Lady Leila Lannister

The fourth daughter of Lord Jason and Lady Johanna, Leila is 15, and referred to as "The Songbird" within her father's court. Part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

[leilathesongbird]

if music be the food of love, play on

Starter with @cerellelannister2

The chambers was awash in golden afternoon light, dust motes swirling in the air as Leila lifted the flute to her lips. Across from her, Cerelle’s fingers brushed over the strings of the high harp, testing the tension before settling into place.

The first notes were tentative, as they always were—Leila waiting for her sister to find the melody, her own instrument poised to follow. Then, as Cerelle plucked out the opening chords, Leila’s fingers danced along the flute’s polished surface, drawing forth a sweet, clear tune that twined effortlessly around the harp’s deeper resonance.

Leila let herself wander, weaving in flourishes that trilled and soared, her mind slipping into that hazy, dreamlike state where music was the only thing that mattered.

A rare kind of peace settled over her. Here, in this room, the flute was light in her hands, a part of her as natural as breath. She played because she wanted to, because she could, because in moments like this, she felt infinite.

Clear, delicate notes resonated, rising to meet the harp’s gentle hum. She followed instinct rather than structure, letting the melody unfold as it wished—sprightly, playful, a dance of notes that fluttered like sparrows in midair. Her older sister responded in kind, her harp weaving between Leila’s melody with the grace of a river winding through hills.

The song shifted, dipping into a softer, more wistful tune—one Leila hadn’t meant to play but had drifted into anyway. It reminded her of childhood lullabies, of sleepy afternoons where they all played together, of a time when she hadn’t needed to think about what came next.

A lump formed in her throat, and she pushed past it, fingers never faltering. It was fine. Everything was fine.

The piece came to a natural end, the last note lingering in the air before dissolving into silence. Leila let the flute fall to her lap, exhaling slowly. She didn’t look at her sister right away, only traced idle patterns against the cool metal of her instrument.

“…Again?” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard.

[benjen-mormont]

𓇢 ALMONDS AND OTHER INDECENCIES 𓇢

(A continuation with @edrickofwinterfell-rp and @leilathesongbird-rp)

Benjen remembered the day he met Edrick with the kind of clarity usually reserved for battlefield trauma.

He’d been wrestling Cregan in the mud-slick yard, boys slamming into each other like dogs let off the leash, laughing and swearing and bleeding just enough to feel alive. Then the screaming started.

Gilliane’s labor was bad. Twin-bad. Midwives running, maesters muttering, blood on the floor kind of bad. Benjen had known little of such things, save that his own mother had nearly died trying to bring him into the world, and that defending her in his father’s presence earned a bruise.

When Cregan was summoned, Benjen trailed after like a puppy with a sword, spine straightened as if they were marching into war.

The twins were horrifying. Red, wrinkly, screaming lumps. They looked like squashed knees. Wet ones. And yet, somehow, everyone in the room was acting like the gods themselves had farted a miracle into the world.

Benjen wasn’t convinced. But when Gilliane, barely conscious, patted his shoulder and asked what he thought, all he could blurt was, “I would die fighting for them.”

And… he had. Repeatedly. Spiritually, emotionally, physically, at least three times during teething alone.

At the ripe age of eight, he’d decided they were miracles. Not for being born, plenty of screaming babies did that. No, they were miracles for living, for breathing, for walking around and saying “Beben” like it was his actual name. He let Lyarra get away with it. The kid was cute.

Benjen had been around more than the nursemaids. He had learned how to swaddle them, burp them, soothe their cries. He taught himself to braid Lyarra’s hair and to stitch mittens for frostbitten hands. The servants said he would make a fine father.

His own father said he should be gelded if he meant to play mother.

Benjen stopped listening to both.

Years passed. The squashed knees became people. He stayed close, because if he wasn’t their father, or their brother, then he was something else entirely, something stubborn and vow-shaped and more binding than blood.

So when he walked into Edrick’s room and found a lady, he immediately considered throwing himself out the nearest window.

Lady.
In Edrick’s room.

The boy who had the emotional maturity of a slightly intelligent loaf of bread.

“Lady Leila,” Benjen said, blinking at the scene like it might vanish if he squinted. “Blink three times if that gremlin is bothering you.”

He wanted to ask the Stranger to smite him where he stood. Or throw holy water. Or drag Edrick back to when he was six and still thought kissing gave you the plague.

