Chapter Text
“Everywhere in the world they hurt little girls.”
-Cersei Lannister
The carriage rocked over the cobblestones. It felt like I could feel every rock and crevice as the wooden wheels went over them, and I found myself struggling to keep myself still and upright. This was getting nauseating. It felt like vines were creeping over my bones; it had been four days of riding south, and the very urge to just stand and move was straining my joints. I practically begged the carriage driver to simply continue through the evening and night, offering gold coffers, but he didn’t want to risk being on the road at night. “Bandits, my lady! Wolves and bears and bandits. No, we must camp.” The journey would have been shorter if we continued past sundown, and if it wasn’t for the rain that caused the road to mud up and prevent a full day of riding. I spent that day reading books, wandering in the rain and collecting mushrooms and herbs from around the makeshift camp, until I was urged by one of the guards sent from Harrenhal to guard my safe passage, Jullen, urged me back inside the tents. “ My lady, ” he had said, “ You will catch the shivering death. ”
Shivering death be damned, I felt I was going to die just sitting there. And worse was the carriage. The slow rocking vibration of the thing nearly drove me ill. If it had been up to me, I’d be on horseback, but the planning of my departure was taken over by Larys and my father, Lyonel. It is safer, I have come to know, in a trotting wooden cage with scruffy wool linen cushions, than with the wind on my hair and the ability to run.
The end was finally in sight when I peered out of the small slatted window of the thing and saw King’s Landing in the distance, my kin so close made my heart warm, and I turned my head back to my book.
The lull of the carriage changed quickly - the soft chitter of wheel on dirt changed to the loud clitter-clatter and the aforementioned tossing of my body of the cobblestone as we neared the grounds of the castle. The bustle of the city all around us, the crowds gathered at Cobbler’s Square, people speaking and selling goods, a mother and child hand-in-hand, guards posted at corner and corner. The city seemed to be in good spirits. At least to the smallfolk.
A few minutes had passed, my head buried in my book, when I noticed the carriage beginning to slow. I forced myself to swallow my nausea - damned carriage-sickness - as we finally halted. The carriage shifted one last time as the driver got off, and, without waiting for him or some guard, I opened the door myself.
The salt air licked at my skin deliciously. There was a small chill in the air, the first breath of the approaching winter, though it was still a few moon’s turns away. My eyes quickly darted to the surroundings, ignoring Jullen’s playful chastising about my bursting from the carriage. I saw the bushes first, surrounding the entrance, neatly trimmed, seemingly lacking any bugs or birds or butterflies, softly swaying left and right from the breeze. I could smell flowers in the air, just hidden behind the salt, and took note to ask someone to see the gardens later. There was little like that at Harrenhal, beside my makeshift one in my own chambers. Quickly scanning, taking in little detail, until my eyes cast on my own father and Larys.
“Papa! Brother!” I let out a squeal, throwing my arms up in the air. Skipping, I ran quickly towards them, colliding into them like a bolt of lightning. My father, ever stoic and serious, returned with a soft embrace.
“Daughter, so glad your trip didn’t lower your spirits.” There was a tone in his voice that was sarcastic and belittling, but I ignored it.
“It did, but I’m quite good at pretending. I should be a mummer!” I gasped, like I had just had the very best idea in the world. Father grimaced, and I giggled.
“Glad to see you, sister,” Larys spoke next to me. I quickly turned my head to see him. His hair was neat, and he was resting his weight on his cane, but he was smiling; wholly, the kind he only smiles when I am near.
“Larys,” I whispered, lips pursing and eyes squinting with emotion. “It has been too long, brother.” I quickly reach towards him, embracing him tight enough he lets out a soft groan.
“Too long, indeed,” he spoke, wrapping his arms around me in return. I took a moment like this, breathing it in. My best friend, my brother. With me again at last.
I let go of him as a breeze blew through, and I turned towards it, inhaling deeply the smell of the ocean. “I understand now why they believe sending people by the sea can cure their ailments. This is delightful.”
“If you think this is delightful, come, dear, see the palace.” My father spoke, slightly demanding. He held out his arm to guide me, but I refused.
“Actually, I’d quite like to see the gardens. From the maps, it seems it’s just around the corner, shore-side. We won’t even have to go in-”
“Daughter, the King would like to see you and welcome you, the gardens will be there later.”
I sucked my lip between my teeth, but nodded. His offering of his arm was no longer there, and he motioned to follow him up the stairs, beginning to walk without waiting for me.
“Well why didn’t-” I stopped, realizing he was not listening. “Yes father.”
Larys offered his arm from his good side instead, and I smiled widely, all teeth and gum as I took it. We were just out of earshot from our father as we began to follow his pace, slowly, as to not rush.
“How is your mother?” He asks first. My mother is not his mother, of course. Father has had three wives, the first two that brought Hawin and Larys and my eldest sister have long since passed, though father never speaks of how, neither does Larys, and Harwin doesn’t speak to me that often.
“She is ill, as always,” I mumble, suddenly disinterested in the topic, though I know Larys wishes to know how my ‘keeper’ is doing. “But not worse, I don’t think.”
Somehow sensing the touchiness, he quickly tightens his arm around my own, comforting. I visited her before my journey here, in her chambers. The smell was one of piss, masked under incense and herbs the maesters insist will heal her. She smiled at me, but didn’t speak as I told her of my upcoming journey. She doesn’t speak much, though Larys insists she was quite the chatter before my harrowing birth.
