Chapter Text
The Red Keep, King's Landing
272 Years Post Aegon's Conquest
Jorelle II
The apartments we'd been assigned were a welcome sight after a near moonturn of sleep in damp forests and inns dotted across quaint little hamlets.
Sprawling rugs of shadowskin and finely plaited rushes lined the floors whilst imposing tapestries of black-and-red adorned the walls; high, arched windows of frosted glass allowed the waning light of dusk to bleed through, casting a dappled glow, illuminating pale mosaics of Valyrian drakes and sphinxes. I'd had myself a bowl of cold fruit soup for supper but there was a distinct smell of salted meats and baked confections wafting through the air, making me sorely regret my choice of meal. To be assigned the Kitchen Keep as our temporary place of residence was to be in a perpetual state of hunger, it seemed.
“M'lady.” Tess said, beckoning me from thought with the sloshing sound of water from her bowl.
I murmured my thanks, before dipping my hand in the basin to clean them, taking a cloth from the girl– for, in spite of her being a few years my senior at three and ten, she was still a girl– to pat them dry. To rub them dry; I practically scraped them raw as I became lost in my own thoughts once again.
I was not at ease.
It was not a foreign thing, for me to be uneasy. When one was granted the ability to see what was yet to come with the potent inability to change any of it, you very quickly got used to the cloying feeling of uncertainty.
But, to be specific, I had been restless from the very moment this unpleasant tourney had been announced. From the moment we disembarked from Feastfires and made our way to the flaming hotbed of strife and subterfuge that was King's Landing. So, to be here, in the snug luxury of these apartments, at the epicentre of where so much dread would soon unfurl…
“You've gone again, m'lady.” The handmaid remarked softly, probing what had probably been for her, a deafening silence.
“I’m still here, I promise.” I answered in the same tone, stilling my hands for a moment before handing back the towel to Tess. Clunkily, I tacked on, “Sorry.”
Tess took the cloth with a small grin– as if she found my apology novel; more specifically, the notion of a great house's offshoot making it a point to be courteous to her, novel. Or, it might have been that she wasn't quite so sure what I was apologising for (I doubted I knew, either). Or, maybe it was that I made for an amusingly morose child of ten. Most likely, all of the above.
“Would you like help with your hair?” Tess asked.
I allowed myself a snort at that, picking at one of the damp strands like a frayed thread, “If you think you can conquer it.”
“I’m no Visenya, m'lady, but I shall try my best as always.” She answered, her lips curling upwards the littlest bit more.
I had all but demanded a bath when we'd arrived– there were few things that I allowed myself to be particular about. In a world where lineage was everything and a name meant even more, the boon of my Lannister heritage made it unlikely for me to ever be met with the word no . Of course, being what I was (which was, to put it simply, not an ordinary child, by any means), I was rather prudent in most things– but, I was intolerable when it came to hygiene.
Bathing once a week ? Out of the question.
I felt childish whenever I requested that the water be drawn up, but if it meant my bath-time being protected? I had no regrets. My aunt, for all her carping and reproach, could never say in earnest that I smelled bad. And, just because this wretched city reeked ( especially because it reeked) didn't mean that I had to follow suit.
But, this was all to say, that I'd had my precious bath and now I was sat at the vanity in damp, cotton nightclothes with even damper hair. My mother's hair; the brown-faced, dark-haired woman that I could barely remember who'd left behind not so much as a note and thick, frizzy curls that were only even slightly tameable when wet.
A comfortable silence had fallen over us as Tess’ hands deftly untangled my vexing tresses, humming a little, Westermen ditty to herself as she did so– for a moment, I forgot my unease. I allowed myself to.
Then, the door creaked open and her grandmother came in.
“Eyebags do not make for a becoming accessory to a young lady, Jorelle.” The woman chided as Tess’ hands fell from my hair to acknowledge her in greeting.
“I'll sleep soon, I promise.” Not that I imagined our fusspot of a maester would be pleased by the crone's tendency to be awake at ungodly hours of night, “My hair was keeping me.”
With a slight incline of Marla's hand, Tess was dismissed and she padded out of the room to the adjoining servile quarters. The girl's hands were shortly replaced with that of my grandmother's surprisingly gentle touch.
“Wet,” She remarked, toying with a strand, “Well, I suppose I cannot blame you for wanting to rid yourself of the city's stink and the grime of weeks of travel.”
“There's a verse on cleanliness and godliness in the book of the Maiden. How cities of squalor are an affront to the heavens,” I replied, thumbing the marble ferrule of my hairbrush, before Marla plucked it from my hand and began to tend to my tresses. I mumbled, “If the stench is anything to go by, I think this place is godless– ow .”
The hiss was more due to surprise than any actual pain– through the mirror's reflection, I casted a confused look at my grandmother, when I felt her fist suddenly gather my curls into a tight ponytail at the back of my head. It made for a difference to her light touch from before.
“What was that for?” I watched as her grip softened slightly as she began to braid it.
“Petulance doesn't suit you, girl, these walls have ears. Remember that,” She replied, blue eyes crinkling in the dim candlelight from the wall sconces. Her head then tilted, in consideration, “Piety might, though. But, my daughter has never been one for such zeal. Quips and candor, of which fall from your lips so well, are the things that court her pleasure. She was such a little snark of a child. Not unalike you,”
Ah. There was that unease again.