Instead, he watched them sit there. Edrick, smug as a cat in cream, and Leila, perfectly composed, like this was just another Tuesday. They were sharing almonds. Almonds! The sexiest of all snacks, apparently.

Benjen marched over, yanked Edrick’s shirt. “And your shoulder is out. What are you, a belly dancer?”

He’d given Edrick the talk when he was ten. Or tried to. The boy had pretended to go deaf for three days. Benjen had ended the conversation by tossing him a book and saying, “Figure it out.”

Now here he was, facing the consequences of his own educational cowardice.

“I don’t care if she was stitching your mouth shut,” he said through a tight-lipped grin that screamed murder. “A chaperone is always required. Which is why I’m going to sit over there, on that lovely desk, and watch you like the creepy portraits in haunted castles.”

He dragged the chair out with dramatic flair, sat down like a man wronged by fate, and crossed his arms so hard they creaked.

“Lady Leila,” he said dryly, “forgive Edrick. He’s uncultured. And I’m almost certain the song you played was distinctly Essosi.”

Edrick opened his mouth to object, but Benjen shot him a look that said: I know where you sleep. I raised you. I wiped your ass. Do not test me.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaled through his nose, and wondered how it was possible to feel both too young and too old to be dealing with this.

[edrickofwinterfell-rp]

Benjen was predictable. Loud, judgmental, and deeply obsessed with maintaining the illusion of control. Edrick had spent the better part of his life testing that illusion with surgical precision. It was, frankly, his favorite hobby. He adjusted his shoulder with an exaggerated sigh, stretching the fabric of his tunic back over the offending patch of skin like he was doing the realm a favor.

“I wasn’t seducing her,” he muttered under his breath. “We were talking about Freki, Geri and her oddly named cat that she's going to get.”Not that Benjen cared about any of that. No, Benjen saw him and a fair lady and assumed the next step was fornication.

Edrick glanced sideways at the fair lady in question, who looked a little like she was dying on the inside due to the entire scene.

He wanted to say something clever. Something devastating. Maybe reference a particularly bawdy ballad just to watch Benjen’s soul attempt to leave his body.Instead, he picked up another almond, popped it in his mouth, and turned towards Benjen with all the disdain he could muster.

“I told you not to come in without knocking,” Edrick said, voice slick with annoyance. “This is my room. Not yours. Unless you’ve decided to sleep in here again, in which case, do let me know so I can burn the bedding ahead of time.”

Benjen’s brows twitched, a sure sign he was restraining himself from launching a chair across the room. Good.

Leila delicately set down her harp. “Perhaps I should go—”

“You absolutely should not,” Edrick interrupted, loud enough that Benjen’s arms tightened in suspicion. “If you leave now, he wins.”He motioned grandly at Benjen, who looked very much like he wanted to brain him with the very chair he was sitting on. “He thrives on talking to me. Look at him. He’s positively glowing.”

Benjen was glowing in the way a wildfire glows—right before it eats up a castle.

Edrick leaned back on his palms, fully reclined like he was lounging at a villa and not under threat of public execution by his faux-brother. “Besides,” he added, tossing another almond into his mouth, “I like when you play your songs. It reminds me of all the wonderful ballads I sang to those pirates, oh how I suffered in agony for days on end! All due to Ben's negligence.”

Edrick bit down on his almond and made a show of chewing slowly. He was, after all, a well-mannered young lord with no intention of murdering Benjen via stress.

Not today, anyway.

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen counted to seven.

Not in the manner of a pious man offering reverence to the Seven Above. No, these were not prayers. They were numbers. One for each of the bones in Edrick’s face that he longed to rearrange. Do not kill him, he reminded himself, not for the first time. It took too long to rescue him. A ship was lost. A good horse died. And I shall never regain the years he’s cost me.

“I knocked,” he said, voice tight as a bowstring. “And you told me to come in. So unless I hallucinated your voice—which, given how much it haunts me, is not outside the realm of possibility—you’ve just lied. Bold move.”

Benjen’s eye twitched. Of course Edrick had turned this into theatre. The tunic adjustment, the dramatic sigh, the reclining like he was posing for a portrait titled Noble Bastard, Devourer of Almonds. Benjen didn’t know whether to throttle him or hand him a bloody mirror.

Without ceremony, he plucked a pillow from the nearest chair and hurled it. A direct hit. Gods be good. “Stop being a prick. There’s a lady present,” he growled. “Pretend you were raised indoors.”

