1. Son of Hosteen Frey and Bellena Hawick (Arwood)
2,3. Children of Lythene Frey and Lucias Vypren (Elyana, Damon)
4,5,6. Children of Symond Frey and Betharios of Braavos ( Alesander, Alyx, Brandamar)
summary: cerelle deals with the man in her bed, the man in the gardens, the man in the snow, and the woman she cannot seem to figure out
word count: 5.751
warnings: none
author's note: double chapter again today :3 this is the first part for today
masterlist
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None of the troops I have sent out have been able to locate this mysterious criminal. I am slowly starting to believe she is not real and my sheriff has told me lies to save his head. I will look into this matter myself after tomorrow's tourney - a much needed distraction.
To take away my moment of triumph, to destroy the only thing I find pure joy in! I will find this pathetic peasant, and make an example out of her.
She is in league with the traitorous Starks - at least so the songs claim. Henrix told me not to pay mind to the words of these lunatics, but after catching one of them I do not doubt it. I never did. And as such, it seems I finally need to get involved with the war.
The Golden Paladin. A strange name for someone like her, someone so… ordinary. I doubt she even did most of the things the singers attribute to her name, nor do I believe she intended the avalanche she caused. I will soon teach her what consequences provoking me carry with them.
I saw her! I finally saw her again, and she slipped right through my fingers. Perhaps if that brute of Clegane had not been there, she would not have had such a headstart. My men could have searched the town on their own, blocked any paths of escape, and then delivered her to me. But she has once again made me look like a fool.
How could it possibly be that every single peasant is this obsessed with her? How could they all believe so ardently that she might be the one to save them, to protect them from Lord Tywin, from me? It matters no longer. The tale of what I did to Sallydance will spread just as Aleksander has promised, and soon she will be mine.
Some of Ser Daven’s men that have been marching with my army have reportedly found her! Three soldiers encountered her in an inn less than a day from where we are, simply laughing and galavanting about without a care in the world. She is either an idiot or intentionally challenging me. Yet no matter what, I shall soon have her.
The Paladin is mine. I still can hardly believe how easy catching her was, after all these months of chasing her mindlessly around the Riverlands. Henrix has never looked this pleased with himself - the raid of the village she had been hiding in was uniquely his idea, as always - but I can hardly care. She is mine. And I will never let her out of my grasp ever again.
She is petulant, crude, and every time she looks at me it seems as if she is trying to kill me with naught but her mind. The sooner the carriage arrives to bring her to the capital, the better off this entire realm shall be. To have someone blessed by the Stranger around me for extended periods of time cannot end well.
I wish I could stop my men from staring at her. Every time I walk with her through camp, they watch in badly-disguised lust.
Her name is Elle. I forgot to write it down after all that happened, just as with the heavy Dornish accent that seeps into every poisoned word coming out of her mouth. She is pious, which I had not expected, and I wonder if her devotion to the gods is what makes her treat me almost carefully at times. As if she cannot bring herself to break their laws, no matter what I do to her or her people.
She almost died to protect me.
She is beautiful in a way I have never seen before. The three scars on her left cheek should have made her ugly, but I have become used to them far quicker than I should have.
I do not wish to lose a single positive word about Elle the Paladin but the way she talked to me last night, about our nightmares… For a moment she looked at me not as if I was the Butcher of Sallydance, but just another person that she swore herself to protect. Why is she like this?
Cerelle Baratheon. The Golden Paladin is the lost princess. Who was supposed to be my betrothed. Our paths were always meant to cross in some way or the other, our strings tied together while neither realised. We belong with each other. We always have.
I cannot get her out of my head. The way she touched me, the way she What she did in my tent has left a mark on me that I cannot seem to wash out. I have already sinned in almost every way a man can, so why is it this that has confused me so? Why am I still thinking about it?
A group of my soldiers have been tracking her for a while now, but even I know this cannot continue further. Lord Tywin's letter - his promise to wipe out any opposition to us - gave me the final push.
I have to find her.