Jason Lannister and Marla Prester had a brood of a dozen children between them, blessed with both a bounty of sons and daughters, most of whom reached adulthood– but, of course, I knew of the daughter my grandmother spoke of in particular. It was strange, how she spoke of Joanna– my aunt was like a raw wound and it was as if the mere utterance of her name was the metaphorical equivalent of salt.
“Really? Aunt Shierle seemed nice on our journey here.” I feigned, feeling uncomfortable. The nuclear fallout that festered between my aunt and grandmother was something I didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole.
“Shall I yank your hair again? Don't play the fool, girl, you make a poor job of it.” Marla remarked, unimpressed, as she deftly tied off the bottom of my braid.
“That's a compliment, though, isn't it?” I asked, turning away from her with an impish sort of grin before stalking off to the four-poster central to the room.
“ Jorelle .”
My name– for it was my name, now– was said with such a tone that I froze for a moment, before continuing on my way to the bed and taking a seat at its edge, leaning against one of its posts. Marla said nothing else, just watching me with those keen eyes of hers, before leisurely coming to join me on the bed, making a little dip beside me.
“I will not live forever.” She said, softly. Placatingly, as if talking to a child. Which she was. Which she wasn't.
The lump in my throat was embarrassingly immediate.
“You must.” I replied, stubborn, making it a point to avoid her gaze. I changed the topic so I did not burst into tears, “I like it at the ‘Fires. I was born there.”
“Where one is born matters not, nor does it their future make. The Targaryens are the progeny of Old Valyria; if they'd lingered out of misplaced sentimentality, they would've been doomed along with the rest of them.”
Likening her own daughter to the Doom of Old Valyria might've earned a chuckle out of me if I had been in a better mood.
“Myrielle does not hate me so much,” I replied, stroking the braid that Marla had plaited, still avoiding her gaze. I murmured, “She hates the idea of me. That I am here and my father is not, among other things.”
I wondered about that sometimes. Whether or not it had been a rueful accident that had truly killed Rollam Lannister, or if there was something more to it. Whether or not fate operated on a set of scales that had to compensate for the imbalance my existence caused. Rollam had been well-loved, by his mother, by his brothers, by his sisters, by his lady-wife– so much so that she’d left everything behind for him…he’d had his own hopes and aspirations, as every enterprising young man did, he'd brought joy to the lives of others…
“If, by other things, you mean that she resents and envies the prestige of her maiden house and projects that onto you, you who is in possession of a Lannister name, then it means me raising you has not been in vain.” Grandmother's words made for a nice distraction to my guilt.
“I wouldn't want to disappoint.” I answered her, blandly.
Her lips pursed, “It has been more than half a decade since our family has all been together in one place. Most certainly, the Lady Lannister will want to reconvene with her kinsmen, feast with them and flaunt her status– no doubt goading Myrielle into a fight, those two…”
Myrielle. Lady Lannister…against my better judgement, I couldn't help but wonder once again what had happened between them all?
“I can't see what that has to do with me.” I huff, obtuse.
“Are you not among her kin? And, just because, ostensibly, a matter might have naught to do with you, girl, does not mean it cannot do anything for you,” Marla chided, tacking on, “Your cousin is fast becoming a thorn in your aunt's side, according to her letters,”
What an odd relationship they had, I thought to myself. It was on the rare occasion that I strolled into my grandmother's solar and spied her at her desk, writing a letter to her eldest daughter. Moons would pass before the latter would reply– in a year, the pair would perhaps exchange three letters at most. It made me wonder why they even bothered at all when, clearly, something in their youth had turned their bond sour.
“So she should be a thorn in my side? I don't see how that solves anything, she'd still be a thorn.” Gods above, do not send me to Casterly Rock, I’d thought– to go from one bloody, great keep to another…
“She needs companions.”
“She has companions!” I exclaimed, louder than I'd meant.
But, was it a lie? How many lords and ladies had packed off their children to the Rock and had them beggar the girl's attention in the hope that they might gain footing into their region's most paramount house?
When I heard no response from my grandmother about my pesky, little outburst, I found that she was simply staring at me. Doing that annoying, crushing thing that all parental figures did when they were met with a lacklustre response from their charges– her lips were tugged downwards and her eyes narrowed, before she turned away to sigh. With a plethora of children and even more grandchildren, she must have had years to perfect that stinging gaze of disappointment she wore on her weathered features.
“I forget, at times, that you are still a child.” Was what she said to break the silence.
I'd wanted to laugh at that but I knew if I did, it would come out bitter.
She didn't know, and how could she? How could one even begin to explain what I was, what I knew ? The tenuous peace I'd enjoyed at the ‘Fires was one that, selfishly, I'd wanted to guard for as long as I was able. I had no desire to play games with the lives of others, to embroil myself in plots that could bring about my day of reckoning for a second time far sooner than I'd like.