He turned to Leila with a strained nod, gesturing vaguely as if to say this is my cross to bear. “My sincerest apologies, my lady. He hasn’t been right since the pirates. Or the fall. Or the goat incident. Honestly, it’s a long list.”

He turned back to Edrick, fully expecting some smug rejoinder. But no. Just more almonds and that gods-awful posture. Benjen dragged a hand down his face. Was this penance for something? Had he mocked a septon in a past life?

“Oh no, no, you’re absolutely right,” he said, his voice climbing into dangerous theatrical territory. “How could I possibly forget that you: brilliant, capable, oh-so-mature Edrick Stark, cannot go one single mile without falling into a pit, a scandal, or the arms of someone with a dagger?”

He sniffed loudly and pantomimed wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “My negligence is staggering. I’m clearly unfit for command. I shall resign immediately and take up weaving.”

And then, as if only now recalling himself, he reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a small bundle, wrapped in fine Dornish silk. He held it aloft as though it might bite.

“I had a purpose when I came here… what was it?” he mused aloud, brows furrowed in mock thought. “Ah, yes. This.” He gave the bundle a lazy little shake. “A gift, from your southern friend. Carried through mud, storm, and a pirate army.”

He stepped toward the hearth, letting the flames cast their hungry glow up the length of his arm.

“But now?” he sighed. “Now I think I must cast it into the abyss. Like all things pure and good. Farewell, Dornish token. May you burn as brightly as his shame.”

He didn’t drop it.

But he did wiggle his fingers, just a little. Just enough to watch Edrick’s face twitch.

[leila-lannister]

Leila thought she might spontaneously combust.

She sat very still, spine straight, hands folded neatly in her lap like a proper lady, and watched as two grown men verbally flayed each other with the energy of scandalized wet cats. It was… a lot.

She’d thought her own family was dramatic. She was right. But still

She cleared her throat, very gently. Both men ignored her.

She tried again, a little louder. Still nothing.

Benjen was making threats with all the subtlety of a mummers troupe, while Edrick was reclining like some kind of smug... almond-eating monkey.

Do monkeys eat almonds?

She reached quietly for her harp, adjusting the strings with care, like the room wasn’t swelling with an affectionate duel of egos.

Benjen’s voice was so dramatic it was almost musical. If it hadn’t been accompanied by actual threats of fire, she might have composed a ballad about it.

Then came the flourish—the flick of fingers, the subtle threat of silk falling into flame.

Leila moved. Quickly. Precisely. Her sleeve brushed the side of the desk as she reached for a almond, and as she straightened, her hand passed briefly behind Benjen’s arm.

The bundle vanished. Benjen didn’t notice. Edrick did. She didn’t look at him. Not yet. Just placed the almond delicately beside the harp and folded her hands in her lap like a proper lady who absolutely had not just intercepted a priceless token from doom.

Benjen was still waxing poetic about the abyss when she stood, brushing off her skirt with practiced grace. Her cheeks were warm. They always were when she had to speak in front of people taller than her. Or louder.

“Lord Benjen,” she said softly. He froze. Mid-monologue.

Edrick’s brows shot up. She held up the bundle with both hands, like an offering at a Sept.

“With respect… you shouldn’t burn gifts from friends. That’s bad luck.” Benjen stared at her. Then at the bundle. Then back at her hands, now clasped politely again. Edrick made a choked noise behind her that was definitely laughter disguised as a cough.

“You,” he said between the laugh-cough, “are terrifying.”

She blinked. “I didn’t mean to be.”

“That’s the worst part,” he said, grinning as he took the offered token from her in his hands.

[the-fair-lady-of-fair-isle]

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ THE LIGHT THAT BREAKS THROUGH 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

(Starter with @leilathesongbird)

The sea air tasted cleaner here. Lighter. It carried salt and sun-warmth instead of stone dust and the weight of gold.

Faircastle rose against the cliffs like something half-remembered from a dream. Smooth, pale walls stretched toward the sky, and light spilled through its colored glass windows, casting ruby reds, ocean blues, and soft ambers across the cobbled paths. It wasn’t like Casterly Rock, all shadowed corridors and gilded gloom. Fair Isle breathed. It lived.

Tyshara walked slowly, letting Leila take it all in.

