A handsome stranger kissed their hand in greeting. They were led into a ballroom, a mesmerizing sight of silver, white and red. Tasteful, despite the opulence. A banquet of food was offered on the sidelines. They recognized quite a few people here. Old friends, new friends, Uncle Andrew, but not Briar or Aspen. Yarrow sipped on their wine.
The man watched them with an intense gaze. Intense and intent, noted Yarrow. They blushed. The music started, startling familiar.
"May I have this dance?" Yarrow smiled. What a cliche. The Stranger placed his hand on their back, a playful smirk on his lips and pulled them into a dance. Ah, what a whirlwind! They laughed. And then one dance turned into another dance and another – Yarrow forget the time. They saw Andrew dance with another man, laughing together, and smiled. Wait. What was that? Blood! Blood and bone and so much blood -
Suddenly the smirk turned devious. They tried to pull away. The grip became so cold and strong they were forced right back into his arms. The stranger grinned. A beam of moonlight fell through the windows and -
Yarrow wiped the sweat of their face. Deep shadows were under their eyes. Another fucking nightmare. What was their subconscious trying to tell them? Another reminder of the coming end?
Their features still held an androgyny, a softness that made them look younger than they were. Yarrow let their long hair fall around their face, adjusted their face to a look of innocence, wide eyes and soft smile. Hm. They pulled their hair back. Better. Soon they would be considered a man, soon they would be a knight.
They swallowed. At least they would not have to worry about period – moonblood – and birth. Who knew, they might even get away with no marriage. It'd be perfect if Aspen found a lovely young noble woman to marry, but they'd be a hypocrite to force him into anything. Well, they all might die. Did it matter? Dragonfire, winter, so many opportunities for Death to claim a soul.
Summer returned and woke the world from sleep. A myriad of colours exploded over the fields, yellow, red and purple tulips, forget-me nots, meadow-foam and dandelions. Butterflies and bees visited flowers under the midday sun.
Yarrow placed another bouquet of forget-me-nots beneath the Seven. Despite the summer heat was it cold in the Sept, the stone slowly heating up in sunlight. They rubbed a petal between their fingers, soft and blue. Birds sung in the tree crowns behind them.
The first of ten years, ten summer years, had started. Time ran faster than they'd thought. It was easy to give in to the innocence of childhood, the dreams come true, dreams of magic and a world beyond, the veil lifted from their eyes. Being a squire was nice. Andrew didn't expect them to become the next Dragonknight or Longhorn. Every day was a daydream, every night a nightmare. They already had to buy a new sketchbook.
Faint bells chimed in the distance. The Stranger stared at them, the stone face cold and blank, and yet a smile, a grasp. Yarrow forced their eyes away. It was a shame that they couldn't skinchange. Yet, Yarrow admitted that their magic could be of great use during - let's say- a deep winter. Ten years, so far away and yet so soon.
With a sigh they turned away. Deep into the forest was an oak tree, gnarly and ancient, weakened by sickness. A cup of blood and viscera poured over the roots and then they placed their hand on the old oak and listened. Every being had its own lifeforce, its own song, and the oak was no different. Quiet and steady, neither rising high nor falling low. Yarrow focused on the roots. They could taste water, nutrients and blood. With a deep breath they imagined an proud and tall tree, not sick but healed, old and ever-growing.
A rustle whispered in the leaves, a groan, a rumble and with an last aching cry, the sickness vanished. New leaves unfurled before their eyes, greeting the morning sun. The young leaves were a healthy green and soft as silk.
Yarrow smiled. Another success. Though, a look at the sun told them to return before they got punished.
Ah, they had forgotten something. Mother looked ready to cry. She embraced Alannon, rested her cheek against his chest and then leant in for one last kiss. Yarrow finished the last sentence for Briar's letter, one last letter to send to the Florents before they left, and gave it to Maester Artyn.
Yarrow memorized their home one last time, the clear waters of the lake, the sweet-smelling gardens and the walls of their castle. They memorized the colour of their mothers eyes, the small scar at Aspen's chin, the loving look in their family's eyes.
As they remembered, the Greyjoy Rebellion was a swift win for the Crown. Good. The Lannister fleet burned, perfect. None of the Reach would fall, good. Of course, it was doubtful they'd get to see much fighting. Surely?
Ah, they'd see. Or not. Yarrow held their hand out for the horse to sniff. It nudged them. A pretty thing it was, chestnut brown fur, a blaze and high booted so that she looked like she walked into paint. Friendly as well. Andrew had decided on her for them.
Wearing armour all day was gross found Yarrow. Really, they did not want to be in Dorne. Dorne . . They winced. That reminded right off Willas and Prince Oberyn. Trouble. A death they might prevent. Another ten years of waiting. Hopefully Joffrey had an unfortunate accident. Fuck, even just let Sansa get married to a good northern lad! Or not. Robert would press for Arya then? She did look like Lyanna after all. . Hm.