I was not sly like Littlefinger, nor did I possess vast, sprawling webs like the Spider with his poor birds– I wanted to live in my bubble, where it was safe and undisturbed and the worst evils I had to face were a snippy little girl and her messed-up mother. I'd spend my days diving off the cliff sides and cursing my inability to sew even one, half-decent stitch. Then, when I was a woman grown, and only then, I would claim religious fervor and devote myself to a quaint little cloister or, if marriage was unavoidable, a third son of a fourth son of a fifth son would do.
Idealistic, to be sure, perhaps even nonsensical– Marla's thoughts for my future made sense. Perfect sense, even. In the west, lion’s den it may be, but Casterly Rock was the courtly and cultural epicentre of the Westerlands. For any young lady to receive her education there, to become a steadfast friend and lady-in-waiting to the daughter of the Lord Hand…if one remained in the family's good graces and remained vigilant about maintaining their good reputation, it could only result in a good marriage.
“Sleep, girl. We'll resume this conversation on the morrow, hm?” She said, voice gentle once more.
“Goodnight.” I replied, quietly.
A short while after my grandmother had left, Tess returned to put out the candles that littered the room. My gaze remained fixed on a particular ember, watching as it fought to remain alight even after my milk-sister had tried to snuff it out with a brass douter. A stubborn, little huff fell from her lips as she tried again, to no avail.
“You can leave it, Tess.” I assured her. I attempted a smile, “Go. Before Calla has my hide again for keeping you so late.”
Tess’ lips quirked at that and she bid me goodnight. The door clicked shut for a second time that night. Uncomfortably, yet again, I was left alone with my thoughts. As overwhelming, cloying , as they were, I allowed myself to get lost to them– after all, it was better than dreaming. That was how I'd begun to remember– through the dreams. The older I grew, the more memories flooded my brain of a life from before that was forever out of my reach. At times, it felt as if my soul was split in two.
The ember finally died as the thought coursed through me. Because, that wasn’t at all a bad omen.
A thorn in her mother’s side . In need of companions – I tried to recall the last time I had seen the main branch, had seen the Rock. it had been the year 267– Tytos Lannister, the infamous Lord of Misrule, had taken a tumble down the stairs and decided to make it the rest of the kingdom’s problem, forcing all from a landed knight to the chiefest of the paramount house’s bannermen out from their keeps and fortresses to attend his funeral. The twins had only just been born the year prior– all red and splotchy even in their silk swaddling clothes and lace bonnets.
To think that their vices had led to the downfall of a dynasty might have been commendable if I didn’t share their name.
The door creaked open and I succumbed to the immediate urge to close my eyes– lest I be scolded by my grandmother yet again.
My ears perked at the sound of quiet footsteps against the floor.
“Jory? Jory – are you awake?” A small voice asked.
I blinked my eyes open as I felt a small dip in the bed beside me; little ‘Randa stared at me intently, green-blue eyes owlish and afraid.
“Well, if I wasn’t before, I am now– what is it?” I sounded groggier than I felt.
The girl lifted the covers and ducked under them beside me before I even uttered my assent. Her toes brushed against my leg and I jerked away from her as if she was down with the pale mare.
“You’re like ice!” I yelped.
“My room was cold.”
“And, that’s why you came here? To infect me with your coldness?”
“No! I just…” She faltered and pulled up the covers to hide her face, eyes just peeking over.
“You had a nightmare?” I guessed. She’d looked so frightful when I first opened my eyes. It made sense; ‘Randa was a light sleeper and, just before bed, all the girls had been all but forced to join with Moriah in prayer– oftentimes, her vigor for her faith overpowered her and she went from praying to for the safety of Prester’s champions in the tourney to proselytizing about what lurked in the seven hells.
Not the best way to cheer a child before they went to sleep in a new, foreign place.
“ No !” She insisted, “Those are for babies…”
Said the girl of seven who still wet the bed. At that thought, I was suddenly concerned with the integrity of my bedsheets.
Putting the concerns aside, I give her a nudge under the covers, “I struggle to sleep too, you know.”
“You do?” I nodded wordlessly in response. Myranda let the sheets fall slightly before she added, “I got scared.”
“So you admit it then?”
“To what? The nightmares?”
“To being a baby– ah !” I winced as Myranda kicked me in the shin.
“ Jory !” The girl exclaimed, embarrassed, before turning her back to me and falling silent.
With all my nudges and apologies, Myranda didn’t budge. She probably heard the smile in my voice and decided to give me the silent treatment in protest to my teasing.
Within minutes, she was asleep. And, I was alone again.
The Presters were an undeniably dysfunctional, kooky sort of clan. An ostensibly mindless lord of the house, his deeply bitter wife, their small brood of daughters with one dead son and another sickly, a grisly matriarch with a glare like a hawk– not to mention that they boasted extended kin in abundance, myself included. But, there was dysfunction and there were the Lannisters . Power-hungry, image-obsessed and incestuous– all they needed to be Targaryens were some dragon eggs and a crown.
Were they truly in such dire need of my help– whatever it was that the concept entailed? Should I even get ensnared in their web? It wasn't like they were good, or– or deserving . Was not Cersei still a child when she first took another human life? And, how young was Tywin when he suppressed the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion, driving two entire houses and their progeny to extinction– generations washed away overnight, leaving Castamere in ruins and her ghosts eternally weeping. If the root festered, then surely its yield would almost certainly be rotten?
