Hello! Some of you may have already read this, but I have made changes. I had been writing the story in advance before posting before realizing it was taking way too long to introduce Jon Snow. After deliberating, I decided to change the timeline. Overall, it doesn't impact the chapters I already posted too much, but it definitely improves things for later. If you haven't already stumbled across this story, then please ignore everything above! Thank you so much for reading!
I will only say this once, I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Even my OC's name belongs to George R.R. Martin, I am simply giving her a much larger part in his magnificent world. This is my first fan fiction, and if you will please look at the rating, it is rated M. This means there will be adult themes. Honestly, if you've watched the show, nothing I write will be offensive.
Enjoy!
Prologue
It was bright for the dead of night. A full moon reflected off the black waves, illuminating the air with a soft glow. The gardens of Red Keep were eerily quiet and empty, save for a slight disturbance. Two figures draped in cloaks of black hurried to find a cover of shadows and away from prying eyes.
"The Tyrell girl has outstayed her welcome. The poor Queen has just lost her son and can no longer humor silly girls. We must find a way to discount the young lady's favor with the people," a gravelly voice urged.
"Indeed, the Queen has already set forth a plan to discredit the girl, but I'm afraid she has sworn me to silence. You may rest easy, Maester, for there will be riots when the people discover just how charitable the Tyrell whore can be," replied a cocky, young voice.
"And why should I believe that you are privy to the Queen's plots?"
"Because I know just how charitable our Queen can be."
"You'd do well to keep such information to yourself, boy," replied the tired voice. "The Queen does not like her private affairs to be discussed in the open, even less so in recent events."
"And you would do well to worry about the Tyrell girl, old man. Leave the Queen's temper to me," the young voice responded haughtily. A pause filled with thick tension polluted the air before the two figures scurried off in opposite directions.
A third party emerged from the balcony above, trying to catch a glimpse of the conspirators below. A pair of large blue eyes glittered with intrigue from being privy to the conversation that transpired. Blast, Margaery Tyrell thought as she was unable to spot the faces of the shadowed silhouettes beneath her, but no matter. I've heard all I've needed to. Margaery softly pushed away from the ledge and into the comfort of her rose-scented quarters. Her mind reeled quickly as she processed her newly gathered material.
It had not been a well-guarded secret that Queen Cersei wanted the Rose of High Garden to leave the capital, preferably in a casket. The Queen had been decidedly polite in front of the court, but that had been when she was affianced to King Joffrey. Since his brutal murder at their wedding, the Queen hadn't bothered with pretenses. Margaery would have been scared, had she not been so confident in her abilities to ensnare the newest King's affections. The utterly sweet, malleable Tommen was already halfway in love with her. However, she could not become careless and sloppy. Only a fool would become complacent before they had reached the finish line. Tommen's favor was easy to procure, but his meddling mother would do her best to stop any attachment on his part. Her coveted place in court hung in the balance. One wrong whisper in the young King's ear and she'd be thrown in the dungeons quicker than Ned Stark. The Lannister bitch plotted against her with the oldest trick in the book, attacking her honor and chastity. Though unimaginative and indecorous, it was a very effective way to damage a maiden's reputation. The smallfolk loved crucifying adulterers even more than they loved beheading traitors. Yes, she must move very quickly to ensure her position as Tommen's consort.
Perhaps, now that she had confirmation that the Queen had been taking lovers, she might finally gain the upper hand over Cersei. She just needed to extract a confession from one of her lovers. Margaery could turn the tables and use the Queen's adultery against her. Eventually, Margaery knew, she would need to figure out who those voices belonged to. She had her suspicions but it never hurt to be certain. For now though, she needed to protect herself by securing alliances. Allies were a commodity in King's Landing, and trusted allies were even scarcer so. Margaery quickly sat at her desk, lit a candle, and gathered the necessary tools to write a letter. If there weren't any trusted supporters in King's Landing, then she would have to extend her reach and bring them to King's Landing. She knew exactly who to summon. After all, a girl couldn't get married without her beloved cousin in attendance. And, as they say, third time's a charm.
