Layla II
"With an overall capacity of nearly 300 men and a ballista capable of outperforming any other shipborne weapon, crafted and designed by the finest craftsmen of Myr and of course, graciously paid for by house Hightower of Oldtown - I present to you, The Princess Layla..."
The vessel rested on the docks. True to her Uncle Baelor's word, it truly was a work of art. She took in the "gift" that she could not actually have any use for, or even learn to use herself.
"A shame." Allyria joked, "you'd have made a fantastic sea captain." She said with a smirk which she returned.
"Like Lady Elissa Farman." She responded, "And you as my Rhaena would have made it perfect." She had thought to herself, as they toured the hulking warship that was her namesake.
The Princess Layla would be the second largest ship in the Royal Fleet, it would dwarf every ship aside from the centrepiece, King Robert's Hammer.
Uncle Baelor talked and talked some more on wind density, food stocks and weapons positions and all sorts of things that while she appreciated his enthusiasm in discussing and sharing, bored her to no end.
In truth, the one thing that was consuming hers and no doubt many others' thoughts was last night's announcement that her brother was marrying the youngest Stark girl.
As a Princess who had grown up in King's Landing, she had learned to be mindful from a young age, she noted the angry looks that passed on many a lords face when they thought no one was looking, men who no doubt planned on having one of their daughters become the Queen.
Lord Tywin had left soon after the announcement, excusing himself with wanting an early night.
It was clear, the Lion has been prodded one too many times, Aerys' famous rejection of Tywin's proposal for Prince Rhaegar to marry his daughter, followed by another failure to wed her to the newly crowned, King Robert and now once again, had faced only scorn at the suggestion that her brother marry his granddaughter, his dreams of joining his own blood to the royal house dashed for a third time.
The entire event now felt as if balanced on a blade's edge, a hint of an insult or misplaced move could cause chaos. Yet despite that, and mayhaps because of it, her father had been jollier than she had seen him in years. Were she a stranger looking in, she'd believe him to be the one to be wed. He spoke openly on it and had forced a clearly uncomfortable Lord Stark to make a toast at breakfast the next morning.
Lord Tywin had not been the only one, merely the most prominent one to be spurned. Whispers soon spread that lord Bronze Yohn Royce, the man whom her brother had fostered with as a Page for eight years in Runestone was rumoured to have thrown his famous armour against a wall repeatedly in disgust that night, though none dared bring it up in his presence.
As a cherished figure in Rickard's life whom he still thought highly of, and had kept in occasional correspondence, what with two of his sons being his best friends and the respect and linage that came with the proud Royce – former Kings of the Vale themselves before the Andals – she could not blame lord Yohn for his confidence in making the move.
The Redwynes had also been equally upset but seemed to be keeping it well hidden. Lady Desmera was clearly there to ensnare Rickard, and they had good reason to believe her to have a fair shot at it - she was a famous beauty of the Reach, with fiery red hair, freckles that made her memorable and blue eyes paired with a purple silk dress accentuating her considerable bust - many a man turned his head when she passed. Not to say that was all she had to offer. Her intelligence dwarfed those of many others present there that night, she was well read and quick of wit, proficient in music and if stories she heard be true, the best dancer in all of the Reach.
Layla truly believed that had the Lannisters not been the first to arrive, Lady Desmera would have been the lady who would have most likely caught his attention the most.
Mother was seemingly aloof about the entire thing. She played her part and had smiled and expressed joy of course, but in truth, she did not hold the Northerners in much high regard, but as far as she knew, had spoken no strong feelings one way or another on the betrothal. Seemingly accepting father's decision.
Overall, nobody, not even the Starks, aside from her father, was happy with the choice.
But nobody was more upset than Rickard.
"ITS NOT RIGHT!" he had roared at her as he burst through her chamber door. She was in her night clothes, and had stayed awake, knowing he would pay a visit at some point. She was already seated on the huge chair at the centre of the table in her chamber.
Whenever he had been truly angry, he had always come to her when he felt like getting it all off his chest. It was rare, if ever, did he get furious to the point where he would come to her, but this was no ordinary circumstance. Any other day he would force some poor guards into some "extra training", which would often leave them bloodied and beaten. But now...
"What does Father gain? He barely knows her, and she comes with nothing to offer me!"
He paced around her room like an untamed animal. The guards outside knew better than to enter when the prince was like this. It was always better to let him get it off his chest.
"She's fucking ugly too! Imagine it sister! Me, a king and the second of our line to sit the Throne and Arya the Ugly is to be my Queen, how can Father insult me like this, how have I offended him. I have always been a good son, a good heir!"