“How fares Harrenhal?” Larys asks instead, changing the subject, craning his head towards me like I was about to let him in on a big secret. He was always like that, seeking information, knowledge, gossip.
I reached over with my hand from the arm not linked in his, and placed it on his forearm, and let out an overdramatic groan. “Ugh, awful,” I moaned. “Absolutely dreadful. I keep having to convince the servants that it’s not haunted, just old.”
Larys smiled softly as we began to walk the steps, but his smile quickly faded from the effort. “I meant the upkeep of the place.”
“Oh, well, you know, Father makes all the decisions. I’m just there to be the face, and keep it clean,” I said, looking down at my steel-blue gown as it shifted from the pace of climbing the steps. “Which is quite hard, you know. It’s hard to keep a place clean when it’s got holes in it.”
He chuckled slightly. “You haven’t got those fixed yet?”
“You know I can’t!” I whined, “Father won’t allocate the funds. Apparently it’s very expensive to repair dragon-fire damage.”
“Everything is expensive to Father,” he mused. “And far too much work for a girl of your age to bear.”
“Girl? Brother, you jape, surely,” I giggled, leaning in close to him. “ I’ve already had my first blood. ”
His mouth opens in shock, his cheeks turning a soft pink at this information. I knew how to tease him. He loved knowledge above all, and this was a secret I kept from everyone. “When?”
“About four moons ago,” I giggle as I reach the tops of the steps.
“Sister, you know you should have told us. This means you can wed.”
“ Exactly why I didn’t!” I whined, unlinking our arms in protest. When I noticed he had stopped walking, I turned back towards him, crossing my arms childishly around my stomach. “Larys, you cannot tell father. He will wed me to some idiotic little lord somewhere damp and dreary, and I could not live. They probably won’t even let me read. They probably can’t.”
He rolled his eyes, his hand resting atop the other on the cane. “Your imagination, girl,” he muttered. “And you already live somewhere damp and dreary.”
“Exactly, and I hate it. But look at me now! King’s Landing! ” I squealed again, jumping from one foot to the other in excitement.
“You are just here to visit. And no, I will not tell Father. Not immediately,” he whispered the last part, but I still heard it. “You are still pretty young, so I can get away with it for a while, but sooner or later, he will need to know.”
“Fine, fine,” I huffed, and he joined me closely again, and I wrapped my arms around his without waiting as we walked through the doors. I admired the structure silently for a moment, as we followed the now distant, bald head of our father. “Now, brother,” I giggled. “I told you one.”
“What?” He feigns ignorance.
“What, what?” I lean into him slightly and he nearly falls as the cane loses its steadiness underneath his weight. This was a game we played, ever since we were children. “I told you a secret, so you owe me one. You haven’t been gone that long, Larys, don’t act like you’ve forgotten how close we are!”
He exhaled harshly through his nose, keeping his eyes towards our father. I could see him gaze around with his eyes, checking for ears too close. I was lucky to be holding onto him, because I wasn’t even looking at anything around me, just his face, eager for the knowledge he will now surely bestow upon me.
“Well, you must swear not to speak of it,” his head held highly, deadly serious. My eyes lit up and squinted with the weight of how big I was grinning. This was good . He knows I would never tell, that is our game, of course. We used to call it Whisper Willows, though I’m not sure how the game even started. I asked one time, and he said it was my idea, one I had at age five. He spoke about how I had been drawing trees and told him that I didn’t think elephants were real, and asked him for a secret in return, and he coined the name himself. As I aged, and grew more desperate for drama and theatrics, the secrets exchanged were more scandalous. Once I told him I had seen a maid with one of the guards doing something reserved for wife and husband, and he told me he saw our father doing the same thing with a whore in his chambers when he went to speak to him. I giggled and giggled, thinking this was salacious information.
Larys was still stoic, and he looked so much like father in that moment of seriousness, and so different from him at the same time.
“Oh, brother, you know I won’t, I swear to the Mother,” I begged, whining out in desperation. “Please, tell me!”
“Okay, but quiet your screeching,” he begged in return, and my hand quickly flew to my mouth as if to calm myself. After a moment, another quick glance for open ears around him. He leaned in softly, eyes still ahead, as if he was simply catching up with his little sister. “There has been talk that our Realm’s Delight has been having an affair with our brother, Harwin, and that her children are his, not Laenor’s.”
A gasp escaped my throat before I could stop it, quick and sharp, but no one turned their heads. Harwin? The Princess? My mind reeled with the possibilities and outcomes of this situation, and I finally peeled my eyes away from Larys to stare at the ground I walked on. “Breakbones? But that would mean-”
“Yes, yes it would,” he agreed without me finishing. If Rhaenyra’s heirs were bastards, they would not be seen as true heirs in the eyes of the Seven and the kingdom as a whole. This would be disastrous. “Now, speak no more of it. I will answer questions later in your bedchamber or the gardens, if you wish, but not here. And that would cost you more secrets.”
I followed him close behind, my mind still full. I was never close to Harwin, to be sure, nor my eldest sisters. My sisters were far too focused on stitching and sewing, while I was trying to read as many books as I could. Harwin was far too old for us to bond deeply, and he was focused on knighthood more than kinship. Though I thought of him fondly and have warm memories with him, I never corresponded with him as much as Father or Larys. This thought appalled me, I thought him much wiser than this. As we meander the long, looping halls of the palace, I cannot even bring myself to look at the designs or admire the architecture. I am flooded with the memory that follows me and Harwin to this day.