There were no tears left for her to cry when the sun rose, the ones that had already fallen still cold on her cheek or long soaked up amidst the pages of Benjiamin's journal.
He had loved her. In whatever strange, twisted way a man like him could still experience such an emotion, after being broken and shattered into a million pieces. And perhaps, given enough time, she could have come to love him as well.
But now she would never know. Never find out whether that connection between them could have flourished into something tangible, something real. Benjiamin would forever remain a spirit, doomed to haunt her memory until she was nothing but dust and ashes. An existence bound entirely to what if?
Last night had been a terrible mistake, she knew that. If anyone found out what she had done, she might be thrown out of the Red Keep and hidden in some castle deep in the mountains.
But she hadn't been a maiden in… Gods, it had not even been a year. Florian, the cursed castle, the mark, it felt like an eternity had passed, and yet….
Point being - no one could punish Henrix. She would not let them.
Her gaze wandered towards his sleeping form, huddled against her pillows and blankets. He had not wanted to stay the night, but seeing his eyes almost fall shut and mentioning the long way he had ahead of him, he had let himself be forced into her bed.
Why had she insisted?
A knock sounded at her door.
Shit, shit, shit.
The only person to come to her chambers at such an early time was her handmaiden Rania, but no matter how much Cerelle trusted her, no one could see Henrix in her bed.
She jumped from her place on the floor and hastily threw a scarf across her shoulders to hide the torn nightgown. Henrix had roused at the sounds, and she quickly hissed a “Quiet!” at him before running towards her door.
It was indeed Rania standing on the other side, the warm browns and oranges suiting her olive skin much better than her previous garments.
“Princess,” she greeted her.
“I wish to prepare myself on my own today.” She moved her body to shield what little of her bed could be seen through the small opening. “If you could return in an hour to clean and change my bedsheets?”
“Of course, my princess.”
And so she disappeared down the hallway.
The guard standing before her door was not Ser Balon, she could see that from his back alone. Her sworn shield had not been there last night either - thankfully. She would not have been able to lay with Henrix had she known him to be there, had he been there to guard her, had he even been able to listen-
She quickly shut the door.
Henrix had already stood up and busied himself with trying to make himself look presentable - combing through his blood-red hair, straightening his tunica, sheathing his previously discarded dagger. Then his gaze got caught on something on her nightstand.
Her eyes followed his towards the bronzen ring.
“He gave it to me,” she said quietly, pulling the scarf tighter around her shoulders. “He wanted me to return it to his father. To show he was sorry.”
Instead of admonishing her for breaking a promise, Henrix laughed. “Why am I not surprised? That man could have spat in his face and Benjiamin would have still begged for his attention.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head with a grin. Always that grin. “Benjiamin was so fixated on wanting at least one parent to care for him that he could not accept the truth - they both hated him. There was nothing he could have done that would have convinced them otherwise, but they always pretended there was. That with one more corpse, with one more whipping, with one more day they didn’t have to spend in his presence, he could be fixed. And it seems Benjiamin thought he was the problem until the very end.”
“But, surely-” She grasped for words. “They had to have loved him in some way. He was their son.”
“Still so naive, Paladin.” Henrix shook his head. “Anyone that hits their own child has lost any right to call themselves a parent. Even more so if they freely let it happen when they would have the power to step in. I thought you of all people would have known that.”
He couldn’t- How would he-
“You’re wrong.”
A smile. “If you say so.” He dropped the journal he had just picked up onto her nightstand, directly next to the ring. “You can keep that. I feel you need it much more than I do.”
I don’t. You are wrong. You have no idea what happens in my life. I am fine.
Henrix, instead of walking to the balcony and therefore towards the place she had thought he had entered her chambers through, headed towards the back of her room, and towards a small opening in the wall.
“What is this?”
“A secret passageway. The Red Keep is full of them,” he explained. “Did you not know these existed?”
“I heard of them, but never thought one would lead directly to my room.”
“How do you get past your guard at night, then?”