Desmera Redwyne lay with her golden hair sprawled around her head in a mess of waves. A gentle breeze sent wisps of curls to tickle her nose as the sun warmed her face. The sweet smell of ripening grapes filled the air as bees buzzed and birds chirped to a song known only to nature. Her thoughts were occupied by the racing wolves that had visited her dreams last night. This wasn't the first time she had had dreams of the large wolves, in fact, for nigh on a year she had had recurring dreams of the same wolves doing various things. Her favorite ones though, were like last night, when they ran through a forest, going as fast as they could. Each wolf was perfectly in step with the others, as though they had spent their whole lives doing so. She could feel the same freedom she felt in her dreams when she was out in her favorite meadow, fleeting as it may be. Nobody told her what to do out here, no one had placed any expectations on her when she escaped to her special field.
No doubt, her mother and Septa would be cross with the new freckles she was bound to be sporting. She grinned ruefully at the thought of her mother's displeasure, the Lady Redwyne was easily ruffled by her daughter. The blonde girl honestly didn't see what all the fuss was about, it wasn't as if her whole face was covered with the damned things like her brothers. She rather liked the faint smattering of dots across the bridge of her nose, it made her face more distinguished. Alas, she was raised to be a proper lady, and proper ladies neither freckled nor frolicked in vineyards unaccompanied. She sighed with a slight pout on her pink lips as she, once again, tried to resign herself to her fate. It wasn't that she was ungrateful for her lot in life. The girl knew she was far luckier and more fortunate to have been born into a noble family of The Reach. She had more privileges than most: she never went hungry, had a fine roof over her head, and was given the best education gold could buy. Though, what good was an education, she thought, if no one ever expected her to use it? What were those countless hours spent with strict tutors and hovering over larges texts even meant for if all she was expected to do was marry into a good family and produce heirs? The young woman of seventeen years shook her head at her own thoughts. Thinking like that would only increase her feelings of disappointment. Everyone had their own burdens to bear, and she was one of countless highborn ladies who faced the same expectations from their families. Besides, she was considered lucky to have avoided marriage for this long. Her cousin Margaery was married for the first time at fourteen.
It wasn't as though Desmera hated the idea of matrimony. In fact, she loved the idea of being in love. She just had no illusions that she would marry on sentiment. She just hoped marriage wouldn't get in the way of finding true love. The girl often fancied herself in one of her romantic poems, starring as the heroine that would be saved by a handsome prince in her time of peril. Perhaps, she would be like Lyanna Stark, swept away by dragons (Targaryans), and her betrothed would go to war to reclaim her honor. Or, she dreamed that her odious husband would have a handsome young guard who would be her only rescue from a loveless marriage. They would admire each other from afar, dancing around one another until finally they could no longer deny their passions. Her beloved would convince her to run off with him, and they'd live happily ever after.
As foolish as Desmera knew her fantasies to be, she couldn't quell the hope she had for her future. Setting aside all thoughts of wolves and husbands, she willed herself to stand on her feet and return to the castle before her mother sent guards to fetch her. She had responsibilities, after all, and if there was anything she had learned from her mother, it was that appearances were everything.
Later that evening, Desmera and her mother could be found in the western parlour room doing their routine needlework. Mina Redwyne saw fit to enhance her stitching session with one of her most recent, favorite pastimes; gossiping about Lady Margaery Tyrell's impending nuptials to the King. Well, Desmera thought, her third marriage to anotherKing anyway. Nothing had been set in stone, but rumors of Tywin Lannister's intentions of marrying Joffrey's widow to his brother were in the works. It was the respectable thing to do, her mother repeated several times. Desmera would have grimaced, but her Septa was sat across from her and doubtlessly would punish her for making a face at her mother. Septa Theres was an incredibly pious and stern woman, who took her duties to make Desmera a proper, devout young lady very seriously. If she were being honest though, the elderly lady probably had more of an aversive effect on her. She didn't much relish a religion that encouraged her being physically punished anytime she rolled her eyes.
