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Fandom Honor and Thorns {Closed!}
Asteria
⚔️
Aerys Targaryen’s eyes were clear the morning he summoned Tywin Lannister to the Great Hall. From afar, seated on the Iron Throne as was, his back straighter than usual, surrounded by his White Cloaks, Aerys looked all the king Tywin had thought he would be, but the closer he got, the more it was revealed to him that Aerys was only a shadow of that man – he was sickly looking and pale, skinny enough that his dark robes hung loosely around his form, making him appear even smaller than he already was. His hands shook on the handles of the Iron Throne and so did the right corner of his mouth when he grinned.
Despite an apparent weakness, he still had some fight left in him, when it came to his sister-wife. Rhaella’s skin was more violet than pristine white on most days and, on the others, she was simply better at hiding it. Not even she could be subjugated, though, not to the extent Aerys wanted her to be, at least.
‘The man you could’ve been, the things you could’ve achieved…’ Tywin deplored lost potential and Aerys was a monument of it. But his judgement didn’t seem to be as clouded on that day as he pinned him under his gaze, spreading his arms in welcome. The summoning was unexpected, but most of their meetings were, for Aerys terribly enjoyed surprising him.
In Tywin’s eyes, he simply liked to make him lose time in his attempts at assuring himself that his Hand was still working in and not against his benefit. He had thought that morning no different from others in that regard, but, oh, Aerys terribly enjoyed surprising him, indeed. “My friend… my dear friend,” he addressed him, “I have a gift for you. Yes, a gift. You take good care of me, you always have… of me and my kingdom. Mine, yes.”
Even on his better days – for there were no true good days with him, not anymore –, Aerys’ possessiveness was inescapable. He liked to remind Tywin who was in power and there came the leer, the thirst for a land that wasn’t truly his. “A wife,” he declared proudly, his long nails scratching the iron as he tightly gripped the handles of the throne, “from the North. This is my gift – Rickard Stark’s eldest daughter, Elayna. I’ve asked for her hand on your behalf. Everything has been arranged.”
‘On my behalf?’ Tywin’s surprise was not outward. He knew that Aerys was expecting a reaction from him, but he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of one as he remained unmoving, his expression impenetrable. His green eyes burned, though, as hot as wildfire.
“I can see how pleased you are.” There was nothing to be seen. “You have been so alone, locked up in that tower of yours, yes. But no more, I promise you.”
Tywin simply inclined his head, but his gaze remained fixed on the kingly carcass. “And I promise His Grace that I will continue to take care of him as he does of me.” It was at those words that Aerys’ mood soured. His actions were born out of malice – and it meant that Tywin’s were so, as well.
Aerys Targaryen feared him. The others he might suspect of ill-intention, but it was Tywin that he truly feared. Aerys could not go against him, though, not openly, and it was for that reason that he had to resort to such petty acts, basing their success on his weaknesses. Joanna had been a weakness. At no point had he shown the intention of remarrying; he had an heir, already, and a daughter through whom he could forge a necessary alliance. Tywin wondered if there wasn’t more to Aerys’ schemes, but, for the moment, he was utterly focused on Elayna Stark.
And it didn’t take him long to reveal why he had chosen her of all others. Tywin’s words had stirred Aerys’ dark, seething thoughts and that turned him ruthless in the days following the announcement. He called her spoiled goods, a cold and dry whore, and, most of all, a witch, for she was cursed. If Tywin were one to entertain himself with a simpleton’s talk, he would’ve thought to mention that it was Aerys who was cursed, but Tywin Lannister could not afford to blame a man’s shortcomings on the will of the Gods.
He could only blame the man, just as he blamed himself for the birth of his youngest son.
He might as well be cursed, too, in that regard.
But with knowledge of the curse, came the knowledge of the position at court Aerys had bestowed upon the Stark girl – she was meant to serve as Rhaella’s lady-in-waiting, a position that wouldn’t allow Tywin to dispose of her immediately by sending her to Casterly Rock. It was another scratch at an old wound. His displeasure with that innate restraint was then muddled by a wave of quiet anger at the thought of the history of that position.
If anything, at least her time in King’s Landing would be short-lived.
He didn’t see her on the day she arrived, nor the next, though he inquired about her and her family’s health through the servants. He was the one behind the arrangements of their stay, and it was the arrangements for the celebration of their betrothal that kept him occupied afterwards. The marriage was unavoidable, but it didn’t mean that Tywin couldn’t impose his own terms upon it, spun it as he liked.
On the morning of the third day, the day of the feast itself, was a servant sent to Lady Stark’s chambers to announce Tywin’s first visit. He left not too late afterwards, dressed in all black, except for the crimson velvet tunic decorated with fine, golden thread and golden clasps. It was a simple choice, but elegant nonetheless. He was carrying a wooden box, engraved with complex patterns and encrusted with rare jewels under his right arm – a gift.
Servants and nobles alike greeted him in passing as he strode through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast and he responded in kind. When he, at last, reached the quarters he had arranged for Elayna Stark for the duration of the period until their wedding, for they were closer to Rhaella’s own chambers, the guards acknowledged him with curt nods, before announcing his arrival.
“The Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister.”
“The other way around, Maris,” Ashara Dayne’s voice was soft and hushed as she spoke. Maris ceased reciting the poem at the observation and her attention shifted from her own handiwork to Ashara’s – her slender fingers moved deftly through the dark strands of hair and Maris began to recreate the movement at a slower pace. When she looked back at the woman at her side, she was nodding, smiling in approval.
This would become a usual exchange in the future. It had been settled that, while Maris would introduce Elia Martell and her companion to styles more fit for King’s Landing in terms of hair and dress, they would get her accustomed to Dornish ones. The preparations for the upcoming feast turned into lessons themselves, under Ashara’s guidance, lessons that Elia easily complied with. She chose a hairstyle from her home this time, centred on a beautiful bejewelled headpiece that covered the top of her head. The base seemed not all too different from what Maris already knew, but the more it caught shape, the more complicated it became.
Maris was aware that it was taking longer than it should. The least she was able to do was to try to entertain the two. She recited them three poems, one from the Reach and the second from King’s Landing – which was more song than poem, and amusing enough to make the two laugh –, and another from Dorne, which both knew.
The last one was from Essos. Seeing Elia’s reflection, it was this that affected her more, for her gaze turned wistful. Maris wondered at what she thought of right then: the prince himself, perhaps, or the home she had left behind.
Or, why not, a past lover. She was curious of them, she couldn’t deny it. Ashara had been more of what she had expected of a woman of Dorne, but Elia was all contradictions: frail looks and fiery eyes, at once gentle and firm. The first time she had caught sight of her in the gardens two days ago, she had been reminded of the statue of the Maiden in the Great Sept of Baelor that she had first seen as a child – comforting, fascinating, yet tall, and grand, and out of reach.
But she and Ashara had taken to her easily and were quick to leave aside pretences and pleasantries. They had briefly met upon her arrival until she and her family had excused themselves to rest, and the next morning Ashara had given her a tour of the Red Keep and its surroundings, only for the two of them to join Elia and continue their conversation afterwards. They had spoken of a great many things, from their families, the feast, the upcoming wedding, even, to expectations.
Maris had gotten that feeling she usually got around those she regarded with some interest, or, better said, those she thought to be above herself. She wanted them to like her.
“I haven’t heard this one before,” Elia spoke, as Maris delayed resuming her recitation. “Where is it from?”
“Not here, I imagine,” Ashara added. “Is it from Jhala? The Summer Isles?”
Maris’ lips curved into one of her small smiles. “Why shouldn’t it be from here? You mean to say that we can't be thieves of pleasure?”
Ashara’s comment had to do more with the contents of the poem than its literary value, Maris was aware of that. She had seemed to like the one from the Reach, after all. Elia’s reflection smiled back at her, but Ashara grew quiet, though her eyes gleamed.
“Mmm,” she mused, “On second thought, you may be the greatest thieves of them all. You seem to take pleasure only in the dark and mention nothing of it at sunrise. You hide behind honour, and duty, pondering what is proper and what is not…”
It was the truth and King’s Landing was a poor place to show them that it could be otherwise. Everyone was more title than man here, and who could say what pleasures hid behind those titles. “We are frigid,” Maris easily agreed, tone still teasing, “which is why I am happy to know that the sun shall shine brighter over our land in the future. More warmth will do us good.” And one of her hands broke from the sea of curls to brush Elia’s shoulder.
There was yet hope for their prince.
“As for the poem… I learned it from a merchant from Braavos while he resided in Oldtown.” Mace liked to see certain agreements though by himself and he hadn’t seen the harm in bringing her along. Not as if she had left him much choice at the time. “He said that he had translated it from the Summer Tongue himself. It travels among the Summer Isles – it presumably belongs to a freed slave that, upon returning home, to Jhala, discovered their lover dead. They have regained their freedom and home, but have lost something else in return. The merchant didn’t know their name.”
The poem of a nameless figure with such a past, used by a honey-tongued merchant on a pretty girl. It was a pity. Elia seemed to share the sentiment. “Their name should be known. It is a beautiful poem, do you mind conti—”
She was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by one of the guard’s voice. “His Grace, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”
Maris and Ashara made the last adjustments to her hair and then broke from her. Elia rose with ease, sandy silks moving around her form. She had yet to get dressed for the feast, much like her ladies, as they were still dressed for the day. Ashara wore a sleeveless purple dress threaded with silver and, while it seemed innocent enough, the fabric hung low at her back, hidden by her dark ringlets, and her skirts had high cuts that could be seen only when she moved. Maris was her opposite in that regard, with her green dress embroidered with golden roses; it was thicker than Elia’s or Ashara’s, with long sleeves that covered her hands when she rested, but her neckline plunged deep and it wasn’t obstructed by any hair, braided as it was away from her face.
And, as Elia smoothed her skirts and gave them a passing look once they joined her, Ashara on the right, Maris on the left, she called out to the door.
“Come in.”
Despite an apparent weakness, he still had some fight left in him, when it came to his sister-wife. Rhaella’s skin was more violet than pristine white on most days and, on the others, she was simply better at hiding it. Not even she could be subjugated, though, not to the extent Aerys wanted her to be, at least.
