WHO: Ser Mielle Yronwood, Lady Laurentia Lannister ( @draconianmuses )
WHERE: Storm’s End, sometime after Edric’s Funeral
Laurentia: Lady Lannister sits by her chamber’s table, a couple of documents in hand, as she ascertains some details in the ledgers, carefully. A cup of red in hand, and the signs of nights spent awake, or barely asleep, showing on her face. She’s writing some things down, and occasionally staring at the damp view her window presents her. The rain seems fitting in a funeral setting, she muses. But, in any case, doesn’t it always rain in Storm’s End?
She hears a couple of steps nearing her doors, then a knock. She lifts her chin, awakened from stupor. “Yes?” she calls.
Mielle: It’s against her better judgement but the kingsguard can’t help the growing concern she feels for the Lannister. The hour is late, as evidenced by the darkness outside. “Lady Lannister?” Mielle answers, pressing her ear to the door first. She listens first for any sign of life, hearing only the miserable patter of rain at first. “May I speak with you?”
Laurentia: She recognized the voice immediately. The thought of a faceless assassin taking her form strikes her for a brief moment, and she huffs a quiet laugh through her nostrils. That would indeed be the perfect way to barge into the Warden of the West’s chamber– for Laurentia could never seem to close that door, let alone not keep it wide open upon her return. If she ever returns, that is. Then, a couple of steps, and the knob twists. She opens the door and makes way for Ser Yronwood to pass. If that is a pretender, she would have only herself to blame. “Come in,” she urges, watching the brunette, and then sneaking her head outside, checking the halls for any prying eyes, and sighing with relief when none are found. Laurentia enters and closes the door behind her. “It is late. Should you not be asleep? You’re working.”
Mielle: She trains herself to smile as the door opens, features brightening at the sight of the lady. She is nothing like an imposter, entirely as she was that day in Harrenhal, entirely and purely herself. “Although I could be asleep, I have decided to forego rest.” It is her nature to lean towards sarcasm, her sardonism typically unappreciated by most. “Is that alright with you?” Concerned eyes rove over the woman’s features, noticing the tired circles beneath her blue eyes immediately. She was right to find her. Something had felt amiss. Something beyond the riots in the Westerlands.
Laurentia: The blonde cocks her head to the side, feeling a sudden warmth to her chest that felt nearly impossible in that damp cold room just a few hours ago. She grins just faintly, cerulean eyes gleaming with an unusual sweetness. Her hands caressing the top of the knight’s head and leaning in to press a kiss against her raven hair. “I do have a job, too, you know. It is very tiresome. Though I'd assume playing Aerion’s nursemaid like a second shadow must be twice the heavy burden– I cannot compete.” She scoffs lightly, then her face sours with the thought of her troubles. “I just… shoulder a lot. Always have. But… these past couple of days… the weight has seemed to double. With the riots and everything. That's all. You shouldn't worry.”
Mielle: Measuring her reaction, Mielle allows herself to preen under the gentle kiss to her crown. She is sure not to allow herself to get carried away, anchoring her weight into her stance against the sea of warmth that Laurentia fills her with. “Ah, I imagine that it is hard work to be the Warden of the West. Much harder work than a nursemaid to the king.” The kingsguard does not take the teasing to heart, knowing he would laugh at the joke if he heard it with his own ears. But, the sound of her troubles presses a furrow between her strong brows. “I do worry. Someone must.” Mielle is not one to hesitate, decisive in every action she takes. She does not waffle back and forth, staying true to her convictions. “You look tired. I did not think you and the Lord Dondarrion were so close.”
Laurentia: “Someone must?” She echoed, a grin sprouting on her lips. So you do care, after all, she thought. At the mention of the deceased's name, Laurentia pursed her lips, lowering her gaze. “No. Not friends. Acquaintances, perhaps. Brothers in arms, yes. But I am the Warden of the West. And belong in the king's small council. It is a matter of estate that I make myself present at the funeral of another warden's heir… not my personal preference. I've had enough funerals this year,” she admits, a half shrug following her words, the motion heavier than usual. Must be the additional weight, she muses to herself. The lioness studies Mielle’s expression for a while– quiet and knowingly. She draws back, steps towards the table, pulls a chair for her companion to sit and pours her the lightest bottle of wine she can summon from the available collection. She hands Mielle the full goblet and sits down, and only then utters a word: “Go on,” she nudges. “Ask what you came to ask.”
