as the youngest child of joffrey baratheon and tara arryn, all that matters to aemma is whatever serves her best at any given moment. completely disinterested in her sibling’s political squabbles, she uses their cold war against each other as her shield to do whatever she pleases. whether it be sneaking out of the castle to explore, or learning to fight with sword and bow, there is little in life she denies herself.
‘In the wake of the rebellion she had claimed the room once occupied by Princess Rhaena Targaryen as her own, transforming the vast space into a living patchwork art of everything quintessentially Baratheon. She had everything from antlers to animal heads gifted from her brother’s hunts displayed upon her walls, with the most noticeable and ornate being the head of a mountain lion her younger brother Orys had killed on his sixteenth name day a number of some odd years ago. He could only imagine the chaos that must have broken loose within the Red Keep when Cersei Lannister had realized that her husband’s family had murdered, stuffed, and mounted the sigil of her family’s house to the wall as though it meant nothing at all.’
YES YES YES!
Two things:
THE MOUNTAIN LION?! WITH CERSEI LANNISTER AS THE SISTER-IN-LAW. IS THIS WHAT THE PREVIOUS REBLOG WAS TALKING ABOUT? I don’t remember exactly which but you reblogged Natalie Portman as Anne, with the tags of “Alysanne having a mountain lion..” WAS THIS THE ONE?
RHAENA TARGARYEN MENTION! LET’S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I was about to say that Alysanne and Rhaena are also both sisters to kings, but then I remembered that Rhaegar was never king. BUT STILL. TWO ICONSSS.
I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE THE PROSE AND THE WAY IT’S SO VIVID.
‘“I take it you met the bastard,” Alysanne sneered. “Yes, yes. I was close with Jon, and we did our best to keep my brother in line.” She took another quick swig from her chalice before continuing on, “He’d grown concerned about the line of succession after meeting one of the bastards Robert whelped. Some poor lad named Goridie–”’
Alysanne, please, your cuntometer is too high, people can’t handle your iconicness. Also, poor Gendry man. I can sense that Alysanne is bastardphobic? If I'm wrong, pls do tell.
“I can give you the brush and canvas, Lord Stark, but I cannot paint the picture for you.”
WHAT A LINE. NO SERIOUSLY.
YES !!! i had just written the chapter when i'd posted that rb so the tags were fully a reference to what i knew was coming up!!!
it's funny bc i feel like alysanne and rhaena would NOT have gotten along at all if they ever crossed paths which is funny bc they're both kind of "ice queens" in a way... although i think this chapter definitely showcased alysanne's more boisterous baratheon-ey side as well <3
thank you so so so much! i've been working really hard on my scenery descriptions and prose bc i know thats a weaker point of mine so i'm glad it's paying off <3
alysanne is THE biggest bastardphobe in all of westeros so it was vv fun to write her feelings on gendry and how she basically disregarded how jon arryn felt seeing him bc, in her own mind, L + ratio + hes a bastard
THANK YOU!!!!!! it felt like the perfect way to close out that portion of the chapter <3 its def a memorable line of dialogue hehe
as joffrey baratheon and tara arrryn’s second-born, joanna wishes for nothing more than to see the legacy her father built continued. despite some regarding her as spiteful, arrogant, delusional, and cruel… she sees herself as the only one willing to make the tough choices of a leader. she vehemently disagrees with her brother cerion’s decision to mend fences with the northerners, and is willing to do whatever it takes to stop him from achieving his goal.
summary: a morning, afternoon, and evening in the life of eddard stark.
warnings: mentions of death.
word count: 3.8k
masterlist
Ser Hugh of the Vale’s death had left him with more questions than answers.
It was an accidental tragedy that had robbed the man of his young life, but for some reason Eddard Stark could not shake the feeling that someone had wanted to ensure that he never spoke a word of what he knew about Jon Arryn’s death to the wrong person. The newly minted knight had refused to speak to Jory when his captain of the guards had gone to question him on his behalf, however he supposedly seemed open and interested in answering any inquiries leveled if only then hand had been there in person to do it himself. Hugh, and whatever secrets he might have known, had died before that meeting could come to fruition. All had seemed lost until Lord Varys had come to him in his private study to mention something about a woman that the boy had been rather fond of who might have known some pertinent information regarding what had happened.
Quinn Lefford.
It was a name he had heard numerous times over the last few turns of the moon, due to both Jon’s interest in her at Winterfell and Sansa’s admiration of her in King’s Landing. She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the Westerlands, with Leo Lefford’s name having often been synonymous with the export of gold and gemstones throughout the seven kingdoms. He had expanded his soft power through his marriage to Lady Rebecca Redwyne, the only daughter of the Lord of the Arbor and the granddaughter of the notorious Olenna Tyrell, and had remained steadfast in his allegiance to his liege lord’s declaration of neutrality during the rebellion despite numerous pleas from the lords of the Riverlander houses his lands bordered for help against the Targaryen forces.
The hushed whispered words his wife had uttered to him in Littlefinger’s seedy establishment echoed in the back of his mind much like a stone rippled across still water. She had grown convinced that the Lannister’s had been the ones behind their son’s attempted murder — a theory that had only grown stronger with the confession from their daughter-by-law that Tara Arryn had been so convinced that her life was in danger in the wake of her uncle’s death that she had practically begged for help from their family.
He had already begun to fear that Jon Arryn’s death had been an unnatural one, likely murder, and the girl’s suspicions had only furthered that belief. However, the question of why someone would kill the previous hand lingered. What had he discovered before his death that had led to such an end? And, if that were true, who would have stood to gain the most from his demise?
He hoped that meeting with the last person who had seen Ser Hugh alive could offer him some sense of clarity on what exactly had occurred during the final days of his mentor’s life. Or, at the very least, offer some explanation as to why the boy had been the only person in Jon’s personal household not to return home to the vale with his wife and young son.
There was a lot about the Red Keep that he was still learning to understand, whether it be the brightness of its sunshine or the oddities of its people, but walking the well-tredded pathways of its gardens had become like second nature to him during his time in the capital. The trees may not have been as ancient as those at Winterfell, nor as tall, but they held their own beauty that he was slowly beginning to appreciate.
