The atmosphere of the Red Keep had changed. Whilst triumph disappeared, fear and apprehension had remained, only this time engulfing the Tyrells and their allies. Olenna Tyrell looked calm but the others? No longer did Tyrells – of the main branch and of the lesser branches – strut and prance around court as if they were princes and princesses. Instead they crept around like frightened mice, trepidation clearly present in their eyes.
Outwardly, Lyarra maintained a steely expression; inwardly, she was elated.
Every single day since the Usurper and his troops marched off to Duskendale, Lyarra was forced to sup and spend time with the Tyrells. Though Lyarra hated being a hostage, she did appreciate her daily routine: an hour in the godswood in the morning, breaking her fast with a light meal in her chambers, another hour praying in the sept with a small flock of pious ladies, a couple of hours with the Tyrells followed by a midday meal – still with the Tyrells – and more time with the Tyrells. The day would end after supper with the Queen of Thorns herself and a few other selected relations. Lyarra would then retire to her chambers and read a little before falling asleep. When the sun rose the next dawn, the routine would begin again.
Thinking about her daily schedule, Lyarra couldn't help but remember Orys's. He was a man of routine like his uncle Lord Stannis. Once I dreaded being trapped in a marriage with a man of routine, contemplated Lyarra, as her handmaid Sarra Flowers, a bastard great grand niece or close cousin of Lady Olenna, twisted her hair into an intricate hairstyle popular in the Reach. Now I desire the long days of routine with Orys. Breaking our fast together in the morning, our daily walks in the gardens, hours in the nursery with our future children…
Instinctively, Lyarra caressed her swollen stomach. She was very close to her seventh month of pregnancy. Usually she did not fantasise much about spending time with Orys – her mind was oft occupied with thoughts of Orys's restoration and surviving court. Weeping was surprisingly easy too. Only last week, the mere thought of Orys being slain in battle toppled her to tears. Her good-mother was a great comfort. "Tears are normal," the queen mother had assured Lyarra. "When we carry children, we're often sensitive to our emotions. More so than usual."
Lyarra's heart tightened. She was grateful for the queen mother's calming and
soothing words and helpful advice, yet she longed to hear her father's quiet voice and her mother's soft whispers. It felt like years since she last saw or heard them when in truth it was five or six months. It had seemed each day with the Tyrells lasted for months. It was a great pity the Princess Lyanna wasn't present. Strange that the Tyrell heir's wife was left back at Highgarden whilst even a distant Tyrell cousin was present at King's Landing – no doubt the Queen of Thorns still feared her good-granddaughter's royal Baratheon blood.
"Do you think we'll be expected to cluck and coo over Lady Graceford's babe again?" Lady Wylla had walked up to Lyarra's side. Lyarra stared at their faces in the mirror in front of her. Wylla's pale face was often lined with worry these days and shadows under her eyes. There were deep shadows under Lyarra's eyes too.
"I have no desire to coo over the babe," Wylla continued boldly, ignoring the warning look Lyarra shot at her. "Perhaps I will read in the library alone today."
Lyarra felt Sarra's fingers falter mid-braid. She is listening again. She is always listening and reporting back to the Queen of Thorns like a little worm. Every word we say, she repeats to the Queen of Thorns, no matter how insignificant. It was not at all surprising – why else would an insignificant bastard girl from the Reach be granted a prominent position at court?
"Permit me to join you there, Wylla," said Lyarra lightly. "I wish to consult The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms." She swallowed a grimace as Sarra's thin fingers tightened on her unfinished braid. "My child will be born in a few months," Lyarra went on smoothly, aware that the handmaiden was listening sharply. "He or she will be born a member of the distinguished and noble House Baratheon and will deserve a fitting Baratheon name. Unfortunately, I am not very familiar with my husband's famous ancestors and must confer with a book." A blatant lie. Maester Luwin had ensured that she – and her siblings and
Father's wards – knew the ancestral members of House Baratheon well.
"You can give the babe a strong northern name," commented Wylla.
Lyarra shook her head. "That wouldn't be right, chiefly for a firstborn child."
