ㅤ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀🗡₊˚⊹♡ Lady Gisella in the Game of Thrones chapters.
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ SANSA.
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀The queen had called for music that evening, and so the hall was full.
Candles burned in silver along the walls, and every table gleamed with polished cups and plates. The air smelled of roasted capon and lemon cakes and the heavy perfumes of noble ladies. Sansa loved it all. The songs, the banners, the laughter, the rustle of silk as ladies moved through the hall like bright birds. This was how life at court was meant to be. She sat beside Jeyne Poole, trying very hard to eat delicately and not stare.
Lady Gisella Venus had entered the hall.
Sansa had seen her before, of course. The Venuses had come south with the king's court and had taken rooms near the Tower of the Hand. Lord Aeryn was often seen speaking with the importnat lords or wandering the gardens with the other stormlords. But his daughter…
She looked as though she had stepped out of one of Old Nan's stories.
Her gown was green, deep as a forest after rain, embroidered with silver thread that caught the candlelight whenever she moved. Her dark hair fell in long waves down her back, and she wore no jewels save for a slender silver chain at her throat. She did not need jewels. Her face was lovely enough. Even the queen looked hard beside her.
"She's beautiful," Jeyne whispered.
Sansa could only nod. Beautiful was too small a word. The singers sang of maidens with hair like sunlight and eyes like sapphires, but they never sang of women like Lady Gisella. There was something sad about her beauty, Sansa thought, something quiet.
She smiled at everyone who approached her, but her smiles never seemed to linger.
The hall seemed brighter wherever she walked and everyone watched her. The young knights watched openly. The older lords watched with eyes that Sansa didn't fully understand. Even the ladies watched.
A serving girl carrying wine stumbled and nearly dropped her tray when Lady Gisella passed. The girl went pale, but Lady Gisella only laughed softly and took one of the cups from the tray to steady it.
The serving girl looked ready to cry, "thank you, my lady."
"No, my lady," the girl said earnestly, "it wasn't."
Lady Gisella looked surprised by that. Then she smiled and touched the girl's hand before moving on. Sansa watched her go.
"She spoke to her," Jeyne said, scandalized, "ladies do not do that."
But Lady Gisella did. Sansa could not take her eyes off her. She wished she looked like that. She wished she moved like that, all grace and softness. She wished she knew what to say to frightened serving girls and shy squires and old men and little children. Everywhere Lady Gisella went, people seemed to smile. She made it look so easy.
She found herself wondering whether Lady Gisella had always been so lovely, or whether girls simply became that way when they grew older.
Perhaps one day she would too.
"I think she's the most beautiful lady at court," she whispered.
Jeyne's eyes went wide, "more beautiful than the queen?"
Sansa hesitated. One was not supposed to say such things. She glanced toward Queen Cersei and then back to Lady Gisella.
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ REEK.
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀The rat had escaped him again.
It had been a fat grey thing with one torn ear, bold enough to creep from its hole while he slept and nibble at the crust of bread hidden in his straw. Reek had seen it first by the glimmer of torchlight beneath the door and had lunged for it, all skin and bones and shaking hands, but the creature had darted away before his fingers could close.
Lucky rat, he thought as he watched its tail vanish into a crack between the stones.
The cell was cold. The damp had seeped into the walls long ago and never left. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness with slow and patient sounds. Drip. Drip. Drip.
The straw beneath him was black with mold and old stains. It smelled of piss and blood and things worse than blood. The smell never truly faded. Even when they let him wash, he could still smell it. It clung to him worse than dirt, worse than sweat.
The smell of fear; his own fear.
Reek curled tighter upon himself, wrapping his arms around his chest. His fingers brushed the stumps where other fingers had once been, and he jerked his hand away at once.
The darkness was safer. Darkness had no knives. Darkness did not laugh.
Somewhere farther down the dungeon another prisoner coughed, a wet, ragged sound that seemed to go on forever. Then silence swallowed it.
The rat had escaped. Again. He wondered where it went. Perhaps there were tunnels in the walls. Tiny secret passages only rats knew. Perhaps it crept out into the open air and fed on crumbs in some warm kitchen. Perhaps it saw the sun.