The midday light cast them in shifting hues. Amber one moment, sapphire the next. A slant of rose gold caught in Leila’s hair, setting it aglow like the edge of a flame. Tyshara swallowed hard against the ache rising in her throat. She wondered if their mother ever noticed things like that. If their father did.

Her hands curled into the soft fabric of her skirts. No. Probably not.

But she noticed. Always. Every sharpness and softness that made her siblings who they were—she saw it, held it close like a secret no one could take from her.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Tyshara murmured, though it wasn’t really a question.

She glanced at Leila’s face, though she didn’t expect to find much there. Leila had always been quiet in a way that wasn’t quite shy, her expressions tucked away like folded sheets of music. Tyshara never minded. She didn’t need words to know what her sister felt. She had raised Leila. Knew her like she knew the lines of her own palm.

She knew Leila didn’t want to go back.

“I thought you might like it here,” Tyshara said, trailing her fingers along the sun-warmed stone as though she could memorize the castle by touch. “It’s always bright. Even on cloudy days, the light gets through. And when the sun sets…” Her smile was small, wistful. “The whole castle looks like it’s on fire. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The prettiest thing she’d seen before was Leila, with her harp in her lap and her head tilted, eyes half-lidded as though lost in the sound.

Tyshara forced down the lump in her throat. She hated how easy it was to picture her sister back at Casterly Rock, playing in those gilded, echoing halls. Her voice sweet and soft and wasted on people who wouldn’t truly listen. People who would praise her in the same breath they told her what songs were proper for a lady, what songs weren’t.

They would clip her wings, just as they had tried to clip Tyshara’s.

“I have something for you,” she said, brightening her tone as they turned a corner into an open courtyard.

Sea spray danced in the air beyond the walls, and the waves murmured distantly, steady and soothing. At the center of the courtyard, a small platform stood waiting—polished wood, open to the sky, framed by benches and low walls that would make a perfect amphitheater. The light here came through a row of narrow stained-glass windows, each a different hue. At dusk, the whole space would bloom with color.

Tyshara had tested it herself. She had stood there, watched the light pool around her feet, and thought of Leila’s voice. Of how it would sound in the open air, wrapped in gold and sapphire.

“The Lady of Fair Isle holds feasts every fortnight. They’d love to hear you play. I spoke to her myself, she said you could perform whenever you like. The islanders love music. They’d love you.”

They would. Tyshara had no doubt. Leila wasn’t just a songbird. She was the whole damn sunrise.

Her throat burned, but she pushed past it. There wasn’t time for tears.

“And I…” She hesitated, her hand finding Leila’s. Her fingers curled around her sister’s palm, gentle, as though she might startle and fly away. “I have another gift for you, too.”

The last stop was a room. A guest chamber, technically, but it felt more like a sanctuary.

The window was tall and narrow, the glass a soft lavender-blue that filled the room with twilight even though the sun was still high. A writing desk sat near the window, and the bed was draped in gauzy, seafoam-colored linens.

On the bed, carefully folded, was the skirt.

It wasn’t Westerosi fashion. The layered silk moved like water when touched, dyed in soft shades of turquoise and violet, like the sea meeting the sky. Tyshara had bartered for it from a merchant ship out of Volantis. It had cost more than she wanted to admit. But the price didn’t matter. Not if it worked.

“I thought you might like something that moves when you dance.”

Her voice almost broke on the last word.

She wanted to tell her everything, but the words tangled up inside her. Stay here. Stay with me. I’ll make it better, I swear. You’ll be safe. You’ll be happy. Please don’t go back.

But Leila wasn’t a child anymore, and Tyshara wasn’t supposed to beg.

So instead, she squeezed her hand, breathed in the salt air, and said the only thing that mattered.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Tyshara had already left too much of herself behind at Casterly Rock.

She wasn’t sure how much more she could give.

[leilathesongbird]

Leila’s fingers trailed over the silk, barely skimming its surface, as though she feared the fabric might dissolve beneath her touch. It was softer than anything she had ever worn—softer even than the beautiful gowns her mother chose for her or the fine dresses her father commissioned, It moved like sea foam, light as a whisper.

She didn’t lift it. Didn’t press it to her cheek the way she longed to. She only looked at it, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs, her throat too tight to swallow.

Leila didn’t turn to face Tyshara, not yet. If she did, if she met her sister’s eyes, she thought she might crumple like parchment.