Her thoughts drifted back to Margaery. Desmera knew her cousin had placed herself in a very dangerous game during an almost equally dangerous time of war. Margaery had always been the more ambitious of her Tyrell cousins. Desmera had never seen the appeal of politics. While the two girls had shared an interest in charity work growing up, Desmera had a sneaking suspicion that Margaery saw it as a way to curry favor amongst the smallfolk and in turn garner their support for any future political moves. She had merely gone to escape her mother. Still, her cousin insisted that having such indisputable power was the only way to inflict real and lasting change, and while her methods were a little manipulative, she did have a point. Her cousin had been well-groomed by their grandmother, and she would undoubtedly make a cunning, determined queen.
The Crownlands would be more stimulating, Desmera had to confess, certainly more dangerous and exciting, but held little appeal for her. Margaery had earned herself two dead husbands in her pursuit of the Iron Throne, and she didn't envy her one bit. No, Desmera thought, she much preferred her sunny, charming island of Arbor, provincial as it was, to the court at King's Landing. She had been once, with her father in her eighth year. All she remembered was the formality and the scary throne made of swords. But here, in Arbor, it was easy to forget there was a war ravaging the kingdoms and it was hard to imagine the destruction and despair. There were hundreds of miles of sea and land separating her from the battles, broken bodies, and plots. Arbor had barely seen the effects of conflict. True, her father and brothers were away, as were most men of fighting age, but they were almost always sailing somewhere away from home. Consequently, their absence was hardly noticed, unlike the host of hunkering warships that had once lined Arbor's horizon. Only small merchant sails littered the lively harbor of Ryamsport. Her father had been ordered by his liege lord and good brother, Mace Tyrell, to send his host of ships to sail for King's Landing as per the agreement struck between his family and the Lannisters.
"You could learn a few things from Margaery on how to land an advantageous marriage. Mark my words, she'll be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Lady Redwyne prattled on. Desmera fought the urge to remind her mother that the Seven Kingdoms were currently divided and that Margaery had already been a "Queen" and look how well that turned out. It was best for her mother to continue without interruption, lest she become the object of her mother's scorn. "You're just as pretty as your cousin, even with the Redwyne complexion. You'll be quite the catch now that you shall be cousins to the Queen. If that doesn't make you a desirable wife, then I'm afraid I don't know what will!" Of course, she had been foolish to believe her mother would not turn her attention back onto her daughter. Desmera murmured the expected "yes, mother's" and "of course, mama's" at the appropriate times while she tried to concentrate on her embroidery. She was working on a garden scene for a tapestry and was stuck on a particularly tricky rose bush.
"Why any man would prefer a Frey over a Redwyne is beyond me," her mother continued. Desmera felt her cheeks warm in shame. There had been talk of her marrying Ser Davon Lannister, but Lord Tywin Lannister had made it clear that wasn't to be her fate, as he had already promised him to one of Lord Frey's daughters. "I do suppose it was for the best, though, you can do so much better than a knight, perhaps a lord of a great house, and your sons will be heirs." She dearly wished her mother would shut her over eager mouth and change the subject. Luckily, her handmaiden, Angeline, had knocked on the parlour door with a letter in hand.
"Pardon me, my lady," she directed towards my mother, "but I have a letter for the young miss from Lady Margaery." Desmera eagerly tossed aside her needlework and snatched the letter from Angeline's hand.
"Oh do hurry up and read the letter, Des! Come, what news from King's Landing?" her mother shrilled loudly. She ignored her mother as she tore open the letter (Septa Theres tsked at her unladylike enthusiasm) and quickly looked over its contents. Desmera's excited features slowly fell from her face.
"Well, child? Don't keep your mother waiting!" Desmera gulped delicately, willing the bile that was slowly creeping up her throat to dissipate.