Myranda turned in her shallow sleep and her arm all but whacked me in the face. For a moment, I couldn't discern whether this was to be her form of petty revenge or if she truly was just that restless of a sleeper.
Regardless, I ended up succumbing to a dreamless sleep and, the following morning, I was littered with what I was sure were a plethora of developing bruises.
I wasn't particularly one for early mornings– which was to my disadvantage, given that everyone in this kingdom was mad enough to wake at the first light of dawn– but the smell of freshly baked oatbread and a cloying scent of honey were enough to stir my stomach and force me to blink the sleep from my eyes.
“On such short notice!” Were the words that greeted me upon entering the small hall.
Like the rest of the Keep, it made for a cosy and intimate atmosphere; the windows were oval-shaped and plated with a gleaming bronze that caught the dewy glow of morning. There were plush rugs spun from some sort of pure, white, animal hide that lined the floors and an oaken longtable was the main centrepiece of the room; overhead hung a silver, ornate chandelier, wicks unlit as the blazing hearth made for enough light and warmth to coat the room.
Ordinarily, Myrielle would scold me for not dipping my head in greeting and addressing her– she would remark that it was simply in good manners to first greet the lady of the house, but I failed to see how picking on a ten-year-old was little more than vanity and projection– but she was far too busy pacing up and down the room’s length to care.
The seat to the right of my grandmother remained empty– I had to walk past Cousin Garrison to get there. The brat stuck out his foot to trip me– I deftly avoided it and pinched his shoulder as I passed, his yelp of pain being drowned out by the sounds of my aunt’s protestations.
“It seems all the children are fighting today.” Marla was amused, if her sly smile was anything to go by. I greeted my grandmother with a peck on the cheek before assuming my seat beside her– I picked a small handful of grapes off of her plate and turned my gaze to Myrielle.
“Did something happen?” I quietly asked, feeling the flavour of the fruit burst on my tongue.
“Years have gone by, summer snows have melted in the time we have not seen each other, and yet she summons us– her own sister and mother– in such a common fashion.” She exclaimed before pausing to take a bite of her oatbread that was coated in some sort of fruit jam.
“Simply terrible.” Marla nodded, feigning sympathy as she coaxed her daughter. The dowager turned to me and said to me in a lower tone, “A messenger came. Our liege lady wishes to dine with you all for a women's luncheon.”
She placed some boiled quail eggs and ham onto my plate. I happily pop one into my mouth before my brow knits in confusion.
“ ‘You all’ ?” I asked.
“I am unwell and, as such, cannot attend.” She said simply. Marla reached for her goblet and nursed it with little sips. There was an undeniably potent scent of tisane.
“Grandmother.” I said with reproach, a little incredulous.
“Grandchild.” She answered back in a matching tone.
“What is it that ails you?” I asked, lips forming a line.
“Age is a pestilent condition all on its own; my bones are weak and frail and I am overcome with fatigue.” She put the cup back down as she replied, her sleeve slipping to reveal toned arms. I remembered Calla telling me of my grandmother’s love for archery in her youth as she braided my hair once. The handmaid insisted that even at the age of sixty, Marla Prester could shoot down game from a half-mile away with ease, even besting her late husband on many occasions.
Weak and frail my left boot. She might have been advanced in age and sported a cane, but the woman simply had no desire to cross the chasm that divided her and her eldest daughter– which made me even more wary of her obvious intent to have my education sponsored by her. Nevermind that Dake had deemed her to be in good health before we'd set off, exclaiming how great my grandmother had fared for all she'd endured, pleased with her hale spirit.
As if reading my thoughts, the elderly woman quietly asked, “Have you given more thought to what I told you yesterday?”
“Yes.”
Her brow lifted, “So you agree?”
“No.” I helped myself to another quail egg.
“Obstinate.” Marla sighed.
“ Insistent .” I shot back, mouth full. I swallowed, “There is no guarantee that Cersei will like me. In fact, I think she’ll hate me.”
“Joanna is the only one who needs to ‘like’ you– and she will enjoy you for the very reasons your cousin will loathe you. You will temper her.”
“So you agree that she’ll loathe me?” I asked miserably. Grimly, I thought of Melara Hetherspoon and wondered what it would be like to plummet down a well and die a second time.
“You will enjoy the Rock.” She stated with finality. The growing grin on her face made her look positively feline.
“You speak as if she’s already–” I flinched at the loud screech of Myrielle’s chair at the head of the table; she took her seat wordlessly as if in deep thought. I continued, “–taken me as her ward.”
Grandmother was silent at that, sipping her tisane again, and there was an abrupt realisation that struck me.
Had she written about me?
Before I could vocalise my betrayal, my aunt Myrielle found her inside voice again and spoke, “I expect you all to be on your best behaviour today– as well as throughout our stay here. I will not have our house be seen as lacking.”
Myrielle looked away for a moment to her maidservant, gesturing for her to fill her cup with a brusque wave of her hand. Garrison, in the moment she looked away, launched a small forkful of peas at Tya from across the table, to which the girl sputtered and grew red with girlish rage. Best behaviour indeed.