Mielle: Mielle does not acknowledge Laurentia’s grin, shaking her head, almost fondly. Once, it’d been her job to care for Laurentia. It was no longer a responsibility but something engrained within her. Second nature, even. She could not help it. “Welcome to my world,” she says, humourlessly. The last decade had been a series of strange events and locations, tailing the king and his son and his daughters tirelessly around the Seven Kingdoms. Laurentia was only getting a glimpse into the life that Mielle now lived, untethered by things such as a house.
Following her command, Mielle accepts the seat. The conversation was not destined to be fast. But, she could certainly try. Not one to mince words, Mielle begins, “You were not at Riverrun.” It was difficult for the Kingsguard to avoid gossip in its entirety.
Laurentia: The lioness snorts at the comment, “Did you know… that back when King Jaehaerys I and Queen Alysanne had to travel across the realm with their respective white cloaks, they did it on dragonback?” She says, enjoying the opportunity to utter a scholarly fact. “One would think that Queen Alysanne would take her own knight with her, mounted on Silverwing, and King Jaehaerys with his sworn knight, upon Vermithor. But no. They had to balance the weight. Jaehaery's guard was a sturdy man and Alysanne’s was a woman. So they switched the guards on their mounts, to travel across the realm anywhere. I bet travelling then was much more efficient. And quicker, too,” she mused, watching as the brunette neared in to take her seat beside her. When she did so, Laurentia reached for the white cloak’s legs, pulling them atop her thighs. As if the proximity was second nature. At the mention of Riverrun, Laurentia’s face lost the scholarly enthusiasm and gained a more somber streak. “Ah!” she mused, sarcastically, finally grasping it. Though it wasn’t like she didn’t have her suspicions that that would be the subject of that conversation. “No, I wasn’t,” she said, simply. Sipping from her own cup. “I was not wanted there. She died in my yard, didn’t she? The Tullys blamed me for it. Blamed every lion for it. I would not dare show up, for my own safety and… because I know it would be a tad distasteful.”
Mielle: There were many sleepless nights that the Yronwood spent with bleary eyes as she listened to the soft vibrations against the beat of her heart, fighting her tiredness to spend another moment long listening to the velvety tone of the Lannister. Patiently, Mielle listens, as she always did. In past, she might reward each fact with a kiss upon the porcelain of her cheek, but now, in their strangled proximity Mielle offers only a smile. “I am no more eager to see His Grace hatch his egg because I still have no interest in riding his stead.” Her palm finds her cheek, listening to the cadence of the Lannister’s voice — enjoying the lilt of her tone.
“Distasteful?” Mielle echoes. Her brow furrows lightly, curiosity piqued. The details coming out of Lannisport had been a bizarre blend of stories — some sounding true enough, and many sounding embellished. One of the more boisterous lords claimed that Lord Osric Tully had punched the Ruling Lannister Lady. “I would think that they would appreciate your respects. But…” Mielle understood how complicated the politics surrounding funeraries could become. “None of us are rational in our grief.” There is one specific Mielle knows, old news now, that prods at her. She finds it difficult to broach it.
Laurentia: “By the time His Grace hatches an egg– if that ever were to happen–, you would be old and wrinkly and probably begging for the sweet kiss of death, since you cannot retire,” the jest comes naturally, but it lacks the joy in it. It sounds more like an observation than a playful comment. But, in truth, Laurentia means no harm by it. She focuses her attention on Mielle’s words, while her hands draw patterns on the Kingsguard’s thighs, then massaging just under her knees, where the joints sometimes hurt the most from so many hours standing on one’s feet. “Indeed,” she nods. How am I to tell her that? Even the thought of it brings an itch under my skin that I cannot quite scratch. “I’m afraid you’re forgetting my house was loyal to the crown. And the Tullys were rebels. That sort of animosity sits dormant, waiting. A grievance hard to quell,” she sighs. And it’s true. It is indeed one of the reasons why. Just not the only one. “The Tullys do not care for me. You know this. What I did to them during the war. The wound… runs deep. And Lady Lysa’s gruesome death in Lannister soil only adds insult to injury. I’d be a fool to set foot in Riverrun now,” she paused, gaze drifting aside. “Lord Osric made that perfectly plain.”