‘The man you could’ve been, the things you could’ve achieved…’ Tywin deplored lost potential and Aerys was a monument of it. But his judgement didn’t seem to be as clouded on that day as he pinned him under his gaze, spreading his arms in welcome. The summoning was unexpected, but most of their meetings were, for Aerys terribly enjoyed surprising him.
In Tywin’s eyes, he simply liked to make him lose time in his attempts at assuring himself that his Hand was still working in and not against his benefit. He had thought that morning no different from others in that regard, but, oh, Aerys terribly enjoyed surprising him, indeed. “My friend… my dear friend,” he addressed him, “I have a gift for you. Yes, a gift. You take good care of me, you always have… of me and my kingdom. Mine, yes.”
Even on his better days – for there were no true good days with him, not anymore –, Aerys’ possessiveness was inescapable. He liked to remind Tywin who was in power and there came the leer, the thirst for a land that wasn’t truly his. “A wife,” he declared proudly, his long nails scratching the iron as he tightly gripped the handles of the throne, “from the North. This is my gift – Rickard Stark’s eldest daughter, Elayna. I’ve asked for her hand on your behalf. Everything has been arranged.”
‘On my behalf?’ Tywin’s surprise was not outward. He knew that Aerys was expecting a reaction from him, but he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of one as he remained unmoving, his expression impenetrable. His green eyes burned, though, as hot as wildfire.
“I can see how pleased you are.” There was nothing to be seen. “You have been so alone, locked up in that tower of yours, yes. But no more, I promise you.”
Tywin simply inclined his head, but his gaze remained fixed on the kingly carcass. “And I promise His Grace that I will continue to take care of him as he does of me.” It was at those words that Aerys’ mood soured. His actions were born out of malice – and it meant that Tywin’s were so, as well.
Aerys Targaryen feared him. The others he might suspect of ill-intention, but it was Tywin that he truly feared. Aerys could not go against him, though, not openly, and it was for that reason that he had to resort to such petty acts, basing their success on his weaknesses. Joanna had been a weakness. At no point had he shown the intention of remarrying; he had an heir, already, and a daughter through whom he could forge a necessary alliance. Tywin wondered if there wasn’t more to Aerys’ schemes, but, for the moment, he was utterly focused on Elayna Stark.
And it didn’t take him long to reveal why he had chosen her of all others. Tywin’s words had stirred Aerys’ dark, seething thoughts and that turned him ruthless in the days following the announcement. He called her spoiled goods, a cold and dry whore, and, most of all, a witch, for she was cursed. If Tywin were one to entertain himself with a simpleton’s talk, he would’ve thought to mention that it was Aerys who was cursed, but Tywin Lannister could not afford to blame a man’s shortcomings on the will of the Gods.
He could only blame the man, just as he blamed himself for the birth of his youngest son.
He might as well be cursed, too, in that regard.
But with knowledge of the curse, came the knowledge of the position at court Aerys had bestowed upon the Stark girl – she was meant to serve as Rhaella’s lady-in-waiting, a position that wouldn’t allow Tywin to dispose of her immediately by sending her to Casterly Rock. It was another scratch at an old wound. His displeasure with that innate restraint was then muddled by a wave of quiet anger at the thought of the history of that position.
If anything, at least her time in King’s Landing would be short-lived.
He didn’t see her on the day she arrived, nor the next, though he inquired about her and her family’s health through the servants. He was the one behind the arrangements of their stay, and it was the arrangements for the celebration of their betrothal that kept him occupied afterwards. The marriage was unavoidable, but it didn’t mean that Tywin couldn’t impose his own terms upon it, spun it as he liked.
On the morning of the third day, the day of the feast itself, was a servant sent to Lady Stark’s chambers to announce Tywin’s first visit. He left not too late afterwards, dressed in all black, except for the crimson velvet tunic decorated with fine, golden thread and golden clasps. It was a simple choice, but elegant nonetheless. He was carrying a wooden box, engraved with complex patterns and encrusted with rare jewels under his right arm – a gift.
Servants and nobles alike greeted him in passing as he strode through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast and he responded in kind. When he, at last, reached the quarters he had arranged for Elayna Stark for the duration of the period until their wedding, for they were closer to Rhaella’s own chambers, the guards acknowledged him with curt nods, before announcing his arrival.
“The Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister.”
𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬
“With passion from this place, Jhala,
I remember you.
Horizon clear, limpid
The face of earth, and wind,
Come twilight, desists,
A tenderness sweeps me
When I see the silver
Coiling waterways
Like necklaces detached
From throats. Delicious those
Days we spent while fate
Slept. There was peace, I mean,
And us, thieves of pleasure.”
“With passion from this place, Jhala,
I remember you.
Horizon clear, limpid
The face of earth, and wind,
Come twilight, desists,
A tenderness sweeps me
When I see the silver
Coiling waterways
Like necklaces detached
From throats. Delicious those
Days we spent while fate
Slept. There was peace, I mean,
And us, thieves of pleasure.”
“The other way around, Maris,” Ashara Dayne’s voice was soft and hushed as she spoke. Maris ceased reciting the poem at the observation and her attention shifted from her own handiwork to Ashara’s – her slender fingers moved deftly through the dark strands of hair and Maris began to recreate the movement at a slower pace. When she looked back at the woman at her side, she was nodding, smiling in approval.
This would become a usual exchange in the future. It had been settled that, while Maris would introduce Elia Martell and her companion to styles more fit for King’s Landing in terms of hair and dress, they would get her accustomed to Dornish ones. The preparations for the upcoming feast turned into lessons themselves, under Ashara’s guidance, lessons that Elia easily complied with. She chose a hairstyle from her home this time, centred on a beautiful bejewelled headpiece that covered the top of her head. The base seemed not all too different from what Maris already knew, but the more it caught shape, the more complicated it became.
Maris was aware that it was taking longer than it should. The least she was able to do was to try to entertain the two. She recited them three poems, one from the Reach and the second from King’s Landing – which was more song than poem, and amusing enough to make the two laugh –, and another from Dorne, which both knew.
The last one was from Essos. Seeing Elia’s reflection, it was this that affected her more, for her gaze turned wistful. Maris wondered at what she thought of right then: the prince himself, perhaps, or the home she had left behind.
Or, why not, a past lover. She was curious of them, she couldn’t deny it. Ashara had been more of what she had expected of a woman of Dorne, but Elia was all contradictions: frail looks and fiery eyes, at once gentle and firm. The first time she had caught sight of her in the gardens two days ago, she had been reminded of the statue of the Maiden in the Great Sept of Baelor that she had first seen as a child – comforting, fascinating, yet tall, and grand, and out of reach.
But she and Ashara had taken to her easily and were quick to leave aside pretences and pleasantries. They had briefly met upon her arrival until she and her family had excused themselves to rest, and the next morning Ashara had given her a tour of the Red Keep and its surroundings, only for the two of them to join Elia and continue their conversation afterwards. They had spoken of a great many things, from their families, the feast, the upcoming wedding, even, to expectations.
Maris had gotten that feeling she usually got around those she regarded with some interest, or, better said, those she thought to be above herself. She wanted them to like her.
“I haven’t heard this one before,” Elia spoke, as Maris delayed resuming her recitation. “Where is it from?”
“Not here, I imagine,” Ashara added. “Is it from Jhala? The Summer Isles?”
Maris’ lips curved into one of her small smiles. “Why shouldn’t it be from here? You mean to say that we can't be thieves of pleasure?”
Ashara’s comment had to do more with the contents of the poem than its literary value, Maris was aware of that. She had seemed to like the one from the Reach, after all. Elia’s reflection smiled back at her, but Ashara grew quiet, though her eyes gleamed.
“Mmm,” she mused, “On second thought, you may be the greatest thieves of them all. You seem to take pleasure only in the dark and mention nothing of it at sunrise. You hide behind honour, and duty, pondering what is proper and what is not…”
It was the truth and King’s Landing was a poor place to show them that it could be otherwise. Everyone was more title than man here, and who could say what pleasures hid behind those titles. “We are frigid,” Maris easily agreed, tone still teasing, “which is why I am happy to know that the sun shall shine brighter over our land in the future. More warmth will do us good.” And one of her hands broke from the sea of curls to brush Elia’s shoulder.
There was yet hope for their prince.
“As for the poem… I learned it from a merchant from Braavos while he resided in Oldtown.” Mace liked to see certain agreements though by himself and he hadn’t seen the harm in bringing her along. Not as if she had left him much choice at the time. “He said that he had translated it from the Summer Tongue himself. It travels among the Summer Isles – it presumably belongs to a freed slave that, upon returning home, to Jhala, discovered their lover dead. They have regained their freedom and home, but have lost something else in return. The merchant didn’t know their name.”
The poem of a nameless figure with such a past, used by a honey-tongued merchant on a pretty girl. It was a pity. Elia seemed to share the sentiment. “Their name should be known. It is a beautiful poem, do you mind conti—”
She was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by one of the guard’s voice. “His Grace, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”
Maris and Ashara made the last adjustments to her hair and then broke from her. Elia rose with ease, sandy silks moving around her form. She had yet to get dressed for the feast, much like her ladies, as they were still dressed for the day. Ashara wore a sleeveless purple dress threaded with silver and, while it seemed innocent enough, the fabric hung low at her back, hidden by her dark ringlets, and her skirts had high cuts that could be seen only when she moved. Maris was her opposite in that regard, with her green dress embroidered with golden roses; it was thicker than Elia’s or Ashara’s, with long sleeves that covered her hands when she rested, but her neckline plunged deep and it wasn’t obstructed by any hair, braided as it was away from her face.
And, as Elia smoothed her skirts and gave them a passing look once they joined her, Ashara on the right, Maris on the left, she called out to the door.
“Come in.”
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KyloGlenn
either born in hell or heaven sent
The final night Elayna Stark had spent in her home of Winterfell had been filled with warmth and deep laughter. Smells of roasted chicken and beef stew filled the halls. Tiered dessert platters filled with sweet honeycakes adorned each table and Elayna’s cheeks had been kept red and warm by spiced wine served hot. Her excitable brother Brandon’s voice filled the room as he spuns tales to keep the gathering entertained, but most importantly to keep a smile on his eldest sister’s face. Even her dignified father, Rickard, and her just as serious brother Ned had joined in the merriment. Her youngest siblings, Lyanna and Benjen, spent the night irritating one another. Benjen had certainly been allowed too much of the spiced wine the rest of them drank. Lyarra Stark used the night to give her first child as much advice as she could, as a wife and mother herself, even if she might’ve told it to Elayna in previous years.