“I’m always on my best behaviour, Mother,” For some reason, Amarei decided to very pointedly look at me as she said those words. I saw Aunt Elissa fuss over Tya as she pulled the peas from the girl’s hair, “Septa always says so! She always compliments me on my curtseys and remembering all the heraldry of–”
“Amarei, sweetling, you will wear that beaded, samite gown you received for your nameday from your father; with the cloth-of-gold trim, yes?” Myrielle interrupted and Amarei brightened, hands clasping together– all for her to immediately deflate as her mother tacked on, “Hm, Myranda you should wear that red one of a similar pattern that I had made for you, so that the two of you might match–”
“Mother, I can’t match with Myranda!” Amarei yelped dramatically, fork clattering against her plate as it fell from her hand.
Myrielle massaged her temple and her reply was wan as she said, “Amarei, is it truly so terrible a thought that you and your sister at least try to look as if the pair of you get along?”
The girl didn't answer but her wide-eyed glare and the defined pout of her lips made for a resounding yes . In Amarei's defense, Myranda didn't look all that pleased either– my sweet young cousin sullenly slurped on her cold fruit soup.
“Nevermind that the gowns in question are two entirely different colours.” Marla remarked.
I snorted at that.
Breakfast passed without any further incident. Myrielle engaged in quiet discussion with Aunt Elissa– which is where I learned that Aunt Perianne had elected to go horse riding, foregoing food and gaining her sustenance from existing in the great outdoors . In a similar vein, our great Lord Prester– as well as the other men of our household– were amongst the many who populated the castle's training grounds. The moment they'd stepped foot in the Keep, Willam had announced that he would crown Myrielle his Queen of Love and Beauty.
As I gingerly sipped some sweetened milk, I tried to recall the last time I'd ever seen my uncle train with any such vigour.
It was when I was back in my quarters, laying absentmindedly on my bed once more, that my brows furrowed in remembrance.
Of all the things that they could have discussed– that had been left unsaid for so many years– how was it that I had come up in conversation?
“This one?” Cerissa had retrieved yet another dress from one of my chests– this time it was an ivory coloured kirtle trimmed with red thread.
I propped myself up slightly, resting on my elbows, as I regarded the gown before shaking my head.
“No,” I said simply. I tilted my head as Cerissa held the dress up against herself– it suited her, what with her pale blonde hair, fair skin and hazel eyes. I slump back down and resume my very important task of looking at the ceiling, “You should keep it.”
Cerissa sputtered, cheeks flushing as a smile split across her face. Then, she coughed abruptly and put the dress back in the chest as she tried to clumsily, earnestly compose herself– every inch a budding lady.
“I couldn't, no. Lady Marla had it made for you!” She tried to insist. I waved her off.
“Consider it your early nameday gift.” I decided, remembering that Cery was to turn nine in two moons time. It was disguised as a favour but, truly, I hadn't the faintest clue what to give her– she loved little else but embroidery and music. How many times could you gift someone a tambour frame?
Would I even be there to give her a present in person? Now that was a scary thought. I envisioned it unwittingly– Tywin would be Hand for the foreseeable future so I wouldn't have to bother with him…Joanna would die, though, and leave the twins behind to their relatively uninvolved family members– oh, Tyrion would come into the picture too, of course, completing their quasi-incestuous, terrible trio, all rotted in their own special way.
“Thank you.” Cerissa breathed; her face was still red and her smile shyer, but no less genuine.
Abruptly and suddenly, I was overcome with the violent hope that all would go well for her. If the powers at be had any sort of pity, I dared to hope that they allot it to her– to her, and her future that I was uncomfortably blind to.
I stood up, stretching, “Let me go through them with you– Calla shoved practically my entire wardrobe in that box. It'll take you hours alone– and, Aunt Joanna expects us at noon.”
Cerissa toyed with the sleeve of her new gown, worry manifesting as a crease in her brow, “You're so brave, Jory.”
I had crouched down by the chest as Cerissa had said those words. I glanced up at her, blinked, and then looked back down at the pile of clothes before me. I tried to fight my smile of surprise but it coloured my voice.
“What's there to be scared of?” I said, though I had a braying sense of anxiety settle in the pit of my stomach.
“I've heard the Lord Hand is terrifying! Aunt Perianne said that when he smiles, he has fangs like a lion .” Cerissa exclaimed animatedly, putting the dress aside and revealing her own canines by lifting her upper lip.
“Aunt Perry always tells strange stories to spook us and anger the septa. I don't think his lordship is one to smile anyway, Cerissa, so you needn't worry on my behalf about his fangs.” I remarked a little dryly. I then added, “Thankfully, it is my aunt I dine with, not him besides.”
I froze for a moment, only just realising that this made the man my uncle– through marriage, of course, but still far too close a relation for my liking.
I held up a blue cotte at arm's length; I zeroed in on the details of the gown, as a means to distract myself. The body of the dress was a pale cerulean with a darker thread used to sew winding adornments on the bodice. Its sleeves were long and slashed, and there was white, crisp lace affixed to the neckline. It was plain. It would do.
“How about this?” I asked her, holding it against me. There was a beat of silence and an unsure expression coloured her features. I urged, “Be honest.”