Mielle: “By those standards, it would sound treasonous if I wished his egg never to hatch.” Her eyes move downward, breath hitching at the feeling of her fingers dancing along her knee, as if knowing that the joint had been giving her trouble. One supposed, as you got older, you all began to suffer from the same ailments. It often felt that it was only yesterday when they were young. Yesterday’s steel slowly rusting as they moved towards tomorrow. “Was it only animosity?” Mielle finally broaches, hand overtop Laurentia’s in quiet request to stop her ministrations. There had been whispers, Mielle knew of the possibility of Laurentia moving on beyond her but Mielle had never asked for the details — letting Aerion and Lyonel make their snide, nasty jokes to each other while the Lannister sipped her wine. It was those kinds of nights that had her craving something stronger than juice.
Laurentia: Laurentia looked down to her bride’s hand over her own, and stopped the motion of her fingertips under her knee. Was it only animosity?, the question echoed in the quietness of the room. Her pair of brown eyes undressed the lioness of Casterly Rock from any falsity she tried feigning. There was no escaping those eyes when they were aimed at her like arrows. The blonde let out a heavy sigh. “Do you truly wish to know? You may not like the answer.”
Mielle: Her fingers curve around the length of her fingers, holding them now, gold ring around her pinky finger. She had not had it in her to remove it again now that it was hers. Mielle believed if she were a better white cloak she would be able to separate herself from this feeling, but she could not. Beneath the cavern of her ribs, her heart clenches. There were many things Laurentia had done that she did not like, and still, Mielle could feel her heart still full of fondness for her. Full of love. Even at risk of herself. “I do,” Mielle says softly, thumb brushing lightly against the velvet of her skin. “Lighten your heart.”
Laurentia: Silence stretched a moment longer, a heartbeat or two, before Laurentia could take her eyes from upon their fingers interlocked, to then face the brunette. “Alright,” she readied herself. Then reached for the cup of wine and took a sip, her face souring– but not for the taste of it. “I… Well…” she tried, but the words got lost in her throat. Her nostrils flared sharply and she started again. “Lysa and I… we… We had an affair. Before the war. And… during it. It was on and off, and it was never supposed to happen, and yet… it did. It had started for all the wrong reasons, and–” she looked at Mielle then, truly, her eyes, her lips, her raven hair. All the lovely things she looked for in others. “Lysa is the reason why we won the battle against the riverlanders– better yet, her betrayal was. She was a spy. And had been spying on me and sending word back to her family. I quickly figured out the coincidences and became furious. But, of course, I put on a facade in front of her. I let her believe all was well. I gave her two pieces of information. One true, to be purposefully confirmed so; that way, the second one, false, would be taken seriously by the rebel lieges. It had been a lie about our strategy in the field. I needed her to believe in me, to believe in us, so that the lie could land true. The rebels believed the information, and they sorted their entire battle plan upon that lie. My lie. I ruined her family. Her cause. I maimed her brother, Osric. Gave him an arm injury, he still tries to hide, but– his grip falters.” A pause, and she took another sip of wine. “So, as you can see, they have plenty of reasons to fault me for her death now. To think it was… personal. But I didn’t do it. I… I never–”
Mielle: It is as unpleasant to learn this as she expects it to be, but not quite unbearably so. Mielle breathes through the confession, nodding, trying not to needle judgement. It doesn’t matter, she reminds herself. It doesn’t matter, she echoes. You do not own her. She is not yours. The jealousy dissipates as the scales tip, feeling cold upon such revelations. An evil, selfish thought crosses her mind that finds her more upset at the thought of Laurentia and Lysa Tully wrapped in each other’s arms than the next revelation. But, it is gone like a comet. It is only a brief moment before feeling returns to her. Some histories stay secret for a reason. Mielle squeezes her hand. “You would never,” she finishes for her, understanding this. Laurentia would not have arranged for someone she loved to be killed, to do something so… But her thoughts falter. The Peckledons were an event one could not deny. Something very cold grips Mielle’s heart, conflict seizing her. As she so often does, Mielle ignores it. Without giving herself another moment to consider it, she wraps her arms around the lion. Into the space of her neck, Mielle declares, “You would not do that to someone you loved.”