It was about six years ago, I was around the same age me and Larys came up with our little game. According to our father, my mother was sickly all throughout my growing in her belly, and when I was born, I was the statement of that illness. Small, thin, shrieking, the maesters never thought I’d make it, or I’d be crippled like my brother. But as I grew, I defied odds, growing without any deformities or illnesses, just thin and small. It was only a few years ago I started to finally fill out, I got taller, stronger, and fuller. But at the time of this memory, I still weighed nothing. Harwin was already older, and taller than anyone in the family. He made a habit of picking me up when he was home and throwing me over his shoulder, tossing me about like I was a particularly heavy pillow. All in good fun, according to the stories, as I don’t really remember it well. We had been playing and he had lifted me up into the air until he had just let go of me, before catching me again in his arms. I would giggle and say again, again! Though I don’t remember the specifics of the incident, I feel the warmth of the times we had spent together. Even on that day.
He had tossed me into the air, and for some reason or the other - no one could agree - Father had been at King’s Landing, Larys was eating but watching, our sisters were talking amongst each other - he turned his head away from me, and I reached out to grab him as I flailed through the air. I managed to grab his shoulder, and I may have weighed more than he thought, or he was just off-balance, but I pulled him on top of me as I fell, and his elbow collided with my forearm and his full weight collapsed on top of my pale, fragile arm, and snapped the bone. Larys likes to tell it that my bone had been peeking out into daylight, Harwin swore when I spoke to him by letter a few years ago that his knight’s armor simply cut my fragile skin, but either way, I bear a ragged scar on my arm from the incident. As Larys tells it, as the maesters attempted to set it, Harwin tried to comfort me and apologize, and in my ever-mature fury, I shouted, “Keep Ser Breaks-my-bones away from me! ”
The nickname stuck, though shortened to simply Breakbones. Father doesn’t speak of it, and as far as anyone is concerned, his nickname is simply because of his size and his strength, but our family knows.
I find myself idly following Larys now, unsure of when we stopped holding each other, thumbing my scar from where it peaks from the blue silk of my gowns sleeve. It is pink and raised, with white lines on its sides. It is not ugly, I tell myself. It is a funny story. But most people don’t see it, and I am sure if they did they would assume it is unbecoming.
“Sister,” a voice snaps me back to reality, and I have stopped walking, only a pace from Larys, who speaks, and mere paces from, what I assume to be the royal dining hall. “You must snap out of it. The King is here. Behave, curtsy, and keep your secrets and words to yourself.”
Quick to open my mouth, but also quick to shut it, I nodded. The doors were opened, and I followed my brother in.
“Ah, here they are now. Your Grace, this is my beautiful daughter, fresh from her journey here from Harrenhal,” my father’s hand extended towards me, and my eyes fell towards the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Viserys.
My blood cooled instantly. It is strange, I think to myself. I have met him when I was far too young to remember, yet I tremble before him. My body should hold these memories, I think, so why am I afraid? My father is smiling, so easy around him, like he is a friend, not a King. Not a god amongst men.
I am still until a beat passes and I realize what I should be doing. I curtsy before him, eyes downcast and staying there. I force myself not to stare at him or anywhere else in the room, as there are many eyes all on me right now, and after my isolation at Harrenhal, I truly am not used to it.
“It is a delight to meet you,” the King spoke, commanding; commanding something, me, the people in the room, the air, the Gods. I sneak a glance through my brow at him. He is old, and has wounds on his neck, not raw, but there. Something is wrong with him, I think to myself, and absentmindedly think of my books and what diseases can cause wounds like that. “You are most welcome here.”
“She is younger than your youngest daughter, Helaena, your grace, but I see them being close friends. She is quite fond of nature,” my father speaks, the same demanding voice from earlier, but it sounds so weak and demure compared to His Grace's. My mind reels. Brown-leg, but it’s on his neck. Red spots, but he is not being kept away from anyone.
“Young, yes, but not too young,” the King mused. Pox, but he is not alone. Greyscale, but these wounds are black, not grey. “From what Eustace hears from the Septas at Harrenhal, she has already flowered!”
My head shot up quickly, cheeks turning bright red. Instinctively, I turn to Larys, whose face is unreadable. He is pretending again. Observing.
“Has she?” Father said, turning his body and gaze towards me. I can tell he is furious that he did not know this first, that I did not tell him. I am ashamed, I am red in the face. I feel childish tears burning my nostrils and my eyes, and I look down, swallowing it, like I did the nausea back on the carriage. Fucking Septas, I think. Can’t trust them. Can’t trust anybody. I had screamed for my servants, half asleep from discovering the blood on my sheets. I knew what it was, but I did not know what to do. No one had taught me. The ladies calmly cleaned me up, explained what to do to stop the flow from my gowns, showed me the rags, and changed my sheets. I made them swear to secrecy, but one must have let it slip, or a Septa found the bloody sheets, something must have happened. Of course the septas spoke to Eustace. I feel sick. I am dizzy with agony. I wish to jump into the sea and never return.
“Then we must plan a marriage,” my father said, his fingers now gripping a goblet so hard his knuckles were white. He was ashamed, too, but not like I am. I feel shame in a way a man could never understand. I knew it was coming, but hearing it spoke aloud made my blood shiver.