It was a goodbye. For how long, none of them were sure. Maybe forever. But they all knew that it would happen one day, that they’d begin to be married off. They’d leave their families and start new ones elsewhere. It was simply the way of it. And Elayna wasn’t stupid. She knew this engagement,odd and out of the blue, was the most beneficial one she’d ever get. If they even could refuse, they’d have been foolish to do so. A goodbye as it was, it was still a good night, and a fond memory in Elayna’s mind. One she clinged to now.
She’d been accompanied on her trip by her father and dearest brother Eddard – Ned had been upset by the proposal of marriage, but not to the explosive nature that Brandon favored – as well as maids of her own, and of course men to keep them safe during their travels. It had been a long journey along the kingsroad, but Elayna hadn’t truly begun to miss home until the heat and the smell of King’s Landing greeted her. And her future husband didn’t.
The Starks took it as an insult. Why else would Tywin Lannister not have greeted his soon-to-be wife and her family upon their arrival? But Elayna hadn’t had much of a chance to dwell on it, as she was quickly introduced to her Queen she’d be serving and her duties as her lady.
Rhaella was a kind woman. Smart, clearly mindful of her position. But there was a sadness to her that Elayna was quick to understand. Elayna had been shocked upon seeing the marks on Rhaella’s porcelain skin, but she’d been wise enough not to show it. Then meeting the silver haired little prince, Viserys, a robust and emotional little thing, it was clear Rhaella wasn’t even allowed to be alone with her own son. A Kingsguard accompanied visitations between them.
After being taught a thing or two by Rhaella and one of Rhaella’s servant maids – Taelin, Elayna believed her name to be – the Stark had been allowed to settle into her new chambers and spend time with her family until she had to fulfill some duties prior to the feast. The feast in which her betrothal would be announced. Elayna had fully expected not to see Tywin Lannister until then, and wouldn’t have been surprised if he disappeared thereafter.
“I suppose this could be much more unfortunate than it is,” Elayna spoke to her brother and father the morning of the feast.
She’d already dressed for the day. There’d been a bit of a rush to make Elayna some southern appropriate clothes before leaving Winterfell. Less layers. She didn’t have many, it was something she’d have to work on. That morning she dressed in a light blue gown and over it she wore a grey overdress, closed at the front with two silver colored clasps. Embroidered blue and lilac flowers vined up the flared sleeves of the overdress, as well as up the skirt. She accessorized with her usual pendant adorned with the direwolf sigil, along with some other jewelled pieces. It was something she thought would be suited to wear during the day, but pretty enough to wear in the evening.
They’d been informed of Tywin’s upcoming visit, his first since they’d arrived, and the Northern family discussed as they awaited him. “He’s a busy man, if his absence is something to expect, perhaps this is a good thing. I’ll have time to myself. He already has an heir and a daughter. With a son to spare. Less pressure on me to provide.”
“I’m afraid that’s not quite how men think, my dear. Especially not lords of noble houses.” Lord Rickard Stark sighed. He’d thought he’d accepted the fate of his eldest, given her two previous engagements. He knew he’d have to give her away one day. But this one felt more real than the others. “I’ve no doubt Tywin will still uphold his duties as a spouse.” He feared Elayna would miss out on much of what a marriage was or could be, aside from the chores of it.
“This is silly. If Brandon had come, he’d have gone to Tywin the moment he insulted Elayna and we wouldn’t be contemplating any of this.” Eddard interjected. Eddard’s objection to this betrothal had been the most surprising part. He was usually so level-headed and he had a strong understanding of things that needed to be done.
“Well, it’s a good thing Brandon didn’t come, then.” Elayna placed her hand on her little brother’s arm. “He didn’t insult me. I’m sure he has much to do given his role here and we have our entire marriage ahead of us to say hello to one another. We’re not at home anymore, it’s wiser to not push our luck here. It’s fine, Ned.” She assured him. Tywin Lannister was nothing short of a terrifying man, so they’d heard. Best not to test it.
Of course it was at that moment that the guards announced the Hand’s arrival. The Northerners rose from their seats at the announcement, three towering figures amidst the room. Elayna straightened her skirts as they moved into position. “Come in,” Elayna called, her voice steady despite the sudden nerves that had her hands trembling. The evidence was easily hidden by her sleeves.
And the guards opened the doors, revealing the golden lion in all his glory. He exuded the regality and the riches he undoubtedly possessed. “Lord Tywin, It’s good to see you.” Rickard greeted, his voice deep and carrying as he greeted the Lord Hand. The men had met before on occasion. “Please, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Elayna.” Rickard placed a hand on his daughter’s back at that moment.
Elayna bowed her head in greeting, trying to remember the two previous times she’d done something along these lines. But neither were Tywin Lannister. Not even comparable.
“Lord Tywin, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I was beginning to worry you’d grown afraid of me. I’m glad to see that’s not the case.”
❄✴❄✴❄
“Have you had enough yet, Your Grace?” Ser Arthur Dayne stood tall and strong, the orange and pink colors from the rising sun reflected in his violet eyes and painted a warm wash over his skin. He was underdressed, at least compared to his typical attire. He was sans his usual white gold armor, dressed simply in a white undershirt and trousers paired with boots, all things hastily thrown on earlier that morning.
He stood grinning a white smile down at his opponent, a glinting sword in his hand, his tone teasing. His opponent stood hunched over, hands on his hips as he caught his breath. Silver hair swished as the Targaryen prince shook his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t, Ser Arthur.” And then the prince raised his own weapon and swung it at his friend, only for Arthur to duck and dodge away.
The pair had gotten up at the crack of dawn and half asleep they gathered their swords and their horses. Before most of the Keep was awake, before King’s Landing was awake. They rode away and began their battle. A training lesson, they called it. A way to keep themselves in shape, ready. Really, it was just entertainment. A way for the two, though usually Prince Rhaegar, to get their frustrations out in the company of friends.
It wasn’t uncommon for the two to sneak away, though it wasn’t always as frequent as either would appreciate. Only when time and duty allowed it. Sometimes it would be little scuffles like these, the ones Arthur preferred. Sometimes it would be the Sword of the Morning following the Dragon Prince on his melancholic walks or guarding him as he sang to the people of King’s Landing. But this particular morning, the two jovially swung at one another.
Of course, neither of them were wielding their true arms. Arthur wasn’t swinging Dawn at his friend and prince. They fought with old, dull steel. Nothing either of them would be seriously harmed by, though neither cared if they drew blood.
Arthur was still a Kingsguard, however, and always on duty in one way or another. So his highly regarded sword was never far from his grasp, should he need to use it.
The hilt of Arthur’s juvenile sword caught Rhaegar’s blade and he twisted his weapon, all but plucking the steel up and out of Rhaegar’s hands. The Prince cursed as Arthur held the rounded point of the blade to Rhaegar’s throat.
“You’re a great deal better than me at many things, my friend, but this is not one of them.” Arthur said before lowering his weapon and fetching the one he’d knocked out of Rhaegar’s hands. “We ought to head back. We’ve both got a long day ahead of us.”
“Fair enough,” Rhaegar sighed, a good loser, as he wrapped his hand with a spare piece of cloth. It had been nicked during their tussle. It was nothing more than a scratch and the bleeding would stop quickly, though he knew Elia would worry over the superficial wound anyway. “Ah yes, the feast. A long day indeed.” The betrothal, the petty one Rhaegar’s father had arranged for the Lannister Lord. Aerys wouldn’t miss it for the world, which meant the Kingsguard wouldn’t miss it either.
The prince wouldn’t either. Appearances, after all. Elia would likely enjoy the festivities, too. Which might make up for the fact that Rhaegar would have to deal with his father.
The two men mounted their horses and began their leisurely journey back as the sun began to settle high in the sky. “Tywin’s witch,” Rhaegar mused. “I can’t help but wonder what the Hand must think of this.” There were plenty better matches for Tywin. But that was exactly why Aerys chose the Stark. Rhaegar knew, everyone knew, Aerys could only push the lion so much before he would snap. But Tywin kept his claws to himself on this one.
“Witch,” Arthur scoffed. “I’ll believe that when I see it. I’ve heard men call women witches for less.” When women refused to sleep with men. Or a woman was too pretty – or too ugly – for her own good. Or for tragic occurrences, like the loss of a child.
“My father will be so disappointed.” Just as he always was. Rhaegar changed the subject, “Elia has a new lady-in-waiting. Tyrell, so I heard. Tonight is her first exposure to court.” Unofficially.
“Unfortunate timing. She’ll be overshadowed by Tywin remarrying. Since when do you or I concern ourselves with ladies at court?” Arthur’s dark brows furrowed as he spared a glance at his companion. Rhaegar was engaged and Arthur was sworn to the Kingsguard.
“From what I hear, I don’t think she’ll have much trouble,” not with her mother accompanying her. Nor would her – supposed – outstanding beauty hinder her. Talk of her spread, much like the talk of Arthur’s own sister, Ashara. Ser Dayne had a point, they didn’t concern themselves with such matters and Rhaegar’s train of thought trailed off as he realized what information he was really focusing on.
Arthur knew when Rhaegar became distant, lost in thoughts as he often did. The rest of the ride back to the Keep was silent.
The two parted ways for the remainder of the morning with an agreement of seeing each other later, both cleaned up and attended to their usual duties. The next time they saw each other, later in the morning and down the hall from Elia’s chambers, they donned official attire. Rhaegar dressed in black, his tunic made of a solid black with the same color in satin creating swirls that caught the light when he moved. His half-cape was made with the same fabrics, though the underside was a dark scarlet red. The half-cape was secured across his chest by a thick silver chain. In his hands he held a small bouquet. A blend of orange and red roses – for Elia.
Arthur, of course, had no such stylistic choices. He stood proud and stern in his white suit of armor with the white cloak to match. Dawn rested sheathed at his side. The two walked side by side until they reached Elia’s door, her melodic voice inviting them in. The existing guards opened the door for them, revealing the three ladies standing together behind the door.