She should have smiled. She should have thrown her arms around Tyshara’s neck, whispered thank you, whispered I love you, whispered all the things her sister deserved to hear. But Leila’s voice was gone, lost somewhere between the folds of turquoise silk and the ache in her chest.

Instead, she smoothed her hand over the skirt one more time and whispered, “I—”

The word faltered, crumbling like sand.

She didn’t know how to say it.

The sea air did not belong to her.

It tangled in her hair, kissed her cheeks, and whispered through the folds of her dress, but it wasn’t hers. Not like the hush of the Rock’s corridors at dawn, or the way the wind howled through the Lion’s Mouth, singing in a voice only she could hear.

Fair Isle was beautiful. She couldn’t deny that. It shimmered, breathed, swelled with light and sound in a way Casterly Rock never did. But that was the trouble. It wasn’t home.

Leila continued staring at the gown laid out before her to avoid looking her sister in the eye. It was beautiful—oh, it was so beautiful. Soft as seafoam, light as mist, dyed in the colors of the horizon. The fabric shifted like water beneath her fingertips. She could already imagine how it would move when she twirled, how it would catch the air and billow like a sail in the wind.

It was a gift meant for a dreamer. A girl who belonged to the sea. It was the kindest gift her sister could have given her.

Tyshara meant well. She always had. She had seen what Leila loved, what made her heart race, and she had offered it freely, without hesitation. A stage to sing upon. A gown to dance in. A place where she could be herself, unbound and unburdened.

The thought of leaving Casterly Rock—the halls she had played in, the sisters who still nestled against her in the early hours of the morning, the golden light of home—made her stomach twist. She was supposed to grow up. Supposed to accept that one day she would have to leave.

But not yet. Not yet.

“I can’t,” she whispered. The words felt small. Weak.

Leila had never been alone there. Not truly. It had never occurred to her to leave. She wasn’t brave like Tyshara. She didn’t want to be.

She bit her lip, then tried again. “I love you, Tyshara, truly. But I—I can’t leave home.”

This—this was the one thing they would never see the same way.

Because Leila didn’t long for freedom.

She longed for the life she had always known.

[the-fair-lady-of-fair-isle]

Tyshara exhaled softly, the breath catching in her throat as she watched Leila struggle. She knew that look, the tightness in her sister’s mouth, the way her shoulders curled inward like she could fold herself small enough to disappear. Leila was trying so hard to be brave. And if Leila was trying, then she was already losing.

Tyshara had known. Had known, deep in her bones, that this moment would come. She had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that the gown might help, that it might make the thought of leaving feel a little less like stepping off a cliff. But hope had never been enough to change Leila’s heart.

Tyshara didn’t hesitate.

She wrapped her arms around Leila, holding her close, pressing a firm kiss to the crown of her head like she had when they were children, when Leila was small enough to scoop up and carry. For the first time in her life, she was happy to be the tallest among her sisters.

"It’s okay," she murmured, smoothing a hand over her sister’s hair. "It’s okay, Songbird. I promise."

She comforted Leila once more. Just like she had when they were small, when Leila scraped her knee on the rocky cliffs outside the Rock, when the sky split open with thunder, when she whispered her doubts into the dark.

And yet, standing here now, feeling the way Leila trembled against her, Tyshara wondered, had she become one of those fears? One of the things that made Leila’s throat tighten and her voice disappear? The thought made Tyshara’s stomach twist. No. No, no, no.

Tyshara exhaled softly, pressing her cheek against her sister’s hair. She would not pull. She would not ask again. She would not be the hand that forced Leila away from the home she loved so fiercely.

Instead, she stepped back and reached for the skirt, lifting it carefully and pressing it into Leila’s arms. It was beautiful; Leila had seen it, even if she hadn’t said it. The way her fingers traced it, hesitant but reverent, told Tyshara enough.

“You don’t have to leave,” she said. “Not forever. Not even for a season.” She met Leila’s wide, uncertain eyes and smiled, warm and steady. “But come when you can. Come for the parties, for the dancing. Let Fair Isle hear your voice.”

The rest, she did not say. That she would miss Leila more than she could bear. That Fair Isle would feel emptier without her laughter echoing through its halls. That she had wanted, just once, to give Leila something she could hold as tightly as she held the Rock. But that was too much. This would have to be enough.

“There’s no choice you could make that would change how much I love you.”

And she needed Leila to know that. To feel that. To understand, in her bones, that she was never losing her sister, no matter where they lived, no matter what paths they walked.

