#* ewyn.

[cerynitiis]

are you nervous? your hands are shaking. from ewyn !

a cold chill runs through her. elia shivers lightly, her gaze fixed on the horizon. between the lush hills looms a castle, its walls golden in the light of the setting sun, its spires tall and old and beautiful. it is an awe - inspiring sight; highgarden, possibly the most coveted castle in all of westeros. but the sense of home or belonging she had been hoping for is nowhere to be found. instead she feels helpless and small, as if she's a child of just seven summers all over again.

are you nervous ? the sound of ewyn's husky voice catches her off guard. elia looks back over her shoulder, startled, tries to form a response and fails. is it that obvious ? she wishes to ask. ewyn simply looks at her, softly, seeming to understand her wordlessness. he clucks his tongue and moves his horse forward, maneuvering himself next to her. he looks like a prince, elia thinks to herself. handsome especially in this warm light, his brown eyes lit up like gems. they are fixed on her, equal parts reassuring and concerned all at once. he nods at her hands. your hands are shaking.

she looks down, following his gaze. he's right. despite her tight grasp on her mare's reigns, her hands are still visibly shaking. she exhales slowly, trying to calm herself. " hmm, " she breathes, forcing a small smile. " i'm not sure nervous begins to cover it. i never imagine myself here. my whole life i was nothing more than the bastard daughter of an ashford girl. my mother insisted that i was the daughter of lord mace tyrell, right until the end. swore it on my life, on the gods... but i'm not sure i ever believed her. goodness knows no one else did. and seeing highgarden in front of us now... ser, what if they think me a fraud ? worse, what if i am a fraud ? there is no one to vouch for my mother's word. she is dead, as is lord tyrell. i suppose i... i'm just afraid that my being here will make things worse, rather than better. "

and in the back of her mind there is another thought, unspoken. it lies like a pit in her stomach. but what if it's all true, what then ? will i still be free to make my own choices ? " but i suppose there is only one way to find out, isn't there, ser ? too late to go back now. "

@bygold for ser ewyn 𓃗

[cerynitiis]

“ protecting you isn’t my duty. it’s my privilege. ” from ewyn

elia leans over the parapets, peering down at the seemingly endless lush green hills in the distance. every breeze carries with it the scent of fruit and flowers, rushes through her silk gowns and leaves goosebumps in its wake. her new life feels like something out of a fairytale. illegitimate, unclaimed bastard one day, beloved granddaughter and heir of a great lady the next. the truth is not quite as pretty. she knows she is but a pawn in olenna redwyne's game, a rook exchanged for allegiance.

she is startled from her reveries by someone gently pulling her back from the edge by the fabric of her dress. elia gasps and turns quickly to look over her shoulder, heartbeat slowing again as she finds ser ewyn there instead of a stranger, his eyes soft and brown, the colour of fall leaves, the warm fur of a stag. he has been her silent shadow since the day he came with her to highgarden, courteous and chivalrous as ever, watching over her from a small distance. she suspects robb told him to keep an eye on her. still, he is the closest thing she has to a friend here, even if they haven't talked much since their arrival. in fact, elia realizes, this marks the first time they've been alone in months.

“ i know protecting me is your duty, ” elia says. she obediently steps away from the edge, smiles up at him, “ but i swear i wasn't doing anything dangerous. ” she gets a raised brow in return, a pull at his lips that seems to ask really ? did you not see how far you were leaning ? neither of them step back. ser ewyn takes a moment before answering, a sincerity taking over his husky voice. protecting you isn't my duty. it's my privilege.

though she tells herself it is the sun on her cheeks, elia feels herself grow warm, pink tinting her skin. fingers twitch nervously. she looks down at the masonry under her feet, feeling inexplicably shy at the husky sound of his voice, the truth springing from words, uttered by a man who has only ever treated her with the utmost respect, even before she was considered a lady. only when she has regained her composure does her amber gaze slowly raise again. “ i... thank you. i'm glad you're here. ”

@madesins for ser ewyn

[cerynitiis]

My muse stops your muse in a dark hallway, their voice barely above a whisper. “If anyone sees us—” / ewyn.

she paces the dark, damp hallway where no one ever comes but them, heart pounding in her throat, throat seized by a simmering desire. when she hears someone approach she whips around, takes an uncertain and unsteady step back before his hand finds her, warm, coarse fingers wrapping gently around her wrist. ewyn's face is barely visible, illuminated by a weak shaft of light that enters through the narrow window. he whispers down to her, if anyone sees us-

elia leans in impulsively, throwing her arms around his neck and silencing his warning with a kiss. it is clumsy, too hard and quick, but even so she finds that his lips are surprisingly soft and pliant. she pulls back after a second, though she remains close, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath against her face. one hand slides back down over his chest, finding a place to rest over his heart. “ let them, ” she whispers back. she nudges her nose against his. she has yearned for this moment, imagined it again and again during sleepless nights, dreaming of his brown eyes, the warmth of his touch, the sound of his voice. out of her whole damned pantheon of admirers and allies, he is the only one who has ever truly cared for her. her sweet, brave knight; her tireless defender. she loves him. deeply, foolishly perhaps. “ i don't care. let them ruin me. it's worth it- you're worth it. ”