“It's pretty!” She said quickly. A little reluctantly, Cerissa then confessed, “But…some of the ones Lady Marla had made for you are more– more…”
She tried to find the words and I grinned, satisfied. I slung the dress over my arm, “Know this, Cery: sometimes, less is more,”
Especially when it came to a particular Cersei Lannister who detested the thought of being outshined in any way– whether the perceived slight was real or imagined.
“Hm…if you insist,” Cerissa's acquiescence was a soft sigh. In a futile effort, she argued, “What about the green one you wore for your nameday? With the lovely, long sleeves and– and all the frills –”
“And, have Aunt Myrielle scold me for reusing the dress for this grand occasion ?” Was the excuse I conjured up. I shook my head, “Not a chance. This is perfect. Now, let's hurry– come help me with my hair.”
Cerissa visibly blanched. I made a sound that was half a sigh and half a laugh.
Shaking my head, I said, “Just go grab Tess.”
An hour later and I practically had to drag my feet as I followed along my aunt and brood of cousins. When I had last worn the gown, it had not felt nearly so stifling as it did in that moment– I felt hyper-aware of how the cool fabric rustled against my skin and the scratch of the lace against my clavicle.
My eyes winked at the afternoon sunlight, shielding myself from its rays momentarily with a handkerchief Cerissa had made me. We had emerged from the Kitchen Keep, walking the length of a small corridor before finding our way to the stretched, covered bridge that connected us to the rest of the wider castle.
As my eyes adjusted, I took in my surroundings– I chanced a look at the bailey below. With the tourney drawing closer, the king had permitted the entry of some of the city's foremost merchants and vendors; they'd been flitting in and out of the Keep for days now, having discussions at length with the (reportedly very beleaguered) Master of Coin– one Chelsted or other– about various expenditures and other such droll things. In addition to merchants with their own issues to petition, lords and their ladies promenaded below in their fine clothes of many colours, bowing and nodding in acknowledgement to their noble peers– alongside servants who bustled in large gaggles, rushing off to attend to the whims of their lieges or make their way to the fair grounds to erect the viewing boxes and pavillions. I felt an abrupt jolt of pity for the king's master-of-games.
Amarei's hair caught the light splendidly, her red locks looking almost akin to tendrils of fire that had been tamed into a plaited bun. She sported an ornate hairnet, its gold chains foraged from Prester mines and dotted with emeralds that matched her dress. I pursed my lips. Green – was that not the favourite colour of our lovely cousin? I hoped for Amarei's sake they did not match.
To speak of matching, Myranda sported the gown that Aunt Myrielle had told her to– it was more of an off-white than ivory and, in spite of the pout that her lips had curled into, it suited my young cousin well. She'd tied some white ribbons in her copper-hair that hung slightly loose and framed her round face. Whilst grandmother had been right that they were two obviously different colours, the style of dress was the same– both were embellished with lace on the sleeves, bodice, neckline and the hem of their skirts, not to mention the lavish use of cloth-of-gold.
I felt remarkably underdressed, suddenly, in my pale blue dress. I'd only added a girdle-belt and pearl earrings that I'd received as a gift at Cerissa's insistence. My hair was unadorned, styled in a rather bland half-up, half-down style with two braids that crowned either side of my head. Myrielle, imperious in her satin gown of red-and-white, topped with a black mantle lined with white fur, had sighed upon seeing me but said nothing, not being one for lateness.
From the covered bridge, we were led to a postern by a pretty servant-girl and wandered down winding, serpentine steps that seemed to go on forever– we were enshrouded in a momentary darkness, with only flickering wall sconces and minimal light pouring through the windows, before daytime found us again in the outer yard.
The servant had insisted that it would not be a long journey from our lodgings to the Tower of the Hand– knowing that the Red Keep was full of liars, I shouldn't have been surprised to know that even servants uttered falsehoods here. Though an unintentional deception on the girl's part, I sighed with impatience as Myrielle stopped to smile and sweet-talk her fellow lords and ladies.
Oh, yes, Lord Crakehall– it had been far too long! Of course I could make time for you, my good Lady Stokeworth. Say, aren't you Ser Harren of House Clifton– what a joy it will be to see a proud Westerman compete in the lists!
Myrielle’s smile only ever seemed to widen with the attention she was receiving– for all the things I could say of the woman, she wasn’t one to flounder, making easy conversation with an even easier smile, flaunting her eldest girl with an unabashed sense of pride; no, rather than flounder, she soared . For a moment, I wondered if this is how my grandmother would have looked in her youth– vivacious and clear-eyed, unblemished by age.
I quickly grew bored of pondering when Myrielle decided to engage in a simultaneously animated yet droll conversation with a lady sporting Lefford colours.
Gods above , could we not have just made haste for the Hand's Tower to get this wretched reunion over with?
My hands flexed. Unease pooled in my gut, making itself at home.