"My dear cousin expresses her love and hopes this letter finds us well and happy. She writes that Horas and Hobber are enjoying their time in the capital," she started slowly, "And she wishes for me to travel to King's Landing to help her through her difficult time of mourning."
"Ah!" the Lady of Arbor exclaimed. "Poor Margaery! Of course she needs you, you two were always so close. So tragic that she's not lost one, but two husbands at such a young age."
"Yes, mother, though I feel sorrier for the poor sod that has the fortune of being husband number three," Desmera replied, a scowl threatening to overtake her features.
"Lady Desmera! What a truly deplorable thing for you to say" scolded Septa Theres. Desmera ignored her easily. How very queenly of Margaery to summon her. Especially since she doubted that Margaery was upset about the actual murders of said husbands, but rather at the prospect of her desired crown being taken away from her. Mina Redwyne ignored her daughter and the Septa and kept on nattering.
"You will have many opportunities to find a husband in the capitol. This news couldn't have come at a more perfect time. A very welcome offer, indeed!"
"Yes, mama, extremely fortuitous circumstances." A familiar prickle formed behind her eyes. Angry tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She didn't want to go to the Red Palace, and she certainly didn't like being summoned by her cousin.
"We must send you with your best gowns and jewels, you'll want to make a great impression!" her mother chimed. Angry, she was angry. So very damned angry. She needed to get out of there, just a moment to herself before she threw a tantrum. Not long ago, she would have had thrown a wild fit of epic proportions. But time with her strict Septa, appointed by her grandmother, and many shuddering punishments had helped reign in that temper. But not this time. Desmera was close to unraveling. Her mother's incessant chattering was fueling her ire. Luckily, Angeline had noticed her mistress's distress and quickly intervened.
"Begging your pardon, milady," Angeline said, "Perhaps I shall escort the young miss to her chambers to help her pack for her voyage."
"A splendid idea, Angeline! Best we make haste, we wouldn't want to keep my niece waiting, and it will take Desmera nearly a fortnight to travel to the capitol! I must see to the preparations immediately!" Lady Redwyne bustled out of the parlour, her embroidery long since forgotten.
"Come along, my lady," Angeline said as she gently grasped Desmera's hand. "I'll be sure to have a pitcher of wine brought to your room." Desmera allowed herself to be lead to her rooms, fearful to be left to her own devices. Dread pooling at the bottom of her belly grew with each step she took, anger quickly evolving into an irrational fear taking over her body. There could only be one reason why Margaery would send for her. All was not well in King's Landing, and damn her cousin for dragging her into it.
Hundreds and hundreds of leagues away, in a land harsh and cold filled with people even harsher and colder than the terrain, a man of deep black hair and serious brown eyes was waiting anxiously for sundown. He had tried over and over to get a few minutes of shut eye as he would need both his mind and body sharp. If he wasn't sleeping, then he should be thinking on tonight's attack on Craster's Keep; however, his traitorous thoughts kept falling back onto a fiery haired wildling. He missed her, and he only had himself to blame. There was never going to be a happy ending for them, but somehow the truths he had used to make his act believable had gotten twisted and tangled. Somewhere along the way to Castle Black, he had fallen in love. Never before had he lain with a woman and he had resigned himself to never knowing the touch of a maiden when he had made his vows. Nobody would have wanted a bastard, anyway.
Wildlings had little use of titles. Until he had met her, Jon Snow hadn't known that being a sworn member of the wall was an undesirable trait when one searched for a lover, as well. But Ygritte had never cared for rules and lived her life the way she wanted. She looked passed his name and past and allowed him to touch her in the most intimate way. He would always be grateful to her for making him feel like a man worthy of love for, perhaps, the first time in his life. He wished he could have stayed with her in that cave for the rest of time. Their love was doomed, though. That warm, elated feeling in his chest was short-lived as things quickly soured. He had betrayed the redhead and fled for Castle Black when circumstances had revealed his true alliance. She had left him with three reminders of how he hurt her. That had been the first time he had questioned his honor.