All but one figure was recognizable. Princess Elia dressed in sandy silks and Lady Ashara in striking purple were familiar sights. But the one in green, dressed in much more typical Westerosi style yet still daring, she was new. ‘Tyrell,’ Arthur recalled from earlier in the morning, his conversation with Rhaegar.
Not only did Arthur understand, but Rhaegar did as well. Understood why there were so many whispers about this girl already, for she was a great beauty. But Rhaegar redirected his attentions to his wife-to-be, offering her a small smile as he entered. He gave a quick bow of his head in greeting to all the ladies, but made a beeline to his betrothed. “Princess, it’s good to see you in good health this morning.” He gently took her delicate hand in his, bringing it up to press a kiss to the back of her hand. “I’ve brought a small gift for you. Freshly plucked,” he assured as he lay the flowers softly in Elia’s free arm.
Elia’s smile was warm and lit up her face, certainly pleased with the thoughtful bouquet. “Thank you, Rhaegar. It’s very kind of you to think of me.” She still held his hand in hers, allowing a gentle squeeze before she turned to Lady Dayne. “Would you mind, Ashara?” Elia asked, gesturing to the flowers in her hand.
“Not at all, Princess. I’ll discard the flowers from the other gentleman and replace them with these right away,” Ashara jested, dipping in respect to Rhaegar and giving her brother a small smile before she turned to attend to the flowers.
Elia chuckled, shaking her head lightly, “Don’t mind her. You’re the only gentleman to bring me roses. Oh!” Elia reminded herself. “Speaking of roses! Your Grace, this Lady Maris Tyrell, my lovely lady-in-waiting.” The Dornish woman presented the girl to her left. “Maris, this is his Grace, Prince Rhaegar. But of course you’re aware of that. And the knight in white is Ser Arthur Dayne.”
“He’s my brother, I believe I mentioned to you,” Ashara chimed in as she returned to Elia’s other side.
Arthur nodded, a sufficient enough pleasant look on his face, “My Lady,” he allowed a quick greeting, to be polite.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Maris,” Rhaegar allowed his hand to remain with Elia as he turned to the rose. “I trust your journey here was well and that you and your family have been kept comfortable?”
It was a goodbye. For how long, none of them were sure. Maybe forever. But they all knew that it would happen one day, that they’d begin to be married off. They’d leave their families and start new ones elsewhere. It was simply the way of it. And Elayna wasn’t stupid. She knew this engagement,odd and out of the blue, was the most beneficial one she’d ever get. If they even could refuse, they’d have been foolish to do so. A goodbye as it was, it was still a good night, and a fond memory in Elayna’s mind. One she clinged to now.
She’d been accompanied on her trip by her father and dearest brother Eddard – Ned had been upset by the proposal of marriage, but not to the explosive nature that Brandon favored – as well as maids of her own, and of course men to keep them safe during their travels. It had been a long journey along the kingsroad, but Elayna hadn’t truly begun to miss home until the heat and the smell of King’s Landing greeted her. And her future husband didn’t.
The Starks took it as an insult. Why else would Tywin Lannister not have greeted his soon-to-be wife and her family upon their arrival? But Elayna hadn’t had much of a chance to dwell on it, as she was quickly introduced to her Queen she’d be serving and her duties as her lady.
Rhaella was a kind woman. Smart, clearly mindful of her position. But there was a sadness to her that Elayna was quick to understand. Elayna had been shocked upon seeing the marks on Rhaella’s porcelain skin, but she’d been wise enough not to show it. Then meeting the silver haired little prince, Viserys, a robust and emotional little thing, it was clear Rhaella wasn’t even allowed to be alone with her own son. A Kingsguard accompanied visitations between them.
After being taught a thing or two by Rhaella and one of Rhaella’s servant maids – Taelin, Elayna believed her name to be – the Stark had been allowed to settle into her new chambers and spend time with her family until she had to fulfill some duties prior to the feast. The feast in which her betrothal would be announced. Elayna had fully expected not to see Tywin Lannister until then, and wouldn’t have been surprised if he disappeared thereafter.
“I suppose this could be much more unfortunate than it is,” Elayna spoke to her brother and father the morning of the feast.
She’d already dressed for the day. There’d been a bit of a rush to make Elayna some southern appropriate clothes before leaving Winterfell. Less layers. She didn’t have many, it was something she’d have to work on. That morning she dressed in a light blue gown and over it she wore a grey overdress, closed at the front with two silver colored clasps. Embroidered blue and lilac flowers vined up the flared sleeves of the overdress, as well as up the skirt. She accessorized with her usual pendant adorned with the direwolf sigil, along with some other jewelled pieces. It was something she thought would be suited to wear during the day, but pretty enough to wear in the evening.
They’d been informed of Tywin’s upcoming visit, his first since they’d arrived, and the Northern family discussed as they awaited him. “He’s a busy man, if his absence is something to expect, perhaps this is a good thing. I’ll have time to myself. He already has an heir and a daughter. With a son to spare. Less pressure on me to provide.”
“I’m afraid that’s not quite how men think, my dear. Especially not lords of noble houses.” Lord Rickard Stark sighed. He’d thought he’d accepted the fate of his eldest, given her two previous engagements. He knew he’d have to give her away one day. But this one felt more real than the others. “I’ve no doubt Tywin will still uphold his duties as a spouse.” He feared Elayna would miss out on much of what a marriage was or could be, aside from the chores of it.
“This is silly. If Brandon had come, he’d have gone to Tywin the moment he insulted Elayna and we wouldn’t be contemplating any of this.” Eddard interjected. Eddard’s objection to this betrothal had been the most surprising part. He was usually so level-headed and he had a strong understanding of things that needed to be done.
“Well, it’s a good thing Brandon didn’t come, then.” Elayna placed her hand on her little brother’s arm. “He didn’t insult me. I’m sure he has much to do given his role here and we have our entire marriage ahead of us to say hello to one another. We’re not at home anymore, it’s wiser to not push our luck here. It’s fine, Ned.” She assured him. Tywin Lannister was nothing short of a terrifying man, so they’d heard. Best not to test it.
Of course it was at that moment that the guards announced the Hand’s arrival. The Northerners rose from their seats at the announcement, three towering figures amidst the room. Elayna straightened her skirts as they moved into position. “Come in,” Elayna called, her voice steady despite the sudden nerves that had her hands trembling. The evidence was easily hidden by her sleeves.
And the guards opened the doors, revealing the golden lion in all his glory. He exuded the regality and the riches he undoubtedly possessed. “Lord Tywin, It’s good to see you.” Rickard greeted, his voice deep and carrying as he greeted the Lord Hand. The men had met before on occasion. “Please, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Elayna.” Rickard placed a hand on his daughter’s back at that moment.
Elayna bowed her head in greeting, trying to remember the two previous times she’d done something along these lines. But neither were Tywin Lannister. Not even comparable.
“Lord Tywin, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I was beginning to worry you’d grown afraid of me. I’m glad to see that’s not the case.”
❄✴❄✴❄
“Have you had enough yet, Your Grace?” Ser Arthur Dayne stood tall and strong, the orange and pink colors from the rising sun reflected in his violet eyes and painted a warm wash over his skin. He was underdressed, at least compared to his typical attire. He was sans his usual white gold armor, dressed simply in a white undershirt and trousers paired with boots, all things hastily thrown on earlier that morning.
He stood grinning a white smile down at his opponent, a glinting sword in his hand, his tone teasing. His opponent stood hunched over, hands on his hips as he caught his breath. Silver hair swished as the Targaryen prince shook his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t, Ser Arthur.” And then the prince raised his own weapon and swung it at his friend, only for Arthur to duck and dodge away.
The pair had gotten up at the crack of dawn and half asleep they gathered their swords and their horses. Before most of the Keep was awake, before King’s Landing was awake. They rode away and began their battle. A training lesson, they called it. A way to keep themselves in shape, ready. Really, it was just entertainment. A way for the two, though usually Prince Rhaegar, to get their frustrations out in the company of friends.
It wasn’t uncommon for the two to sneak away, though it wasn’t always as frequent as either would appreciate. Only when time and duty allowed it. Sometimes it would be little scuffles like these, the ones Arthur preferred. Sometimes it would be the Sword of the Morning following the Dragon Prince on his melancholic walks or guarding him as he sang to the people of King’s Landing. But this particular morning, the two jovially swung at one another.
Of course, neither of them were wielding their true arms. Arthur wasn’t swinging Dawn at his friend and prince. They fought with old, dull steel. Nothing either of them would be seriously harmed by, though neither cared if they drew blood.
Arthur was still a Kingsguard, however, and always on duty in one way or another. So his highly regarded sword was never far from his grasp, should he need to use it.
The hilt of Arthur’s juvenile sword caught Rhaegar’s blade and he twisted his weapon, all but plucking the steel up and out of Rhaegar’s hands. The Prince cursed as Arthur held the rounded point of the blade to Rhaegar’s throat.
“You’re a great deal better than me at many things, my friend, but this is not one of them.” Arthur said before lowering his weapon and fetching the one he’d knocked out of Rhaegar’s hands. “We ought to head back. We’ve both got a long day ahead of us.”
“Fair enough,” Rhaegar sighed, a good loser, as he wrapped his hand with a spare piece of cloth. It had been nicked during their tussle. It was nothing more than a scratch and the bleeding would stop quickly, though he knew Elia would worry over the superficial wound anyway. “Ah yes, the feast. A long day indeed.” The betrothal, the petty one Rhaegar’s father had arranged for the Lannister Lord. Aerys wouldn’t miss it for the world, which meant the Kingsguard wouldn’t miss it either.
The prince wouldn’t either. Appearances, after all. Elia would likely enjoy the festivities, too. Which might make up for the fact that Rhaegar would have to deal with his father.
The two men mounted their horses and began their leisurely journey back as the sun began to settle high in the sky. “Tywin’s witch,” Rhaegar mused. “I can’t help but wonder what the Hand must think of this.” There were plenty better matches for Tywin. But that was exactly why Aerys chose the Stark. Rhaegar knew, everyone knew, Aerys could only push the lion so much before he would snap. But Tywin kept his claws to himself on this one.