"Lord Stark named Robb after the late king."
"The late king was my father's closest friend." Lyarra repressed a sigh. She had thought she would discuss baby names with Orys, not by herself.
"May I offer a suggestion my lady?" Sarra Flowers ventured uncertainly. She'd
resumed slowly braiding Lyarra's hair again.
"You may," Lyarra said cautiously.
"Your babe is a Baratheon but also the child of a traitor, my lady. The king is a merciful man and will bear no ill will against the child. Surely if you wish for your future child to be named Lord of Storm's End, it'd be a peaceful gesture for you to name your son 'Aegon'? It would most likely please the king."
"Lord Stannis is Lord of Storm's End," said Lyarra brusquely. "My future child will not usurp his great uncle's place." She waited for Sarra to finish tying a black ribbon around the end of the braid before standing up. "Lady Wylla and I'll be in the library until the midday meal," she said curtly. "By all means, tell Lady Tyrell. I'm certain she's quite keen to learn I decided to do a bit of morning reading."
"I heard you were in the library this morning my Lady Lyarra." Lyarra looked down and saw the dwarf Tyrion Lannister waddling up to her. Even though he's as much of a hostage as she was, Lord Tyrion did not seem unhappy or angry. He wore a black velvet doublet covered with golden studs fashioned in the shape of lions' heads, and a blood red silk cloak fringed in gold. It was bold of him to wear the colours of House Lannister so brashly. A thought crossed Lyarra's mind: what if the Lannisters are the false Aegon's allies?
"I was, Lord Tyrion," said Lyarra politely.
"What a coincidence my lady! I was in the library since dawn as well! With no access to a prostitute or three, I can only drink fine wine and read old books." He laughed. Lyarra smiled uneasily, unsure whether to laugh with him or not. "May I ask what book you're reading, my lady? I'm happy to suggest a few if you wish."
There was no harm in telling Lord Tyrion. "I was looking at Baratheon names. My child is a Baratheon and requires a Baratheon name."
The Lannister dwarf tilted his head in thought. "Surely that is not always the case. My brother Jaime wasn't given a typical Lannister name and he was the heir before he was selected to join the Kingsguard." He paused. "Our lady mother had a close cousin called Jaime. My brother could be named after him." He sounded a great deal more depressed when he mentioned his brother.
Uncertain what to say, Lyarra glanced away and watched other nobles trickle
into the Great Hall. As the false king, his possible uncle Prince Oberyn, his Hand, and the Master of Laws were away fighting, his good-grandmother Lady Tyrell, was the appointed regent. Lyarra had expected the Queen of Thorns – or at least her son the Fat Flower – to reward Reach lords and knights and reinforce House Tyrell's position of power. To her astonishment, the Queen of Thorns did no such thing. She did appoint Lord Randyll Tarly as temporary Master of Laws and War, though with the false king's permission.
"All hail House Tyrell," said Lord Tyrion disdainfully as Lady Olenna tottered towards the Iron Throne on the long carpet that stretched from the great iron-and-bronze doors. Behind her walked a flood of green and gold cloaked people – Tyrells. Is she bold enough to sit on the Iron Throne? Lyarra wondered. Only kings and their Lord Hands were permitted to be seated on the Iron Throne. Even the regents were denied that privilege.
Court began once the Queen of Thorns seated herself on a small chair that was placed at the foot of the Iron Throne. As the false king's guests, Lyarra, her good-mother, Tyrion and selected others were given seats closest to the Iron Throne. Surrounding them were a vast host of guards, their green cloaks marked with the Tyrell golden rose. At the corner of her eye, Lyarra spotted a Tyrell guard escort her good-aunt Lady Desmera Baratheon towards them. The Lady Desmera wore a black gown, the sleeves decorated with silver trimmings. Her head was bowed and her orange hair tumbled down her back. How strange. As a Redwyne and the Lady Tyrell's granddaughter, the Lady Desmera should be a part of the victorious Reach company, not accompanied by guards and seated with hostages.