He knew he would see her again, and he knew deep down, that he would never be able to lift his sword against her like he couldn't against the old man with the horses.
"Snow," Locke called. "The sun will be down soon." Jon looked up to the new member of the Night's Watch from his seated position and nodded before standing.
"It's time to put up camp, men," he said, banishing all thoughts of Ygritte from his mind. "We'll be headed shortly." It was time to let his simmering anger fuel his fight. Blood would be spilled tonight.
Not even after the third glass of her family's famous vintage red wine could Desmera dislodge the feeling of despair deep within her soul. Anger had since dissipated when she realized Margaery would never request her presence unless it was of utmost importance. The golden haired girl had never made it a secret that she did not want to go to the capitol. Clearly, Margaery could not discuss her suspicions in ink and could only relay her unease by requesting her departure from Arbor. Which only meant one thing, her mail was being watched. What could possibly be going on in that place, Desmera thought.
She reluctantly gathered a few of her favorite gowns from the ornate wooden wardrobe and folded them neatly into her travelling trunk. She would depart from the only home she had ever known in two days' time. Gods, she needed another glass of wine.
After pouring another large glass of the red liquid, she sat in front of her gold gilded vanity. She studied the crimson shade that stained her inner mouth from her indulgences. She parted her thick lips and traced her tongue over the hard ridges of her teeth. She had been lucky to inherit her mother's straight teeth. She counted herself doubly lucky to not have favored her father's looks. She did not possess the customary red hair and fair, overly freckled complexion, nor the dull watery eyes that distinguished the Redwynes from other noble houses. While she did have a faint smattering of freckles that dashed across her aristocratic nose, she had inherited her mother's Tyrell looks. Golden skin stretched over high cheekbones, permanently flushed pink, and dipped under a narrow jawline. She had a slightly rounded chin that she hated because it made her look childish, and not the woman of ten and seven years that she was. Thick, brown fringe rimmed big, honey colored eyes that were unpolluted by flecks of green and brown. They were pretty, she supposed, but her favorite feature was the long, wavy light brown hair that curled softly beneath her bosom. She loved how it gleamed a molten gold in the warm sunlight. Her slender frame, softened by delicate curves, was often victim to her mother's scorn. Overall, she was blessed with a handful of extraordinary characteristics on an otherwise average canvas.
Her cousin Willas had often called her the literal golden child of the Redwynes. Desmera had often complained at his observation of calling her a child. She had, also, rather disliked him pointing out how different she was from the rest of her family, until she became of age to appreciate the vast differences between her brothers and herself. She had curried the favor of her grandmother, The Queen of Thorns and matriarch of the Reach, above that of her siblings. However, she believed that hardly spoke of her character and much more on her brothers', Horas and Hobber, inept abilities. They were brutish and rarely sought to improve their intellect by furthering their studies. They had preferred eating and chasing skirts, while she enjoyed discussions with tutors, tea with grandmother and Margaery, and throwing herself into charity work. The best thing about them was their natural aptitude to sail, something that was the pride and joy of their father. After all, the Lord of Arbor Island was commander of the largest fleet in Westeros.
Desmera herself enjoyed sailing as well. When she was younger, she had begged her father to allow her to accompany him on small trips around the island. She loved the wind and the salty spray of the sea hitting her face. Most of all, she adored the sight of the sun glittering across the water with nothing in the horizon to hinder the view. She felt free and anonymous with the unending sea surrounding her. As she aged, however, her mother has insisted she remain on land and focus on her lady's studies instead of gallivanting around with her brothers and father, and soon she was hardly ever allowed to step foot on a ship for pleasure. Her father was hard-pressed to disagree with his wife about how to raise his daughter. He knew nothing about women, especially young ladies. Paxtor Redwyne preferred his ladies to be made of wood and tar. Ships were his craft, and besides good wine, he had little talents elsewhere.