He then kicked one of her wooden stools across the room, it splintered into three parts. He could go on for hours like this.
"I heard that Father wanted one of the Stark girls, from one of his pages, the Velaryon boy. I didn't like it. The true woman, the truly worthy woman who should be my Queen is already here, golden hair, perfect skin, and green eyes, the most beautiful woman in the whole Realm. She sits there, no doubt heartbroken as I am. Where is the justice!"
She nods and nods some more. She knew what to do when he got like this.
"It is not as if I am some fool, of course father, by the laws of Gods and men, has the right to decide my wife, but why not the other one…"
He grits his teeth and clenches his fists even tighter as he tries to recall the name.
"Sansa." She gently offers.
"Yes! Sansa. She may not be Cersea, but she is beautiful, very lovely and courteous, and I see the way she looks at me." He says with a small smile that lasted some seconds before reverting to his angry scowl.
"Why not her I ask! She is as much a Stark as that other one and actually acts like a woman. I once saw her sister run around in the mud with that wolf of hers. In the mud like some common born wretch and she is meant to be my wife? Sansa would have made a much better Queen!"
She rubs her head and just nods. The only thing she can do. Trying to calm him at this stage would be like trying to lift the mountains with a spoon.
"I am resigned to this fate… a fate I cannot undo even as a king! You saw it. The High Septon himself has supposedly blessed our betrothal. So long as she keeps her legs closed and speaks no ill of the King or me. The marriage cannot be undone by holy decree, even as a king, I'm forbidden to break it without the High Septon's express permission!"
He huffed and puffed, fists and mouth still clenched tight, but did not go on for another five minutes. An indicator he was done.
She walked up and gave him a smile. No matter what, her brother had always been there in her times of distress and likewise, she would do the same. No matter what.
She laid a hand on his shoulder. She gave a comforting smile.
"Try to find the good in this situation. You may find something you like about her, you haven't gotten to know the girl."
He sharply turned to her.
"She's fucking ugly!" he exclaimed, as if it the most self-evident thing in the world.
He walked off, her hand leaving her shoulder. He looked out her chamber window. The wind drafting inside. It overlooked nearly all the city from the Red Keep. Arms folded.
"It should have been Cersea."
He looked back to her.
She stood straight and spoke.
"Like you said, brother, you have to bear it. Besides… nothing can stop you from seeing whichever girl you like. You only need to be with her on formal occasions, have a son or two, and that's it,"
She paused and licked her lips.
"But at least try to be kind, Rick. I know you can be when you want to. I doubt this girl wants this anymore than you do."
His glare remained though.
"How could he not know that Cersea is the woman I want. Just because father didn't get the woman he wanted; he now has to ensure I go through the same as he… well I won't go into it quietly and nice as he would like. The realm will know of this injustice!"
It was finally over. The damn tourney would end, and at least most of these false friends and flatterers would go away. She would only need to do deal with the ones already living in this bloody city.
The sun was hotter than the last few days, her brother had taken his frustrations out with father. They had a huge argument at the Red Keep, away from most eyes, but it had still gotten out.
She signed.
When her brother and their father argued, it was an unstoppable force against a stubborn and immovable object. Rick had inherited father's hot-headedness, and neither would budge. Father seemed to be absolutely set on uniting Baratheon and Stark the way he wanted, and nothing, not even his son, would stop him.
They had avoided each other since then. Always staying far back when in the same room and refusing to make eye-contact.
She made her way around the pavilions. Mother insisted she had to make her presence known and take a walk to see the many lords and knights bent on winning her favour.
"You can win my favour by going away and stop asking for my hand in marriage." She thought internally regarding most of these men.
As she made her way, attended to by her ladies, guards and her Kingsguard protector, Ser Balon Swann, she would have preferred uncle Garth, but he would soon be participating in the joust.
Everyone paid her the due she was owed. One Rykker knight declared that he would fight and die for her, another with a that her beauty was not something to trade for all the gold or jewellery in the world, a red fish inside a white shield emblazoned on his surcoat.
"Stale, old and heard it all before." She wanted to snidely reply to them. She was lucky that she had gotten out of her bad habit of rolling her eyes when she was younger. She just smiled, blushed and accepted their proclamations like the innocent little maiden she was supposed to be.
Not all were so eager to impress her.
She came upon Ser Harold of house Hardying, or Harry the Heir to his supporters, a nickname avoided when in earshot of Lady Lysa Arryn. Behind her, her ladies giggled and smiled. He was currently training, but it looked more like a beating as they used wooden swords instead of steel. His short blonde hair stuck to him with sweat, and hit the poor man, whom she assumed was a squire, as if he had insulted the larger man.