Reflexively, I'd found the beginnings of a loose thread on the handkerchief and begun pulling as my mind raced. Why was I so nervous? I was to dine with my extended family, make myself as unnoticeable and uninteresting as possible, endure the blasted tourney and go home when it was suitable to do so. I would not court pleasure or displeasure, wrath or wonder and just make do with my lot. Joanna Lannister was a woman, not a lioness, and her children were just that– children. To be sure, the sheltered bubble I'd enjoyed for so many years was at risk of being popped– but, I shouldn't have been this nervous. I had a violent, sinking feeling that things were about to be upended.
Finally, the Lefford noblewoman bid Myrielle goodbye and relieved us of social obligation. I made a move to follow our small gaggle but felt my skirts snag uncomfortably on something.
“Pardon me, but I believe you're stepping– oh. Hello there.” I blinked, looking down to meet the gaze of a thin, slip of a cat that looked at me with wide eyes. I think I remembered something about the Keep and its influx of strays. Very politely, I cleared my throat and continued, “I would like for you to let go please, my good ser.”
The thing– older than a kitten, to be sure, with white whiskers grown in that complemented its orange-gold fur– simply kept the hem of my skirt in its greedy little maw, refusing to let go. I tugged on the fabric– the creature tugged back.
“You little bastard.” I remarked, but a smile betrayed my features, to be sure. I looked back over my shoulder– of course Aunt hadn’t thought to wait for me. She had already vanished out of my line of sight, damnably fast. I turned back to the cat and wagged my finger at him, “See what you've done! Now I'll most certainly be late…or maybe, maybe you've saved me.”
I crouched down to the cat's level, skirts fanning out beneath me. I pondered and absentmindedly gave him an obligatory scritch behind the ears.
“I could lie and say I got lost– which isn't entirely a lie, really. It's not as if I have any clue where anything is. I could say I ventured into the royal gardens, caught a rash off some ivy and feign illness for the rest of the festivities, avoiding those lot like the plague. Doesn't that sound like a plan to you?” The cat had begun purring, leaning into my touch without any resistance. I tilted my head and rested my chin in the palm of my free hand, “No, you're quite right. Grandmother wouldn't believe it for a second and Myrielle would probably blather about how unruly I was for running off.”
Nevermind that I had a plethora of courtiers and guards and servile staff to ask directions from.
“Damn it all.” I muttered, rising to my feet.
Cat meowed in protest.
I had to bid farewell to my newfound friend and try to catch up with my impatient aunt– I passed by some stern looking men-at-arms who spoke of having lunch at the training grounds.
I grumbled, “So I'm already late.”
There were a flurry of people around me and my unease had now manifested as an uncharacteristic social anxiety– the guardsmen looked severe, the courtiers would prattle on and delay me even further and, being burdened with the manual labour of physically preparing things for the tourney, I felt awkward at the prospect of beggaring the already overworked servants into giving me directions. I felt awkward at the fact that I was to be served at all– but, I had little time to unpack the thought at present.
Salvation came to me in the form of a lithe nobleman with yellow hair and greenish eyes– I spotted him at a distance, he appeared to be smiling at a young maid. I almost looked away, but then I spotted that familiar lion on his chest– the Reynes had long since been reduced to memory so, of course, it could only be Lannister heraldry. All roads lead to Rome– so all Lannisters would make their way to the same place, no?
Akin to a stalker, I tried to make myself appear inconspicuous as I loitered behind a pillar. Thankfully, the woman had made herself scarce almost immediately after I had spied them, as if sensing me from afar. And, so began the game of cat-and-mouse– yet, strangely enough, though I followed the man, I felt more like the prey than predator.
Thankfully, the Tower and its adjoining hall came into view– the red brick made its battlements look especially imposing.
“You're following me.” The Lannister man called out to me– his voice carried over the few yards between us, causing me to start, but I judged there to be no anger in his tone. Only, perhaps…amusement?
“I got lost.” I decided to tell the truth– it wasn't as if I had committed any wrongdoing. Better that than a clumsy lie. After a moment of consideration, I tacked on an apologetic curtsy.
“Hm.” Was his thoughtful response as he neared me. He was in possession of elegant features; bright green eyes framed by long lashes. His long, blond hair was tied in a loose knot and his nose might have been aquiline if not for the fact that it was so obviously crooked– with a scar across the bridge?
As I was regarding him, he was regarding me. How strange it must have seemed– a young lady, of clear, high birth, unattended to by any sworn sword or maidservant, wandering alone in such a vast Keep.
“Yellow hair, greenish sort of eyes…you must be one of Joanna's little nieces, aren't you?” He appraised, smile on his face, though his delivery had none of the pomp of a certain silver-haired wizard.
“Yes,” I nodded, curtsying again, “Jorelle Lannister, my father was a younger brother to her ladyship; my apologies for being so unruly and following you around, Ser…?”
He waved me off, then clasped his hands behind his back, slowly starting to encircle me– because that wasn't at all unsettling.
“ Gerion – and, you needn’t beg my forgiveness. It seems you have received your comeuppance as another unruly creature has followed you in turn.” He motioned behind me, and I turned to see that orange cretin padding towards me.
“The very reason for my lateness.” I grumbled, and the man laughed.
It registered, then. The man was Gerion Lannister– it had all started to become uncanny then.
“Go, off with you! I haven't got any food!” I pleaded, trying to shoo the creature away. He just stared unblinkingly.