Quinn Lefford was a wisp of a thing, with red hair and freckled skin, and dressed head to toe in the blue and gold of her house when he found her sitting by the fountain nestled within in the center of the garden’s courtyard. She wore her wealth impeccably well, much like another woman with wildfire green eyes he knew, and greeted him with a charismatic smile.
“Lord Stark,” she exclaimed. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”
Ned was unsure of what to make of the young woman sitting before him. “Lady Lefford,” he replied curtly. “I wanted to speak to you about your relationship with Ser Hugh of the Vale.”
“It’s a shame what happened to him.” She blinked owlishly, lips turning downwards as her expression turned into one of feigned sorrow. “He was such a sweet lad.”
“He was wearing your favor when he died.” Ser Barristan had shown him the ribbon himself; blue satin embroidered with the rising sunburst of House Lefford, tied around Ser Hugh’s broken lance. “Did you know that?”
“I told him it’d bring good luck.” Quinn’s gaze turned upwards, eyes narrowing as she took in the cloudless above them. He was not sure what to make of her inability to meet his eyes, watching her wordlessly as she simply took in the world around them. “Clearly I was wrong.”
He cleared his throat after a long lull of silence, unsure of how to phrase his question in a manner that would not further upset a grieving girl. “I need to know what the two of you spoke about before he died.” He opted for candor, as it had always served him well before. “Did he ever mention the previous hand to you?”
“He spoke about Lord Arryn plenty,” she replied. “He loved the man like a father.”
“Did he ever speak to you about his death?”
She turned to face him at that — mouth twitching ever so slightly as her eyes freely roamed over his face. “I beg your pardon, my lord?” The gravelly tone of her voice did not match the sweet features that she possessed. “I’m afraid I do not follow.”
He struggled to believe that someone as bright as she could not comprehend the meaning behind his simple question. “Did he ever discuss the circumstances behind it?”
“No.” There was something eerily and unsettlingly familiar about the way she defiantly cocked her head to the side when she spoke. “The extent of what he told me was that Lord Arryn had fallen ill one evening and passed suddenly in his sleep,” she explained. “Do you have reason to believe otherwise, my lord?”
“I cannot say.” Eddard had come to the conclusion that she could not be trusted. “I merely wanted to know why he did not return to the Vale with the rest of Lord Arryn’s household.”
Lady Lefford had the sort of smile that told him there was little in life she wanted that she did not get. “Isn’t that obvious?” she questioned. “He was staying in hopes of courting me, especially since he’d officially been knighted by the king… something like that goes quite a long way down south. We’re very traditional people, adhering to our oaths and honors and whatnot.”
Whoever had taught the girl the art of avoiding answers had done a magnificent job, as he would have sooner gotten clarity from the stone birds sitting atop the fountain than from her mouth.
“I see,” he responded. “Thank you, my lady, for your time. I wish you well in your mourning.”
Eddard nodded politely out of respect before briskly turning to leave, not wishing to spend a moment more wrapped up in whatever confusing game she was attempting to draw him into.
“Your son has your eyes.” Her voice was rough and tumultuous, much like the waves that crashed upon the Blackwater’s stony shore. “You must be very proud of him.”
There was only one son of his that she knew well enough to offer that compliment towards.
He tried to keep his expression as cold and barren as his homeland, wishing to avoid giving her the reaction she so clearly desired, but the slightest downturn of his lips gave away the truth.
He had never liked people talking about his bastard, let alone those who clearly had ill-intent. Eddard had risked everything, including his marriage, to ensure that Jon’s life would be one of relative comfort and safety. He’d done his best to be fatherly, but there were limits to how much affection he could show a child who was never meant to have been born without people growing suspicious.
“Good day, Lady Lefford.”
“Good day, Lord Stark.”
He could not help but feeling that her words were more like a warning than an earnest farewell.
Not even the black silken curtains of Alysanne Baratheon’s impressive study could manage to curb the errant light illuminating from the midday sun, everything casted in a hazy glow of orange and gold as they sat across from each other at the well-loved marble desk that was positioned opposite of the covered windows.
In the wake of the rebellion she had claimed the room once occupied by Princess Rhaena Targaryen as her own, transforming the vast space into a living patchwork art of everything quintessentially Baratheon. She had everything from antlers to animal heads gifted from her brother’s hunts displayed upon her walls, with the most noticeable and ornate being the head of a mountain lion her younger brother Orys had killed on his sixteenth name day a number of some odd years ago. He could only imagine the chaos that must have broken loose within the Red Keep when Cersei Lannister had realized that her husband’s family had murdered, stuffed, and mounted the sigil of her family’s house to the wall as though it meant nothing at all.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer wine?”
Eddard had asked to meet with her privately in lieu of a council meeting in order to discuss the new information that had come to light in regards to Jon Arryn’s death. He struggled to know who to trust in a city full of spiders and rats, but knew he’d always have a friend and confidant in Robert’s steadfast sister.
“I’m alright.” He held little interest in day-drinking despite it being one of the most popular pastimes amongst those living at court. “I think I’ll stick to what I have for now.”
Alysanne had given him a small goblet filled with lemon water after helping herself to a heavy pour of the finest Arbor gold, swishing the contents around in her bronze chalice and discreetly sniffing the top before finally allowing herself to take a sip.
“Suit yourself,” she hummed. “More for me.”
He wondered if the Baratheon’s propensity for drinking was an inherited trait or a wry coincidence.
“Were you close with Jon?” The weaving-web of his death was growing harder and harder to keep track of — every new detail confusing him more than the last. “Surely the two of you had to share similar concerns about the king…” He felt a pang of sadness in his chest at the memory of a boy he’d once known better than himself. “Did he ever tell you about what he was looking into before he died?”
She looked comfortable in her gown of black and gold velvet, with a matching headpiece that served to keep her cedar locks tucked away from her eyes, but there was something distinctly stiff and unyielding about her posture that reminded him of her elder brother Stannis.