Ser Balon seemed to be eying the young man with curiosity and for any potential danger. Palm firmly on his blade. Willing and ready to defend her.
"Ser…" Harry hit him again, blood coming from the large gash where he had been hit. "The-"another hit, "The princess."
Harry stopped and looked to her. He put on a dashing smile that she supposed was meant to be charming as his opponent limped away to the side.
He put the practice blade on the ground. It had a smear of blood on the edge where she assumed he had made the worst hit. It mixed with the hard grass and dirt below.
He bowed his head.
"Princess… the Gods do you no justice. I pray you enjoy this fine day."
If ever she wanted to roll her eyes at someone ridiculous, it was with Ser Harrold. She smiled to him, but in her head, thought to have some fun.
"Thank you, Ser Harrold… I pray you good fortune in today's events- oh dear me" she said with a giggle, "Please forgive me, I forgot you are sadly unable to compete." Her other ladies joined in with her light laughter.
The fake smile was gone. Instead, was a reddened face, with a scowl plastered on it.
Harry gritted his teeth together.
"That is correct, princess. I haven't been able to compete with my friends at all. I get to watch from the side-lines… fun."
"I suppose there'll be another great Tourney. I hope to see you perform as courageously as you do now. Good day, Ser."
Judging by the pained sounds of the poor soul who acted as Ser Harry's opponent. It seemed he had not taken well to that.
"Ahhh my ever-beautiful niece!" she heard a refined voice call out. To her left, riding alongside his entourage was her Uncle Renly.
She smiled.
"Uncle, you look well." Even if it was out of manners. Her uncle did look good as always. Many people said that her uncle resembled Father so much, it sometimes took them aback. His hair was as dark as coal, come and shone in the light. His were as bright and blue as day, just like Rickard's. She always imagined that this was exactly what father looked like during his prime. Lean, but also muscular beneath his green doublet made of silk velvet, with golden lines going down. Black boots, with pitch black riding breeches. He also adorned a golden cape. Held on with a stag brooch.
He was accompanied by the youngest and most famous son of Lord Mace Tyrell, Ser Loras. The Knight of the Flowers of the finest warriors in the Kingdom, as well as one of its most handsome. Himself groomed to perfection more than many ladies. His curly brown hair perfectly in place. His doublet, light green, held sapphires and intricate designs of his family's gold roses.
They were both accompanied by a large group of guards, Baratheon and Tyrell, as well as squires.
Renly practically leaped from his horse, kissing both sides of her face. His breath fresh and minty.
"Ladies." He smiled a disarming smile, which they return in kind. As did Ser Loras, also with a smile that would make any pious Septa rip off her clothes.
"I trust your nameday has been one to remember." Renly smirked.
"Truly Uncle." She concurred. She looked to Ser Loras, "Ser." She politely acknowledged. He bowed his head, "My princess…" in a sweet boyish voice.
"I can go an entire ten years before having another of this size ever again." She commented. He laughed and took her arm under his. He then told Loras and his companions to head away, and he would re-join them later.
"Wonderful weather, don't you think?" he asked. Towering over her.
"It certainly is. I could even use your head as a cover of shade maybe." She said with a smile.
That caused another hearty but gentle laugh.
"Always the smartest of all of us men, Layla. Though that does remind me, how is my other niece?"
"Del is very well, uncle. She misses you; you know. You should visit her soon. She always loves your gifts."
"I will, I always love my little firework of a niece, no matter how many times she ruins my new doublets and capes when I pick her up." He smiled with a chuckle.
They both laughed at that. Knowing how Delina seemed to have a habit of biting and chewing on Renly's silk finery on many occasions.
"I suppose I should also ask… how is my nephew too?"
For whatever reason. Rickard and Uncle Renly had been unable to get along for some time. Though in truth, Rickard had enjoyed playing with his uncle when he was a small child. Recalling how Renly would act out as an evil giant for the little four-year-old Prince to slay and save the town from. But something had changed since then. Around five years ago, Rickard had started to keep his distance from his uncle, and soon after, openly mocked and jested about his uncle, even saying that Storm's End, the traditional Baratheon stronghold and its lands should go to his elder uncle, Stannis.
The last straw had been Renly's attempts to put forward her cousin, Lady Margaery Tyrell as a potential bride for the still yet to be betrothed Rickard during a Small Council meeting.
Something about their cousins in the House Tyrell seemed to anger her brother. Who never seemed to like any of them.