“Witch,” Arthur scoffed. “I’ll believe that when I see it. I’ve heard men call women witches for less.” When women refused to sleep with men. Or a woman was too pretty – or too ugly – for her own good. Or for tragic occurrences, like the loss of a child.
“My father will be so disappointed.” Just as he always was. Rhaegar changed the subject, “Elia has a new lady-in-waiting. Tyrell, so I heard. Tonight is her first exposure to court.” Unofficially.
“Unfortunate timing. She’ll be overshadowed by Tywin remarrying. Since when do you or I concern ourselves with ladies at court?” Arthur’s dark brows furrowed as he spared a glance at his companion. Rhaegar was engaged and Arthur was sworn to the Kingsguard.
“From what I hear, I don’t think she’ll have much trouble,” not with her mother accompanying her. Nor would her – supposed – outstanding beauty hinder her. Talk of her spread, much like the talk of Arthur’s own sister, Ashara. Ser Dayne had a point, they didn’t concern themselves with such matters and Rhaegar’s train of thought trailed off as he realized what information he was really focusing on.
Arthur knew when Rhaegar became distant, lost in thoughts as he often did. The rest of the ride back to the Keep was silent.
The two parted ways for the remainder of the morning with an agreement of seeing each other later, both cleaned up and attended to their usual duties. The next time they saw each other, later in the morning and down the hall from Elia’s chambers, they donned official attire. Rhaegar dressed in black, his tunic made of a solid black with the same color in satin creating swirls that caught the light when he moved. His half-cape was made with the same fabrics, though the underside was a dark scarlet red. The half-cape was secured across his chest by a thick silver chain. In his hands he held a small bouquet. A blend of orange and red roses – for Elia.
Arthur, of course, had no such stylistic choices. He stood proud and stern in his white suit of armor with the white cloak to match. Dawn rested sheathed at his side. The two walked side by side until they reached Elia’s door, her melodic voice inviting them in. The existing guards opened the door for them, revealing the three ladies standing together behind the door.
All but one figure was recognizable. Princess Elia dressed in sandy silks and Lady Ashara in striking purple were familiar sights. But the one in green, dressed in much more typical Westerosi style yet still daring, she was new. ‘Tyrell,’ Arthur recalled from earlier in the morning, his conversation with Rhaegar.
Not only did Arthur understand, but Rhaegar did as well. Understood why there were so many whispers about this girl already, for she was a great beauty. But Rhaegar redirected his attentions to his wife-to-be, offering her a small smile as he entered. He gave a quick bow of his head in greeting to all the ladies, but made a beeline to his betrothed. “Princess, it’s good to see you in good health this morning.” He gently took her delicate hand in his, bringing it up to press a kiss to the back of her hand. “I’ve brought a small gift for you. Freshly plucked,” he assured as he lay the flowers softly in Elia’s free arm.
Elia’s smile was warm and lit up her face, certainly pleased with the thoughtful bouquet. “Thank you, Rhaegar. It’s very kind of you to think of me.” She still held his hand in hers, allowing a gentle squeeze before she turned to Lady Dayne. “Would you mind, Ashara?” Elia asked, gesturing to the flowers in her hand.
“Not at all, Princess. I’ll discard the flowers from the other gentleman and replace them with these right away,” Ashara jested, dipping in respect to Rhaegar and giving her brother a small smile before she turned to attend to the flowers.
Elia chuckled, shaking her head lightly, “Don’t mind her. You’re the only gentleman to bring me roses. Oh!” Elia reminded herself. “Speaking of roses! Your Grace, this Lady Maris Tyrell, my lovely lady-in-waiting.” The Dornish woman presented the girl to her left. “Maris, this is his Grace, Prince Rhaegar. But of course you’re aware of that. And the knight in white is Ser Arthur Dayne.”
“He’s my brother, I believe I mentioned to you,” Ashara chimed in as she returned to Elia’s other side.
Arthur nodded, a sufficient enough pleasant look on his face, “My Lady,” he allowed a quick greeting, to be polite.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Maris,” Rhaegar allowed his hand to remain with Elia as he turned to the rose. “I trust your journey here was well and that you and your family have been kept comfortable?”
Asteria
⚔️
The doors were opened before him following the signal given by a feminine voice, which could belong to one woman and one woman only. Tywin entered with measured steps, stopping short of the middle of the chamber.
And here she stood, before him, flanked by her father, Rickard Stark, and her younger brother, Eddard.
Lady Elayna Stark.
In all truth, Tywin hadn’t given much thought to his betrothed as an individual and not a mere part of a grander scheme. He was, by no means, a desirous man, to sit and wonder about what she would look like, but he was a calculated man, one all too known for taking into consideration all the potential outcomes of an existing issue – this was why it was Elayna’s temper and openness to compliance that he had reflected on, first and foremost. He would’ve pondered it even if she was to be sent to Casterly Rock, but he did so even more now, as she was part of the Queen’s retinue.
As she was to be exposed to Aerys’ presence. For all his talk of her as a feral witchling, her family name had contradicted Aerys long before Tywin’s innate scepticism had. The Starks were an ancient house, proud, yet quiet at that, solemn and grave as the winter air, possessing an acute sense of honour. The familiar sight of Lord Rickard’s long, stern face only reaffirmed this knowledge.
“Lord Rickard,” he greeted in return, his voice even and pleasantly low, but just as carrying.
Tywin’s attention shifted from the man to his daughter as she was introduced. He bowed his head courteously, but his green eyes remained fixed on her, his gaze as scrutinizing as ever.
“Lady Elayna.”
She had the North in her. Dark looks, grey eyes, the lithe form of her mother, all hidden beneath livelier shades of the Stark colours, with lilac and silver accents.
At first glance, her demeanour promised no future troubles, remindful of Lord Rickard and the little he had seen of Lyarra Stark. Whether it would remain so was to be seen; Tywin was all too aware of Brandon Stark’s wolf blood, that northern excuse for a character without restraints.
A young lord could get away with much more than an unwed lady of twenty-and-eight could, however. And, perhaps, there was a trace of something in her – his visit turned to be an act of courage by her words. It was all said in jest, most likely, but her worry might not be unfounded if one kept in mind her reputation.
It also served as a reminder of his late welcome.
“Fear is not shameful, but a marriage built on it would be a poor one,” he said all too easily. “There’s nothing to you that I fear, my lady, rest assured. The pleasure is all mine.” His tone remained placid.
There was one last introduction to be made and Lord Rickard moved on to Eddard, though his gaze rested on his daughter a moment longer, “And this is my son, Eddard.”
Tywin and he hadn’t met before, but his name had been easily passed down by the servants. He wasn’t all that older than his own son, but where Jaime would look up at him with cat-like mischief, Eddard did so with a stone-cold stare. It wavered, just a little, as he spoke, “Lord Tywin. It’s a pleasure to have made your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” Tywin returned with another nod.
“Please, join us,” Rickard urged, extending a hand towards the empty seat, “We’ve been expecting you. In truth, we thought we might see you upon our arrival, but, seemingly, that wasn’t the case.” There was no accusation in his words, only firmness. “We do hope that it wasn’t an unfortunate event that required your immediate assistance.”
“No,” Tywin easily denied, “but all matters of the Crown require immediate assistance, no matter their kind. The preparations for today’s feast have only added to a long, awaiting list. Speaking of it, I do hope that you will find it to your satisfaction.” The details of the feast itself had been long debated over the exchanged letters.
Tywin would move to close the distance between them then, but he didn't take the offered seat just yet – he set the small chest on the table that still separated him from his betrothed instead. A long, jewelled finger lightly tapped the lid. “I have brought a gift for your daughter, if I may.”
Rickard nodded, giving his approval with a quick “Of course,” yet not without adding, “but Elayna can speak for her desires herself.” The customs were all too known to the northerner lord. Much of the talk concerning the bride herself went through the heads of the two families that sought to be united through marriage. He did want Tywin to know that his daughter could and would play an active role in the future, nonetheless.
Something that Tywin would, indeed, keep in mind, as he opened the chest. Atop a crimson velvet cushion was a silver necklace. The centrepiece was a sculpted lion head with eyes carved out of moonstones, two howling wolves swirling around its mane. “Then I hope that she will express her desire to wear my gift to tonight’s feast.”
Maris had never cared for such sweet, little displays of affection and had been taught not to trust them at first glance. Men could be kind and gentle when they found it to be to their benefit. Prince Rhaegar was not his father and he was loved by the people, but that didn’t speak of what his character was behind closed doors.
“Ferrets, the lot of them,” her mother liked to say about the Targaryens, “small-eyed and long-faced, squirming under their ill-fitted crowns. But predators, nonetheless.”
Yet, when she saw how Elia’s face lit up at the sight of the prince, and how softly she looked upon him and touched him, Maris found it hard to remain suspicious. The princess’ warmth, as well as the easiness Ashara displayed around him, seemed proof enough of the genuineness of Prince Rhaegar’s gentleness.
For the time being, at least. Her smile grew, in part because of Elia and Ashara, but also because of the childlike amusement that the thought of her mother’s words brought along. Only when her smile threatened to turn too bold, did she shift her attention to the other figure, the image of the grand prince as a ferret, of all things, dispelling at once.
It wasn’t hard to make out who he was, even before he was presented, with Ashara there. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning, wielder of Dawn. Protector of the Crown. He did share into Ashara’s beauty, but he differed from her all the same.
And from the prince himself. Dark features stood out against the white of his armour and cloak, and there was a practised rigidity to him – the warrior to the artist, the fallen star to Prince Rhaegar’s night sky.
Maris’ gaze easily broke from him, though, at Elia’s introduction of her. She curtsied, low, bowing her head. “My princess is all too kind.” Calling her lovely so easily. “Your Grace,” she said in greeting, “Ser Arthur.”
With the prince’s question, she straightened her back, raising her gaze from the ground. She resisted the urge to tilt her chin all too high, all too proud, as she had always done. “I thank you for your care, Your Grace. We are well – our welcome was most graceful and our stay has been more than comfortable so far. Travelling is never easy, but I find that the destination and the found company have made the trouble be worth it.”
Such words like these, too, had been rehearsed and recited all too often. Prince Rhaegar nodded in approval, like many others before him. “And what a company you’ve found. A very pleasant one, indeed.” And he did look at the two Dornish women appreciatively.