"There are still a number of lords who have not sworn fealty to the king," Lady Tyrell announced, her voice sharply slicing through murmurs like a knife cutting a slice of butter. "As there are many petitions to examine, I'll only have the chief traitors and their families declared." She paused. "Lord Tarly, read out the names of those who have not yet sworn fealty to our king."
Lyarra dug her nails into the palms of her hands to repress a laugh. The grim-faced Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill and one of the finest battle commanders in Westeros ordered to carry out such a menial task of reading out all the names of supposed traitors! It was like a horrible jape uttered by Theon or one of Lyarra's brothers back at Winterfell. Keeping a stoic and cold expression, Lyarra watched a lean and balding man with a short, bristly grey step forward. He donned boiled leather and mail with a breastplate of steel as if he was a mere step away from a battle. The scowl on his face expressed a clear message: this task is beneath me.
For a seasoned and famous battle commander, it was indeed.
Lord Tarly unrolled a scroll of parchment and cleared his throat. "In the name of His Grace Aegon of the House Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, the King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms," he read aloud, his harsh voice echoing in the Great Hall, "the nobles and the families I shall name must present themselves to their king and council here in the Great Hall of the Red Keep by the last day of the moon's turn. If the lord and his family fails to do so, they will be adjudged traitors to the crown and their titles and their lands will be forfeit."
Lyarra waited as Lord Tarly took a deep breath. Orys Baratheon, she thought, and his brother and two sisters. Steffon Baratheon and his brother and two sisters. Is Lord Stannis still alive? If so, he'll be on the list. Father, Mother, my brothers and sisters and Father's bannermen. The Tullys and their bannermen as well.
As she had predicted, the Baratheons were the first names Lord Tarly read out. "Orys Baratheon," read Lord Tarly. "Ormund, Lyanna and Minisa Baratheon. Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm's End and his children Steffon, Robert, Shireen and Cassana Baratheon. Lord Edmure Tully, his wife Lady Leyla Tully, their children Hoster, Bryndon, Axel, Melia, Rosaline and Elianor Tully, and Ser Brynden Tully. Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and his lady wife the Lady Ashara Stark and their children Robb, Brandon, Arthur, Rickon, Arya and Gwenysse Stark…" He read on and on. It'll take a whole flock of ravens to send out these demands of fealty. It felt so impractical for the Lord of Horn Hill to read out the list. There was already a war occurring and half the Great Houses were against the false king.
"…Ser Kevan Lannister of Casterly Rock, his wife Lady Dorna Lannister, their children Ser Lancel, Willem, Martyn and Janei Lannister." Lyarra glanced at Lord Tyrion. He'd stilled, his mismatched green and black eyes shining – relief?
"…Lord Leyton Hightower, his wife Lady Rhea Florent, Ser Baelor, his wife, the Lady Rhonda Rowan, their children Gerold, Maelle and Chalysse Hightower. Ser Garth, Ser Gunthor and his wife the Lady Jeyne Fossoway, Ser Humphrey and the Lady Malora Hightower." Lyarra's eyes widened. The Hightowers? Traitors? She stared at Lady Alerie Hightower who stood with the other Reach lords and ladies. She wasn't the only one gaping at Lady Alerie. The lady herself continued gazing straight ahead in a dignified manner. She kept a poised expression, which Lyarra couldn't help but admire.
What is Lord Hightower planning? Lyarra wondered as Lord Tarly continued droning, ignoring the furtive glanced exchanged by many courtiers. He is one of Lord Tyrell's most influential and powerful vassals yet he chooses not to side with his liege lord even with one of his daughters his liege lord's wife? Has he gone mad? Surely loyalty in the Reach was as strong as loyalty in the North!
The rest of the court session was quite uneventful. Lord Tarly finished reading his list of presumed traitors and Lady Tyrell listened to the petitions. Most of the petitioners were smallfolk whose lands and crops had been razed by fire. Finally, after the last petitioner – an innkeeper who lost at least three horses to bandits – was dismissed, Lady Tyrell ended the court session.
