Tourney's are boring. It's a realization Ostara comes to remember as she sits in the stands with her mother and a few of her mother's friends. All around her Ladies and Lords, who are either too old to participate in the events or two young to even be squired off, titter about who will win the melee or the joust.
Some believe that Tygett Lannister will win due to his prowess and his skills, others claim it will be Gerion Lannister due to his reckless, but most of the lot boast that it will be the Prince.
Prince Rhaegar who wears rubies and garnets embedded in the chest plate of his armor. Prince Rhaegar who's silvery hair is braided like a crown around his head, Prince Rhaegar who Ostara watches from the corner of her eye as he and Ser Dayne laugh and jest with one another from where they stand together awaiting their turns.
Ostara tries to look their way as little as possible. Not because she's ashamed or because she's embarrassed but because she's aware that the longer she looks the more likely she'll be caught staring and if that were to happen she'd never hear the end of it from her mother's ladies or her brothers.
Gods forbid Robert ever hear of it.
She hasn't seen much of her brother yet. There'd been a brief reunion when they'd first arrived by he'd been too busy squiring for Jon Arryn to spend much time with his sister or brother.
Stannis has been a good companion though.
But Stannis isn't here now and so to occupy her time and alleviate her boredom Ostara observes the men and women around her while they watch, thrilled, as men are knocked from their horses. There are many that she does not recognize and some that she does. There are a few noble Lords and Ladies from the Stormlands and Riverlands, more then that from the Reach and more then that from the Westerlands.
Lords and Ladies that wear finely made outfits made of surprisingly thick fabric despite the heat. They sit in the stands surrounded by their peers beneath a blistering sun and their sweat creates little streams down their faces and necks before being caught in the collars of their gowns or doublets. Some of the men dab at their heads with their handkerchiefs while the women fan themselves. It doesn't help.
The heat is still oppressive.
Ostara is thankful for her own dress, a gift from her mother made of light fabric that had been dyed a sort of olive green. It's rather plain, the only ornaments on the dress come in the form of an intricate belt made of bronze. Combined with a subtle cooling charm Ostara finds that the dress is really rather comfortable to wear on a day such as today.
"Lady Ostara." One of her mother's friends says, pulling her attention away from a noble girl who's a bit too red in the face.
"Yes?"
"It is the Prince's turn to joust, Lady Ostara."
She bows her head in thanks and turns to watch as the silver haired man guides his charger into position. On the opposite end waits Tygett Lannister in all of his red armored glory.
There is a part of Ostara, no matter how small, that hopes the man with the lion engraved upon his chest will unhorse Rhaegar. Not because she wishes the Prince to lose. It has more to do with the fact that Ostara is a Lion wearing a doe's skin. Despite the loyalty, the pride, she has for her house Ostara still finds the image of that roaring lion... Bittersweet.
But to not cheer for her prince and friend would be odd, would it not? Don't friends typically support one another? But it's not like they're publicly acknowledging themselves as friends. So it wouldn't be too strange is Ostara cheered for Tygett Lannister.
Beside her a woman gasps.
Ostara believes it is Lady Melyssa, an old friend of her mother's, or perhaps Lady Enna. Ostara isn't sure, she isn't paying enough attention to her mother's friends. Because Rhaegar and Tygett are charging one another, blunt ended lances raised, horses kicking up clumps of dirt as they're urged faster and faster until Rhaegar's lance catches Tygett in the shoulder.
The Lannister man is unhorsed. Only able to twist away from his horse enough to keep himself from being trampled by it as the charger races on.
A hushed sort of awe creeps over the crowd before it is broken by riotous applause and delighted cheers.
Ostara notes, with a huff of gentle laughter, that the people are cheering twice as loud for Rhaegar Targaryen as they did for Tywin Lannister. Louder still then they had for their King.
A quick glance at the aging, lilac eyed man shows that he is just as aware of the crowd's joy as Ostara is.
It would be amusing if Ostara wasn't fully aware of what Jealousy does to people.
"Oh wasn't that exciting, Lady Ostara?" Melyssa inquires, causing Ostara to raise an eyebrow at her suddenly breathy voice.
"I suppose I don't quite understand the entertainment value." She says.
She pointedly ignores the way the woman shakes her head in favor of turning her attention back to Rhaegar who is guiding his horse back across the field. His armor is ridiculously impractical. Only an idiot would wear all black armor into battle. She supposes that at night it might be a little more beneficial but during the day? He's more likely to suffer a heat stroke or get cooked alive in his armor.
