𓃭 BENEATH THE ROCK, THE SKY 𓃭
(Starter for @ladyleilathesongbird)
Rohanne had done many difficult things in life.
Being on trial for murder twice and standing with a rope around her neck, waiting for the executioner’s signal, easily ranked among the most harrowing of them. She still remembered the coarse bite of hemp against her skin, the way her breath had come too shallow, too fast, as if her body itself had begun to panic before her mind had fully grasped the finality of it. Death had brushed her cheek more than once, familiar as an old acquaintance who lingered too long at the door.
And yet, building a strong, everlasting bond with her nieces and nephews seemed to be a battle she could never fully win, nor ever quite put behind her.
To some, she was a rotting apple: the source of all evil, the one who would corrupt their precious heirs with ideas as malignant as freedom. Independence. Choice. What dreadful things, in certain circles. What a dreadful woman she was, for daring to place such notions in young, impressionable minds.
And yet, every supper since they were little ended the same way. Tiny heads resting against her skirts, fingers tugging at her rings, curls wound lovingly through her hands as she braided hair by muscle memory alone. The children had always gravitated toward their disgraced aunt as if pulled by a tide stronger than blood propriety. She loved them all; the golden Lannister darlings with their sharp smiles, the softer Westerling dears with their earnest eyes.
Sometimes Rohanne liked to think that the heavens, having denied her children of her own, had soothed the wound with this abundance of borrowed love. A whole generation pressed into her arms as apology. As if the gods had murmured, “we took much from you. Let this remain.”
The carriage slowed, wheels crunching against gravel, and Rohanne forced herself to stop twisting her gloves between her knuckles. The leather creaked softly under the strain. A fortnight. Johanna had allowed—after three letters and one veiled threat, huzzah—her to take Leila to visit the Swan’s Grace for the first time ever. The girl’s betrothal had been the blade Rohanne slid neatly between Johanna’s defenses and twisted.
If Leila was old enough to wed, she was old enough to visit her aunt who lived but a carriage ride away.
Jason, however, did not share the sentiment.
He had been prancing about since she was escorted in, attempting to sour the tea and biscuits she had been served with his glare alone. Rohanne wondered absently whether the Rock had fallen on such sad days that its lord could afford to stalk his solar like a caged beast simply to harass a guest.
“And you believe this is proper?” Jason asked for the tenth time, his voice tight with outrage he clearly felt entitled to. “She’s betrothed. Her reputation—”
“I do believe,” Rohanne interrupted sweetly, “that if you were to invest in hats, people would suddenly be born headless, my lord.” Her smile was wounded-tight. That bloody fool! “Her reputation wil be safe. I am quite well behaved. Now, where shall my niece be?”
She had once been trained, much as Johanna was, to be prim and proper. Rohanne could still remember Tess, one of their tutors, who corrected posture with a riding crop. The huff she now gave Jason would have earned her a sharp strike across the leg. Old habits died hard, even after three marriages had afforded her the freedom of bitterness and bluntness both.
“See, sister,” Jason clicked his tongue, eyes flicking toward the wide windows as if searching for restraint somewhere beyond them. Rohanne had long noticed he only called her sister when he truly meant you insufferable, treacherous fucking cunt. The backhanded title made the corners of her mouth quirk. “Are you fond of birds?”
More than I’m fond of lions, she refrained from saying.
“I suppose.”
“When I was young—“
“So close to Aegon’s conquest,” she murmured into her teacup.
“What?”
“What?”
Jason scowled, unconvinced, but nothing in the Seven Kingdoms seemed capable of halting his personal tirades once begun.
“As I was saying,” he cleared his throat. “I used to be quite fond of exotic birds. Nearly a collector, if I may.”
“Did you enjoy their singing?” Rohanne asked, humorless.
Who would like to sing in a cage?
“No,” Jason said, returning her smile with something sharper. “Their feathers.”
Of course.
A lion could hardly be anything but a predator.