The silk shimmered between them, soft as seafoam, light as mist.

It was a gift meant for a dreamer.

And Leila had always been her dream.

[leilathesongbird-rp]

For a long moment, she said nothing. Just breathed. Cradled the skirt against her chest, her fingers still lost in the gossamer folds. letting the quiet settle between them.

She ducked her head slightly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. Her mind whirled, tripping over all the things she wanted to ask but couldn’t quite put into words yet.

After another heartbeat, she found her voice, small but steadier.

“…Will you tell me more about Fair Isle?” she asked, looking up at Tyshara through a fringe of gold-flecked lashes. “What it’s like to live here when I'm not visiting?”

Her fingers played absently with the hem of the skirt, smoothing and twisting the fabric as she spoke. “Not just the feasts and court. I want to know what it feels like when you wake up. What the sky looks like when it rains. What the people are like…”

She wanted to understand it—the life her sister had built away from the Rock. She wanted to see it the way Tyshara saw it, even if it scared her a little. Even if it felt like reaching for something that might slip through her fingers.

She hesitated, then gave a shy, almost guilty glance toward her sister. “And… and about Rodrik, too. If you want.”

She nearly stumbled over her words. Her mouth curled slightly, not quite a frown, not quite a pout—something uncertain and a little wounded. Leila had always struggled with her sister's sweethearts, though she tried so very hard to hide it.

Tyshara’s eyebrows lifted slightly, a faint, amused smile tugging at her mouth.

Leila flushed, cheeks coloring a soft rose. She had opinions about Rodrik. Not bad ones, exactly. But uncertain ones. Protective ones. Leila had never liked the idea of her sisters being loved by someone else—someone outside their family. It had always felt a little alarming, a sign of them getting ready to leave the nest and fly far far away.

It wasn’t fair, she knew that. Rodrik hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. He wasn’t cruel or careless. But still, the thought of anyone else holding a piece of Tyshara’s heart—it pinched something inside her chest.

She wanted to pretend she was above it, that she was grown enough not to mind. But she wasn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But she would try, because if Fair Isle made Tyshara shine the way she did now, if Rodrik made her smile with that quiet happiness she wore like a secret, then he couldn’t be all bad. She wanted Tyshara to know that, needed her to know it, just like Tyshara had promised her that nothing—nothing—could change the way she was loved.

Leila glanced toward the window, where the sea met the sky in endless, shimmering blue. Then back at Tyshara.

“Tell me everything,” she whispered. “Please?”

[the-fair-lady-of-fair-isle]

Tyshara’s smile softened as Leila whispered “tell me everything” and for a moment, she simply looked at her, her heart twisting with the old, familiar ache of sisterhood. Of growing up, and growing apart, and trying like hell to find one another again across the wideness of the years. She reached over, gently brushed her fingers through Leila’s curls, just like she used to when the littlest one had nightmares and crept into her bed, all eyes and trembling limbs.

“All right,” Tyshara murmured. “I’ll tell you everything.”

She began the way she always used to—soft voice, lilting, like the stories they’d made up under the covers with a candle between them. Like magic was real, and everything hurt less if you told it like a fairytale.

She told Leila how Fair Isle wakes slowly, how the mornings roll in on mist and salt and the low bleating of goats on the cliffs. How the sea doesn’t shout but sings, ever present, ever faithful. She described the rhythm of the days, the market bells at midday, the clang of steel from the castle yard, the music that hums through the stones when there’s a dance in the village. She spoke of the fields that smelled of rosemary and brine, of the way children chase gulls down the shore and old fishermen argue like brothers, because they are.

She told her about the food, the silly folk tales, the way the stars look sharper here, closer somehow, like someone reached out and stitched them by hand. She told her about Marla, the cook who always gives Tyshara two of the lemon-fish cakes she loves because “you look like you need feeding, child.” She told her about the way her heart had changed, slowly, gently, like moss growing over old stone, until Fair Isle had become home.

“And Rodrik…” there was a pause, but it wasn’t uncertain. It was reverent. “If I told you I was happy, it would be a lie. It doesn’t cover it. I feel… like I found the part of me I didn’t know was missing. Like I’m whole for the first time. He looks at me like I’m not just Tyshara, like I’m a story he’s waited his whole life to hear, and now he can’t stop turning the pages.”

Her eyes went a little distant, softened by the memory.