“And you’ve only added to it, Your Grace. I am honoured to have made your acquaintance. Yours, too, ser. I’ve heard many stories about the both of you.”
Prince Rhaegar’s smile grew a little tired at that, his shoulders feeling the weight of something unseen, but still there, nonetheless – the pressure of stories, of what role he played in them. “Only good ones, I hope,” and Maris did nod, “If the Gods will it, there will be more to hear in the future. I and Ser Arthur have much to accomplish.”
“And you will accomplish everything that you will put your mind to,” Elia said as she tenderly clasped his hand in hers. “Maris shall then tell me all the stories and sing me all the songs she hears when you cannot. She was just now reciting me a poem from the Jhala, the Summer Isles.”
She paused though, expression becoming thoughtful, and turned his hand with the palm up, catching sight of the fresh cut there. She trailed a path around it with her fingers, careful not to touch it. “Oh, Rhaegar. Again?”
Ashara looked over Elia’s hands. The princess’ brows had slightly creased in worry and Ashara could only worry herself. That was until she saw the reason behind it – a small cut. She couldn’t help but smile, softly so. “Oh, no,” she voiced her own concern, though there was a trace of amusement in her voice.
Sweet Elia, her soft-hearted princess - all too quick to push aside her own pain, but always ready to fuss over another's. Cuts were no mere cuts when it came to her, however. Ashara knew it from experience; Elia could not afford the infections they might bring along. While she had more than insisted for her to keep quiet in front of Maris, Ashara had still made her aware of Elia's condition during her tour of the Red Keep. Ashara couldn't always be at her side, after all, and one could never be too careful.
“You two sparred this morning, didn't you?” Ashara asked as she looked between the two men. “Tell me the word, princess, and I shall punish my brother for putting your beloved prince in harm's way.” Another jest meant to lift her spirits.
And here she stood, before him, flanked by her father, Rickard Stark, and her younger brother, Eddard.
Lady Elayna Stark.
In all truth, Tywin hadn’t given much thought to his betrothed as an individual and not a mere part of a grander scheme. He was, by no means, a desirous man, to sit and wonder about what she would look like, but he was a calculated man, one all too known for taking into consideration all the potential outcomes of an existing issue – this was why it was Elayna’s temper and openness to compliance that he had reflected on, first and foremost. He would’ve pondered it even if she was to be sent to Casterly Rock, but he did so even more now, as she was part of the Queen’s retinue.
As she was to be exposed to Aerys’ presence. For all his talk of her as a feral witchling, her family name had contradicted Aerys long before Tywin’s innate scepticism had. The Starks were an ancient house, proud, yet quiet at that, solemn and grave as the winter air, possessing an acute sense of honour. The familiar sight of Lord Rickard’s long, stern face only reaffirmed this knowledge.
“Lord Rickard,” he greeted in return, his voice even and pleasantly low, but just as carrying.
Tywin’s attention shifted from the man to his daughter as she was introduced. He bowed his head courteously, but his green eyes remained fixed on her, his gaze as scrutinizing as ever.
“Lady Elayna.”
She had the North in her. Dark looks, grey eyes, the lithe form of her mother, all hidden beneath livelier shades of the Stark colours, with lilac and silver accents.
At first glance, her demeanour promised no future troubles, remindful of Lord Rickard and the little he had seen of Lyarra Stark. Whether it would remain so was to be seen; Tywin was all too aware of Brandon Stark’s wolf blood, that northern excuse for a character without restraints.
A young lord could get away with much more than an unwed lady of twenty-and-eight could, however. And, perhaps, there was a trace of something in her – his visit turned to be an act of courage by her words. It was all said in jest, most likely, but her worry might not be unfounded if one kept in mind her reputation.
It also served as a reminder of his late welcome.
“Fear is not shameful, but a marriage built on it would be a poor one,” he said all too easily. “There’s nothing to you that I fear, my lady, rest assured. The pleasure is all mine.” His tone remained placid.
There was one last introduction to be made and Lord Rickard moved on to Eddard, though his gaze rested on his daughter a moment longer, “And this is my son, Eddard.”
Tywin and he hadn’t met before, but his name had been easily passed down by the servants. He wasn’t all that older than his own son, but where Jaime would look up at him with cat-like mischief, Eddard did so with a stone-cold stare. It wavered, just a little, as he spoke, “Lord Tywin. It’s a pleasure to have made your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” Tywin returned with another nod.
“Please, join us,” Rickard urged, extending a hand towards the empty seat, “We’ve been expecting you. In truth, we thought we might see you upon our arrival, but, seemingly, that wasn’t the case.” There was no accusation in his words, only firmness. “We do hope that it wasn’t an unfortunate event that required your immediate assistance.”
“No,” Tywin easily denied, “but all matters of the Crown require immediate assistance, no matter their kind. The preparations for today’s feast have only added to a long, awaiting list. Speaking of it, I do hope that you will find it to your satisfaction.” The details of the feast itself had been long debated over the exchanged letters.
Tywin would move to close the distance between them then, but he didn't take the offered seat just yet – he set the small chest on the table that still separated him from his betrothed instead. A long, jewelled finger lightly tapped the lid. “I have brought a gift for your daughter, if I may.”
Rickard nodded, giving his approval with a quick “Of course,” yet not without adding, “but Elayna can speak for her desires herself.” The customs were all too known to the northerner lord. Much of the talk concerning the bride herself went through the heads of the two families that sought to be united through marriage. He did want Tywin to know that his daughter could and would play an active role in the future, nonetheless.
Something that Tywin would, indeed, keep in mind, as he opened the chest. Atop a crimson velvet cushion was a silver necklace. The centrepiece was a sculpted lion head with eyes carved out of moonstones, two howling wolves swirling around its mane. “Then I hope that she will express her desire to wear my gift to tonight’s feast.”
𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬❁𓃬
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was, as promised by the many tales swirling around his name, a sight to behold. Tall, handsome, with sharp, pale, features that contrasted with the black and scarlet of his attire, he carried himself with a dignified grace, one more fit of an artist than a warrior. Maris had often heard that the prince favoured his harp to his sword, and many called it proof of his gentle soul – she could see it, perhaps, in the attentiveness, the tenderness he showed towards Elia.
Maris had never cared for such sweet, little displays of affection and had been taught not to trust them at first glance. Men could be kind and gentle when they found it to be to their benefit. Prince Rhaegar was not his father and he was loved by the people, but that didn’t speak of what his character was behind closed doors.
“Ferrets, the lot of them,” her mother liked to say about the Targaryens, “small-eyed and long-faced, squirming under their ill-fitted crowns. But predators, nonetheless.”
Yet, when she saw how Elia’s face lit up at the sight of the prince, and how softly she looked upon him and touched him, Maris found it hard to remain suspicious. The princess’ warmth, as well as the easiness Ashara displayed around him, seemed proof enough of the genuineness of Prince Rhaegar’s gentleness.
For the time being, at least. Her smile grew, in part because of Elia and Ashara, but also because of the childlike amusement that the thought of her mother’s words brought along. Only when her smile threatened to turn too bold, did she shift her attention to the other figure, the image of the grand prince as a ferret, of all things, dispelling at once.
It wasn’t hard to make out who he was, even before he was presented, with Ashara there. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning, wielder of Dawn. Protector of the Crown. He did share into Ashara’s beauty, but he differed from her all the same.
And from the prince himself. Dark features stood out against the white of his armour and cloak, and there was a practised rigidity to him – the warrior to the artist, the fallen star to Prince Rhaegar’s night sky.
Maris’ gaze easily broke from him, though, at Elia’s introduction of her. She curtsied, low, bowing her head. “My princess is all too kind.” Calling her lovely so easily. “Your Grace,” she said in greeting, “Ser Arthur.”
With the prince’s question, she straightened her back, raising her gaze from the ground. She resisted the urge to tilt her chin all too high, all too proud, as she had always done. “I thank you for your care, Your Grace. We are well – our welcome was most graceful and our stay has been more than comfortable so far. Travelling is never easy, but I find that the destination and the found company have made the trouble be worth it.”
Such words like these, too, had been rehearsed and recited all too often. Prince Rhaegar nodded in approval, like many others before him. “And what a company you’ve found. A very pleasant one, indeed.” And he did look at the two Dornish women appreciatively.
“And you’ve only added to it, Your Grace. I am honoured to have made your acquaintance. Yours, too, ser. I’ve heard many stories about the both of you.”
Prince Rhaegar’s smile grew a little tired at that, his shoulders feeling the weight of something unseen, but still there, nonetheless – the pressure of stories, of what role he played in them. “Only good ones, I hope,” and Maris did nod, “If the Gods will it, there will be more to hear in the future. I and Ser Arthur have much to accomplish.”
“And you will accomplish everything that you will put your mind to,” Elia said as she tenderly clasped his hand in hers. “Maris shall then tell me all the stories and sing me all the songs she hears when you cannot. She was just now reciting me a poem from the Jhala, the Summer Isles.”
She paused though, expression becoming thoughtful, and turned his hand with the palm up, catching sight of the fresh cut there. She trailed a path around it with her fingers, careful not to touch it. “Oh, Rhaegar. Again?”
Ashara looked over Elia’s hands. The princess’ brows had slightly creased in worry and Ashara could only worry herself. That was until she saw the reason behind it – a small cut. She couldn’t help but smile, softly so. “Oh, no,” she voiced her own concern, though there was a trace of amusement in her voice.
Sweet Elia, her soft-hearted princess - all too quick to push aside her own pain, but always ready to fuss over another's. Cuts were no mere cuts when it came to her, however. Ashara knew it from experience; Elia could not afford the infections they might bring along. While she had more than insisted for her to keep quiet in front of Maris, Ashara had still made her aware of Elia's condition during her tour of the Red Keep. Ashara couldn't always be at her side, after all, and one could never be too careful.
“You two sparred this morning, didn't you?” Ashara asked as she looked between the two men. “Tell me the word, princess, and I shall punish my brother for putting your beloved prince in harm's way.” Another jest meant to lift her spirits.