"It's cruel of them to make you sit through all this." The queen mother helped Lyarra rise from her seat. "You should be resting in your chambers."
"The Tyrells will think her scheming their demise, my lady," remarked Tyrion who had mostly recovered from his earlier shock. "Keep all your allies close and your foes even closer, or so they say."
"Lannister words?" questioned Lyarra, smiling thanks at her good-mother.
Tyrion shook his head. "Words from a wise man." He scratched his chin. "More like Tyrell words at this rate."
"Milady." A Tyrell guard stepped in between Lyarra and Lord Tyrion. "You are expected in Lady Tyrell's chambers for luncheon. You are expected as well," the guard added to the queen mother.
"What of me?" inquired Tyrion sarcastically. "Am I invited too?"
"No milord," said the guard frostily. "The Lady Catelyn, Lady Lyarra and Lady Desmera are invited by the personal invitation of Lady Tyrell. You're not."
Lyarra sighed, this one of irritation. Another Tyrell luncheon. Mayhaps Tyrion Lannister had a point. Keep your allies close and your enemies closer. The Tyrell guard would not have reminded her and her good-mother about the luncheon if Tyrion wasn't talking to them. In the eyes of the Queen of Thorns, even the most harmless of conversations might include scheming. A skilled plotter will see many plots everywhere. Probably to Lady Tyrell there was a Stark-Baratheon-Lannister and Tully alliance in the making right now.
"Shall we go?" said the queen mother wearily.
Lyarra desperately wished to return to her chambers and rest. The babe was being a little troublesome today, kicking once a few minutes. She liked feeling her babe kick, but after a tedious court session listening to complaints and petitions, she desired her child to be a little quieter for a few hours.
"Enjoy your luncheon my ladies," said Tyrion, offering Lyarra what looked like a grin of sympathy. "Perhaps we'll speak again soon."
"My lord." Lyarra dipped her head respectfully. "Enjoy your day." She headed off to Lady Tyrell's chambers with her good-mother. Glancing around discreetly, she couldn't see Lady Desmera. Maybe she's already at the luncheon. It didn't take very long for Lyarra and the queen mother to walk to Lady Tyrell's rooms. Even though she was fatigued, by the time the Tyrell guard opened the door for them, Lyarra was famished. Not for broth or soup, but for a thick slice of bread lathered with melted yellow butter and a rasher of meat. Good Northern food.
The long table was already groaning under the heavy weight of a dozen dishes. There were bowls of steaming hot soup, plates of salads and pies and platters of various fish, crabs and meat. To Lyarra's horror, two more servants walked up to the table and placed a couple more dishes amongst those already present. Upon a closer examination, Lyarra saw that they were small cakes, sweet breads, a range of fruit tarts, and clustered together as the rising star of the dessert platters were yellow lemon cakes.
"We should not be eating this finely," said the queen mother in a low voice, her blue eyes flashing with distaste. "There's a war; people are dying of starvation as well as on the battlefield. Any day, King's Landing can fall to a siege – how can we survive a siege when food runs out?"
"There will not be a siege," said Lady Tyrell sharply from the head of the table. "Your son Orys is fighting a losing battle. King Aegon will return triumphant, and my granddaughter will be by his side soon enough."
"That's confident of you to say," said Lyarra politely, taking a seat. "I'd thought of all people, you, my lady will be more wary at the outcomes of war. You seem to be of a more cautious nature. Your son, the Lord of Highgarden, I can envision as one who is very confident in your king's possible victory. Then again, you oft said he was a fool and an oaf my lady." She smiled sweetly as Lady Desmera and other ladies gasped in horror, their hands clapping over their mouths and their eyes as wide as the silver dinner plates on the table. Inwardly, Lyarra was shocked at her own audacity in speaking to the old lady in such a blunt and rude manner.
The Queen of Thorns snickered before sniffing the bowl of dark orange-brown soup in front of her. "Rosehip soup," she announced with a grimace of repulsion, swirling it with her small silver spoon. Her beady eyes swivelled to Lyarra. "You are more Tyrell than you think, Lady Lyarra."