And then there are the rubies?
One of those alone could feed a family for a month and yet someone got it into their head to embed them into his armor... And then he approved it?
Ostara wants to pinch her nose.
She's going to have to write to him about that at some point.
Thankfully the jousting breaks for lunch. Allowing the Lords and Ladies stuck in the stands a moment to stretch their legs and escape the heat as best they can. Ostara slips away from the crowd as quickly as possible and doesn't even wait for her mother or her companions, instead opting to make her way through the rows of tents until she reaches the familiar yellow and black of her family's.
With a sigh she slips into the tent and smiles at the shadowcat lounging under the table.
~X~
"I am to be squired with Wyllam Morrigen." Stannis boats the moment he sees her in his tent.
Ostara smirks at her brother from where she lays sprawled across his cot. It is too hot too eat, hotter still to lay across her own cot where Rubeus has made himself quite at home. So it is Stannis' bed she commandeers, with it's feather pillow and cotton bed clothes.
"Will you be leaving with them then? If you are to be a squire under the Morrigen's I don't see a reason for you to return to Storm's End with us at the end of the tourney."
It is not said out of cruelness. Ostara doesn't want to see her brother go, he is her favorite brother after all. The only one with whom she shares memories of laughter and mischief after Robert left for the Eyrie. But he is of an age where it is prudent he be sent off to squire. Ostara would never begrudge him an opportunity to advance his station.
"Father and Lord Morrigen are discussing it, though, I suppose I won't be returning to Storm's End with you." Stannis replies, eyes softer then Ostara is used to seeing them.
Perhaps it is the fact that they will likely not see one another again until one of their name's days.
She smiles, a sad twist of the lips, and says, "You're excited then? The Morrigen's are honorable and a trusted friend of the Baratheon's, I'm sure you'll be very happy there."
"I am content."
A long moment passes in which Ostara observes her brother.
He has grown since they left Storm's End. Nothing terribly noticeable but enough to tell Ostara that by the next time they meet he will be roughly the same height as their father. Taller even, if he's lucky.
Ostara wonders if he will be taller then Robert.
"You will write, won't you? I can't bare the thought of not speaking to you." Ostara admits after a moment. "Besides, if you weren't to write to me I would have nothing to entertain myself with."
"That's a lie and you know it," Stannis replies but then he nods. "I'll write."
"That's all I ask."
With that said Ostara drops her head back into her brother's pillow and begins tracing her finger over her belt.
He will leave her. If he is to squire with the Morrigens then he will leave her. Storm's End has never been lonely. Never, not with Daevyn Sand and Cerys. But Stannis has always been a constant in her life and he is leaving.
She's going to miss him terribly and for a moment she understands why Cersei had been so unhappy about Jaime wanting to leave.
~X~
By the end of the day Rhaegar Targaryen has managed to unseat Gerion Lannister and twelve Westerland knights and Ostara is more then a bit put out by the tourney. Because people are clapping, cheering, and gushing over the Prince as if each win is the first and it's simply exhausting having to pretend she cares enough to even pay attention.
Ostara just wants to return to her tent and read.
At least Sir Dayne may prove more interesting then the westerland knights. There's a good chance he'll unseat Rhaegar in the jousts. There's a good chance he could beat Rhaegar at just about anything that has to do with physical attacks. The Prince just seems less inclined to care about war games then his Kingsguard friend. Ostara's thankful, it means she doesn't have to deal with listening to him prattle on about battles, victories, and conquests.
She pities Cersei for this reason.
Robert, though a good man at heart, loves to boast his victories.
"Are you alright, Ostara?" Her mother asks, dragging her from her thoughts.
"Yes, I'm quite alright."
"Prince Rhaegar will be competing against Sir Dayne in a moment. That will be interesting, no?"
"I suppose, unfortunately the novelty of the tourney has been lost to me."
A quick glance about tells Cassana more then she needs to know.
"Tomorrow is the melee, sweet girl, it will be different then."
Ostara... Highly doubts that.
"Perhaps, but even so I find that I'm less inclined to care after watching the jousts."
Why would she want to watch grown men beat each other bloody for the pleasure of others? She's seen enough bloodshed and violence to feel literal offence at the thought of the melee. War games. That's all they are. And while some of the knights have seen war others haven't and as a consequence they think that the melee and a real battle are the same.