Laurentia: “No,” she whispers. “I don’t think I could. I hope I never do.” Her throat works through a dry gulp as her gaze drifts away, cerulean hues finding comfort in the rainy view outside the big window across from them. A moment of silence stretches before she speaks again. “Even on the battlefield, I… I had been so angry before I actually marched in– I prayed to the gods for a chance to show her all of my wrath, to slay her myself. To let Vulture claim her last breath. Because how could she? I had opened up to her, trusted her– and I did so for the first time since…” a pause, she pressed her temple against Mielle’s, and then, “... you.” Her thumb drew loose patterns on the cup without her even noticing. She abandoned it. “But then, when I finally set foot there, and the fight was thick, and the bloodbath began… I couldn’t help but feel relief any second that passed in which her face didn’t pass me by. I felt so weak. And then I saw Osric, and we fought. And I was still so angry. Angry at her. Angry at him– because I knew that she wouldn’t have done all of this alone. Not because I thought her incapable, though she was a tad lousy as a spy– that much I could tell–, but this was a bigger web. So big, not one spider was responsible for it. There had to be more.” She felt the flush on her cheeks then, the warmth climbing up, anger and shame equally seeping out of her pores. But the lioness took a deep breath, grounding herself before continuing, “When he told me she wasn’t there– that she hadn’t come to fight… I felt so relieved. It was so shameful, as a soldier, to feel such a thing. But the truth is, I did. I couldn’t help it. I was glad she was alive, even though she had betrayed me.”
Mielle: Mielle pulls away, keeping Laurentia there, in the strength of her arms. Even with the confession, Mielle still, for some reason, could not forsake her. Kaleidoscope eyes peer into her cerulean, trying to persuade her sight from the window, wishing her to look at her. To see forgiveness in her gaze, even though she was not asking it of her. Still, Mielle watched her, eyes wide with the same love that built that trust in the first place. If she saw the brunette in her once, then perhaps she could see it again now. “It is not an easy thing to hurt who you love,” Mielle says, her thumb moving to the height of Laurentia’s cheekbone. “Not willingly, at least.” Her smile is soft, a sort of gentleness reserved for her only. “I would not have been able to raise my blade against you…” A strange thing to admit when Mielle had devoted herself so wholly to the cloak. “I could not imagine being forced to… Pulled apart by the war.” It takes a lot from Mielle to offer this, pushing down her selfish greed. “Better her brother than her.”