“I take it you met the bastard,” Alysanne sneered. “Yes, yes. I was close with Jon, and we did our best to keep my brother in line.” She took another quick swig from her chalice before continuing on, “He’d grown concerned about the line of succession after meeting one of the bastards Robert whelped. Some poor lad named Goridie–”
“Gendry,” Ned corrected.
Her laugh was like a rolling thunder. “Gendry! Yes, that was him. Anyways, he’d wanted to ensure that we had a proper plan in place in case Robert were to die anytime soon. He’d grown concerned about… well, the heirs. He made it sound as though he thought one of these bastards that my brother had sired might have had a claim to the Iron Throne, as if some illiterate urchin from Flea Bottom was going to raise up an army like a bloody Blackfyre!”
“He asked about the line of succession?" His brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to process the new information laid before him. There was little to be gained from questioning something so iron-clad unless one was certain something was amiss. “Why?”
“I have my theories,” she replied dryly. “He must’ve asked the wrong person the same question.”
Ned did not like the habit of dancing around words that seemed to afflict most who were living within the Red Keep. “Do you care to share them?” His tone was sharper than he’d realized, much like the blade that he kept glued to his side in case of emergencies. “If you believe that someone murdered Jon Arryn–”
“Unlike some, Lord Stark, I am wise enough to not speak words of treason where people might hear.” Alysanne’s brown eyes were alight with the same type of righteous fury that he had often seen reflected in her brother’s blue ones growing up. “I do not believe anything except that of which I know. Should my eldest brother die, then his rightful heir by law, as I interpret it, is my brother Stannis. As he still maintains the title and privileges that come with being the Lord of Dragonstone. Which, may I remind you, is a keep that has been given to the crown’s chosen successors throughout the course of history.”
“You believe that Robert wants Stannis to succeed him?” He had never heard anything more unbelievable in his entire life. “Joffrey is Robert’s true-born son and heir to the iron throne.”
“Then why does Joffrey live here in the Red Keep despite being a man-grown and wedded?” She cocked her head to the side, as though she were silently challenging him to argue. “Did you know that just before Jon Arryn died he had asked the High Septon about what could constitute annulling a royal marriage?”
There had been few examples of the Faith granting annulments to an already wedded and bedded pair throughout history, something that he was certain that Jon Arryn knew quite well considering both his devout nature and interest in the histories of the Seven Kingdoms. He’d never even thought of annulling his marriage to Lysa Tully despite years and years passing without an heir, but questioned the validity of his niece’s marriage to Joffrey despite the pair having only been wed a few months time? Ned felt his whole body stiffen as he tried to make sense of it all, the whole room becoming little more than a blur of brown and bronze as he took a deep breath in.
“Why would he wish to annul Joffrey and Tara’s marriage?”
He knew that asking her would be fruitless, as nothing about the people nor conversations down South had been as honest as those in the North, but still posed the question in spite of himself in hopes that someone could finally come clean about what they knew about Jon Arryn’s death.
“I can give you the brush and canvas, Lord Stark, but I cannot paint the picture for you.”
Tara Arryn had been a remarkably difficult woman to find.
It did not help that the inner workings of the Red Keep were still a maze to him even after so many months of occupying its hallowed halls, with every corridor and turn leaving him more confused than the last. He wondered if its labyrinthine nature had flustered Elia Martell when she had tried to flee the castle with her two young children in tow. If he struggled to walk the halls when there was little but peace and quiet, then he could only imagine how it must have felt with the city engulfed in chaos and strangers invading the place she had once called home.
His stomach lurched at the thought of Tommen’s daughter in such a position.
Eddard had always regretted not having done more for his beloved friend’s only child, but all options available to him had dissipated the moment her uncle had decided that she be fostered in Dorne and betrothed to the future king. He would have gladly taken her on as a ward, cramped as Winterfell already was with his children and other charges roaming about, or married her off to Alaric if he had only been given the chance.
Ned often wondered how things might have looked if his friend had lived to see forty.
Would Tommen have been the one pacing the halls in search of answers as to what exactly had led to Jon Arryn’s death instead of him? Would he have been the one named Hand of the King, forced to leave his family and home behind out of duty for the realm? Ned often wondered how different things might have been if it was Tommen they had crowned instead, if he might have been at home and content with his wife and children if it had been the Knight of Feathers who sat the iron throne instead of the shell of a man he’d come to know as King Robert Baratheon.
He eventually found her hiding away within the confines of the Red Keep’s rookery, a falconry glove adorned on her right hand as she chatted with the birds as though they were her dearest friends. He knew that many believed Tara favored her Dornish mother, with her tanned skin and wavy dark locks, but in the moonlight’s incandescent glow he saw only her late-father reflected in her features.
“Your grace,” he greeted. “I had been looking for you.”
She did not dare to look away from the ebony raven that was comfortably perched upon her gloved hand. “No one ever searches for me here.” Her voice was as soft as a dove’s gentle coo. “Which is funny, considering my love for birds, but not unsurprising, all things considered.”
“Your father once tried to teach me how to call back his falcon during our time together at the Eyrie.” Ned would remember the summer skies of the Vale of Arryn for as long as he loved, with its blue having been almost identical to the color of Tommen’s eyes. “I never did seem to have the temperament for it.”
“They’re stubborn creatures,” she laughed quietly. “Father always told me that they were smarter than most of us, and that they can sense when someone doesn’t respect them.”
The birds of the Rookery had grown eerily silent at his presence, almost as though they sensed that he did not quite belong amongst them. There were perches of all sizes and heights scattered about the winding space, with a stairwell leading up to the highest peak if one wished to look out over the entire city and up at the stars. The only source of light seemed to be coming from the moon itself — pouring into the room from the dozens of open windows meant for their feathered friends.
“Aye,” Eddard nodded. “Your father was a wise man.”
Tara’s eyes were darker than the night sky as she finally turned away from her winged-companion to face him. “Is that what brings you here?” She cocked her head to the side in a manner that was not too dissimilar to that of a bird. “To reminisce about my dead father?”