Desmera's reverie was disrupted by her lady's maid bustling into her room. Angeline had been a god send during the whole ordeal. The maid knew her mistress was displeased with Lady Margaery's summons and had been constantly muttering words of comfort and sympathy while attending to her traveling needs.
"Come, my lady, I have drawn you up a bath and have added your favorite bath oils of lavender. It will help relax you." Desmera looked at Angeline gratefully.
"Thank you, Angeline," she said softly. The young Redwyne walked slowly to the bath. The wine had clouded her mind and she took care to not stumble over her long gown. A heavenly scent of lavender and vanilla immediately charged her senses as she entered the wash room and expediently discarded the chiffon dress. She dipped her legs into the steaming waters before submerging her entire body, sighing in the process. Truly, there was nothing more relaxing than a hot bath to soothe one's nerves. Her maid kneeled behind her head and started brushing her hair.
"What do you think it'll be like," the young lady asked her maid. Angeline stopped her ministrations.
"King's Landing? Why, I think you'll love it there, miss," she replied, forcing herself to be cheery. Perhaps her mistress would find her cheerfulness to be contagious. Desmera sighed.
"I'm not so sure, Angeline."
"What troubles you so, my lady?"
"King's Landing is awfully far from Arbor." Angeline resumed brushing her mistress's hair.
"You'll have your father, brothers, and cousins with you. They'll be sure to keep you company when you're feeling homesick. And," she started to hesitate, "I shall be accompanying you as well, if it's not too bold to say." Desmera eyes glistened at the devotion in Angeline's voice. She deftly retracted her hand from the water and darted to Angeline's wrist, once again pausing Angeline's brushstrokes.
"Thank you, Angeline. I will need you to help guide me through this."
"I'll do anything to help ya, miss. If it makes you feel any better, I overheard that Mother Theres has developed sea sickness in her old age, so she won't be accompanying you." There was that at least. Desmera disliked the old nag very much. Angeline resumed her movements, gliding through her lady's hair easily. The lady contemplated her maid. Desmera was only a little younger, four years her junior, yet the years between them did nothing to interrupt their easy bond. Angeline had pretty yellow hair and wide, bright blue eyes. Boys from the villages that made up her father's fiefdom were endlessly chasing the beautiful maid. She used to be jealous of the maid's freedom to love whom she wanted in her early pubescent years. Boys would try to kiss the maid, no one had ever tried to kiss her. She tried to convince herself it was because the village boys were afraid of her father and family name, but there were nights when she allowed her vanity to be wounded. Mayhap they did not find her pretty enough to kiss. The older she grew, her envy evaporated into well-regard and respect for the young woman. She only wanted Angeline's happiness and finally understood her family's expectations. Even if the village boys had liked her, she was not free to love them. She was destined for a nobleman's son or a lord's brother. She was a token, to be given to the richest man who'd have her.
"Will you miss anyone when we're gone?" the lady asked. The yellow haired girl smiled fondly.
"Yes, mistress. There is a young blacksmith, whose mentor just passed over the shop to him. He wants to propose."
"Marriage? That's wonderful! I had no idea," she said, feeling a twinge of panic. "Shouldn't you remain here by his side? I could easily arrange for you to stay, Angeline."
"Of course not, milady," she said quickly. "I serve you loyally and faithfully. I have been charged to assist you in any way that you'll let me. I do not plan on abandoning you when you need me most!"
"I couldn't possibly keep you apart!" she insisted, though her heart wasn't in it. She didn't want to go to King's Landing alone, but Angeline deserved to stay by her man.
"I do not hesitate in my choice. I go where you go, milady." Desmera thought it best to rest her argument until a later time. She had to help her trusted maid find peace with her fellow. She may very well not get a happy ending, but she would be damned if Angeline didn't get hers.