Her brother burst through her door, ranting about how Renly had insulted him.
"In what world would I marry a Tyrell?" He had asked her, looked at her as if the perceived crime was obvious.
"My future son, who will carry on our line, will not have the blood of an up jumped Steward flowing in his veins." He had declared.
"Rick is well, Uncle. I'll tell him you asked." Though they both knew that would be a bad idea.
"I'm sure you will… but in all seriousness, Layla." He looked… unsure of himself, as if in some sort of dilemma, he had no answers to. "I love you, and your future is bright."
Before she could fully ask what, he was talking about. He kissed her cheek once more, quickly turned around, flanked by his two guards, and left.
From her seat near flanking her mother, her little sister next to her. It seemed the whole city was here to cheer on the king and prince.
She would love to know whom had convinced Father that he should enter the melee at this stage. It was undeniable though that as he came to the pitch. No doubt wider than he had been all those years ago during the Greyjoy rebellions. But the sight of his antler helm, and most of all, his famous Warhammer that had been used to slay Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon, at the Trident and win his rebellion. The crowd remembered why her father had been the one to become the first non-Targaryen king since the Iron Throne's founding.
Below them, the lords and ladies cheered on. The Starks, now the prime gossip of all, also joined in. The long faces betraying nothing from what she could see. Though the eyes of the now much more overdressed Arya Stark, her supposed future Good-Sister, screamed to be anywhere else.
"I can't recall the last time I saw him in that daft helm." Her mother commented regarding father. A bored expression on her delicate features, who had lost interest in tourneys and melees long ago and now preferred more sophisticated forms of entertainment, and was famous for holding her countless masquerade balls and costume parties at court and Oldtown, as well as her love of Braavosi theatre which she had acquired during her, father's visit, where she would now regularly pay entire mummers – or actors as they were known in the city state, as well as their sets and designers to travel over across the Narrow Sea to preform for her and the court.
"The people seem to enjoy it, mother."
Lynesse then scanned her eyes ever so briefly over the cheering crowd as the king roared a mighty war cry, bashing his shield with his warm hammer, before rolling them.
"I'm sure they do, my love. Though from them, I'd expect nothing less."
The events of the day were truly to be remembered for some time. But not for how most would have wanted it.
The Archery came down to the last son of Balon Greyjoy, Theon, the son and heir of Lord Tarly, Dickon, who recently had been a newly made squire for Ser Robar Royce and had advanced far and shown a remarkable talent against older and more experienced opponents, truly resembling the Huntsman pulling his bow, that adorned the Tarly's banners.
Meanwhile, the Summer Islander prince, Jalabhar Xho, who was doing extremely well against all odds.
When the exiled prince first arrived to meet and pay homage to the king during a session for which he had attended. The appearance of the darked skin man, along with his strange and exotic clothing of feathered capes and jewellery, she could not help but be afraid whenever he passed by her.
Rickard had been the one the jest about him in order for her to conqueror her fear.
"He looks like an enormous chicken." He flatly opined one day. Much to the laughter of her and many others – including mother and father. After that, she could not stop laughing whenever she saw him for a long time.
Since then, "The Chicken Prince" had stuck as the name many used behind his back. It stuck both for his appearance and his choice to flee his island and having sought for years to get her father to reconquer it for him.
The competition had been extremely tight. But it was the arrow of the young heir of Hornhill who emerged victorious.
Her brother dominated the pitch in the joust to attain a hard-fought victory. First felling Prince Oberyn, and later, against the Northman, Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort, but not before breaking at least ten lances. Even with such a loss, the performance of lord Domeric, to have achieved such a feat to go this far into his first tourney. Many believed that the young man would be a future champion for sure.
The final deciding bout was with the massively popular, Ser Loras of Highgarden, and a cousin on their mother's side. The women in the crowds didn't know who to back, both the prince and knight being massively popular among them. It proved a very close match, but by the final tilt, it was Rickard who emerged, still atop his steed.
To say her brother relished victory was to be an understatement. He rode the pitch back and forth, the crowds eating it up. As was his nature and as he had foretold her, he made his true feelings on his announced betrothal all too clear. Refusing to acknowledge Lady Arya's presence, instead, gifting the Blue Rose crown to Lady Cersea, seated next to her mother and father. Which after glancing towards her mother, then her grandfather, seated a floor above. She graciously took it and placed it upon his head, which glistened like pure gold in the sun.
