was equal to silence. Still, after so more than a week spent in it, she would rather endure that vociferous silence than the empty words of her parents, her brothers who were coveting her fortune.

If only they had known.

The seashell's eyes dug into the tree trunk, as if she were searching for an answer to her confusion. It gave none, but a strange feeling of insecurity. If felt as though the time were moving faster, the noise around her louder than before. She heard voices, quiet and soft, humming, likely that belonged to the guards who were watching over them from afar, that Tyrion had dismissed in hopes of earning a fraction of an alone moment with his future wife.

Eventually, Rosalind turned her back to it and struck Tyrion with scrutinizing eyes. It was strange to look a man in the eye from so far above and not be amused. Not feel any sort of pity. She had sewn herself with colours of selflessness and acceptance, and yet when faced with the truth, she found herself to be vain. Of course she would have wanted someone more handsome, taller, who could keep a sword in his hand without bending with its weight.

They all had forbidden pleasures. They all loved and lusted, yet if she ever dared to speak of those to another, they would feel injured by her words and act as though they had never sinned before. It was merely in the human nature to feel ingenuous and pristine, even if they all knew that deep down, they were not the saints that they believed they were.

Perhaps she would have wanted Jaime Lannister, but those were wishes she could not speak. Too many thoughts were clouding her mind in front of that strange tree, as if it were milking her for secrets she would not have otherwise revealed, not even to herself. Desire for flesh, for what she had never had. Those little lies she had been told, they were there, irking her, tickling her mind and stabbing her heart.

"You do not like it here, do you?" Tyrion sighed then, breaking her line of thought. Suddenly, those voices stopped, and Rosalind found herself surrounded by loud silence again.

"I will only wait for it to get better." She knew that it would not feel as bad, with time, which could pass as improvement.

"Then you have a long time to wait," the small lion smiled. "We are sadly bound to live long lives. I cannot fight, and your only weapon is a needle... Unless you want to poison me before our wedding." The possibility could not be excluded. She was as much a mystery to him as the weirwood itself: a secretive beauty, so well disguised beneath a face gilded with innocent freckles.

But Rosalind was not innocent in the least.