“You see, there is one bird species I quite despise. The cuckoo. Parasites,” he continued, taking a slow step to her right, “They lay their eggs in other birds’ nests. Force other birds to raise their young. They avoid the cost of nesting, while their chicks hatch quickly and often eject the host’s eggs. Ensuring exclusive care.”
“Quite the evolutionary advantage,” Rohanne mused. She was just about to turn around and ask him what in the Seven Hells his point was when both of his hands slammed onto the back of her chair.
Oh, little lion. You’re getting angry.
“You are the cuckoo of my family,” Jason hissed. “Always feeding my children your sick ideas. Teaching them nothing but how to waste their lives.”
“At least I’m teaching them something,” Rohanne replied calmly. She refused to tense. Refused to flinch.
Argue with my hat, dipshit.
“I suppose it’s quite hard to feel like a bird when one lives in a cage.”
“You—”
“Fear not, brother,” she said calmly, catching his eyes as she looked over her shoulder. He had always hated the title; she wondered if he hated it more than when she kept calling him Lord Lannister. “I shall take my opportunity in the nest to teach my nieces and nephews how to fly, since you’re so clearly occupied with…”
Making as many bastards as you can.
“…the pursuit of giving so many nests new eggs.”
The knock at the door saved him from responding. Rohanne stood at once, smile turning genuine as she caught sight of Leila in the doorway.
“Hello, my dear! You look radiant,” she said warmly. “I trust you fare well.”
Before Jason could protest, she swept forward, looping her arm through Leila’s and steering her toward the exit.
“Come, come. The carriage awaits. We mustn’t turn into pumpkins.”
Only once the wheels began to turn again did Rohanne exhale, breath leaving her lungs in a long, shuddering whoosh.
“Thank you for taking my invitation!” Rohanne smiled, reaching for Leila’s hands to squeeze them gently. “We shall have a marvelous time. Are you excited?”
Leila was young. So very young. Young as Rohanne herself had been when she wed Axell. Young enough to believe promises. Old enough to cling to another person when the world cracked beneath them. Axell had adored her with the wide, uncomplicated devotion only boys untouched by cruelty could muster. Rohanne remembered the moment he was gone, the animal certainty of it. Hairs rising. Dread filling her marrow. The severed red line of fate snapping clean.
Please, she prayed silently. Let her grow old with the boy she chooses. Let her be happy.
Rohanne shook the thoughts away and adjusted her hat.
“I’ve hired new tutors from the Free Cities,” she beamed. “Singers. Musicians. Oh, you’ll adore them. And if you wish to perform for us, only if you wish, I know they would be delighted.”
The carriage smelled pleasantly of cedar and something floral. Rosewater, perhaps, or something even more foreign.
Leila sat with her hands folded in her lap and tried not to stare.
Aunt Rohanne was her favourite, for all the false and unkind things people said about her, she had only ever been gentle and indulgent with Leila and her siblings. Yet today was the first time she had been allowed to visit the academy.
Her father had been angry. He promised her a new pearl necklace if she behaved and did not let herself 'succumb to poor influence' or whatever that meant.
That was nonsense of course, she always behaved well.
Leila realized she hadn't answered. She felt the heat climb her neck
"Yes," she managed awkwardly. Then, because it seemed insufficient, "Very much so, I'm very grateful to have been invited."
Foreign singers were her favourites. Leila's idol may be Willow Fossoway but most new music and music culture comes out of the Reach, or from beyond westeros.
She did had tuters to refine her craft but they were not from the free cities.
She wanted to ask questions. She had a great many of them, queued up in her head. What did they sing? In what language? Did they teach reading music, or only by ear? Would they mind if someone was only good at playing and not singing? Would they be patient?
The carriage rolled on. Outside, a treeline broke against the sky.
“I would love to perform for you aunty." Leila said instead, smiling brightly. Her skills in that area was the one thing she never had and never will doubt even if the seven were to strike her for her pride.