“I needed to talk to you about your uncle’s death.” His voice lowered instinctively, the cautious words of Alysanne Baratheon echoing in the back of his mind much like rippling water. “Did you know that he intended to annul your marriage to Joffrey just before he died?”
“I did.” She wore a hand-crafted beaded cloak that hid most of her small frame. “I told him that I loved my husband more than anyone else in the entire world,” she confessed. “And that there was no one who held my loyalty more than the man I swore my heart to in the sight of the Gods.”
“You can speak freely with me.” Ned felt a deep ache in his chest at her words. “Whatever you say here tonight shall never leave this place. I swear it to you by the Old Gods and the New.”
“What makes you think I am not speaking freely?” She looked so much like her father that it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs and rendered him speechless “I am loyal to my husband, Lord Stark. When he ascends the iron throne I shall be Queen and rule by his side. I love him with my whole heart and soul.” Her gaze turned unexpectedly cold as she continued on, “Whatever lies you have been fed by Lady Baratheon serve her and her brother’s ambitions alone.”
“How did you know I’d been speaking to Alysanne Baratheon?”
“Because she planted the same ideas in my uncle’s head before he died.” Tara’s face contorted into a look of pure anger; an expression that he had never once seen upon her father’s handsome face. “She knows the minute my husband takes his rightful place as King of the Seven Kingdoms that we will banish her back to Storm’s End where she belongs," she snarled. “She is playing you for a fool.”
He found himself brisking at both the severity of her tone and the way she’d side-stepped his question in favor of placing blame upon Lady Alysanne, but kept his face as stoic and stiff as stone. “You spoke with Nymeria at Winterfell,” he argued. “You implied to her that your life was in danger, and that the Lannister’s had somehow played a part in your uncle’s demise.”
“I was wrong.” Tara’s face did not give way to any emotion, completely unreadable despite its previous openness. “I was scared, the folly of a young girl, and quick to blame, but I did not know what I was speaking of.” She looked down to her raven for just a moment before returning her gaze back to his face. “My husband’s family is void of any wrongdoing in this matter, and it would be better for all of us here if you returned home to the North where you belong.” The stern mask she’d been wearing slipped for the briefest of moments as a look of sorrow overtook her face. “I am begging for you to let this matter rest. Please, Lord Stark, do not continue down this path.”
The gentle flapping of wings from above allowed him a moment of brevity in an otherwise tense situation, as when he looked up he was greeted with the sight of a glorious nightingale flying in the room from somewhere beyond. Lyanna had always held a fondness for their sweet songs, and had once asked him if she could keep one as a pet if she managed to train it to never fly away. He often wondered what his sister’s life might have looked like if he found her sooner, if she might have been allowed to find happiness somewhere beyond the cage everyone seemed determined to keep her locked within.
“I understand,” Ned relented. “I’ll leave you to it.”
The knowledge that he’d failed his sister would haunt him until his final days, and he refused to let Tommen’s daughter follow her to an early grave.
i know this format was a ~little~ different than usual but i hope everyone still enjoyed this week’s update !! 🫶
betrothed as children, and despite having never seen each other’s faces, it was said that the couple had fallen deeply for one another via letters exchanged over the years and were greatly looking forward to their wedding that was planned to be held at the golden tooth in 302 A.C.
Tommen and Tara are on my mind so now I come to humbly ask for headcanons or any little facts you'd wish to give us regarding the crimsonclover!Arryns (can be about the family as a whole) 🙂↕️
omg there’s so much i could say especially bc they’re one of my favorite houses 🙂↕️🤍
tommen and his sister, arwen, are obviously a lot younger than jon so i’ve always imagined that he was born when their parents (jasper and carina) were super duper young and then tommen and arwen were born just before carina died 😭💔
with all of that in mind though jon was basically their brother-father lmao i feel like he was pretty stern with them, but they were also super well behaved so it was particularly needed yk??
tommen and arwen loved bird-watching as kids and kept a diary on the different types of birds they saw / how many times they’d seen it / etc which then got passed along to tara growing up
the arryns are incredibly devout in their worship of the faith of the seven which stems from how big the andal traditions are in the vale, which is apart of why tara is so religious in crimson clover! i feel like she used to go to the sept a lot with tommen growing up and just pray side by side with him
arryn/royce intermarriages are super common but their entire lineage can currently be traced back to aegon II’s wife alayne arryn (who married her own distant relative joffrey arryn after aegon’s death)
tommen had a big sweet tooth and specifically loved pumpkin pie (pumpkins are a huge crop in the vale so i imagine it’s incorporated into a lot of dishes there whether it’s soups, drinks, or sweets)
jon arryn hadn’t wanted to marry again after losing two separate wives and would have 100% married tommen off to lysa in his place (and with that essentially legally recognize tommen as the only heir he’d ever have) if it hadn’t been for the moriah/tommen match — which was something that tommen basically forced him to accept lol
tara knows every single hiding spot within the eyrie due to playing hide n seek with her cousins there growing up <3
the arryns as a whole are big on tradition, honor, religion, and following the law… there are some cases where this can be good and others where it is VERY bad and it can rlly be a coin toss on which from one generation to the next lmao 💀
robert, ned, and tommen loved to go horseback riding together around the mountains near the eyrie and arwen would always fret over their safety because of the mountain clans
the vale is also a fairly windy / cold region so you’ll see lots of cloaks, furs, and sturdy hairstyles in the arryns fashion throughout history! ++ lots and lots of embroidery because they’re big on textiles!
summary: quinn experiences the highs and lows of the hand’s tourney.
warnings: vague references to childhood abuse, canon typical violence, grooming dynamics, and brief mentions of sex.
word count: 5.1k
masterlist
It seemed as though the entire realm had descended upon the tourney grounds of King’s Landing to celebrate the naming of the new Hand of the King, with so many people flittering about that Quinn could scarcely keep track of them all. She’d opted out of sitting amongst the other high lords and ladies in the raised pavilions in favor of having the freedom to move about the grounds as she pleased. She had spotted banners of all colors and regions throughout her exploration, from the black toad of House Vypren to the colorful flowers of House Meadows to the preening peacocks of the Serrets of Silverhill, and it felt as though every knight in the seven kingdoms had come to prove their worth before the realm.