At the brief interlude between the final melee, now made the final competition of the tourney due to the King's late entry. She had listened as the father and son had argued within the King's massive pavilion – with father immediately having demanded his son to answer for the stunt, while Rickard had not even had time to change out of his armour. Much of what was being said blocked out due to the heavy fabric of the pavilion
Even though few could understand the words, it was clear that it was a bitter one, the anger in their voices made it plainly obvious to all.
The anticipation for the return of the Demon to battle had many people on the edge for excitement.
Of course, father's opponent would not be anybody too dangerous, rather, by some work of the Gods, the lord of Longtable, lord Orton Merryweather had himself made a late entry in the past few days, staying out of attention, he had worked his way up to become one of the final champions. The man himself was not a reputed great warrior, looking more like a soft block of buttery cheese with a big nose. The Merryweathers had been exiled during the final days of the Mad King as lord Orton's grandfather had been a Hand of the King, and it had been King Robert who had restored their castle, as well as some of their lands and titles and permitted them to return. Though he had also cleared out their coffers. Leaving the house relatively impoverished.
Her mother considered Lord Orton's Myrish wife, Lady Taena, to be one of her favourite companions. And she had frequently seen the lady alongside her mother.
Rickard, sat next to her, still in his armour and drinking cold water from a water skin. His face was tired and red. His usual energetic and boisterous nature gone.
"Still trying to relieve his glory days. Look at him. Still pretending he's at the Trident, and still pretending he'll marry his stupid Lady Lyanna."
She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, covered in a thick steel plate.
"Calm down. That's your anger talking. Let father have his moment. "
"Yes, well his moment will long outlive him and hound me all my life. A wife I shouldn't have. "
As she was about to continue, the horns blew, and the herald proclaimed the match.
"To my left, His Grace, King Robert of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
The king was cheered widely. He bashed upon his shield with his mighty Warhammer, long greasy black hair and beard tangled and flowing through his helm and visor. Even though he was no longer the fit warrior that he had been. He still resembled a man capable of slaying anyone.
"Papa!" Delina screamed to her side. Her little sister practically jumping from her seat. Which drew a big smile from her, and even from her brother.
"And his opponent, Orton Merryweather. Lord of Longtable!"
"Merryweather looks like he should be playing a knight in one of those Mummer's plays than actually being one." Her brother quipped. That drew a smirk from her, which in turn, seemed to ever so slightly raise one from him. The pudgy lord wielded a shield and a Mourning Star in hand. Father abandoned his own shield to the dry dirt floor. Only using the hammer in one hand.
As the final horn went, the King wasted little time in attacking the lord. Who's shield portrayed his crest of a horn of fruit and vegetables.
He swung his hammer down, the blows sounding more akin to a giant's fist punching the floor. The Longtable lord went back further and further. More running than in any disciplined withdrawal, or with any sense of tactics.
"Come on, Merrywhether, I want a challenge!" her father roared, a slur in his words from wine he had been consuming earlier.
The Lord seemed to take it to heart, and began swinging the Mourning Star back, briefly getting tangled with the big Warhammer. The lord used to chance to bash the Antler-helmed head of the King with the brunt of his shield.
The crowed sounded impressed. And even she admitted that was quite the move to use.
Whatever tricks Lord Orton had, they could not overcome her father's overwhelming size and bulk. Even if his movements were know slowing down due to fatigue.
Nobody expected what would happen next.
As father lunged forward, looking to get a winning blow, his extending of himself left his head open, which Merryweather used to bash the mourning Star into the right side of her father's head.
The King collapsed to the ground, Merryweather taking the moment to revel in his surprise victory, as did the crowd.
But King Robert did not move.
Within less than a minute, shouts came across for someone to check the King. Mother got up, a look of shock as she gripped the railings.
"Father…" her brother whispered to her side. He burst up, jumped over the rails, and joined the multiple people, Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime and Ser Balon and Uncle Garth all huddled to the King's side, Lord Ned Stark, the Royce brothers, some Estermonts and her uncles, Renly, Stannis all ran to join them. Merryweather seemed frozen on the spot. Not knowing what to do.
"Move!" her brother cried, pushing his way through
All around, chaos emerged. Nobody knew what to do. Mother stood in shock. Delina cried in confusion, to which Layla made her way to take her into her lap and comfort her. All around, women and men wept, many prayed to the Father above to save the King's life.
"What is wrong with papa?" her little sister asked, tears streaming down her face. Its broke Layla's heart in two.
"Get the Maester now!" Renly roared. Briefly losing is always friendly and calm persona.
She knew it would be pointless.
Her King. Her father was dead.
Authors notes:
Here we go. Shits hit the fan.