“The window.” She said it as if it were an easily understood fact, yet only made him chuckle.
“Of course.”
She let a moment pass before she asked, “How did you find out about them?”
“Let's just say your City Watchmen are not as loyal as you might think.”
He stepped into the dark pathway, lightened a torch and picked it up. Then he turned towards her again.
“Where will you go now?” she asked.
“I don't know. Perhaps try to befriend the new Lady Vypren.”
Right. Benjiamin had a sister. He had mentioned her in his journal.
“If you ever need a favour…” She smiled. “You know where to find me.”
He bowed with a grin. “That I do, Golden Paladin.”
And with that, he pushed the wall back into its place, and was gone.
The hostages needed to be her main priority now that the Nightshade lead had not resulted in anything, and now that another man had died, she knew as much. Yet, seeing as she was a princess and they were the allies of her supposed enemy, such an undertaking proved to be quite difficult.
Especially because Helena had become rather attached to her.
Certainly, they had kissed plenty more times after their stunt in the maze, had snuck away from feasts and gatherings, had hidden in dark hallways until neither could breathe anymore. But she had been the one to suggest pursuing this mystery. She had been the one to push her back into her role as the Golden Paladin.
Yet now she seemed to be doing her very best to keep Cerelle from following the hostages.
Gods be good, she did not even know who exactly those hostages were - their names, their houses, their importance to their family and to the crown. They could be nobodies for all she knew.
The heirs to several Riverlander houses, in order to ensure their loyalty. This was what Oberyn had said, but even that brought her nowhere closer to an answer. Perhaps if she consulted books on lineages in the castle library, and afterwards kept her eyes open for any fitting heraldry, and even dared asking around, making it sound less like she suspected them and more out of interest…
She could also simply ask Oberyn for their names. Or Tommen, even.
But Oberyn likely did not remember, if he had been told at all, and involving him in this would only paint yet another target on his back that her grandfather could abuse. And Tommen would ask too many questions.
Seven Above, this was difficult.
If she were the king and needed to take hostages, which Houses would prove the most advantageous?
House Tully had no one left besides their lord - who was likely still in the thralls of his enemies - leaving their biggest supporters. Bracken, Blackwood, Mallister, Whent, Vance, Piper.
She had met a Blackwood recently. Helena had introduced her to him. As well as a Ryger.
Helena was her father's heir as well.
No. No, she refused. If Helena was a hostage, someone would have told her. Someone would have made a fuss about her making the daughter of a traitor her lady in waiting.
Suddenly, whispers sounded through the empty halls of the Red Keep.
Every doubt about her dear friend’s loyalty was blown away like sand in the wind as her focus shifted to real life, to the here and now, to the danger the assassin was posing.
Her Kingsguard waited when she told him to - Ser Osmund’s protest not carrying nearly enough weight as Ser Balon’s would have - and she soundlessly sneaked forward.
The hallways she found herself in were quiet and near to abandoned, dusty and with less and less light illuminating the ground. She had her skirts gripped tightly in her fist, praying the many delicate chains would not rattle and give her away.
Someone punched the wall. Another hushed them.
How close were they to her? How much closer could she dare?
“...protect her. She-”
“She is not… command… obey.”
“...feel right.”
Cerelle cursed her own hearing. Perhaps if she could edge just a tiny bit closer-
“At the… Please.”
Silence.
“Princess, I am not comfortable-”
She almost jumped in shock, a curse flying past her lips at the sudden appearance of Ser Osmund.
Without wasting a second to listen for pursuers or even admonishing her guard, she turned and ran past him, desperate not to be discovered eavesdropping on people that might have been completely innocent.
His armour clanked as he hurried after her, calling out twice more for her but she could not stop, could not even admonish herself for failing to discover what these people were discussing, who they were discussing, if they perhaps were who she needed-
She bumped into a body, and almost made them both tumble to the ground.
“Princess.” Hands on her arms stabilising her, a laugh.
“Ser Alyn.”