@madesins for ewyn

[cerynitiis]

“ i think i’m falling in love with you. “ from ewyn.

it is just them on the parapets as always, seeking refuge from the rest of the castle. she likes to come here alone after sunset to watch the stars fill up the velvet night sky, allowing only ser ewyn with her for company, as they chat the way they never can in front of her grandmother and reminisce, stories of her youth, of his asilyra. oh, her sweet loyal ewyn, ever at her side, always her protector. his tall, broad figure is cloaked in a dusky grey from the early night, the light of the moon catching in his earnest brown eyes. i think i'm falling in love with you.

oh, how welcome those words would have been if she had still been that same simple girl stuck in her cottage. she would have run away with him if he'd asked then. ser ewyn is everything she could want in a man, everything she does want. but the choice is no longer hers alone. elia closes her eyes briefly, feeling the weight of her new life heavier than ever on her shoulders. there are alliances to make, promises that must be kept.

she reaches out, hesitantly, to take his gloved hand in hers. she brings it to her lips and kisses the inside of his palm, then presses it to her cheek. eyes gaze into his, touched by a regret so sweet she can taste it on her tongue. “ you have my heart, ser ewyn. you have had it since that fateful day we met. if this world were any different, if my life had turned out different, perhaps i could have promised you more. ”

[cerynitiis]

“They shouldn’t speak of you like that, my lady!” / ewyn.

you think you flatter us ? my son is not marrying some bastard whore !

elia stands rooted to the ground, torn between mortification and fury. red flushes her breast, her neck. she had expected some reluctance from the tarlys, perhaps ( goodness knows that she is not looking forward to marrying some stranger herself ), but this level of rage and disgust was entirely unexpected. although, elia thinks to herself, taking note of olenna redwyne's blank, almost amused face, it seems that her grandmother is not entirely surprised. she had likely seen this coming from her proud vassals. part of her wonders if her grandmother ever meant to marry her off to dickon tarly, if this is not all just a ploy to test the loyalty of her subjects. regardless, it is clear that the unity they desperately need in the reach is far off.

she is startled by the sharp, cold sound of steel. surprised doe eyes find ser ewyn, who has unsheathed part of his sword. his fingers are curled tightly around the hilt in a closed fist, trembling with righteous indignation. oh, sweet, good, chivalrous ser ewyn; she has been my lady to him since they met, when to all the world she had indeed been no more than a bastard girl. he had been ever her fierce protector, the most loyal knight any king, queen, or lady could wish for. " they shouldn't speak of you like that, my lady, " he bristles.

however tempting the thought to set him loose on the man who has just spat the word whore at her feet, elia knows better than to escalate the already tense situation. she places a soothing hand on his arm, allows it to rest there. before she can respond, her grandmother's barbed tongue takes care of the matter. " indeed, " olenna redwyne clips, voice steady as ever despite its elderly tremble. " our good ser ewyn is right. it is a poor day indeed when an honorable man decides to sully his tongue against a lady. alas, i may have guessed that, tragically, not all men retain their memory well into old age, lord tarly. it seems you have forgotten that i have acknowledged my granddaughter, and that the young wolf in the north has issued her a decree of legitimacy. in the eyes of the gods and men she is therefore not a bastard whore. and as you, lord tarly, are reluctant to marry your dimwitted son to her, she will one day be your warden. you would do well to address her with the respect she is due. "

@madesins.

[cerynitiis]

it's been four days since the mysterious stranger was carried into her cabin, four days since she poured everything into saving him from the brink of death. she has not allowed herself more than a minute of respite since then, afraid that if she allows herself to drift off something will happen, that the wounds may reopen or the fever pick up. she has taken to busying herself around the cabin to keep herself awake, drying herbs and using what vegetables and cured meats are left to cook stews and soups, picking lavender and chamomile to prepare oils to soothe what will soon be aching muscles rather than dire wounds. the men who take turns standing guard usually watch her, silent and apprehensive, as though they are unsure if they did right by coming to her. there is one she likes better than the others: tall and dark-haired with a gentle smile, the one who brought her fowls and a hare, and thanks her when she brings him supper. part of her is glad to see him back on watch tonight.

elia eyes him from a distance, hesitant. she fiddles with the needlework in her lap ( plain, muted yellows and greens and blues, for practice rather than beauty ). hands pull stitches through the canvas, quick and graceful. this she can do blindly. and she needs the distraction to stay awake. " your accent, " she begins, then stops abruptly at the sound of her own voice cutting through the silence. after a few seconds, however, curiosity trounces her uneasiness. " i can't place it. it is different from the others'. where are you from ? "

@madesins for ewyn