Or, perhaps, they had come to claim the generous winner’s prize of forty thousand gold dragons for themselves.
Quinn had never understood the glamor of knighthood despite having been raised on an endless supply of stories and songs about the goodness of those who swore the sacred vow. After all, knights were still men. Greed and lust could rule their spirits as easily as goodness and chastity, with no assurances that everyone who took on the styling of Ser could ever truly be worthy of such an honor. She did not like the idea that anyone could be seen as just or fair because of some title bestowed upon them, seeing as plenty of people throughout history had held titles that they scarcely deserved.
She weaved her way through the chaos of the crowd with ease, one of the rare few times where her above-average height and slender frame worked to her advantage. She briefly brushed shoulders with a knight whose beat-up armor bore the sigil of the twin towers of Frey, and nearly ran into another who seemed to be in the service of House Beesbury of Honeyholt if the bee hive design that adorned his ornate wooden bow was anything to go off of.
Despite her distaste for knights, she had already placed fifty gold dragons on the archery contest in favor of Ser Balon Swann at the suggestion of her cousin Myrielle; a notion that her mockingbird had decried as foolish given that it seemed certain that a foreign prince hailing from the Summer Isles was going to win.
She had replied that it was lucky there was nothing she loved more than proving people wrong.
Quinn had always been competitive to a fault, much to the annoyance of her younger brothers, and loved little else than winning. She had never been one for betting until she had befriended Lord Baelish a number of years ago, but now it was one of the rare joys of attending tourneys. She liked the strategy aspect of placing bets more than anything else, although the money was often quite nice, and found that the experience offered her a similar catharsis to playing cyvasse.
She also doubted that there could ever be a feeling in life sweeter than having the master of coin owe her money, an occurrence that had happened more times than she could count on a singular hand since she had started partaking in these little games. She liked being rich, as awful as she knew that sounded, and enjoyed not having to rely on her father for everything she wanted.
The only other redeeming quality that tourneys held in her eyes were the fact that they often reunited her with people she would never otherwise. Her brother Ryam had come all the way from the Golden Tooth in order to compete for the prize money, and she had been looking forward to seeing him since a letter had arrived weeks ago informing her he’d be in attendance. He might not have been the kindest of siblings, nor the gentlest, but he was still her blood and she loved him fiercely despite all of the cruelty he had shown her over the years.
The sun’s rays were beating down on all in attendance like a spit of dragon fire, with a warmth so potent that it felt as though her skin might melt right off her bones and leave her as little more than a walking skeleton. She had tried her best to dress appropriately for the weather, opting for a gown that showed her shoulders and utilized lighter fabrics, but there was nothing that could be done to curb the incessant heat that had enveloped King’s Landing over the last few weeks.
Quinn idly wondered if Sansa Stark’s northern sensibilities were coping well with the newfound balmy weather, as the climate of the capital was far different from the typically frigid winds of Winterfell. She knew that the girl was likely being well-taken care of by the many maids and servants in the princess’ household, but the urge to care for her well-being still crept in despite how much she had tried to swallow down any semblance of genuine concern for the younger girl.
The guilt of her actions would be lessened if she simply felt nothing at all for the girl.
She roughly pushed past another gaggle of young knights, all of whom were clad in the ugly armor of House Lonmouth, before continuing onwards towards the tent adorned with her family’s sigil of the rising sun over the golden hillside. Both her uncle and father had opted out of participating in the tourney, but there were still plenty clad in the gold and blue synonymous with their house despite their absence. Ryam had clearly spared no expenses in his travels, and had even brought a full retinue of men along despite the fact he had little true need for them.
He had never felt ashamed of flaunting his perks as the first-born son and heir, whether it was via helping himself to an extra dessert at dinner as children or convincing father to buy him whatever gaudy armor he desired. He gladly reveled in the unspoken rule that no one in their household was ever allowed to tell him no, often pushing boundaries simply because he could.
“Quinn!” Ryam’s golden armor reflected the sun’s light so intensely that it blinded her to so much as to look at him. “There you are! Gods, it felt like we’ve been waiting ages! What took you so long?”
Patience had never been a virtue of the men in her family.
“Is that truly how you wish to greet your dear sister after so long apart?” Quinn had to narrow her eyes in order to look at him head-on without completely losing her eyesight. “You look utterly ridiculous in that get-up.”
“As do you,” he sneered. “Do you feel better now that you’ve gotten that out of the way?”
“I do.” Quinn swiftly pulled him in for a hug, and tried her best to ignore the way his metal armor burned against the bare skin of her shoulders. “I’ve missed you,” she mumbled. “You never write anymore.”
“I have more important matters to attend to.” Ryam had never been one for admitting he was in the wrong. “You wanted your freedom, didn’t you? I thought it was best not to impede on that.”
She had gleefully declared to her younger brothers before leaving to King’s Landing for the first time that she had finally freed herself from the cage of their childhood home, but would sooner die than confess to either of them that living in the capital was not all she had thought it would be.
“What matters could be more important than your family?” Quinn pulled away from their embrace with a wince, the searing sting of his armor having grown too unbearable to stomach any longer. “Unless…” she smiled wickedly. “You’re spending all your time writing to Talla?”
Ryam had been betrothed to Talla Tarly of Hornhill for so long that she could scarcely remember a time where the girl did not have some lingering presence within their lives. The young couple had fallen deeply in love with one another despite having never met face to face, with correspondence alone having been enough to stoke the sparks of love into a full-fledged flame. They were set to be married in less than a year in what was surely to be the grandest affair that the Golden Tooth had ever seen given the combined might and deep pockets of both houses.