His sea-green eyes sparkled with joy. “To what do I owe the honour of nearly being taken off my feet by you?”
Despite how desperately she wished to escape his hold and the dark promises it held, she hastily interlocked their arms and began dragging him down the hallways and towards the outside.
“If someone asks,” she whispered, “we have been walking together for a long time.”
His hand laid itself on hers, his back straightened, his smile turned more subdued. “I could think of no greater honour than protecting you from an unwanted suitor.”
Of course this was what he thought had happened.
“You charm me, Ser Alyn.”
“Oh, please. Saving beautiful maidens in distress is every knight’s dream.”
Not a maiden, she almost said. Not after everything she had done these past few weeks alone.
“What shall we talk of, then, to convince our onlookers that this is merely an innocent stroll?” His fingers traced the trims of her dark-blue velvet sleeves.
Play along.
“I sadly am not used to such idle conversations.” She nodded at one of the courtiers passing them as they stepped outside into the gardens. “I assume you have more expertise.”
She only needed to walk with him until she was safe and out of sight. Perhaps they would even encounter her mother who would immediately rip her out of the man’s arms and drag her towards gods-knew-where.
She did not know what she preferred.
He laughed once more, and she hated that she did not despise the sound of it. “You read me too well, my princess. Though I have never had to entertain someone as beautiful as you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, I am afraid.”
“Is it flattery if it is true?”
“It is if you speak of it while trying to woo your object of desire.”
“That was not me trying to woo you.” He gently pressed his shoulder against hers, guiding her down another path. “But if you wish to know how I would go about something like this, I could show you.”
Say no.
“You seem quite certain I would respond well to it.”
He leaned towards her, his warm lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Tell your guard to wait here.”
An involuntary shiver went down her spine.
Say no. Tell him to forget it. All he wishes for is Storm’s End. He does not care about you. Stay where you are - in the gardens where plenty of courtiers can see you, can protect you shall he try anything. Do not let yourself be led astray.
“Ser Osmund.” She turned her head towards her guard behind them. “Wait here.”
“As I already attempted to say before, I am not comfortable leaving you alone. Not after what happened to Daven Lannister.”
“But I would not be alone, I have Ser Alyn protecting me.”
His hand hovered above her lower back. “I swear no harm shall come to Princess Cerelle as long as she is in my care.”
The Kingsguard seemed ready to continue arguing, and she wished for nothing more than to let him, than to let him run to her mother and tell her what was happening.
A calm spread through her body as she looked him directly in the eyes. “Stay, and wait until I return. Please.”
He turned around as she quickly dragged Alyn down the overgrown path.
“I am impressed.” He returned their hands to their previous positions. “The voice you just used could have convinced a king to burn his crown.”
She did not like thinking about the voice; where it came from, what it did, how she used it.
Why had she used it for this?
“He is my guard,” was all she said. “He is sworn to obey, and he obeys. If reluctantly.”
“Better than Balon?”
The question almost made her frown, and if she had had the choice she would have taken a step away from Alyn.
She had of course noticed the looks shared between the two men, how both glared at one another whenever they thought her distracted, how their sparring sessions turned more brutal with every passing day.
They could not truly…
“No other Kingsguard is as attentive towards his surroundings nor as diligent in his duties. Were Ser Balon here today, he would not have let us wander off alone.”
“Then we can both be glad he is asleep in his tower.” His voice held an edge to it she could not quite place.
“I…” Perhaps asking was a bad idea, but if he ran away in anger it would at least spare her whatever he had planned. “You two seem to know each other quite well.”
If he was annoyed or offended, he did not show. “We grew up fairly close to each other. Greenstone and Stonehelm are less than two days apart by ship, and our fathers often took us with them when attending court in Storm’s End.”
“What are the Stormlands like? I've sadly never been.”
He will think you want this just as much as him.
“Stormy.” She hated herself for laughing. Whether he smiled in response, she refused to find out. “Most of it is covered by thick forests, which are more often than not clouded in rain and fog. The seas all along the coast are so vicious, it is said that only if you manage to traverse them are you able to call yourself a true sailor.”