“So harsh, young cousin!” Gerion exclaimed, kneeling down to play with the clingy cat, who seemed more than happy with the attention– I recoiled at the word.
“We aren't cousins.” My insistence was quick and I couldn't control how harsh my tone had sounded– not at all becoming for a girl of ten.
He ignored the blip in conversation and easily amended, “I suppose you're right. Let's think– whatever you are to Tywin, you would be to me. Joanna is your aunt, so that makes us your uncles…oh, how marriage connects us all!”
I couldn’t help the way my lips tugged downwards at that.
Jorelle Lannister, daughter of Ser Rollam and Jorelle Lannister, niece to the Lord Hand were two entirely different and separate entities– one was a carefree ward of the House Prester who was like to join a motherhouse the moment she reached majority, maintaining the decided respectability her status required all the while being happily unmarried. The other was an uncomfortably close relation to one of the most powerful men of the realm– and, could be pawned off in the marriage mart to the highest bidder, of whom would happily settle for a niece when denied a daughter; she was important.
Decidedly, I did not want to be important.
Reconsidering his remark, Gerion seemed to rankle at the word. “The title ages me, I think. I much prefer cousin as a form of address.”
Nevermind that we had only met a moment ago.
“Whatever you say, ser.” Was my placid albeit bland response. I clasped my hands together against my skirts to conceal the way my fingers toyed with the thread of my kerchief, “Might you be so kind as to guide me inside?”
“Of course– though, I must say, you look like you'd rather have me spirit you away from this place to make your grand escape.” He laughed again, a saccharine sound, and began to take long strides towards the tower, Lannister men bowing their heads in greeting, and I followed after him; the little, orange scamp had vanished.
I grimaced, “Is it that obvious?”
“Terribly so.” He nodded, “You needn't look so afraid. We don't bite.”
The smile he flashed following that statement made me rather disinclined to believe him but I said nothing, not wanting to provoke the proverbial, bored lion. Unfortunately, said bored lion was rather intent on provoking me– though perhaps provocation was too strong a label for an idle attempt at conversation. Perhaps I was merely just projecting my own blatant unease.
“Remind me which one of good-sister’s brothers is your father– I only recall of Stafford, but you resemble him little…of which I’m sure you are glad of.” He quipped.
We crossed the length of the foyer– servants and guardsmen mutely deferring to Gerion as we passed by them– I was overwhelmed with how shiny everything was. Marble floors that squeaked against my feet, lacquered, glittering mosaics and masterfully carved bas-reliefs. I almost forgot to answer him.
“My father was Rollam Lannister– he died when I was still a baby.” I was far removed as I spoke– calling him father still felt strange, “I never knew him.”
“Rollam, Rollam…yes, I think I remember him now– Joanna has spoken of him to me before, if only to chastise me for my flippancy that is apparently so akin to his own. Well, my condolences. If it is any consolation, I lost my own father when I was young.”
“We should form a sort of club.” I muttered under my breath, though I was sure Gerion heard me if his faint snort was anything to go by.
We stopped before the Small Hall’s entrance where a slight man donned in Lannister livery awaited– he opened his mouth to speak as the doors opened, but Gerion silenced the herald by forging on ahead into the hall before he could be announced, causing the man to sputter. I hurried after the self-admittedly flippant knight– who, the longer I stared at him, could have been no older than a boy of eighteen– flashing an apologetic glance at the spurned herald.
I was greeted by a small gaggle of red-and-blond heads turning to face the sudden source of noise– in spite of the massive size of the hall, there were only a few attendees, making for an intimate affair and not an intimidating one. Myrielle sat to the right of the woman at the head of the table– of whom could only be Lady Lannister– whilst Aunt Shierle sat to her left; the three were joined by two other vaguely familiar women I couldn’t quite place. I spied my Prester cousins sitting opposite two girls– I recognised Janei Serret, who was her mother in miniature but with her father’s brown hair. Her placid smile and quiet demeanour made for an almost comical contrast when one looked at the girl next to her– emerald eyes narrowed in a cross between boredom and irritation as her gaze found mine.
Cersei had been far lovelier as a baby, I’d decided at that moment, long before she’d ever learned how to scowl.
Joanna looked at her good-brother with undisguised– albeit fond– exasperation, before her gaze flitted to me. She looked through me for a moment, and I knew that she was looking for a ghost; Marla often casted that same look, even Myrielle at times.
“My sincerest apologies for the intrusion, my ladies, but I believe this one belongs to you?” He lightly pushed me forward by my shoulder, “We crossed paths on my way to the training grounds.”
My brows furrowed at that– the training grounds ? My thoughts went back to the fair maid I’d initially spotted him with– was he using me as his unwilling alibi? And, to think, I’d suggested we start a club.
“As of late, you have developed a particularly queer habit of picking up strays , Gerion,” She remarked, pointedly, but waved him off. There was a lilt in her tone as she addressed me– her eyes, that had looked through almost vacantly just seconds ago, now seemed kind and lively. She gestured for me to take a seat, “Come, child, sit. Be welcome, be merry– you are surrounded by family, we won’t bite.”
She didn’t wolfishly smile with teeth as Gerion had and, yet, I think I believed her even less.