who: @falcxnking where: the vale lodgings, follow the second death of king rowan arryn, first of his name
A veiled figure in black silks had remained stood beside the casket of the late King for what felt like hours; hands clasped before her, though they were not clutched in desperation, but in acceptance; as the Knights of the Vale stood vigil around the drapes of navy and silver. The room was dark, and candles burned; soon they would prepare to send Rowan Arryn to rest, thoroughly this time.
She prayed the second time would hurt less, and yet, it was this time she would finally look upon his face; her tears were silent beneath her veil as she muttered her prayers, prayers that the love of her life would find some peace and some rest, all he had never had in life.
There was much Guinevere Lannister had learned from Rowan Arryn, most of all being that love was not something that was easy; it was not as easy as it was in the ballads and the poems, those ballads and poems that never spoke on the growing distance between a man and his wife once the drama and the theatrics were over. Once the wars had been won, once the wedding had been done - what then?
Her ladies and attendants remained by the walls and by the doors, and her eyes burned and blurred as she thought of the small piece of him the Gods had blessed her with before taking him away; the son that had been born with his dark orbs and even his freckles. Her hand reached out to gently touch her husband’s freckles now, and a broken smile came across her lips as she remembered being so captivated by them the first time she laid eyes upon him.
How she had never imagined him to have freckles, in all their years; how she knew his handwriting, but never knew his face.
They were such different people, herself and Rowan Arryn - and no doubt they were different in regards to what they would have done now. She could almost feel him beside her, his hand on the small of her back, urging her to be strong; to stand by their son as he took his place on the throne and secure his safety. But she did not want that; she did not want her son upon the Mountain throne.
It was a land where his name alone would see him butchered on his own roads; a name that held much weight, but held much risk too. And that was not his true name, in the end, was it? The Gods knew this; she could not continue to test them, not when he was gone. Not lest their fury turn to her son, the only piece of him she had left; Jasper need not be King to be special to those who mattered. She needed him close to her; she could not leave him amongst the mountains if she was on the ground, within the grasses of the lions.
Jasper was a Lannister. He was no Arryn. The Gods knew this. She could only pray they would understand and accept her sins, and the lies she would continue to tell, for the sake of love. The things she did for love.
The young falcon had approached her, and she turned to look upon him; his face was darkened, no doubt disturbed by all that had happened. His own family had been ripped apart, and if the rumours were true, then he too nearly found himself dead by the hands of his own blood; if it were not for the Hand of the King. He needed to secure himself, secure his reign; it would make it all so much easier for him. She did not lift her veil as she spoke to him.
“My son is not of Arryn blood.”
And so she chose to damn and curse herself; knowing entirely how her words sounded, what assumption one would make of her. She would fall from grace time and time again for those she had sworn herself to, even in their death. Should she call him brother still? Were they still family? How did this work?
“Do with that what you must to secure yourself.”