I do not like Harrenhal, but it is home, it is mine, in a way. I walk the halls and break my fast with Jullen and my ladies, and spend my days reading and tending my plants, helping the servants sweep when there are no eyes to watch me doing serfs work. I spend time where I want and without a smelly, old man watching me. I go to bed by myself with my legs only open so my cat can snuggle in between them. It will be ruined. It will all be ruined.
“Delightful! I do know Cregan Stark is seeking a wife. My good wife, Alicent, can help you arrange if you do so wish, Lyonel,” the king said. If it was possible to panic more, I did. I was breathing, aware I was breathing, trying to steady the inhales and exhales to seem composed. On the outside, I was steady, if not shaky. It could simply be assumed I was nervous to meet the king, not the prospect of being swept away to somewhere unfamiliar and frightening.
“Then it is done!” My father declared, raising his goblet so quick that wine sloshed off the edges. I watched the people around the table raise their own. Four stared right back at me, all white-blonde and violet eyed. I study them for as long as I allow myself. The one closest to His Grace, with choppy wavy hair, and glossy violet eyes, red around the edges like he hadn’t slept in a while, or he had been crying, it was possible for either, though I can’t imagine what a Targaryen had to cry about. Aegon, I note. The one beside him was taller, thinner, but younger from what I can tell, but maybe that was because he didn’t look so tired. His hair was pin straight. He seemed to be gazing coldly toward me, as if I was unwelcome here. This must be Aemond, the second eldest. Then who must be Helaena, her beautiful hair, her eyes on me. She seems to be studying me, but not harshly like the others, simply curious, like my brother does. She was the one father said I might become close to. The one beside her, who appeared a few years younger than me, was the prettiest by far, even prettier than Helaena. The youngest. Daeron.
“Come, my dear,” my father spoke, waving towards an empty chair right at the end next to a brown haired boy. I watch him, but he does not look at me. They are younger than I am, but one seems around my age, the eldest. This must be Rhaenyra’s supposed bastards. My nephews.
A chair is pulled out from the table, and I look to see who is holding it. Aegon, the eldest, had apparently gotten up from the other side of the table and walked toward the chair while I was studying the Velaryon - or, Strong - boys. My lips parted slightly, I let out an exhale, meeting his penetrating gaze. I wanted to shrink into a ball until I disappeared. He was handsome, ruggedly so, sadly so. There was something in his eyes, but I quickly brushed it off as wine as I smelled it on him. I am admiring him as I approach, until I remember just a moment ago he heard the story of my first bleed, and I quickly rip my gaze away, cheeks reddening and growing hot. I sit in the chair and he pushes me into the table. Larys has taken his seat near the end on the other side, and nods to me. A silent understanding. Just get through it. We will speak later.
“Well this is cause for celebration, I think,” the King rejoiced, holding out his hands to the feast I had just noticed on the table. It was supper time, I remember, I had arrived late due to unsafe roads, and my stomach growled loudly. I hide my face, gazing down, silently cursing the updo my hair was in, preventing the shielding of my blushed cheeks. “With my daughter’s growing family,” he gestured to the silver-white haired woman on his left, my right, whose face was strong and beautiful. The heir. My eldest brother’s paramour. “And your youngest’s soon-to-be marriage!”
“The Gods are good, your Grace,” my father answered, though his anger was still palpable, just hidden under the proposed wed to a Stark.
I ate much and spoke nothing, willing myself to get through this. The dinner was long, arduous, though we grazed where we wished and there were no courses, it dragged on forever, and I could not find Larys’ gaze to will him to get me out of this. Stupid secrets, I thought. Now mine doesn’t even count.
Though, I must admit, it was joyous. There was music and dancing, unlike what I was used to, supping in quiet. No one offered me a dance, which I was grateful for. We had lemon cakes, with candied slices of its namesake on top, and I tried to be proper as best I could. My elbows stayed off the table, my lips were clean when I ate, and my posture was so straight you could balance a cup on my head. It was so foreign; at Harrenhal, I could eat how I wished, because no one cared. The septas didn’t dine with me, only around me to help with my studies, and they were the only ones who cared about manners. I am used to eating in chairs with my legs twisted underneath my body, with my fingers dirty and belching if I wished it to. This made the people around me laugh, laugh at how childish I was yet how knowledgeable and wise I was. The very simple truth of it is, I was no lady. I did not wish it to be. I loved the status it gave me and the opportunities, to read and to learn and dance and leisure at my will, but I hated corsets, I hated curtsying, I hated it. And marriage would force me into that life forever. If I could just stay at Harrenhal, I thought, it would all be better. I would be proper only with my septas. I could dance wildly and jape and tend to my garden. But I am a woman now, I suppose, and women are for marriage. Women are for heirs.
I shiver, and apparently it is noticeable, as Jullen shows up behind me only a moment later. “I think it may be time for my lady to be shown her chambers,” he offers an out, and I smile gently at him.
“Yes, yes, that sounds delightful,” I say. He offers his hand, and I take it. He pulls my chair out and I stand, turning to the table. I search my mind for something to say to excuse this. “I have been traveling for days, I have grown quite tired.”
Everyone is looking at me, and I find myself turning red once again at the attention. There is silence, and I realize they are expecting something of me. I search their eyes, trying to decipher what it is. Oh Gods, I’m panicking again.