Her mother laughs, "Darling girl, tonight's the feast. That, if nothing else, will entertain you to an extent."
In response to her mother's statement Ostara sighs and turns her attention back to Rhaegar Targaryen.
With his armor and helm it's easy to see why some call him the Last Dragon. It suits him. Or it might. Ostara doesn't know him well enough to say.
With a subtle roll of her eyes Ostara turns away from the joust and to Stannis who is attending to Ser Morrigen. He looks as happy as he ever looks but Ostara knows he's thrilled to be squiring under someone.
She's pulled away from her musings by her mother's hand on her knee.
Arthur Dayne rides upon a destrier with a dappled grey coat. His armor is simple, the only embellishments coming from the sygil carved into his breast and shoulder plates. If Ostara wasn't still suspicious of his intentions the night before she might have clapped for him alongside everyone else. Instead she sits silent and composed as Sir Dayne and Rhaegar charge one another.
It happens in seconds but feels like longer.
One moment they are charging, lances raised, and the next Rhaegar is on the ground. There's a collective, shocked gasp from the crowd as Rhaegar's body sends up a small plume of yellow dirt, then people are cheering for Sir Dayen and Prince Rhaegar as the man in black armor pushes himself off the ground. Ostara claps with them, slowly and with more hesitance then the rest.
She can't tell if Rhaegar is limping because he is injured or because he's disoriented.
He hit the ground hard enough that Ostara would have told him to see a maester if she could.
A quick glance at Arthur Dayne shows the knight feels the same. His lips are pulled back in a smile but his eyes never once leave Rhaegar as the silver prince pulls off his helm. Smiling, laughing, lavender eyes so very, very sad.
It is not your business, Ostara tells herself as she rests her hands in her lap.
But the shadowy, hooded figure fading in and out from the corner of her vision has Ostara digging her teeth into her bottom lip and hoping that nothing unsavory will happen during the rest of the tourney.
She really needs to learn to stop hoping for things like that.
~X~
That night Ostara dresses slowly and with great care. In an hour she and her family will be travelling to the small keep in Lannisport for the celebratory feast. She doesn't understand it. There will be many feasts in the next few days. One tonight to welcome those who came to honor the new prince, one tomorrow evening after the melee, and then one before the Lords and their families return to their homes.
It's ridiculous.
But she dresses in the gown her mother had gifted her and slips her feet into a pair of black slippers. Wrestling her hair into anything elaborate will take too much time so instead she takes a comb through her curls, plaits some of her hair so that the two braids keep the rest of the wild mass out of her face, and then she spells her hair to keep the humidity from affecting it too harshly.
"Ostara?" Her mother calls from just outside her tent, "Are you ready, pet?"
"Coming mother!"
Ostara turns to Rubeus.
"You'll be good won't you?" Ostara asks as she runs her fingers through her familiar's fur.
His rumble is her only response.
So Ostara places a chaste kiss between his eyes before turning and leaving her tent.
Outside her family waits.
Cassana and Steffon Baratheon wear their house colors in such a way that it compliments them instead of making them look like fools, Stannis has donned a fine doublet or royal blue and silver. They are all equally attractive and Ostara smiles as she moves to stand beside her brother. He smiles back, a thin twist of the lips but it is something.
"Are we ready then? Mustn't be late." Her father states, eyes flicking to where the keep waits in the near distance.
They'll be walking to the keep as it isn't a terribly long distance to walk. Ostara's looking forward to the exercise. But she supposes she understands her father's urging. It wouldn't do for them to be late to the feast, after all.
"Yes, father." She and Stannis reply almost in unison.
Their father smirks.
"Well, come along then."
And he leads them through the labyrinth of dark tents and stables, up a winding stone path, and too the gates of the keep where a man in Lannister red bows to them. Ostara thinks, with more then a little amusement, that the man could be an entertainer if he so wished. He certainly has the grace and flair for the dramatic. But instead of laughing Ostara offers a small smile before following her father and mother into the keep
~X~
"Little sister!" Robert's voice rips through the air just before she is scooped up and spun around in a wide circle.
They're just outside the great hall where dinner and dancing will be held meaning Robert must have been waiting for them in the corridor. It's very sweet of him.
"You're visiting your family I see," Ostara remarks with a smile the moment he sets her back on her feet. "It's about bloody time."
"I promise, I didn't mean to leave you feeling abandoned."