“Shut up!” He had the unique ability to sound downright petulant despite being a man grown. “Does tormenting me bring you some sick sense of pleasure?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “Tell me, brother, are you not just positively despondent that she won’t be here to watch you lose spectacularly in front of the whole bloody realm?”
There had never been a doubt over which of her brothers was better with lance and sword despite her father’s frequent arguing to the contrary, although she supposed there was something almost noble about Ryam’s refusal to quit trying despite the fact Ethan had clearly beaten him in that regard.
“You’re a vile woman,” he grumbled. “And bound for the deepest pits of the seven hells.”
“I’ll be in good company.” She interlocked their arms together before he could protest and began walking them towards the extravagant stands in an attempt to find them somewhere shaded to view the current rounds of jousting. “Speaking of the religious — has our mother been well? I haven’t written to her in ages, and have no idea how she’s been doing in Ethan’s absence.”
“And yet you dared to lecture me about letters?” He followed along wordlessly, but there was a certain rigidity in his limbs that secretly showed how uncomfortable he was with his sister leading the charge. “Mother spends all of her time in the septs and takes all her meals in her chambers. There, happy?”
“Do as I say, not as I do.”
Quinn did not comment on their mother’s fragile state, but had a feeling that it was far worse than her brother would have ever been able to notice. He had never been particularly keen at observation and often liked to bury his head in the sand when it came to the true nature of their parent’s marriage. She had long abandoned any attempts at getting him to understand the harsh reality of their existence, allowing him instead to live in a state of blissful ignorance.
They eventually settled into a shaded spot right in between the grandiose royal pavilion and one of the many tents designated for the competitors, which served as the perfect viewpoint to see the action from an on-the-ground perspective, just as Ser Jaime Lannister began his second tilt against Sandor Clegane.
Mud, straw, and dirt flew everywhere as their horses galloped ahead furiously; the sound of their lances striking against the others’ shield distinct in its force even with the endless chatter of the ground. There was a blur of colors as they collided, a blur of red and gold melting together with black and yellow, before Ser Jaime violently tumbled off his horse and straight into the sodden ground.
She could barely stifle her laughter as the Kingslayer rose to his feet, as his ridiculous lion helm had been so mangled by the fall that it had taken on a completely new shape. Ser Jaime desperately tried to free himself from its twisted confines to no avail, as the warped golden piece seemingly refused to come off his head. He tried once, again, and then once more before a chorus of laughter began to break out from amongst the roaring crowd.
“He’s coming this way,” Ryam cackled. “Compose yourself!”
Ser Jaime’s walk was the strut of a thoroughly defeated man. “Help me get this off!”
Quinn was worried she might have pissed herself from the force of her chuckles at the sight of their youngest brother hurriedly emerging from one of the nearby tents to help his fellow sworn-brother remove his ruined helm.
“It won’t budge!” Ethan yanked at the damned thing with all of the strength one could possibly muster. “It’s stuck!”
“Pull harder!” Jaime huffed. “You’re not doing it right!”
She could feel Ryam’s entire body shaking from silent laughter — the two gripping onto each other for dear life in a feeble attempt to stop themselves from audibly cackling at the sight playing out before them.
“I can’t!” Ethan’s neck veins were red from the strain. “Nothing’s working!”
They watched joyfully as the two continued to argue about the helm even as they were escorted away by their young squires in search of help from one of the many local blacksmiths in attendance. She followed them with her eyes until there was nothing left of their figures on the horizon.
“I’m never going to let him live that down!” Ryam’s brown eyes had begun to well with tears due to his laughter. “Did you see that? Our brother was just basically the royal fool!”
“Yes, I did.” His tone was too gleeful in its mocking and had unintentionally ruined her playful mood. “I’d say the Kingslayer was the true fool, no? His behavior was more befitting of a jester than a knight.”
She had never been fond of Ethan’s beloved mentor — a man whose influence on her little brother lingered long after their partnership had ended. He might have taught him how to fight with a sword and ride with a lance, but he’d also instilled a sense of arrogance and pride that seemed likely to lead her brother to trouble sooner than later.
“My turn shall be up soon,” Ryam declared. “This is where I leave you, dear sister.”
“How ever shall I live?” Sarcasm dripped off every word. “You know I won’t be rooting for you, right?” She had placed a small yet not insignificant bet on his competitor — some hedge knight in the service of House Vypren who had only recently begun to make a name for himself on the tourney field.
Ryam roughly grasped her shoulders before placing a wet kiss atop her head. “I’d expect nothing less from you.” He left without another world, armor blinding her once more until he was nothing but a small fleck of sunshine in the midst of the overwhelmingly colorful crowd.
A stony voice that she recognized instantly rang-out from somewhere behind her the moment he disappeared beyond her line of sight. “I was waiting for the two of you to finish…”
“Cedrik!” The sight of Cedrik Dayne’s mismatched eyes made her stomach flip with a newfound sense of wonder, having whirred around so quickly at the sound of his voice that she likely appeared as little more than an overeager fool. “Gods, you nearly scared me!”
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Gem.”
Quinn had made the acquaintance of the famous Sword of the Morning many years ago at a tourney in her youth. He had been freshly anointed then, still learning his trade, but had saved her from trouble with a disgruntled lord who did not seem to understand the meaning of the phrase leave me alone.
She had never forgotten his kindness, nor his handsome face, and rejoiced in any event that brought him back into her company even if it was only for the briefest of moments.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming!” She resisted the urge to hug him. “If I’d known you were going to be coming I would’ve met your ship at the docks and greeted you upon your arrival.”
Cedrik was the rare type of person who navigated the world with nothing but an easy-going smile and open heart — the singular outlier in her belief that the world was full of dishonest and miserable people.
The second outlier, now that she’d met…
Quinn quickly pushed aside any and all thoughts of a certain raven-haired northman that seemed to torment her every waking moment.
“I’m not participating in the tourney,” Cedrik explained. “I decided to visit at the last moment.”
“And all the competitors rejoiced,” she quipped. “I’m glad that you’re here.”