“I’m sure my dear sister is very grateful for your generous meal,” Larys explains, the first time he spoke during the dinner. “Her journey here was not easy. The storms muddied the road, you see. She had to tent in the cold, it’s not a place for a lady of her age.”
I smile, nodding. “Yes, yes,” I quickly followed up, “I wish to take a warm bath.”
There is a snicker, and I realize Aegon Targaryen has spit out his wine, covering his laugh with his hand. The woman to the King’s right, red haired with brown eyes - the Queen, Alicent - has shot him a glare, but his smile doesn’t cede. I realize I have said the wrong thing, shared too much, and made people uncomfortable. Made a fool out of myself.
The queen turns to me, and offers a gentle smile, and my embarrassment is soothed a little. “Thank you for coming to join the celebration.”
I nod, this time slowly, and turn my body towards the king and the queen, curtsying. “Your Grace.”
I quickly turn and feel Jullen’s hand on my lower back, guiding me away from the festivities. Once we are out of earshot, I quickly thank him.
“Speak no more of it,” he smiled, and asked a serf to show him the way towards my chambers. “It seemed quite a dreadful celebration anyways. No jousting, no dancing on tables, no costumes.”
I giggled, feeling a weight off my shoulders for just a moment, before it comes to crash against me once again.
~~~
The sun has set since I left dinner. I had a bath drawn, but it was so warm I could only wash quickly and get out. I go through my chests I brought with me and pick out a nightdress absentmindedly, throwing it on. I am grateful to get out of the gown, and the sleeves are short enough I can freely move my arms. I pace. Normally by this time, I am tending to my plants, but there are no plants here.
I move from the bed, to the chair by the fireplace, to the window. I open it, letting the cool air hit my hot skin. I have not calmed down. This place is unfamiliar, and it is the nicest place in Westeros. If I am not comfortable here, how am I to be comfortable in Winterfell? In the North? I can’t even hear the sea from my room here, and I wish to run out to the beach and be alone. I watch the soft firelight from the city, lanterns and movement, off in the distance, like ants or little stars that have fallen to the earth. I try to sit and read a book on the history of the Wall, hoping it will ease the unfamiliarity of the North, but it only heightens it. Wolves, wildings, harsh winters. I feel my breath catch as I hold back a panicked sob.
The doors open, Jullen behind them - he is by my door, guarding me. He is not sworn to me, I am not at a station I can have sworn guards, but he is close to me, we have grown close. This is my first time in King’s Landing since I was a babe, and he has come with me, which I am grateful for. Like a piece of home I could bring along with me.
Larys is at the door, quickly urging Jullen to shut them and guard it. It is done quickly, and I begin weeping with no hope of holding it back.
“Larys, brother, please, I cannot go to the North,” I stand, walking to him, reaching my arms out to clutch at his tunic. I try to read his face, but he is stony, unreadable, he is pretending again, or maybe he hasn’t stopped since the dinner. I grasp at him, begging, tears flowing coldly down my hot, terrified face. “I cannot. I cannot, Larys!”
“I know,” he offers, resting his free hand on my shoulder, but it is useless, I am a mess.
“I will die! I will die!” I shout, my chest shuddering with the effort it takes to breathe, I shake my head, protesting. “I will make myself die if I have to marry him, Larys! I will- I will throw myself from this palace!”
“Don’t.” He commands, and there is my father in there, but it is subtle, it is gentle, it is kind. Not don’t because it would look bad but don’t because it would kill you.
There is nothing spoken. I can only hear my own heaves of sobs, the blood rushing in my ears. I taste the salt of my tears and the mucus from my nostrils. It is unbearable, I think, this panic I am in. I have never cried like this, never. I am playful, I am kind, but now, I am a child, begging her older brother not to send her away.
The silence isn’t broken. “Larys!” I shout, begging him, begging him to do something, say something, comfort me. I watch him, he is calculating, he is thinking. He had this look earlier, when I asked him for a secret. Pages flipping somewhere in his head, his lips purse and he thinks, hard, his eyebrows furrowed. “Larys!” I plead.
My legs are giving out, and I am falling back onto the chair, my book on the Wall collapsing from the armrest onto the floor, open. I look at it, and it is showing drawings of wildings, and the men in black. I am shuddering, wailing like a child. My mind spins, thinking of what the King in the North would do to me. I am haunted by the memories of watching the guard and the maid, her face twisted in pain. I let out a sob. I think of the servants at Harrenhal teaching me of my first blood. It will not be your last, until you are bedded by your husband, and you will bleed then, too, and it will hurt, and soon you will be with a babe. Larys is touching me now, a cloth wiping my nose and my cheeks, he is kneeling, his cane abandoned on the rug on the floor. Never being able to tend to my plants, nothing grows well in the North. I won’t be able to read when I have a screaming baby. It will be one long, horrible dinner, just like the feast from earlier, but worse, it will not end, I will always have to sit up straight, and keep my elbows off the table, and smile when people talk of my blood and my womb and-
“Sister!” Larys shouts, his voice bellowing. He has been saying my name for minutes, and I have been hysterical. I meet his eyes, my lip quivering, shaking. “I will handle it. I will handle it.”
I am still shaking, though I am eased. When Larys deals with something, he deals with it. I know something will be done, but my body doesn’t, my breath uneven and my soul wounded deeply by the prospect of a future I now know will never happen.
