#nonthers

[woventapestries]

@nonthers sent: ❝ love, like prophecy, never asks permission. ❞ from Aemon (from @nonthers) to Rhae mayhaps..

"I don't love him, Aemy, that's not the point."

The princess says it flippantly, hair brushed over her shoulder as she glances over at Daeron's sweet little girl playing in Aegon's Garden. She is a pretty thing, all wide eyes and pink cheeks, with Daeron for a father she will have to speak with Lady Kiera about ensuring the girl makes a good match. Someone kind, and someone of age with her. Most brides don't wish for older, widower husbands like she did,

Little Ellyn is just a babe but already growing so quickly, more like a person and less like a limpet. Rhae finally supposes she''ll soon learn how her father must have felt, at least a little. At least Roger is practically grown, Reynard and Ellyn are such a handful she can't imagine keeping an eye on all three let alone her father's mighty brood of six. The babe is in her arms, she has had no taste for a single one of her wetnurse's since Rhae's arrival at Castamere months prior. Even now the adorable little brat will give a true cub's roar if separated for too long. It reminds her of Aerion, but far cuter.

Reynard is down in the yard, she's certain, learning whatever the Master-at-Arms would deign to teach him. He's not quite as demanding as his nearly toddling sister but she hopes that he has become as fond of her as she has of him. It gives her a bit more freedom to spend with Aemon, even if he's sometimes as sullen as their dear brother Daeron when he's gone too long without a drink. She misses him more than she'll admit, especially now with Daeron ill.

With his inquisitive mind and sense of honor, she can understand why he's so intent on answering the question of her strange choice of husband while still being just delightfully dense in the political wiles of women to not understand her impeccable logic. It leaves her smirking, relishing just a bit at being smarter at something than her bookish brother.

"I do suppose I love his children," and with his little lions Lord Robert was not so eager for her to pop him out little dragons.

[woventapestries]

@nonthers sent: ❝No amount of fear will keep you safe.❞ from Olenna to Shaenora old woman giving uninvited counsel smh

Being invited to luncheon with the Tyrells is far preferable than the Lannisters, though Shaenora would not say so much out loud. She is so often forgotten by most but for Cersei, the invitation was a small surprise but not entirely unwelcome. Anything is a reprieve from the deadly monotony of King’s Landing, she misses Dragonstone where at least she need not dance for her supper so much.

The handmaidens titter, as young ladies are want to do, and Shaenora smiles softly in the right places. She is thankful to Lady Margery, her presence seems to have cooled King Joffrey’s interest in any other ladies and she’s given Cersei a target for her contempt she hadn’t possessed since King Robert died. It’s always best for the Queen to have some focus, else the courtiers find themselves beholden to her pettier grudges.

Still, there is peace in the little alcove of the gardens where the Tyrell have set up their court. They keep the lions away, Shaenora will accept whatever little machinations they require her presence for the respite. Besides, the lavender jam tarts are delightful.

One cousin or another is flattering Shaenora’s gown, a light cream chemise with a delicately embroidered green houppelande. “Oh, but with your coloring,” the young lady simpers with a small smile behind her hand, “Wouldn’t you look so striking in something darker?”

Shaenora gives the woman a wan smile, she knows what it meant is red and black.

“I quite like green, it brings out my mother’s eye,” she doesn’t know precisely what color her mother’s eyes were but her maternal family hailed from the westerlands before coming into the service of house Targaryen. Green is a fair enough guess given her own and none of these Tyrell’s were ever at court during her father’s dalliance.

A scoff fills the garden pavilion as the Queen of thorns herself deigns to chime in, ❝No amount of fear will keep you safe.❞

Shaenora blinks, green and violet popped wide in surprise. Oh, she had heard the Lady Olenna was sharp-tounged and bold with age but the sudden words seemed more vinegar than a fine wine. Still, the most it pulls from the sullen young bastard is a short, abrupt snort covered by a much more demure cough. Her fan fluttering up to cover the smile that feels more like a grimace.

“No, it truly doesn’t, but it does keep me more comfortable in the crown’s care.”