They had decided to forgo watching the next joust in favor of strolling through the seemingly endless vendor’s alley that was filled to the brim with booths selling all sorts of different goods. She spotted everything from delicate pastries, to plate armor, and fine jewels available for purchase during their stroll. She asked him a barrage of questions about Starfall, his sister, and if he ever intended to consider the idea of taking up permanent residence in King’s Landing.
(Starfall’s gorgeous in the summer, his sister was well, and he’d rather die.)
In return, she had told him all about her trip to Winterfell. Cedrik had grown up knowing the Princess of Dorne, otherwise known as the newfound Lady Stark, and had wanted to know if she was doing well in a place so far-away from her beloved home. She had not shared more than a few words with Nymeria Martell during her time with the Starks, but had gotten the sense that she could more than handle any trouble that the North or its people might bring her.
“You were at Stonehelm?” The endless chatter of noise from the busy marketplace that seemed to bustle all around them had almost made her think she’d misheard him when he’d told her about his most recent travels. “Do not tell me that you were helping train Ser Balon!”
Myrielle would surely die at the thought of her two favorite knights in the whole realm practicing together in the training yard, although she felt certain that her cousin’s mental image would likely rob them of the under-shirts and leather armor they would have undoubtedly been wearing.
“I’m afraid not,” Cedrik replied. “I had personal matters to attend to.”
Quinn had learned long ago that there was no point in trying to extract further details from the knight, as his words were often final and without any room for further dissection or analysis. He was not prone to gossip, preferring to avoid it like the plague, and it made him a rather difficult conversational partner in a city that thrived on sharing information. She was not sure whether to admire or loathe his ability to remain so elusive — a skill that she herself was still continuing to hone.
“Where will you go after this?”
“Whichever way the wind blows.” He looked off towards the distance, the golden light of the sun illuminating his face, and smiled as though he knew something she did not. “Perhaps I’ll go North.”
She allowed her gaze to rake over the landscape of the sprawling marketplace around them and felt a newfound sense of jealousy had begun to swell inside her chest. Was she angry because of his destination, or his freedoms? There was nothing she coveted more than being able to do whatever she pleased, but had found little success when it came to earning her own independence.
Quinn took a deep breath through her nostrils as she tried to steady her calamitous heart, but found herself suddenly unnerved when she spotted a cloaked figure off in the distance that seemed to be watching her. She could not identify their face from this far away, but their outline was as clear as day in between the sets of stalls lining the makeshift alleyways. She could not see their eyes — yet could feel their gaze lingering upon her despite the plethora of space between them.
She tightened her grip upon Cedrik’s arm. “Do you see that?” Quinn peered her gaze away from the shadowy figure for just a moment in order to look upwards at her companion. “We’re being watched.”
Cedrik’s head immediately swiveled around from where it had been focused on the outline of the Red Keep in the far distance. “Where?” He tried to follow her gaze towards the narrow slits of the bustling stalls, but the mysterious figure had seemingly vanished into the crowd. “Did you catch a glimpse of what they looked like?”
“No.” Quinn’s throat suddenly felt raw. “They were too far away.”
He nodded stiffly. “I’ll keep my eyes out.”
She spent the rest of their walk back to the royal pavilion in a state of uneasy paranoia, constantly looking over her shoulder in hopes that she would catch another glimpse of the mysterious shadow. Cedrik had not said another word about it since they’d left the marketplace, opting instead to share stories from his travels across Dorne, and she was not sure whether to be grateful for the distraction or annoyed because he didn’t seem to be bothered by what had occurred.
By the time they had arrived back to where they’d started off on their little side-quest they had missed three bouts, one of which had been Ryam’s clash against his hedge knight, and the next match as being set-up by a gaggle of overeager squires. Ser Edwyn Florent was set to tilt off against some free-rider from the Crownlands by the name of Lothor Brune — a match that she knew for certain her dearest mockingbird held significant financial stakes in.
Edwyn was the definition of a rake; a pompous young man who took little seriously and enjoyed the endless amounts of attention that being a knight brought. He stood by the sidelines with a gaggle of adoring young maidens who practically hung onto every word he uttered as the field was arranged for his turn. Was this the type of knight that sweet Sansa Stark had always dreamed about? A dashing fool who loved the attention that came with his position, and little else? She made a mental note to warn her new friend about men like him; someone who would gladly take advantage of her own naivety for their own selfish gain.
Like Petyr? The cynical voice in her head cried out. Like you?
Cedrik’s warm voice broke through the darkness. “Copper for your thoughts?”
“I’d love to run away,” she hummed. “Go somewhere nobody knows me.”
His boisterous laugh showed that he’d missed the melancholy lacing her words. “What’s stopping you?” Cedrik’s freckled cheeks were highlighted by the sun’s blinding glow. “You’d hardly be the first noble-woman to run off and go somewhere she could never be found.”
Elissa Farman. Rohanne Webber. Rhaena Targaryen.
She wouldn’t mind joining the company of such women.
“I’d miss my family too much.” Quinn’s smile was well-practiced. “It’s a nice dream, though.”
“You’ll always have a place in Starfall,” he replied. “My sister would love you.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Cedrik had been blessed with the type of smile that was brighter than the sun itself; bright and able to break through even the hardest of hearts. She returned it hesitantly, unable to allow herself even the briefest moments of happiness, before turning back to the tourney field just in time to watch Edwyn Florent mount his beautiful white horse. She had always loved horseback riding, even as a young girl, and had always enjoyed watching how others interacted with their steeds.
In one glance, she could tell that Edwyn had little control over the animal he was riding. They seemed at odds with one another, like two opposing forces instead of two beings perfectly in tandem.
“Be warned, Lady Gem.” Cedrik’s breath fanning against her ear took her by surprise, their bodies so close together that she could feel the warmth radiating off of him. “A vulture approaches.” He pulled away suddenly, the loss of contact oddly unsettling after their previous closeness, and forced a smile upon his face as he greeted a figure somewhere behind them. “Lord Baelish! What a surprise to see you…”
She whirred around with the type of unsubtle swiftness that she’d typically find unbecoming, but her sense of gravity was entirely off-balance after the disappearance of the unsettling figure who had been watching her from afar. She watched with an odd sense of sorrow as Petyr Baelish approached them, with the annoyance etched across his pinched features becoming more clear the nearer he got.