He tried to remember the sun. He remembered a sky over Pyke, grey and full of gulls. He remembered riding beside Robb Stark through green woods. He remembered a girl in a green dress laughing. The memories hurt so Reek shut his eyes.
A key rattled in the lock. At once every muscle in him tightened. No. Please, not again.
The key scraped against iron and the hinges groaned. Light spilled into the darkness, and Reek threw up an arm to shield his eyes.
He knew that voice. One of the bastard's men. They all sounded the same after a while. Reek scrambled to his knees.
"Please," he whispered. "Please, I was good."
No answer. A hand seized his arm and another caught his shoulder as they dragged him up. His legs had gone weak from the cold. He stumbled almost at once. One of the guards cursed and the other struck him across the back of the head. Stars burst before his eyes.
"Yes," Reek said. "Yes, I will walk."
His bare feet slapped against the stones. The stair seemed endless. Up and up and up. The torches smoked and the air smelled of grease and wet dog. Twice he slipped, twice he struck the steps with his knees. No one helped him; no one ever helped him.
At the top of the stairs they shoved him through another door. The room beyond was warm. He could feel a fire crackled in the hearth.
The heat felt strange against his skin. He could smell roasting meat and his stomach twisted, because there he was.
Lord Ramsay sat sprawled in a high-backed chair beside the fire, one boot thrust out before him. A goblet of wine rested in one hand. His smile was small and pleasant. That smile frightened Reek more than shouting.
"Look at you," said Ramsay. "A sorry creature."
Reek fell to his knees, "yes, my lord."
The bastard sipped his wine, "you've gone thin."
"Yes, my lord," was all Reek could say.
"You smell," Ramsay continued.
So did Reek, "yes, my lord."
Ramsay chuckled, "I believe you've forgotten to thank me."
Reek's heart fluttered. Forgotten. Forgotten what? Oh. The food, the blanket, the mercy.
"Thank you, my lord," he said quickly. "Thank you."
"That's better," the bastard smiled. "Tell me your name."
The answer came at once, "Reek, my lord."
The word settled over him like a blanket; good. He had answered rightly, he would not be hurt.
Ramsay leaned forward, "what was your name before?"
The room seemed to grow colder. Reek swallowed. There had been another name, another man, a smiling youth with fine clothes and shining teeth, a boy of Pyke, a ward of Winterfell. A fool.
The name rose from some deep dark place. Theon. Theon Greyjoy. It hurt to remember, like a knife twisting slowly between his ribs.
"My lord?" Ramsay's voice had sharpened.
Reek licked his lips, "Theon Greyjoy."
"There he is," the bastard sounded delighted.
He rose from his chair and crossed the room as a cat approaches a mouse. He crouched before him, "and what would Theon Greyjoy ask of me?"
Theon Greyjoy had asked for too much: a crown, a castle, a father's love. Mercy. Mercy was for songs. Mercy was for septons. Mercy did not come to this place. Yet somehow the words escaped him.
Silence. Ramsay blinked. Then he laughed, "ladies do not visit dungeons."
The word sounded strange in his mouth. Once he would sooner have bitten out his own tongue than beg. Now he begged for bread, for water, for sleep, for the pain to stop, "please, my lord."
The laughter faded. Ramsay studied him, "why her?"
Because she was the last: the last person who had looked at him and seen more than a hostage, who remembered his smiles, who had called him Theon and made it sound like something worth being.
Greenhill: he remembered rain, her hands smelled of lavender and parchment, a hall full of candles, a laugh. He remembered laughing too. Gods. Had he laughed once? The memory felt like a dream.
"I only wish to see her," he whispered.
The question frightened him, "no."
The lie came too quickly. Ramsay's smile widened, "ah."
He reached out and took hold of Reek's chin. His fingers were warm. Reek trembled.
"No?" said Ramsay softly. "Then why do you look as though I put a knife in your belly?"
"No?" the bastard's thumb pressed against his cheek, "you do."
He smiled, "I think perhaps our Reek misses his lady."
"No?" Ramsay questioned again with a smile.
