Innocent Truths
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."
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