Desmera forced her thoughts of Margaery, King's Landing, and Angeline's beau away from her mind and let the steaming swirls overtake her troubled mind before she slowly drifted off into a sweet slumber.
The following morning, Desmera sent Angeline on numerous errands to keep her busy and had successfully avoided her Septa. Last night, after her bath, she devised a plan to meet with the blacksmith. "I'll need to bring presents for my new King. Perhaps the blacksmith will be able to whip up a dagger before I must depart," she told her mother. She prayed her mother did not question her motives, because there was no possible way someone could forge a dagger worthy of a King in a day, no matter how talented he was. Thankfully, Lady Redwyne was too busy arranging the sudden departure to comment on her daughter's whereabouts. She slipped on her plainest dress and tossed on an unsuspecting hat and ducked out of the manor undetected. She weaved her way through Ryamsport, dodging peddlers and fishermen to the shop district. A hanging sign crafted from blackened iron hovered above her head. She crossed the threshold and walked towards the back, hearing a clanking noise from outside. A young man of solid build had his back turned to her. He dedicatedly pounded his hammer against a white hot blade.
She cleared her throat. "Pardon me," she said loudly. The smith stayed his hammer and looked over his shoulder, quickly taking in her person. At first it seemed he was bored with what he saw, until he did a double take and swiftly dipped into a bow.
"Milady," came a strong, confident voice. "I apologize for my inattentiveness. Is there something I might help you with?"
"I'm looking for Erikur Barrows."
"You have found him, milady." She smiled brightly.
"My dear Mr. Barrows, I shall be plain with you. My motives for coming to see you are in the interest of my maid, Angeline." His eyes widened at the name.
"Is she alright? Did anything happen?" Desmera's lips twitched at his concern.
"Of course, physically she is perfectly sound. It is the matter of her heart that I seek you. Do you wish to marry my friend?" Erikur's eyes narrowed slightly, debating whether or not the lady had any ill wishes. Sensing his hesitation she added, "This is not a trick, good sir, but I request that you answer honestly."
"Of course, milady, I wish for it more than anything. Unfortunately, she is not so easily won," he responded somewhat bitterly. "She is to leave, anyways, as you well know."
"Yes, and I very much doubt she will remain behind. Nevertheless, it shouldn't stop you from giving her a reason to return as quickly as possible. I'm sailing to the Crownlands unmarried, but if my mother has anything to say about it, I shall return with a new name. I will be expected to leave behind all ties of my father's household, and take on new maids from my husband's. Angeline will need a good man to take care of her. Do you understand me, blacksmith?" Erikur nodded slowly, a determined glint in his eye.
"Aye, Lady Desmera, I reckon I do."
"Well, then, I guess all that's left for me to do is commission a dagger for my future husband. But dear me! I seem to have forgot my list of specifications. I'll have my maid deliver it later." She turned, retreating to the front of his shop.
"Good day, milady. And thank you," he said with another bow. Desmera had a twinkle in her eye.
"I'm afraid I have no idea what you are speaking of, Mr. Barrows. Good day!"
It was several hours later that Desmera found herself packing away last minute baubles. She had sent Angeline to the blacksmith's earlier in the evening, and she didn't expect the woman to be back anytime soon. She smiled at the thought of Erikur asking Angeline to marry him, how they would embrace happily and she would kiss his cheek. Angeline was too beautiful to remain a single maid, any man would be proud to call her wife.
Someone knocked on her door. "Come in," she called, about to chastise Angeline for returning so soon.
"Hello, daughter," Lady Mina's high voice rang. "I see you are almost finished packing."
Desmera walked towards her mother. "Yes, mother, I have little else to pack." She gestured for her mother to sit on the ivory padded chairs that occupied the center of her room. They sat down, her mother pulling a small parcel from the folds of her gown. "I suppose it's too late to ask to stay in Arbor," she asked petulantly.