“You will handle it,” I repeat, whispering, each word between gulps of air for my weakened lungs.
“I will handle it.” His cloth is now wiping the drool from my lips, and to my chin, and back to my cheekbones, catching the stray tears that begin to fall. He says it and it is true. It is already done, for all I know. Somewhere in the North, the king just died, eaten whole by a dire wolf, torn apart by a wildling. Maybe he is being wed right now to some other poor little girl. He takes my face into his hands, and speaks the next words like a plan, something I should be writing down, or taking note of. “You will leave tomorrow, back to Harrenhal. There is urgent business there, your mother is ill. You need to be there for her. I will send ravens to let you know the rest.”
I nod, slowly, drinking in this knowledge. I am going home. I am going home.
“You will not wed the king in the north,” he whispers, only to me. A promise. I exhale, and my body relaxes, nodding in response.
After what feels like hours, but only moments, I can only muster, “Thank you.”
~~~
Though I am back home, and back to my regular activities, things are not going well for me. My father sent correspondence a fortnight ago that Cregan Stark has received my portrait and is interested, but does not wish to betrothe himself to someone he has yet to meet. My father assures me in these letters that the time will not be far off, as he plans to head to King’s Landing in a few moons turns, and expects me to be there to greet him.
I spend my days wandering, pacing the halls. I clean more than before when I can get away with it. The servants welcome it, but my father has eyes everywhere, and when they see me doing something they presume unladylike, I am scolded for it. I work my way between their blind spots, mopping up rain puddles that gather in the halls from storms, dusting the shelves in the library, and tending my plants. I help plan to repair the remaining holes in the closed wing for the upcoming winter, however I know the funds will never be there. I feed my cat fish from the God’s Eye, and feel her purr in my lap, and try to pretend everything is okay.
I ponder my time at King’s Landing often. I did not see my sisters, now handmaidens for Princess Rhaenyra. I only saw Harwin for a moment the morning I left, just long enough to kiss his cheek and wish him well. The dinner was a disaster. I think often of my failure that evening, specifically mentioning my desire for a bath, and the fact that Aegon had laughed at me. I think of him taking out my chair for me. I think of his sad, tired eyes often, and what lurks behind them. If he had been crying, what for? The fact he was not heir? It seemed silly. It was the drink, I’m sure, or his lack of sleep. I do not know much about the children of the King, but they can’t be so hard off that they cry before feasts.
I visit my mother as much as I can, and she is iller than she was before I left. It seems like a cruel joke given that was the excuse I had to leave. I ask the maesters how she fares, and they explain to me my journey to King’s Landing was not good for her. “Her last little bird leaving the nest,” he mused in the doorway, far enough from my mother’s ear that if she was listening, she wouldn’t be able to hear. I am convinced she can’t hear anyways, she never says anything in response to me, just smiles. “It was not good for the spirit of the Mother inside her.”
“But I am here now,” I said. “She should be better.”
“My lady, you know I will do everything in my power for her, but she is just too ill. It has been eleven years since your birth, and she has been the same since. Her muscles are weakening, her appetite is failing. I fear it may be her time.”
“It will not be,” I said in response to him.
I read to her when I can, brush out her matted brown hair. To think it was me that caused her body to fail, like a parasite wriggling inside her, sucking up all the strength she had, and that she is still suffering with it today, is simply too much to bear. I do not think about it at all.
I am rolling a ball through the hallways, trying to knock a triangle of goblets down, when he finds me.
“My lady,” Jullen announces. His armor is brassy, and there are raindrops in his hair, and I look out the window and realize it is raining. I have not been outside in a while, for fear someone may snatch me and take me to the North, or back to King’s landing.
I turn my gaze back to him, “Yes, Jullen, what is it? Are you alright? Do you need a towel?”
A small smile, “No, my lady. A letter has arrived by crow, for you. The rookery still has no roof, I was caught in the rain.”
I sighed. “Maybe we should try and build something before winter. I worry the crows might get cold and die.” I take his letter, and he waits for me to dismiss him, but I do not.
I notice the wax seal and begin to smile. “It is my brother. He has finally made his plans!” I rush to his side, prying it open and holding it up so we could both read it.
Dear sister,
I hope you are faring well back home, and I apologize for my lack of correspondence as it has been quite busy here. Whispers have reached the right ears, and I regret to inform you our brother Harwin has now been removed as sworn protector of our princess, Rhaenyra, after the announcement of her carrying another child. Father has asked his Grace the King to bring him home to you to prepare him to rule Harrenhal, and the King has allowed it.
By the time this letter reaches you, they will have already begun their journey to you. I will remain here at King’s Landing, as I have more business to tend to. Read these words carefully:
When they arrive, sup with them, and retire early. A carriage will be waiting for you at the south entrance of the castle, and the driver has been informed to bring you to an inn at Maidenpool where you will stay for the night. Pack your dresses, and any precious belongings. I will send another letter to you there.
Please do not heed these words as a jest. Remember my promise to you, and all will be well.
Your brother,
Larys Strong
P.S. Tell Jullen to come with you as you may need protection on the journey there.
“A carriage to Maidenpool? So quickly after they arrive?” I ponder out loud, looking to Jullen for answers; maybe he has picked up on something I did not. Judging by the look on his face, he has.