“And are you? Able to call yourself a true sailor?”
Squeezing his arm - hidden underneath thick, dark green fabric - happened almost instinctively, as was the playful grin she sent his way.
“But of course.” The deep chuckle and raised eyebrow almost made her nudging worth it. “Greenstone is an island, after all, and where would we be if its heir could not brave its surroundings? Besides-” He guided her towards a small set of stairs leading down towards the sea, nestled tightly against the cliffs below. “You are standing before the three-time winner of the annual Greenstone sail-around.”
She laughed. “That is a competition? How long does it take?”
“About half a day, depending on the wind.” He held her hand tightly as they descended the stairway. “Perhaps you would like to watch the next time? We hope to hold another one before winter sets in.”
“I would love to.”
If it were up to her grandfather, she would watch as his wife.
He would betroth them the very instant news of her current position reached him.
Why had she agreed to this? Why was she following this stranger towards her almost assured-
“We are here.”
She forgot about his hand in hers, his hold on her waist, everything such a touch might have meant the moment her eyes laid themselves onto the cliffs glowing almost pure white in the morning sun before her. Their place on the overhang in the middle of the rocks provided her with the most breathtaking view of the Red Keep she had ever seen.
“It's beautiful,” she breathed out.
“I knew you would like it.”
She stared, basked in the gentle wind and the calming pattering of the waves against the shore below, and wished for nothing more than to be here with a different man.
“How many ladies have you brought here before me?”
Why did she care?
“None. Only you.”
She turned her head, and strained against the hand on her back that moved lower and lower every moment. “Am I meant to believe that?”
Alyn smiled, and it was the most overwhelming and horrifying thing she had ever seen. His free hand slowly, as if scared she might jump into the sea below if he moved too suddenly, lifted to hover above her cheek. “You should.”
Her lips parted in surprise as his warm fingers laid themselves on her jaw, his mouth so close, too close, far too close.
She knew what he wanted.
She should not give it to him.
Despite the days that had passed, the indents of Henrix’ teeth still marred her throat.
Cerelle closed her eyes, and leaned into the lips that spoke of nothing but false promises.
She leaned against the wall, and took a deep, deep breath.
The trees had lost almost the entirety of their foliage, red and orange and gold lining the paths of the gardens, while the branches stretched their skeletal remains out above her. Any day now the snows would begin to fall, and winter would come.
Castle Black had to have already suffered its first storm, wrapping the buildings in thick layers of white, making the traversing between them ever more difficult with each passing day. Plenty of brothers had already slipped on the frozen walkways when she had been there - the situation now had to be even worse.
She wondered, not for the first time that week, how Jon was doing. She tried not to, of course, but it was getting harder and harder with each passing day.
Gods, Jon had become Lord Commander. Her beautiful, wonderful Jon had somehow managed to be elected leader of the Night’s Watch, when he was barely older than her.
(Which meant, of course, that Jeor Mormont had died, yet she couldn’t find it in herself to care.)
Perhaps she could send for him now. Invent a reason for the Lord Commander to come to King’s Landing and meet with the king - discuss the defense of the Wall, the coming winter, food and supplies and additional men for the Watch. And then she could speak to him one last time. See his grey eyes, hear his enchanting voice, feel his soft lips under hers. And afterwards she could finally close that door, and forget about him.
Did he think of her as well? As he walked along the paths on top of the Wall, the ones they had gotten to know each other on? Did he sometimes look upon the King’s Tower and see a shadow behind the window? Was he-
A loud slam echoed through the garden, and returned her mind to reality. Quiet mumbling followed it, almost unnoticeable through the bushes separating her from its origin.
Confused, she made her way towards it.
A boy no older than Myrcella sat on a lone stone bench, cradling a wooden harp and looking, as a whole, less than happy. One of the strings of his instrument had snapped and he was unsuccessfully trying to fix it back into place.
“Stupid-”
“May I help you?”