Laurentia: Laurentia nearly flinches at the touch on her cheek. She didn’t expect warmth from this confession, but rather judgement and coldness and scorn. The lioness had been so long without her bride that she had forgotten what truly means to be enveloped by open arms, that hold you down regardless of the blood on your hands. She melts against the knight’s hand, leaning towards her palm, seeking its familiar softness. “You’re too kind, my love,” she whispers, finally locking eyes with her again. “But, in any case, that was war. And I wouldn’t have Lysa shanked in a dirty alley just because of an old grudge. That much she didn’t deserve.” Laurentia licked her lips, musing in quietness for a heartbeat. “And the crown wouldn’t let me do anything about it. To grant those murderers the mercy of donning the black– that was unbecoming. I know His Grace would never have denied me justice, but our Lord Hand wasn’t wrong to point out that too harsh a sentence would spark another fire. And the city was packed with nobles, so…” She remembered everything, every council meeting back in Lannisport. The rage, the grief. “So I did what was needed of me. And collected my debts elsewhere,” she said, finally. Working her jaw as if setting something back into place. “You know– I did want Lysa alive and well, but… I don’t think I could ever harbor any real feelings for her again. Not after what she had done. My trust, when lost, is lost forever.” The words landed in the room’s damp air and held there, suspended like breath in winter, refusing to dissolve. She felt them settle between them like something fragile and sharp. Her throat tightened, but she did not avert her gaze this time. “But I did wonder,” she began. “Had any harm befallen you in the riots, would reason have stilled my hand? Would I have resorted to unsound means all the same instead of acting on my rage blindly?” A pause, then a trembling whisper, “No. I know myself. I would not. And it sickens me. Lysa’s death was a sorrow I could manage. Yours would be a madness I could not.” A sour laugh echoes, and then her fingertips stroke Mielle’s hand– her pinky, to be more exact, where their gold band stayed now. And the thought crossed her: How could Mielle have forgiven her? Has she ever truly forgiven her? “Mielle. I…” Do I tell her the truth? About all of my monstrosity? A moment passes, perhaps too long. The courage withers. “...I appreciate your visit. Truly.”
Mielle: Mielle does not know where to place this confession, feeling discomfort in her words but ignoring it. As she so often does. There was romance in the words, but Mielle was the sort to enjoy the loveliness of affection and one who hated the ugliness that came of it. Murderers made in the name of love. Lovers murdered by lovers. Love as a cause of death. She had always known Laurentia in her strength, aware that her gentle hands were capable of much violence. Yet, Mielle struggled to reconcile this image of her. For they were the same hands that had brushed her hair out of her face, tenderly held her, softly traced the shape of her fingers, stars and shapes and whatever love felt like that day. The kingsguard had always been gentler than most expected — forcing Mielle to hold herself at a distance in order to bay her bleeding heart. If she did not, then she would be forced to confront the ugliness of it. The dishonor in the honorable kingsguard. It was a lesson they each learned quietly serving under the Mad King — the white cloaks were a sullied practice from the beginning, a flawed system passed from hand to hand. So, even if it brought raise to her brow, she did not prod further. No matter the reason, regardless of the demand, each of them would exact their commands like the loyal dogs they were. Mielle understood the demands of war better than anyone, her strings pulled daily by her puppetmaster. She even understood the emotion of it, the tide that came when you lost the agency to feel as it came to you. “Of course,” Mielle says, as if the history of the last ten years meant nothing. As if she had allowed the last drip of resentment to evaporate into the air. “I…” Her voice dies in her throat, watching Laurentia’s hand brush against the ruby star baked into the ring. Mielle thinks of the night in the maze. She thinks of Darian finding her mere hours later. “I will always wish for the best for you, Laurentia. I do not wish to see you troubled.”
Laurentia: Her thumb grazes gently over the ring on Mielle’s hand for a moment more, before cradling her palm to lift the back of her hand towards her lips, planting a kiss upon the golden skin. “Will you stay the night?” She lets the thought turn to sound. Her eyes become beggars when they find her lips. “If only to sleep.” She whispers. What once bloomed purple across her cheek had softened through blue, into sallow greens, then the weak pink of healing skin. By now, only the faintest dusk remained beneath her eyes– not from Osric’s fist, but from sleeplessness no physician could tend. “I’ll sleep better with your arms around me. And the scent of your hair on my pillow.” She grinned faintly, knowing exactly what tone to use in her voice, to make her request undeniable. “I’ll understand if you need to go. However– You’re already here.”
Mielle: She smiles, an undercurrent of fondness embedded into the lines of her lips. As ever, her porcelain features are unable to hide the affection she has for the Lannister, painted by her hand. “So it seems I am,” Mielle says, her voice a low hum against the crescent of her lips. Lightly, Mielle caresses the blonde’s cheek, the pads of her fingers brushing against where she’d seen the last vestiges of a bruise. Laurentia, ever the charmer, could talk her into anything. One night with her could undo a lifetime of discipline. There was nothing so as undoing as a woman. Her fingers find the soft pillow of her lower lip, punctuating her statement with a soft poke. “Only to sleep.”