With a smile Ostara shakes her head, steps back, and allows Robert to greet the rest of the family. Once the pleasantries and hugs are given their father ushers them through the doors which open to reveal Lannister banners and extravagance that seems silly. Robert offers his arm to her and Ostara slips her hand into place, allowing him to guide her into the hall with a gentle huff of laughter.
Once they pass the doors Ostara glances around the room.
Rhaegar and his father sit at a long table at the very end of the hall. Tywin sits with them, silent and stone faced as always. It is impossible not to notice Johanna's absence. It is impossible not to miss the King's roaming eyes.
Looking, looking, looking for a woman who will never be his to touch.
It is sad.
Pitiful.
Ostara is glad he has yet to spot her, glad his son seems disinterested, glad Tywin was smart enough to keep his wife away from a man who wants her to the point of obsession.
Thankfully her father guides their little party to a table not far from the Targaryens.
It would be preferable if Ostara were able to talk to Rhaegar about any possible betrothals before interacting with his father but she supposes there's nothing she can do about it now anyway.
Ostara takes a seat between her brothers. She is fully aware of the eyes on her. Not like the curious gazes of Lords and Ladies who wish to look at the girl with the shadowcat, the girl with the purple eyes. No, whoever is staring at her is not trying to be subtle.
It is likely Aerys, or Tywin, or perhaps even a Kingsguard member.
Don't look, she clenches a fist in her skirts, don't look.
She doesn't.
Around her maids and servants deliver food and wine to the tables of Lord and Ladies. Ostara watches them, smiles whenever one comes to serve her or her family. The kindness makes many of the servants blush. Perhaps unused to such blatant shows of gratitude from a woman so much higher in the social order then they are. It's a damn shame.
Minutes later, perhaps fifteen or twenty, Tywin Lannister stands and the hall falls silent.
Lords do not jape, women do not simper, children do not laugh, and the servants do not move.
Still, still, still, the hall is entirely too still.
"Lords and Ladies, thank you for attending the tourney. May the Gods smile upon you this night." Tywin greets, the politeness of his tone obviously forced.
She wonders what Aerys said to him.
Wonders if it had something to do with Johanna.
"Tonight we celebrate the joyous birth of a prince. May Prince Viserys live long and prosperously."
Short, simple, to the point.
No one ever said Tywin Lannister would beat around the bush.
But those eyes are still on her. Those fucking eyes that must surely belong to Rhaegar Targaryen for who else would care so much as to stare at her so intently. Ostara keeps her attention firmly only the Hand of the King as he finishes his speech to the applause and congratulatory cheers of Lords and Ladies.
Soon she will have to exchange pleasantries with Rhaegar. But not yet. Right now she is free to eat and laugh with her family.
Unfortunately for her, ignoring Rhaegar Targaryen proves to be exceedingly difficult.
He has a way of drawing people in, making them want to be in his presence. It starts when a Minstrel brings a finely made harp to the center of the hall upon the orders of a Lord who is already well into his cups. The men and women around her all but beg for him to sing, to play a song of such beauty that it moves even the gods to tears.
When Rhaegar finally relents it is after his father's hissed demand that he please the people who have come to wish their family congratulations.
Ostara watches him as he makes his way to the center of the hall.
Silver hair is unbound and falling around his shoulders like spider silk. So fine and surprisingly thick that Ostara finds herself fascinated with the way is sways about his shoulders. He is dressed in a red doublet, the outline of ebony scales embroidered onto his sleeves. Fitting though it may be Ostara finds herself mildly annoyed by the choice in clothing. Crimson and ebony are too harsh for his coloring. Ostara thinks he would look much more dashing in softer colors. Dusty reds, dove greys, and the colors of a dawn sky.
But... He does not look unattractive in his house colors.
In fact, Rhaegar Targaryen looks oddly fierce.
Ostara will later blame it on his cheek bones and the intensity of his eyes as his fingers begin to dance along the harp's strings.
And he truly is talented.
Blessed with nimble fingers and passion for his music.
It makes... It makes Ostara think of a boy with cracked glasses and another boy with fire for hair, it makes her think of winter nights spent around a roaring fire as the last of her peers left to see their families for the holidays, it makes her think of a life lost to her but never forgotten. She even finds herself thinking of other, vaguely familiar faces that she barely remembers.
It's a bittersweet thing.
When Rhaegar stops playing his smiles and bows to the crowd, eyes scanning the hall.
They stop on Ostara.
Stop and linger far longer then necessary before moving on.