“We met when everything was falling apart. Cerelle had run, and I thought I’d forgotten how to breathe. And then there he was: standing in the surf like something out of those old tales, all wind-tossed hair and clever eyes. I honestly thought he was one of them… a selkie, or some fishman come to steal my soul for a night. I even warned him to stay away or I’d steal his name. He just smiled and said he’d give it to me if I asked nicely.”

Her voice caught there, not with sadness, but with that deep, dizzy joy that made her press her free hand to her chest as if to contain it.

“And now… I want everything with him,” she said quietly. “I want to braid our lives together so tightly that the gods couldn’t undo the knots. I want children with his eyes and his laugh. I want to memorize the way he blinks when he’s thinking, the way he holds his hand over his heart when something moves him. And even then, it won’t be enough. I’ll still want more.”

She looked at Leila then, really looked at her. The way one might look into a mirror and see their old self blinking back.

“Have you ever loved someone like that?” she asked, voice barely more than breath. “Do you want to?”

[leilathesongbird-rp]

She smiled, a little. Not big or bright, just a small curl of her mouth that felt honest and warm.

“I don’t know,” Leila said at last, voice quiet. “Sometimes I think I might. Someday.”

Her thumb rubbed a slow circle into the skirt still clutched in her arms.

“I’d be terrified of someone looking at me like that,” she confessed, cheeks still warm from the weight of everything Tyshara had said. “But I think I still want what you have.”

She could see it—the woven-together days, the little rituals that would became a life. Not the wild rush of passion, not the dizzying ache of longing. But the steadiness. The choosing. The quiet warmth of being known.

She only hoped he would be someone who’d understand that—that she would simply like to stay, someone who would never make her leave her home.

“I think love feels different in me,” she went on, tilting her head slightly as she thought. “It’s quieter.”

Her fingers fluttered over the gauzy fabric in her lap.

She let out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “I love a lot, just… differently. I love the sound of wind through trees, and the way parchment feels smells and sunlight on my face. I love the sound of music. I love the way you say my name. I love my sisters, even when they steal my ribbons and swear they didn’t.”

“I think I want a cat,” Leila added brightly, like the thought had just arrived on a breeze. “A very spoiled, sleepy cat who’ll lie on the windowsill and pretend not to care about me, but who secretly loves me more than anyone.”

She grinned, soft and crooked. “You remember the birds I had? Well I let them go, they weren't meant for cages. They were made for the sky.”

“And so am I, I don’t know if I’ll ever be as brave as you are. But I want to try. For you. For me.”

Then, with a shaky breath, a faint, crooked smile curled her lips.

“And if Rodrik ever breaks your heart, I will drown him. Or just write the most scathing song in existence. I haven’t decided yet.”

[the-fair-lady-of-fair-isle]

Tyshara knew that finding a good husband wasn’t just about tradition or duty; it was about someone who could see and honor all of Leila’s dreams, not bury them. She wanted to help her find someone who wouldn’t ask her to choose between love and the life she wanted.

When Leila finished, with that crooked little smile and a threat that made Tyshara snort softly, she moved. She crossed the space between them and folded her arms around her, holding her tight like she used to when Leila had night terrors and Tyshara was the only one who could chase them off. She smoothed her sister’s hair with careful fingers, tucking the stray strands back behind her ear like sealing in a spell.

She kissed her forehead, gentle and lingering. The kind of kiss you give when words are too clumsy, too small. How could she ever find the words to tell her how fiercely she wanted to protect her, how fiercely she loved her?

"You won’t have to be brave alone," she murmured against her skin. “And if it’s calm you want, then it’s calm you’ll have. I’ll help you find someone who will see the woman you are, not just the bride you’re expected to be.”

Her thumb brushed the curve of Leila’s cheek, and she saw the flicker of hope there; delicate, but growing.

“I’ll find you the laziest, most dramatic little beast the world has ever seen. He’ll hate everyone but you. Perfectly spoiled.”

The image made her grin wider. Leila’s vision of love—quiet, tender, full of small things—was exactly what Tyshara wanted for her. No wild storms, no sharp edges. Just a steady flame to come home to, and a partner who would never ask her to give up the sky she loved.

She rested her forehead to Leila’s for a breath, a silent vow settling in her bones.

If anyone tried to cage her sister’s dreams or break her heart, they’d have to get through her first. Because some things were worth fighting for with every piece of yourself, and Leila, with all her gentle bravery, was one of them.