His head shot up, his eyes widening as they spotted her. He stumbled to his feet and bowed, the harp still pressed to his chest.
“Princess Cerelle. I apologise for disturbing you, I will leave right away-”
“It’s alright,” she said with a chuckle. “Remain where you are, you have the same right to these gardens as I do. Though I must admit I am curious as to what just happened.”
“I-” He hesitated. “I want to learn the harp. I have to train out here because my cousin forbid me from doing it anywhere near him. He says it sounds like I am torturing a bird.”
She laughed. “I am sure my playing sounded much worse when I started.”
“You play the harp?” he asked excitedly. “Can you teach me?”
“Uh…” She pressed her lips into a tight line. “I fear I am no good as a teacher.”
Cerelle had spoken something akin to these words before - years ago at Castle Black, after she had held out her daggers to Jon and gotten so awfully close to him during her measly attempts at remaining normal with him.
“Oh, I- I apologise for asking.”
Cerelle looked at the boy, clearly already preparing to bow and run away from her, leaving this entire interaction off on a very sour note, and so she quickly blurted out, “I can fix your harp for you, though.”
And so they sat down on the stone bench, her Kingsguard watching over them both, and she started on her work.
“Why do you want to learn the harp?” she asked.
“To make the ladies of the court fall in love with me, of course! My mother says I can sing like a nightingale, but I need an instrument to accompany me.”
She smiled at his youthful innocence. “Do you already have a lady in mind to woo?”
“Not yet. But I will find one, I know. And then I will travel with her and show her the world.”
That would have been an option for her and Jon, she realised. Running away from all that held them down, and sailing so far away neither king nor witch could ever find them.
Of course, only if she had realised her feelings for him earlier. The kiss on the night of their parting had been sweet but too late.
Such a thing tended to happen quite often with her.
“Do you sing as well?” he asked.
“I can sing,” she said carefully, keeping her gaze fixed on the work in her lap. “But I do not tend to do it in front of others.”
“Why?”
It took her a while to answer. “I don't know. I suppose I simply do not want people to stare at me more than they already do.” She handed him the harp. “Here, all finished.”
“Could you play something?” He pushed the instrument back into her hands. “I want my harp to be played by someone talented for once, so that it doesn't unlearn how it's supposed to function.”
“A piece of wood cannot unlearn nor learn something,” she said with a laugh, yet accepted the harp anyways, positioned it properly on her lap, and let her fingers glide across the strings. “What would you like to hear?”
“Can you play Golden Paladin and the Flowers of High Heart? It's my favourite of her ballads.”
A part of her - the one still terrified of herself - wanted to refuse, to separate herself from the terrors of her past. And her present.
But… Oh, this boy looked so hopeful, so convinced this legendary figure he had heard of was real and would one day come save him.
No matter what had happened at High Heart, or during any other of her misguided adventures - this one thing she could provide.
The cords came naturally to her, the song being one of the most beloved and most played during her time in the Riverlands. And then, after playing for a while, the boy started singing along.
His mother had been correct - his voice was beautiful. Still a bit rough around the edges, and some of the words sounded too squeaky for a boy well past voice break, but the smile on his lips was audible to hear in every line, and the rhythm of the song seemed to come near naturally to him-
“Alesander!”
The voice called through the gardens and shattered whatever they had crafted themselves in the safety of the bushes and trees. Then a man appeared from behind a corner, and she had to bury her nails so deep into her palms she drew blood, all to avoid losing her grip on reality.
A grey doublet with two blue towers stitched above the chest.
A Frey.
“Alesander, you wanted to help me with my tilting…” His sentence trailed off when he spotted her, and he quickly fell into a deep bow. “My princess.”
She lowered her head once, yet brought no word across her dry lips.
“I apologise, Theo, I lost track of the time.” Alesander stood up, and Cerelle, almost absentmindedly, handed him back his harp. “Thank you for everything, princess. I hope we may meet again.”
She nodded once more, and the two men disappeared down the trail.