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KyloGlenn
either born in hell or heaven sent
Elayna supposed, much like Tywin unbeknownst to her, that she hadn’t put much thought into what her betrothed would look like. Of course, she knew the typical Lannister features. Golden hair and their sparkling green eyes. Songs and tales and rumors and warnings – everything under the sun told something of the lions. But she hadn’t wondered whether or not Tywin’s golden locks had turned grey, or if his eyes would be worn from the things he’d seen so far in his life. If he’d fallen into the trap so many well off lords in cushy positions did, become plump and unenthusiastic.
But he was hardly any of those things.
Despite her not contemplating these things beforehand, she still somehow found herself surprised by the man. Pleasantly, in a way, she’d say. Not that it mattered, he could be the most visually appealing man in Westeros and still be a terrible husband. She was sure that’s how so many women became trapped into marriages. Well...one reason of many.
It did come to her, then, that Tywin was not ancient. He was not so terribly much older than her. Ten years to her twenty and eight wasn’t much compared to some pairings she’d seen. Though, so much could happen in such a time. War, children, other stresses. But perhaps it was just Northern men that aged so quickly. Her father had begun to grey long ago, and even now her little brother Eddard – while still a young man – looked much too mature for his age. Sometimes, he seemed worn from life already.
It must have been the cold, the harshness of the North.
Tywin dispelled her suggestions of fear, ever so articulate, and attention was turned briefly to introduce her brother. Elayna withheld a small smile at seeing how Ned handled himself, as not to embarrass him or herself. But she knew his feelings about this engagement, and his wariness of Tywin, yet he was still composed and polite. If it were Brandon in his place, well...they wouldn’t have spent the last couple of days waiting for Tywin to come around. She knew much of it was Eddard’s personality in and of itself, but she also had to extend as much credit to Jon Arryn and her own ever dutiful father. They were good examples for her little brother.
After Eddard, though, the attention did not return to her much. Her father addressed Tywin’s absence without any accusation or persecution. Of course it all boiled down to Tywin having duties to attend to, which no one could fault. But instead of anyone speaking to her, Elayna simply became a subject. Again, the Hand couldn’t be faulted. Engagements usually went through the heads of the family, ergo her father and her betrothed. That usually left the ones to be married much of the time to get to know one another, but in this case, Tywin was both the head and the engaged.
It was a bit more complicated to navigate, Elayna would give him that. Rickard did assert that his daughter could speak for herself, the sentiment appreciated. Elayna refrained from taking her own seat as they gathered around the table again, instead moving to view this gift the lion had brought. “A gift? I’m afraid I haven’t got anything for you, my Lord.” She lamented, but of course, it was all just talk. She’d been engaged enough times to know, the men did all the gift giving. Her first had gifted her a horse, black as night, chosen based solely on her physical description. That horse still resided in Winterfell, still loved by Elayna.
Where the men gifted and swooned, the women still did much of the sweet talking, to sell themselves –– though Elayna had a feeling she didn’t need to do that this time.
Besides, what could she gift Tywin Lannister. The man was rich enough, if he wanted something he’d have it. And she doubted she had much of an eye for extravagance as he probably did. Which led her back to the present moment, to the undoubtedly pretty object that resided in the beautifully decorated box. And pretty it was, the necklace.
“Oh my,” she mumbled under her breath, gently lifting the necklace from its velvet cushion as if it was so delicate it might fall apart. Elayna was a lady, of a good house, she had plenty of nice pieces of jewelry, not that she often wore it, but she knew something special when she saw it. The necklace she held could put her others to shame.
It was silver, which surprised her for obvious reasons, but she much preferred it. Gold didn’t look very flattering on her. But what she was truly captured by was the lion, the wolves swirling around it, the moonstone sparkling in the sunlight that shone into the room. She briefly wondered if it would sparkle and shift color the same in the North. But she supposed that didn’t matter.
“How considerate of both our houses,” Elayna mused, looking back to the man himself. She almost wanted to ask who had come up with the necklace’s concept, but she wasn’t sure if that would be considered rude. “It’s lovely, my Lord. It would be my pleasure to wear it to tonight’s festivities. Thank you. Though, I might have to reconsider my choice of dress for tonight.” She somewhat jested. She did worry the necklace would outshine not just her outfit but herself as well. Then she recalled how much everyone loved to speak about her and her witchcraft practices. That overshadowed just about everything.
She gently tucked the necklace back into its crimson velvet bed, leaving the top open so her ever curious brother could look, her father too if he so desired. It was obvious to Elayna, the split second Eddard observed the necklace, that he noted the semblance of effort put into it, but he wasn’t sold on all of this. She didn’t blame him. “Please, sit. I’m glad your schedule allowed you to meet with my family and I before tonight,” before the announcement of the engagement. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much, we’d have had plenty of time to get to know one another after the fact. Perhaps I’m just familiar with...engaging before the engagement.”
Rickard allowed only a stroke of his finger across his brows as an outward show of discontent with his daughter’s words. He didn’t think it was a good thing to bring up her past fiancés. However, Elayna had an inclination it was a non issue, at least in terms of making or breaking the betrothal. She wasn’t stupid, she had a feeling autonomy was absent here, for both her and Tywin. “Would you like some wine, my Lord?” Elayna smoothed it over with a small smile.
❅✴❅✴❅
Elia was a good woman. She was so terribly sweet-natured. Rhaegar knew her care was genuine and such sincerity was so hard to come by amongst those in positions such as theirs. She was beautiful, inside and out, even if her fragility was apparent in her appearance, in her frail frame. As such, he did his best not to make light of Elia’s concerns for him, for they were not unfounded in her eyes. She was simply being her gentle self with her experiences of her own health.
Her own health, that of which worried Rhaegar. For Elia, she was a woman he could truly find himself learning to adore. They got on well, she was well-read, they could have a conversation. She was kind, easy on the eyes. But that couldn’t make up for her fragile well being. What concerned him was a ways away, sure, but it was still important. Children, heirs. Elia would be a good wife, a good queen some day. That much he knew. But he knew his duties, as well, and he knew his father would see to it the Targaryen line continued. Whether it killed Elia or not. Which was something Rhaegar wasn’t certain he could put the woman through.
A voice rang through the prince’s silver mind, breaking him out of his reflection. “Guilty, I’m afraid,” Ser Arthur confirmed his sister’s accusation, not quite letting Ashara’s words bring any evidence of amusement to his face, but he was amused nonetheless.
Rhaegar’s other hand, the unharmed one, covered Elia’s, ignoring the Daynes for a moment. His pale thumb stroked over the back of her hand, “I apologize, Elia. It’s the way of it, I’m afraid, but I promise it was addressed and tended to properly, nothing to worry about,” he assured her. Washed out and left the blood to dry into a closed wound, that was how it was dealt with. It was good enough for him. “No need to set your dog on mine,” he teased just a bit, his indigo eyes narrowing on Lady Ashara for the little joke.
Elia did attempt to remain serious and fight back the smile, but she lost that battle, chuckling just a bit. “Very well. Thank you, my Lady, but no need to defend my prince’s honor today. You can find another reason to fight your brother.”
“I appreciate your forgiveness, Princess. I’d never seriously harm His Grace. It is my duty to keep him safe, and to make sure he can keep himself safe, as well,” the prince was his friend, if Arthur hadn’t already been sworn into duty to protect the King and his family. “I don’t think he nor I could save him from Ashara, however.” The siblings locked eyes, Ashara playfully glaring at him, but Arthur remained painfully stoic.
Elia released one of her hands from Rhaegar’s, waving the dutiful knight off with a smile and a giggle. “Of course, Ser Dayne.” Elia did have to say, the presence of other Dornishmen, friends, certainly made her feel much more at ease.
“Well, here we were just discussing the tales Lady Tyrell has heard of us, yet we stand about, concerned over my small wound. How princely I must seem to our newcomer,” Rhaegar jested, releasing an inaudible breath.
“Yes, how dare we let anyone know our prince is so mortal,” Ashara gasped, following it with a light laugh. “Believe me, Your Grace, you do not betray the tales the people tell of you. My dear Maris will come to know that as well, I’m certain.” Ashara moved, placing a hand upon the girl’s back. As Elia’s newest lady-in-waiting, she would most definitely see more of Rhaegar, too.
Arthur, as well, for more often than not the two were conjoined, when Arthur wasn’t needed elsewhere for his Kingsguard duties.
“I would hope. I would also hope my near fatal wound hasn’t led you astray from sharing all these songs and poems you’re said to know, like the one from the Summer Isles, I believe was said? I am thrilled to have another artistically inclined individual roaming these halls.” Elia, Arthur, everyone was just happy to listen, sit in silence while he went about his way. That was fine, of course, but it was still a stirring concept to have someone to share his favored hobby with.
Arthur had a few jokes up his sleeve, a few jabs at his princely friend, but he held them back. He was on duty, and all of that. And quite frankly, he wasn’t quite comfortable around this Tyrell girl yet. Pretty of a flower as she was, she was Olenna’s child. Even if he hadn’t met the woman herself, Olenna was known for her sharp tongue. And she had a history with the Targaryens. Not so much that Arthur thought Olenna would have Maris do anything, but with the thought nagging at the back of his head, he wouldn’t be so familiar as he would if it were just Rhaegar and the Dornishwomen.
It was best Maris kept the Ser Arthur Dayne from the tales she said she’d heard in her head.
“Oh, that is quite lovely, isn’t it?” Elia agreed with her soon-to-be husband. “Rhaegar, do you have a moment to spare with us. Perhaps Maris could share the lovely poem with us again. If you don’t mind repeating it, my lady?” She asked, though she didn’t mean to put Maris on the spot. Ashara, however, stood by, ready to chime in with some excuse for Maris, if she read any sort of uncertainty on her face.
It was one thing to share poems amongst themselves, as ladies. Another to recite them in front of the prince.
Was Maris that bold of a flower? With thorns? Or was she a delicate petal?
“Well, I do have some things to speak to you about, for tonight, but I’m happy to spare a bit more time for you,” Rhaegar allowed, and his words were true enough. “And your ladies, of course. Then I’m sure we all have quite a few preparations to be made for the festivities,” he did notice the ladies didn’t seem to have yet gotten themselves ready for the evening. Along the same lines, he and Arthur had much to do, picking up where Rhaegar’s father was lacking in places. The old man was all but trembling with excitement for the night ahead. To aid the Lord Hand a bit, as well. He was always picking up after Aerys, he ought to have some time dedicated to his own engagement, instead of work.