“Well, we must go then. I will see towards getting your things arranged in chests.”
“Yes,” I respond, searching his face for something more, but the look of realization has been hidden, and his normal demeanor has returned.
~~~
A feast was prepared of fish and cow steaks, figs, carrots and corn. For dessert I had planned lemon cakes, like the ones served at King’s Landing, but we did not have any lemons, so instead we had cooked apples and pears over warm sponge cake. Father and Harwin did arrive, two days from my first reading of the letter. Our greetings were warm, but nothing to note. It was already afternoon when they arrived, so they went to clean up for dinner.
I visited my mother in the time when they cleaned up, telling them of their arrival, and she smiled again, but did not stir.
I sit at the table, not at the head like I usually do, but to the side of it, holding that seat for my father. I remained there for what felt like forever, wondering why I would be heading to Maidenpool. I asked Jullen what he thought the letter meant, but he simply said, “I may not be sworn to you, but I am… sworn to you , and only you, my lady.” I did not know what that meant.
Father and Harwin arrived as I thumbed the scar on my arm, and I pulled my sleeve down and stood up. “Welcome home!”
“It smells delicious,” Harwin hummed, walking over and embracing me. For a moment, I felt my feet lift off the ground at the hug, but I was quickly put down, and the hug ended quickly. Father did not offer me a hug, but went to the head of the table.
“Yes, yes,” Father muttered, quickly waving over a cupbearer to pour us wine. When we were seated, we prayed, father leading us. When we finished, I opened my mouth to speak, but father spoke first. “Now, Harwin, we do have business to get to. After the loss of your station, this must be crucial, you need to learn how to-”
“Yes, yes,” I copied my father, full of sarcasm and childishness, “why did you lose your station, brother?”
Harwin paled, his goblet of his wine still at his lips. He took a small drink, and then set it down.
“Daughter, do not interrupt me,” father scolded.
“I’m sorry, it has just been so long since we spoke, I want to know. We did not get enough time to catch up on my trip to King’s Landing.”
“Well,” Harwin began, using a cloth to wipe at his lips. “Some rumors… Went around the castle. Unbecoming rumors about me.”
Without thinking, I bumbled out, “The rumors that you have bedded the Princess?”
A loud slam caused my body to tremble, like my insides were jumping out from my skin. An empty goblet collided to the floor, bouncing with a loud clammer. Father had pounded his fist against the table hard enough to send things flying. His face was red in anger and shame. “Do not speak of it, girl! You do not know anything.”
“Father, if I may, she deserves to know,” Harwin offered, but father didn’t respond, running his fingers through his beard. Spittle had gathered at his lips with his shouting.
I stared at him, blood running cool. I am only snapped out of my frozen state when Harwin places his hand atop mine from across the table. “Yes, sister. Those rumors. Laenor Velaryon has died, I’m sure you’ve heard by now.”
“I hadn’t. I… don’t receive much news,” I mumbled, my head hanging low. “That is sad.”
“It is. You know… the boys have always bickered, Rhaenyra’s children and the children of the Queen’s. They took to Dragonstone, and I suppose it came to a… clash, of sorts,” he continues, his fingers tracing circles on the back of my palm. I meet his eyes, curious. “Prince Aemond bonded with Vhagar. Some words were exchanged… and, well, I suppose there was an accusation that Princess Rhaenyra’s children were bastards, and they fought. I…” He struggled with his next words, picking them carefully, and I half expected him to admit to it. “Prince Aemond lost an eye.”
“An eye? ” One of my hands flew up to my cheek in shock, imagining it, the pain, the terror. “That’s awful. Just awful, Harwin.”
“Stop this at once,” Father said. “He was removed from his station, that is all there is to it.” He caught Harwin’s eyes, a fierce staring contest. “Nothing more. Baseless accusations.”
Harwin’s hands slipped from my own, and he returned to his plate. “Yes. This is a night for feasting. Let us not dwell.”
“But brother, don’t you-”
“Do not, sister. Let’s eat.”
The conversation changed without me in it. Father was talking about his upcoming plans to teach Harwin leadership. He was saying something about coffers and business and it was all air, I could not focus on any of it. If Harwin is truly the father of these children, does he miss them? Does he miss Rhaenyra? I try to imagine loving someone so much that I would take a risk like that, fathering royal bastards, but it is so far beyond my comprehension. It seems so silly and dangerous. And poor Aemond. I did not ask about his health, is he well? Will he heal? I’ve read some books about medicine, and many people live without eyes, without limbs. As long as the brain is not hurt, he should be fine, just scarred forever. The violence is so scary, it makes me shiver at the thought of it, maiming someone for calling you a name. Or claiming a dragon? I have never seen one, of course, but it all seems silly, a silly childish thing to do for someone older than I.
“What of your mother?” Harwin was asking, though it seems muffled to my ears, like I was listening with my hands clasped tightly over them.
I am still thinking of the thought of the blade (or fingers? Harwin did not say) piercing the eye, when I managed to snap out of it. Taking a sip of my wine, I swallow and lift my head to meet his gaze. “She is not well.”
“She has never been,” Father said. “Not after you.”
I feel shame deep within myself, despair, but I nod solemnly. “She is worse since I returned. She is losing weight, the maesters say, and she is. She is thinner. She will not eat, not even cake.”