Lyarra arched an eyebrow. "I'm a Stark, my lady."
Lady Tyrell smirked. "Not a Baratheon eh? Lady Lyarra Baratheon. I heard you spent the morning in the library. Find any Baratheon names for the little fawn in your womb? Will we be welcoming a little stag or a little doe?"
"I'll be happy with either a girl or boy. I did consider a few names. Perhaps she or he'll receive a less customary Baratheon name. I would prefer to discuss name choices a little later, with my husband at my side."
"Let's hope we are celebrating two births this year." Lady Tyrell's eyes did not once leave Lyarra's eyes, even when she drank her soup. "My granddaughter the queen has stayed at Dragonstone for too long. I will be sending her a raven today, requesting her immediate return." She smiled slyly. "I will happily relinquish my position as regent to her once she is here. It's only proper as she's the king's wife and mother of his heirs. Let us pray to the Mother for Queen Margaery to quicken with child very soon."
Lyarra smiled slightly. A Targaryen child – even one of a pretender – is a threat to mine. Let us hope Lady Margaery's barren or does not bear the false king a child. There'd be some demanding the potential Targaryen babe's death; others would be more lenient. What would a life at the Wall or with the silent sisters be? A life of celibacy and sorrow, with no drop of joy in his or her life. It'll most likely be the life of my own child if the Usurper wins. A gift of so-called mercy.
"What of you, Lady Catelyn?"
"What of me, Lady Tyrell?" Lyarra's good-mother asked calmly. "You can see I am not with child."
"You'll be soon enough." The Queen of Thorns smiled smugly. "There are a few
loyal lords eager to wed you, Lady Catelyn despite the fact that you're the mother and sister to traitors. The king spoke to you of this, yes? Widowhood doesn't suit you at all. Motherhood does. If the king wishes, he might wed you to his Dornish uncle; it might be a lowly bastard sellsword who'll receive Riverrun and you."
The queen mother gritted her teeth, her face pale. Lyarra bit her lip to silence a nasty answer Arya would be delighted to hear. The Queen of Thorns leant back, looking satisfied like a well-fed toad.
Lyarra had never hated the Queen of Thorns. A slight dislike at the most – up to now. She loathed the Queen of Thorns for dismissing her old handmaids Cara, Janysse and Merielle. Where were they now? Dead? Imprisoned? Packed off to a motherhouse, or worse, a brothel? Intimidating the caring queen mother with an unequal marriage to a bastard sellsword? That was malicious and spiteful, even for the Queen of Thorns.
Before Lyarra could lift up her spoon, a small boy with large, dark eyes and a mop of messy brown hair burst into the room.
The Queen of Thorns clicked her tongue in vexation. "That boy never learns," she grumbled to Lyarra and the queen mother. "I took him from my oaf son as a page and he still does not know how to knock! He's too Myrish for his own good." She looked at her page. "You know better than to interrupt in that fashion!" she barked at him.
"My apologies my lady!" the boy said at once, dipping his head so low it might as well be a bow. "Lord Tarly sent me to tell you there's news from the king!"
Lyarra, her good-mother, Lady Tyrell and most of the ladies stilled. For what seemed like an hour, there was utter silence. Not even the fat fool Butterbumps in yellow and purple motley danced, silencing the small brass bells the decorated his dark purple collar. Finally, Lady Tyrell croaked, "Well, boy? Spit it out!"
Lyarra's heart pounded. This was it. The news that was to determine her fate – and the fate of her unborn child.
The young boy's dark eyes darted from Lyarra to Lady Tyrell. In a tiny, wobbly voice, he uttered, "It's over. The battle's over."
I started a new teaching internship a month ago and classes start really early - my apologies for the lack of updating! I have the next chapter ready to go. I'll try and update it next week and hopefully it'll be slightly more regular as I feel like I'm enjoying writing this again :)
Thank you Narkalui for the wonderful advice! I'll keep it in mind when I keep writing :) Currently, I don't have any plans for Bronn. If I do later on, I'm sure he'll appear.