“The surprise is all mine.” She could hear the insincerity in his words, often believing that she could read him better than anyone else in the capital. “My bets would have looked quite different if I had known you were coming.” He shot a barely distinguishable glare in her direction, but even in its brevity she could feel the deep sense of disappointment that it conveyed.
Quinn could not help but feel like a child who had been caught doing something naughty.
“Not competing, luckily for you,” he responded. “Just here to see some old friends.”
“Ah, yes.” Petyr’s smile was hollowed and thin, nothing more than a mere courtesy to placate the Sword of the Morning’s kind sensibilities. “Would you mind if I had a moment alone with Lady Lefford? We won’t be long, I assure you. Just a few private matters that need attending to. I’m sure you understand how sensitive certain conversations between friends can be.”
Cedrik’s entire body tensed at his words, as though he had been struck by whatever invisible jab Lord Baelish had seemingly delivered. “Yes, of course,” he said. “We were almost done anyway.”
She furrowed her brows at the way that her dear friend did little to argue or fight back against Petyr’s request, unable to fully articulate why Cedrik so willingly leaving her side made her mouth pucker as though she had tasted something sour. She was taken unaware by the feeling that something was wrong; that there was some deep dark secret being kept from her by both of the men.
“It was a pleasure, Ser.” Her smile was well-practiced in its dishonesty as she offered Cedrik her right hand and bitterly observed as he brought it up to his lips. “Till we meet again.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Gem.” Cedrik pressed a gentle kiss atop her knuckles before he carefully dropped her hand, nodded a stiff goodbye to Petyr, and headed off into the growing crowd without so much as another word.
Quinn waited until she was certain he was gone to speak again, “What was that?”
Petyr’s grin was as sharp as a knife, cutting straight through to her heart as he stepped closer towards her with the familiarity only their type of friendship could bring. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, my lady.”
She had grown far too accustomed to his games, because there was little about this that did not surprise her. He had never liked her making friends with others, especially those of the male variety, without his explicit approval beforehand. She had often chalked it up to the precariousness of his position within the Red Keep, but knew deep-down that the root cause was something far less cautious and far more sinister.
“You’re a liar,” she teased.
“All the best people are.”
She fell into step beside him as though she had done it a thousand times before, already familiar with what it was like to exist within his orbit. They never dared to link arms on their strolls, already aware of how improper their relationship seemed to the court, but the urge to reach out and touch him was nearly overwhelming in its force as they slowly promenaded past the pavilion. Perhaps the eyes she had felt upon her earlier had Lord Baelish’s own? She wished it desperately to be true, but the white and blue of his dashing outfit did not match the black robes of whoever had been following her.
Besides, she always knew when it was him.
“How does she not topple over in that thing?” Lady Arryn’s ornate antler crown had caught her eye from below, even if she could only see a sliver of it from where they stood beneath the royal court. The gaudy headdress had been a gift from the king on her previous nameday; a crown fit for the future queen of the seven kingdoms. The girl had taken to hanging gold chains encrusted with fine jewels off the tips of the antlers, a design purposefully made to mimic an old piece worn by Lord Lyonel Baratheon a hundred years ago during the tourney at Ashford Meadow.
“She has a strong spine.” Petyr could not even pretend to be interested in the conversation at hand. “How is our sweet little friend adjusting the capital? You’ve been sparse on your details.”
“Sansa’s well.” Quinn had been trying her best to keep the details she shared with her mockingbird as non-intrusive as possible. “She was excited to finally see a real tourney.”
“Is that all?”
His tone made it clear that he knew there were things she was not telling him.
“She’s gotten quite close with the princess,” she admitted. “She rarely leaves her side.”
Petyr’s expression was one of pure and utter dismay. “You’ll have to change that.”
Quinn nodded, albeit with little strength, before turning back towards the tourney field once more. Ser Edwyn pranced about on his steed like a gallant fool while Lothor Brune scowled from his spot in the mud. The urge to laugh suddenly overcame her at the realization that her mockingbird had lost, but she knew better than to poke at him when he was already in a foul mood.
“There’s something else I need you to do…” His voice was quieter now, more subdued, and she had a sinking feeling that whatever he was going to ask of her would be something that she could not say no to no matter how much she wished otherwise. “Do you remember our old friend Ser Huge of the Vale?”
How could she forget?
Ser Hugh of the Vale was a man of frighteningly little talent. He had been a dreadful squire, an even worse knight, and was one of the worst lovers she had ever had the displeasure of taking into her bed. He knew little about a woman’s anatomy and cared only for his own release. She had slept by his side for weeks on end in exchange for secrets about the former Lord-hand, but had gained little in return due to his sheer ineptitude in all facets of life.
“I do,” Quinn replied. “Why? Has something happened?”
“Our new hand has been asking questions.” Petyr’s scowl was identical to the one he’d given her down at the docks when he had first mentioned Eddard Stark to her a few weeks prior. “I want to make sure that our dear friend stays mindful of our… generous arrangement.”
“I’ll pay him a visit.” A familiar sense of dread had returned to her, threatening to consume her entirely if she did not manage to get a handle on her unruly feelings. “And bring a fresh bottle of Arbor Red.”
“It was always his favorite.”
She knew by the tone of his voice that he was not talking about just the wine.
Hoyas are climbers, if you give them the right structure. Their growth is slowed during the earliest years of their life but once they start going up they don't stop. It takes a lot of care for hoyas to mature and their bloom is a spectacle eagerly awaited.
the only son of joffrey baratheon and tara arryn, heir to the iron throne. determined in the wake of his father’s death to make amends with those he had wronged, all attempts he makes at brokering peace are thwarted at every turn by his younger sister joanna. gladly names ser ethan lefford lord-commander of his kingsguard at his mother’s request.