"No," Reek insisted though he was not sure of his answer.
Ramsay dug deeper in his skin, "say it."
Reek swallowed, "there is no lady."
Ramsay laughed, "oh, but there is."
His pale eyes glittered, "and that is why this is going to be so much fun."
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ CERSEI.
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀The girl was pretty.
Cersei saw that at once and hated her for it. Lord Aeryn Venus had arrived at court two days after the Starks, bringing with him a modest train of household knights and servants, and his daughter besides. The lords had greeted him warmly enough, though not warmly enough to make him important. The daughter, however…
The daughter had entered the throne room in a gown of deep green velvet, and every eye had followed her. Even Robert's. Especially Robert's. Cersei remembered that.
The king had been half-drunk already, sprawled upon the Iron Throne like a fat old stag in borrowed armor, but he had straightened when the girl approached. She had not been smiling, not then. There was something solemn about her, some quiet dignity that made men lower their voices when speaking to her.
"Who is she?" Robert had asked.
A simple question. Yet Cersei had felt it like a knife.
"Lord Aeryn's daughter," she had replied.
As if there were no other thing to be, as if beauty were all a woman had. Cersei's hands tightened around her goblet, "Lady Gisella Venus."
The king had grunted, "too solemn."
Then he had laughed and reached for more wine. But his eyes had followed the girl until she disappeared into the crowd.
The girl could not have seen twenty years. At that age Cersei herself had been called the light of the west. Lords had crossed kingdoms for a glimpse of her smile. Men had composed songs in her honor. Below, in the hall, Lady Gisella was speaking to one of the serving girls.
"What is it?" Jaime asked beside her.
She had not heard him approach, "nothing."
"It does not look like nothing."
She ignored him. Jaime followed her gaze, "ah."
The sound annoyed her, "what?"
"You are glaring," her brother spoke in a jest.
Cersei turned to him sharply, "I am doing no such thing."
Jaime's mouth twitched, "she is pretty."
Cersei's face hardened, "is she?"
She hated him then. Not because he was wrong, because he was not. The girl had dark hair that shone in the candlelight and great grey-green eyes and skin so pale it almost made her look as a ghost. She was not as beautiful as Cersei had once been. Not quite. But she was young. And youth had a beauty all its own; that was the cruel truth.
"You should smile at her," Jaime said.
"Because you look as though you're considering poisoning her wine," he jested, though Jaime knew his sister is capable of doing such.
Cersei laughed, "I do not poison girls for being pretty."
"No?" her brother asked with a tilt of his head.
"No," she paused. "Not unless they give me reason."
Jaime sighed, "there she is again."
The girl had crossed the hall. An old knight had risen to greet her. She took his hands in hers and kissed his cheek. The old man looked close to tears. A serving boy hurried past with a platter of roast duck and nearly collided with her. He stopped dead, horrified. Lady Gisella merely stepped aside and smiled. The boy's face turned red. Cersei could see it from across the hall.
"What in the Seven Hells is she doing?" she asked.
Jaime barked a laugh, "I suppose because she wishes to be."
No, that was not it. No one was kind without reason. Kindness was another sort of coin, a thing to be spent, a thing to be traded. Yet people drifted toward the girl as flowers turn toward the sun. Ladies sought her company. Young knights found excuses to pass near her table. Even children seemed drawn to her.
There was power in that, a different sort of power than crowns or swords; a more dangerous sort. A queen might command obedience, love was another matter. Cersei had seen kingdoms tremble for love. The king himself had nearly destroyed his realm for a dead girl with Stark blood.
"Who is she promised to?" she asked suddenly.
Jaime looked at her, "no one, I think."
"No one," Jaime continued, eyes following the young girl, "she was promised to Viserys for a long time. But, since he is dead..."
The thought displeased her even more. The Venus girl promised to a Targaryen prince of the Realm. She thought of Rhaegar then.
The girl laughed then. A little girl had climbed into her lap and was showing her a doll with one missing eye. The sight of it made something cold and ugly stir within Cersei. Lady Gisella looked up suddenly and for half a heartbeat their eyes met across the hall. The girl smiled and Cersei hated it. She turned away at once.