“You do know,” she whispered with a teasing smile, “you don’t have to marry at all if you don’t want to. You could always alternate between me, Cerelle, Aunt Margot, and the little ones…”

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

Leila Lannister, Caitlin Stasey in Reign, She/Her - @leilathesongbird

Welcome, Lady Leila of house Lannister! We’re delighted to see she has arrived safely on her journey to King’s Landing. Around the court the fifteen year old has been praised as free spirited, unassuming and tranquil but some have whispered she is also naive, diffident and shy. Upon her arrival, it is clear that she is indifferent to supporting the reign of Westeros’ first ruling queen, and while the eyes of our court may be fixed on House Targaryen, Queen Rhaenyra, and the future of Westeros, her true allegiance will always be to herself and her family.

Rust, 18, They/Them, IST, no triggers

[leilathesongbird]

Better nights

Starter with @jason-lannister2005

The music swelled, filling the golden hall with a triumphant melody, but Leila barely heard it over the dull roar of conversation. Laughter and the clinking of goblets rang in her ears as lords and ladies twirled across the polished floor, their silks flashing like jewels in the candlelight. The scent of spiced wine and roasted meat was thick in the air, but it all made her stomach twist in nerves rather than hunger.

She pressed herself against the cool stone of a gilded column, fingers twisting the lace of her sleeves. Her gown was beautiful—pale gold, embroidered with lace white flowers—but it felt stifling under the weight of so many eyes. She wasn’t meant for this. Not like her sisters.

Leila searched the hall for her mother first, hoping to find her seated somewhere. But she was nowhere in sight. Her sisters, too, were absent—perhaps swept into the dance, perhaps deep in conversation with some charming lord or their betrotheds. A flicker of unease crawled up her spine. She had never liked being alone at these events.

She retreated further, slipping behind a carved wooden screen that separated the main hall from a smaller alcove lined with golden lion banners. The music was muffled here, the chatter more distant. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to think. She closed her eyes for a moment, pressing her hands together, willing herself to be invisible.

But before she could force herself to disappear, she noticed she was not alone; her father was here too. Whether he'd been here first or had followed her, she did not know but there was no point in worrying about her blessings.

“Hello papa, would you like to hide with me for a while?” she asked hopefully.

[jason-lannister2005]

Jason had put on the banquet. This was an occurrence at Casterly Rock if you must. Lords and Ladies from the Westerlands would come to the splendor multiple times. Especially if Lords and Ladies from across the realm were to grace its halls. The place was lively throughout the day and into the night. This offered him the perfect opportunity to slip into a private part of the Hall.

He had made sure his daughters were taken care of, Johanna had already went off for the night, Jason stayed in the background, calculating the moves of everyone within it. His instincts sharp as ever as his eyes darted all over the room. Looking for anomalies or signs of worry from his daughters, or anyone for that matter he would have to quell. He didn’t trust Lords intentions or many people at all.

His instinct for this, allowed him to see a sign of his daughter, Leila, having issues. Once he saw her slip into the secret alcove, he went there after her. Partially because he wanted to check on her but also to get away from it himself. His other daughters were well off, Leila was more like him at her age, reserved and preferred quiet spaces. 

“More than anything in the world My Little Cub.” He spoke back with a smile, a genuine one. A newer smile he has shown when around his family. One not masked by anything. He was getting used to it, he had hoped they’d done the same. “I remember doing the same thing at your age Honey.”

[ladyleilalannister]

Leila’s lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile at his words, her shoulders relaxing just slightly. My little cub. He hadn’t called her that in some time, not in public anyway.

She looked up at him, her father—Lord Jason Lannister, The Lion of the Rock. And yet here he stood, away from the pomp and politics, smiling at her like she was still the girl who used to crawl into his study during council meetings just to nap beside the hearth.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” she said softly, brushing a loose strand behind her ear. “I tried to make it through one dance. I really did.” She shifted, her slippers barely making a sound against the stone floor. “But the moment the music started, it felt like everyone was watching me. Waiting for me to stumble. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

She leaned her shoulder against the tapestry-draped wall, gazing at the flickering candlelight that danced across her father’s features. “It’s easier back here. Quieter. I can breathe.”

After a moment, she added, “You said you did the same? Hid from your own banquets?” There was a hint of disbelief in her voice, but also curiosity. Leila rarely imagined her father young—flawed, unsure. The image was foreign, but comforting somehow.