Fuck, she was truly pathetic. How could the mere presence of a Frey confuse her so? How was she supposed to be the Golden Paladin when she could not even face her greatest enemies-
No. Those men were not her enemies. The Golden Paladin’s greatest enemy was House Lannister - the Freys were mere assets in her grandfather’s plans, shields he could hide behind and weapons to discard once they had outlived their usefulness.
No sane man could have allowed Alesander to participate in that gruesome night. He still carried too much hope, too much of that child-like innocence she had lost so long ago to ever make him a reliable player in such an intricate plan.
Not all Freys were guilty. Just as not all Lannisters were.
Had Oberyn himself not realised this when he had found her in Braavos? Without compassion and love for an enemy, she would never have survived this long. Not in Sunspear, not beyond the Wall, not in the Riverlands.
A presence appeared behind her.
“You need to follow the hostages in my stead,” she said. “There are too many eyes on me and I am being held back against my will.”
“Are you certain this is what you want to use me for?” Lucion’s voice remained as quiet and threatening as ever.
“You are sworn to me. You have to adhere to my commands.”
“If you demand mindless obedience, turn to your Kingsguard. I might be sworn to you, but that does not mean I have to listen to commands I disagree with.”
“You disagree with a simple request? This assassin still on the loose could very easily be targeting me next, do you not wish to protect me?”
Lucion remained quiet for a long, long time.
“If you had seen what I did… you would spare another thought about that assassin either.”
Then he was gone, and the birds began to sing again.
In the distance she saw Helena hurrying towards her, yet the smile on Cerelle’s face quickly disappeared when her lady in waiting arrived before her, grabbed her arm, and dragged her into the bushes.
“You talked to a Frey?” she hissed quietly.
“I merely fixed his harp and played it for him.” Cerelle winced at the tight grip Helena had on her, yet no matter how hard she tried, she was not able to free herself. “Helena, what has gotten into you?”
“Imagine if someone found the Golden Paladin fraternizing with the enemy!”
“Alesander is a boy.”
“He is just as guilty as the rest of them.”
Cerelle stared at her lady in disbelief.
“Helena,” she said softly, cupping her lady’s face in her hands. “Did something happen? You know you can tell me anything.”
She averted her gaze, yet still, ever so slightly, pressed her cheek into Cerelle’s palm. “I don’t want to trouble you with it.”
“I am your friend. You can trouble me with whatever you wish.”
Instead of answering, Helena interlocked their lips into a kiss so gentle, so sweet, Cerelle had no choice but to melt into it. And when her hand was taken and she was softly pulled into the castle, through the halls, and back into her chambers, she could do little but follow, any thoughts of her duty and the hostages wiped from her mind.
We know Catelyn/Lady Stoneheart is pretty indiscriminate to the extent of hanging a 13 year old for the crime of *checks notes* fighting against Stannis? but I wonder if it'd be any different with the Freys who were actively kept away from the Red Wedding: Perwyn, Alesander and especially Olyvar who was known to be devoted to Robb.
the newest house of lies chapter was amazing per usual <3 something i’d really love to know how you decided who was going to die after the events of the masquerade ball ?? 👀 was there any specific reasons for the choices or was it random…
so there was a certain sense of randomness to some of the deaths. for example, i didn't care which kingsguard out of boros, meryn, and osmund died, i want to get rid of them all anyways. myranda was thrown in bc i don't need her within the story anymore, but she is a character i mentioned before. and i quite like that a somewhat antagonistic person like her died by protecting someone she loves.
alesander frey was put into the story specifically to kill him. i knew a frey would definitely be killed at the masquerade, and so wrote his scene with cerelle in chapter 47 to give some meaning as to why i/the assassin targeted him. jynessa is someone that meant something to cerelle and therefore her death hits, and about henrix' death i have spoken about here. hanna's (the maid) death will be explained next week 🙂↕️
i will also add that some of the people that died were specifically targeted (like henrix) while some deaths were moreso happenstance.