"You truly do dislike her," Jaime said softly.
"I do not know her," Cersei replied, displeased, as she drank more.
"You needn't know someone to dislike them."
Jaime smiled, "of course."
She ignored the amusement in his voice. As she departed, she glanced back only once; the girl was still seated among children and servants and lesser knights, smiling as though she had not a care in all the world.
Young, Cersei thought, beautiful, beloved.
She did not like any of those things. And for reasons she could not have named, Cersei Lannister suddenly thought it wise to keep an eye on Lady Gisella Venus.
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ DAENERYS.
⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀Her brother held the gown up for her inspection.
"This is beauty," he said. "Touch it."
Dany touched it. The cloth was soft as water and deep purple, almost the color of twilight. She had never owned anything half so fine. It frightened her.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
Viserys scarcely heard. His mind was already across the narrow sea.
"When I take back my throne, there will be gowns like this for every day of the year," he smiled, though there was little joy in it. "And jewels. Emeralds from the Reach. Rubies from the west. Pearls from the Summer Isles."
He looked at her critically, "you've gone thin again."
"I am not hungry," Dany said quitely.
"You ought to eat more," that surprised her. Her brother seldom noticed such things, "lady Gisella used to say the same."
The name meant nothing to Dany, "who is Lady Gisella?"
Viserys paused. For a moment he seemed annoyed with himself for having spoken, "no one."
"If she is no one, why do you remember what she said?"
That made him scowl, "too many questions."
Dany lowered her eyes, "I'm sorry."
He hung the gown beside the door, "Lord Aeryn Venus had a daughter. Gisella."
"An old Valyrian house in Stormlords," he waved a hand impatiently. "A lesser branch, but old enough. Her father once thought to wed her to me."
The notion seemed strange, "you?"
"Who else?" his voice sharpened. "I was a prince even then."
Of course, Dany thought. She should not have sounded surprised, "but it never happened. Why?"
Viserys's mouth twisted, "look where we are, Dany. Why do you think we did not wed?"
Dany blinked away tears. Viserys scoffed, "besides, the girl never wanted it."
Dany blinked, "how do you know?"
Viserys looked toward the window. Outside, the sun was sinking behind the brick towers of Pentos, "I simply know."
For a long while neither of them spoke. Dany tried to imagine this Lady Gisella. She pictured someone older than herself. A lady with dark hair, perhaps. Most ladies in Westeros seemed to have dark hair in the songs. She imagined green gowns and silver jewels and soft hands. A castle too. Green hills and rain and towers of stone. She had never seen rain upon green hills. Only in dreams.
"Was she beautiful?" Dany asked.
Viserys barked a laugh, "what a question."
He considered, "I suppose."
Suppose. The word sounded strange. Men in the songs never said they supposed a lady beautiful. They declared it; they fought duels over it, they wrote songs. Dany thought of the songs she has heard, "what did she look like?"
But that was a lie. Dany knew at once. Viserys remembered everything that belonged to Westeros, that belonged to him. And though, as she learnt, Lady Gisella never wed her brother, she knew he thought of her as his too.
The room had grown quiet. She imagined Lady Gisella again. In the songs, every maiden dreamed of princes, but perhaps real girls dreamed of other things.
"What became of her?" she asked quitely, fingers twisting nervously at her dress.
The answer came too quickly, "I have no idea. She's in Westeros somewhere, I suppose."
Somewhere. The word seemed full of longing. Dany moved to the window. Beyond the bay, beyond the sea, lay a land she had never seen: a land of castles and green hills and armored knights, a land where dark-haired ladies lived in stone keeps and did not wish to marry kings. For one strange moment she envied this Lady Gisella whom she had never met.
She belonged somewhere. Dany belonged nowhere.
She looked back out at the setting sun. Somewhere beyond it, Lady Gisella Venus lived her life. Perhaps she walked in gardens, perhaps she stood upon a battlement looking at the rain, perhaps she had forgotten there had ever been a prince named Viserys Targaryen.
The thought made Dany unexpectedly glad.
If she were a lady in a castle on a green hill, she thought, she would not wish to remember princes either.