“Maybe the Gods are finally having mercy on her,” Father said. “You know, she has never been well since that. We have tried to… keep her comfortable, I suppose. But maybe it is time to let her go.”
“I will not hear of it any longer. I must retire,” I say suddenly, standing up. My chair scrapes against the floor loudly.
“Do not do that. Do not act like she was any mother to you,” Father waved a hand in the air, like he was talking about putting down a wounded horse. “She has been rotting in her bed for eleven years. It is a miracle she lasted this long, but it will be a mercy to let her go.”
“Do not speak of my mother that way,” I try to bite, but it comes out weak. I am whispering, frightened to raise my voice.
“Sister, please, at least stay for dessert. You made a wonderful cake,” Harwin was standing now, trying to offer a treaty.
“I don’t understand why you are so attached to her, daughter,” Father continued, his face now flush with wine and not anger. “She never nursed you, never sang you lullabies, held you-”
“Neither did you!” I finally shout, the words bursting from my heart and shooting out of my throat like a ball of fire. “You never cared for me! You left me here while you went to King’s Landing! Both of you! You never even write if I don’t try first. You never wanted me. I am nothing to you!”
“You are my sister-”
“And you have done nothing for it, brother, except break my bones !” I throw the cloth from my lap on the table. “And father wishes to send me to the North to be even further rid of me. And now you want to kill my mother? I hate you both!”
I am turning before I know it, and if my father tries to yell at me, I do not hear it. Harwin is saying something, but I ignore it. I am out the door, stomping through the corridors. I am shaking, but not crying. My rage is not one of sadness, but of betrayal.
I am at my chambers, grabbing a sack. I pick up the books by my bed, stuffing them in. It is late now, far later than I thought, as I rummage around for things I want to bring to Maidenpool. My wardrobe has been opened, and my clothes are gone. I wonder why they needed to pack so much for a night’s stay. Maybe I will have peace from my father a little longer than expected.
I stay there for four hours, I assume, thumbing through books on my tables that I want to bring with me. I water my plants in the window, making sure to give them enough for a few days.
Jullen is at my door before I can register how much time has passed, my anger finally cooling enough where I can think.
“The carriage is here, my lady, your chests are there. Bring only what you and I can carry,” He mutters. He sounds flustered, not like he usually is. He is out of breath, and sweat is pooling on his brow. I do not say anything and hand him a sack of books. I walk to my bed, peeling back the covers to see my white house cat curled underneath. Upon the sudden light and cool air, she stretches her paws and bats her eyes open.
“C’mere, kitty,” I whisper, picking her up and tucking her toward my breast. Jullen is looking at me with curiosity. “They will not feed her. She is coming with us.”
“Okay then, let us go,” He urges, and swings the sack over his shoulder. He presses the palm of his gloved hand against the small of my back protectively, and leads me out of the room.
The halls are quiet, and there are no guards other than the one beside me. In my haste to leave this place, I do not say goodbye to my mother. I hurry down the stone steps and through the passages until we are at the south exit. As Larys has promised, there is a nice carriage there waiting, my chests on the back, led by two horses. A part of me wants to turn around. I do not want to ride in a carriage and get sick. A part of me thinks I should turn around and apologize, and maybe I will not want to leave. They are my family, I think. I should not treat them with such anger.
I think of my father talking about killing my mother. I think of the scar on my arm. My cat wriggles in my grasp, wanting to be let go, and I make my decision because of that. I get in the carriage, and Jullen follows, sitting across from me, a protective hand on my knee as he shuts the door and pounds on it with his fist. We begin moving before I can have a second thought.
I let my cat go, and she begins to look around, curious.
“Will we reach Maidenpool by morn?” I ask, filling the silence. Jullen’s sweat has not ceded, and he seems distant, watchful out the window as Harrenhal fades behind us.
“We will. Maybe not sunrise, as it is quite late. But tomorrow, yes.” He is panting. He is nervous.
“What is wrong, Jullen?” I ask, petting my cat. “Do you fear father harming you for stealing me away? He will not, I will make sure of it.”
He presses his lips together, and he shakes his head. “No, my lady, there is nothing wrong at all. Close your eyes, you must be tired.”
I nod, and try to follow his commands, and sleep is quick to come, but it is brief. I rest for at least twenty minutes, until we roll over a particularly bumpy rock, and I stir.
My eyes flutter open, and Jullen’s eyes are downcast now, but he is not asleep. He seems sorrowful. My cat has moved, standing on her back legs with her front paws on the window, looking out. I smell something in the air, distant, and I can’t place what it is.
“What are you looking at, kitty?” I hum, and reach my hand out. It purrs at my presence, sniffing at the slats in the window. “You see a deer?” I smile, but Jullen does not. My cat chitters in response, not quite a meow, but a series of clicks. It sniffs at the air, nose twitching. That smell… campfire, is the closest I can place it. “Are there bandits?” I suddenly felt fearful, thinking we had rolled up onto a camp. I scoot forward in my seat, craning my neck forward to look at the window.
What I see is Harrenhal, in the distance. It is foggy tonight , I think, as I cannot quite make out the towers. We are far enough now that the details of it elude me, just shapes and curves of buildings. It is not fog, I think, it is too dark for fog.
It is smoke.
I see it then, those flicks of light are far too big for simple lanterns or torches. They look like that from here, but we are too distant. They would look like stars from here, but they are as big as the light of a candle a foot from my face.
Harrenhal is burning.