The Lady Redwyne narrowed her eyes at her daughter and nodded curtly. "The preparations are settled, you sail at daybreak with a small group of ships, including your father's gift to the King, King Tommen's Valor. You are expected to arrive in two weeks' time. Ser Tomas and a small group of men shall accompany you for safe passage." Desmera nodded her understanding. Mina looked into her daughter's eyes, unexpectedly emotional about her youngest child's departure.
"Oh come here, child," she said dismissively before gathering Desmera into her arms and embraced as if it were the last time. "You'll be a good girl. I know you shall make your family proud."
"I'm afraid mother," Desmera said thickly, tears stung her eyes and begged to be released. "I've never been so far away from home for so long before."
"I was afraid too, when I left my home. But before I knew it, Arbor became my home and Highgarden was a distant memory. You will be too busy at the Capital dancing at feasts and flirting with lords to miss your home or mother," Mina sniffed, trying to hold back her own tears. "Now, chin up, child. I have something special for you." Desmera obediently wiped her tears before forcing a smile on her face. She accepted the proffered package and neatly unfolded the wrappings. Her face lit up at the treasure inside. A beautiful pendent of delicate, golden swirling vines converged around a cluster of three deep colored amethysts.
"Mother," she gasped, her fingers ghosting along the beautiful design. "It's beautiful."
"Like you," Lady Redwyne gushed. "I wanted you to have something to remind you of home."
"I shall always cherish it. Thank you!" Her mother nodded before withdrawing from her daughter.
"Yes, well. It's high time for you to prepare for bed. You have an early start in the morning. I bid you goodnight." She turned on her heel and promptly left Desmera's chambers.
The young Redwyne unclasped the chain and fastened it to her neck, admiring its appearance over her soft bosom in the gilded mirror. She made her way to the balcony whose doors were opened wide, allowing the cool breeze from the sea to hit her face. The waxing moon hung high in the black sky and stars twinkled around, reflecting on to the smooth surface of the ocean. The line blurred between sky and sea, crafting an illusion that she was floating in the night sky. She would miss her home. She would miss her mother. Most of all, she would miss her freedom.
Dressed in a simple blue frock, Desmera blearily made her way towards her mother at the end of the dock. The morning had come too soon for the tired girl. Angeline had returned late in the evening with news of her engagement, beaming as she recounted every detail of her night. Desmera feigned her surprise and praised Angeline for her happiness and fortune. They celebrated early into the morning, imbibing more wine than they should have, before both promptly passed out on her bed. Indeed, Desmera would be paying for it later when the alcohol would pass out of her system. At the moment, though, she was trying her very best to not keel over in exhaustion.
"Goodness, Desmera, you look positively awful!" she winced at her mother's pitched voice. The old Septa glared at her dishevelment, but Desmera couldn't bring herself to care.
"Just a bit tired, mother." Her mother shot her a look of exasperation, but decided to not push the subject further. She drew her daughter into a hug, promptly disengaging to help stop the flow of tears. Her daughter's golden eyes reflected her own look of gloom. Mina touched Desmera's chin fondly.
"Be a good girl, Des. Try not to be a burden on your cousin, or Seven forbid, my mother."
"Of course, mother. I shall make you proud." Out the corner of her eye, Desmera spotted Erikur and Angeline exchanging tearful goodbyes.
"You already make me proud. Now, go, we mustn't keep the captain waiting!" Desmera hugged her mother again before turning towards the Horizon. The crew was already bustling on board, preparing to embark. Angeline positioned herself by her lady's side, offering assistance up the plank.
"Hold your head high, you are a Redwyne," her mother called to her. "Stay true to your family. Remember our house words!" She glanced towards her mother one last time, nodding in acknowledgment. Her eyes did not leave mother's face until she was but a speck on the docks of Ryamsport. She felt the familiar ball of dread settling at the pit of her belly. As she contemplated her mother's departing words, she latched onto her house words as a source of comfort, a sort of mantra repeating itself as though it were armour and shield to protect her from whatever was surely coming.
In wine, there is truth. In blood, there is justice.