Though, those could be considered one in the same.
But he was hardly any of those things.
Despite her not contemplating these things beforehand, she still somehow found herself surprised by the man. Pleasantly, in a way, she’d say. Not that it mattered, he could be the most visually appealing man in Westeros and still be a terrible husband. She was sure that’s how so many women became trapped into marriages. Well...one reason of many.
It did come to her, then, that Tywin was not ancient. He was not so terribly much older than her. Ten years to her twenty and eight wasn’t much compared to some pairings she’d seen. Though, so much could happen in such a time. War, children, other stresses. But perhaps it was just Northern men that aged so quickly. Her father had begun to grey long ago, and even now her little brother Eddard – while still a young man – looked much too mature for his age. Sometimes, he seemed worn from life already.
It must have been the cold, the harshness of the North.
Tywin dispelled her suggestions of fear, ever so articulate, and attention was turned briefly to introduce her brother. Elayna withheld a small smile at seeing how Ned handled himself, as not to embarrass him or herself. But she knew his feelings about this engagement, and his wariness of Tywin, yet he was still composed and polite. If it were Brandon in his place, well...they wouldn’t have spent the last couple of days waiting for Tywin to come around. She knew much of it was Eddard’s personality in and of itself, but she also had to extend as much credit to Jon Arryn and her own ever dutiful father. They were good examples for her little brother.
After Eddard, though, the attention did not return to her much. Her father addressed Tywin’s absence without any accusation or persecution. Of course it all boiled down to Tywin having duties to attend to, which no one could fault. But instead of anyone speaking to her, Elayna simply became a subject. Again, the Hand couldn’t be faulted. Engagements usually went through the heads of the family, ergo her father and her betrothed. That usually left the ones to be married much of the time to get to know one another, but in this case, Tywin was both the head and the engaged.
It was a bit more complicated to navigate, Elayna would give him that. Rickard did assert that his daughter could speak for herself, the sentiment appreciated. Elayna refrained from taking her own seat as they gathered around the table again, instead moving to view this gift the lion had brought. “A gift? I’m afraid I haven’t got anything for you, my Lord.” She lamented, but of course, it was all just talk. She’d been engaged enough times to know, the men did all the gift giving. Her first had gifted her a horse, black as night, chosen based solely on her physical description. That horse still resided in Winterfell, still loved by Elayna.
Where the men gifted and swooned, the women still did much of the sweet talking, to sell themselves –– though Elayna had a feeling she didn’t need to do that this time.
Besides, what could she gift Tywin Lannister. The man was rich enough, if he wanted something he’d have it. And she doubted she had much of an eye for extravagance as he probably did. Which led her back to the present moment, to the undoubtedly pretty object that resided in the beautifully decorated box. And pretty it was, the necklace.
“Oh my,” she mumbled under her breath, gently lifting the necklace from its velvet cushion as if it was so delicate it might fall apart. Elayna was a lady, of a good house, she had plenty of nice pieces of jewelry, not that she often wore it, but she knew something special when she saw it. The necklace she held could put her others to shame.
It was silver, which surprised her for obvious reasons, but she much preferred it. Gold didn’t look very flattering on her. But what she was truly captured by was the lion, the wolves swirling around it, the moonstone sparkling in the sunlight that shone into the room. She briefly wondered if it would sparkle and shift color the same in the North. But she supposed that didn’t matter.
“How considerate of both our houses,” Elayna mused, looking back to the man himself. She almost wanted to ask who had come up with the necklace’s concept, but she wasn’t sure if that would be considered rude. “It’s lovely, my Lord. It would be my pleasure to wear it to tonight’s festivities. Thank you. Though, I might have to reconsider my choice of dress for tonight.” She somewhat jested. She did worry the necklace would outshine not just her outfit but herself as well. Then she recalled how much everyone loved to speak about her and her witchcraft practices. That overshadowed just about everything.
She gently tucked the necklace back into its crimson velvet bed, leaving the top open so her ever curious brother could look, her father too if he so desired. It was obvious to Elayna, the split second Eddard observed the necklace, that he noted the semblance of effort put into it, but he wasn’t sold on all of this. She didn’t blame him. “Please, sit. I’m glad your schedule allowed you to meet with my family and I before tonight,” before the announcement of the engagement. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much, we’d have had plenty of time to get to know one another after the fact. Perhaps I’m just familiar with...engaging before the engagement.”
Rickard allowed only a stroke of his finger across his brows as an outward show of discontent with his daughter’s words. He didn’t think it was a good thing to bring up her past fiancés. However, Elayna had an inclination it was a non issue, at least in terms of making or breaking the betrothal. She wasn’t stupid, she had a feeling autonomy was absent here, for both her and Tywin. “Would you like some wine, my Lord?” Elayna smoothed it over with a small smile.
❅✴❅✴❅
Elia was a good woman. She was so terribly sweet-natured. Rhaegar knew her care was genuine and such sincerity was so hard to come by amongst those in positions such as theirs. She was beautiful, inside and out, even if her fragility was apparent in her appearance, in her frail frame. As such, he did his best not to make light of Elia’s concerns for him, for they were not unfounded in her eyes. She was simply being her gentle self with her experiences of her own health.
Her own health, that of which worried Rhaegar. For Elia, she was a woman he could truly find himself learning to adore. They got on well, she was well-read, they could have a conversation. She was kind, easy on the eyes. But that couldn’t make up for her fragile well being. What concerned him was a ways away, sure, but it was still important. Children, heirs. Elia would be a good wife, a good queen some day. That much he knew. But he knew his duties, as well, and he knew his father would see to it the Targaryen line continued. Whether it killed Elia or not. Which was something Rhaegar wasn’t certain he could put the woman through.
A voice rang through the prince’s silver mind, breaking him out of his reflection. “Guilty, I’m afraid,” Ser Arthur confirmed his sister’s accusation, not quite letting Ashara’s words bring any evidence of amusement to his face, but he was amused nonetheless.
Rhaegar’s other hand, the unharmed one, covered Elia’s, ignoring the Daynes for a moment. His pale thumb stroked over the back of her hand, “I apologize, Elia. It’s the way of it, I’m afraid, but I promise it was addressed and tended to properly, nothing to worry about,” he assured her. Washed out and left the blood to dry into a closed wound, that was how it was dealt with. It was good enough for him. “No need to set your dog on mine,” he teased just a bit, his indigo eyes narrowing on Lady Ashara for the little joke.
Elia did attempt to remain serious and fight back the smile, but she lost that battle, chuckling just a bit. “Very well. Thank you, my Lady, but no need to defend my prince’s honor today. You can find another reason to fight your brother.”
“I appreciate your forgiveness, Princess. I’d never seriously harm His Grace. It is my duty to keep him safe, and to make sure he can keep himself safe, as well,” the prince was his friend, if Arthur hadn’t already been sworn into duty to protect the King and his family. “I don’t think he nor I could save him from Ashara, however.” The siblings locked eyes, Ashara playfully glaring at him, but Arthur remained painfully stoic.
Elia released one of her hands from Rhaegar’s, waving the dutiful knight off with a smile and a giggle. “Of course, Ser Dayne.” Elia did have to say, the presence of other Dornishmen, friends, certainly made her feel much more at ease.
“Well, here we were just discussing the tales Lady Tyrell has heard of us, yet we stand about, concerned over my small wound. How princely I must seem to our newcomer,” Rhaegar jested, releasing an inaudible breath.
“Yes, how dare we let anyone know our prince is so mortal,” Ashara gasped, following it with a light laugh. “Believe me, Your Grace, you do not betray the tales the people tell of you. My dear Maris will come to know that as well, I’m certain.” Ashara moved, placing a hand upon the girl’s back. As Elia’s newest lady-in-waiting, she would most definitely see more of Rhaegar, too.
Arthur, as well, for more often than not the two were conjoined, when Arthur wasn’t needed elsewhere for his Kingsguard duties.
“I would hope. I would also hope my near fatal wound hasn’t led you astray from sharing all these songs and poems you’re said to know, like the one from the Summer Isles, I believe was said? I am thrilled to have another artistically inclined individual roaming these halls.” Elia, Arthur, everyone was just happy to listen, sit in silence while he went about his way. That was fine, of course, but it was still a stirring concept to have someone to share his favored hobby with.
Arthur had a few jokes up his sleeve, a few jabs at his princely friend, but he held them back. He was on duty, and all of that. And quite frankly, he wasn’t quite comfortable around this Tyrell girl yet. Pretty of a flower as she was, she was Olenna’s child. Even if he hadn’t met the woman herself, Olenna was known for her sharp tongue. And she had a history with the Targaryens. Not so much that Arthur thought Olenna would have Maris do anything, but with the thought nagging at the back of his head, he wouldn’t be so familiar as he would if it were just Rhaegar and the Dornishwomen.
It was best Maris kept the Ser Arthur Dayne from the tales she said she’d heard in her head.
“Oh, that is quite lovely, isn’t it?” Elia agreed with her soon-to-be husband. “Rhaegar, do you have a moment to spare with us. Perhaps Maris could share the lovely poem with us again. If you don’t mind repeating it, my lady?” She asked, though she didn’t mean to put Maris on the spot. Ashara, however, stood by, ready to chime in with some excuse for Maris, if she read any sort of uncertainty on her face.
It was one thing to share poems amongst themselves, as ladies. Another to recite them in front of the prince.
Was Maris that bold of a flower? With thorns? Or was she a delicate petal?
“Well, I do have some things to speak to you about, for tonight, but I’m happy to spare a bit more time for you,” Rhaegar allowed, and his words were true enough. “And your ladies, of course. Then I’m sure we all have quite a few preparations to be made for the festivities,” he did notice the ladies didn’t seem to have yet gotten themselves ready for the evening. Along the same lines, he and Arthur had much to do, picking up where Rhaegar’s father was lacking in places. The old man was all but trembling with excitement for the night ahead. To aid the Lord Hand a bit, as well. He was always picking up after Aerys, he ought to have some time dedicated to his own engagement, instead of work.
Though, those could be considered one in the same.
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