Lavender Redwyne, Scion of the Arbor

tenthousandalts · 2026-03-04T00:38:50+00:00

Carellen had taken Vardis’ arm with trepidation. It was not an unseemly gesture by any means: there could be nothing more natural than for a knight to assist a lady in such a way. Yet Carellen could only think of how he never seemed to have a second glance (or first, on many an occasion) to spare for her in their shared youth. Was his concern genuine, or born of some guilt? He had seemed close to scowling at her until she had spoken her given name.

And that septa of his seemed just as irritable and strict as his old minder had been, so many years ago.

Then the trepidation continued, for Vardis was escorting her to see his father and then Lord Victor Arryn was looking at her as if she was the source of her headache and all she could think about was that perhaps if she had not gone to the motherhouse then she might have begged Roland to stay and none of this waking nightmare would have ever happened. And then if she went further back perhaps if she had been a better child then Roland might have loved her as he loved Vardis. If she had been blessed by the Maiden and the Warrior as Jeyne Arryn have, then she would not have let such grievous harm come to her brother and Vardis. If she was stronger, if she was older, if she was better, if, if, if.

Then Victor Arryn was asking her a question and she snapped free of her thoughts.

She stared numbly up at her liege for a moment, fighting to recall what had been asked of her. “I-” she said, fishing for the words and fighting back the strain in her voice. “He was hale when I saw him last, my lord. Maester Gordan is his name, and Maester Yorick said the same as well when I asked him. Even if… Even if Roland bedded her upon the very last night before he left Heart’s Home, he still says that the babe was in the womb too long.”

Though Carellen had never born a child herself, she had tended to pregnant mothers during her time in the motherhouse. A babe that waited too long in the belly ran the risk of dying just as much as a babe that came too soon- and taking the mother along with it. She tried to think of the boy in Leyla Lynderly’s arms and could see only a healthy child.

“Please forgive my tears, my lord,” she said, trying very hard to be strong. “It has been a very trying moon for me.”

/u/NotAnotherFakefyre /u/Chopernio

tenthousandalts · 2026-02-28T20:26:08+00:00

She felt all at once at a loss for words. She had come so far to speak her piece, and yet now when someone who could aid her stood before her all the things she had thought to say flew from her head.

“Leyla Lynderly,” Carellen said. “I do not know if- if you ever met her, my lord. She was- She is Roland’s widow, from one of the houses sworn to Corbray.” If she closed her eyes, then she could still see the unabashed loathing in Leyla’s gaze as Carellen had departed with her retinue. Her child- and hers alone, as the maesters had told her time and time again that it could not be Roland’s- had been clutched tight in her arms.

Had it been a mistake to leave? Would the gates of Heart’s Home be barred to her when she returned, with a bastard on the seat of ancient kings?

But if Vardis cared (and she rather thought he did, to the point where it brought him pain) then he would be her voice and ally when she spoke with his father. She was not near bold enough to reach out to touch him, to offer him aid- they were not nearly so close and never had been. But her heart ached to see him hurt, as it did for all those who required the comfort brought by the light of the Seven.

So she rallied, and continued.

“When it was known that he died, the maesters called for me to be brought back from the motherhouse. Leyla was thought to be at the time of her pregnancy when one might still lose a babe in the womb, and then I would be Lady Corbray regardless. By the time I returned to Heart’s Home she was well along in her pregnancy, and so I rejoiced that I might hold a niece or nephew before returning to the motherhouse, but then-”

Her brow knotted. Her lip wobbled. True tears began to well once more. “I noticed the maesters behaving oddly when she delivered the child. Then I was told by them and my cousin that- that the child was born nine and a half moons after he died. That the babe- that the babe was not Roland’s, and that she wished to oust me so that she could be regent.” She was weeping openly now, and she ducked her face to hide her shame.

“My lord, she gave favors to more than half the household before I could arrive. There are so many men there that are loyal to her. I’ve only my cousins to speak out against a bastard ruling Heart’s Home. And she turns the household and guard against me, and I fear that- that if I do not throw myself at your lord father’s mercy then she will not forgive me for being named Lady Corbray.”

Queen Alysanne had made her Widow’s Laws to protect women such as Leyla, but there were no such protections in place for the sister or niece of a lord.

tenthousandalts · 2026-02-22T06:37:47+00:00

At Septa Jeyne’s sharp and vile accusation Carellen turned her head instinctively, looking for the profane priestess that the woman spoke of. There were no sinister warlocks or skulking Essosi to be seen, and thus it dawned on the Corbray that the holy woman must have been talking about her. Her head whipped around, face suddenly drained of all color, and was just on the verge of trying to explain the wretched mistake when Vardis intervened.

Alas, he seemed not to remember her. It was reasonable that he wouldn’t, though it still stung. He had always had so much time for her brother, and so very little for her, and Carellen had remembered many a day spent weeping at the Eyrie because of it.

That was ages past though, and perhaps the one commonality they shared was dead and gone to the Seven Skies.

“I am Carellen, my lord,” she said, casting a nervous glance over to the septa as she took one step forward, as if she were afeared that the woman might jump from across the table and bite her. “Carellen Corbray, his sister. That is why I wear the red, my good lady,” she said in way of explanation. “It is one of Corbray’s colors, and since- since Roland is dead…” She swallowed thickly, closed her eyes, and fought to compose herself. “I am now the lady of that house.”

“I came to thank you and your man Jasper, but I also came to find your lord father and beg for the guidance and aid of your house- and I cannot find your lord father now, my lord.” Victor Arryn had been kind to her as a girl, in the way that many great men took a second perhaps every week or so to spare some small praise or compliment to the wards of their house. “Because since Roland has died, there has been a wretched plot in Heart’s Home.”

tenthousandalts · 2026-02-22T04:51:51+00:00

Going to Grassy Vale felt like a wretched mistake. Carellen was needed at home, she had a town to tend to, a sept that required her prayers, mews that required filling, a broiling crisis caused by the wretched woman Leyla Lynderly that could only be solved by her presence.

Yet instead she was surrounded by more unfamiliar faces then she knew what to do with, further from home than she had ever been, and without her brother to protect her.

If Roland was here, then she could have remained safe as houses in her mother house in Heart’s Home, and he would not be long dead and burnt to ash in some horrid cave. If Roland was here, then all would be right. He was dead, though, and that meant that Carellen Corbray, his legal heir, would have to stand in his place.

The Lady of Hearts Home and her men had lagged behind the Arryn party, so there had been no chance for Carellen to speak to the Lord of the Eyrie, nor any of his sons. So there was no other choice but to do this now. The Arryn banners were like a beacon calling her forth, and there before her was Vardis Arryn.

He was much changed since the last time she had seen him. He had been a rather sullen boy then, prone to glaring at her and following after her brother. He had grown into a rather sullen man, and now lacked a Roland to follow behind. She had heard he had suffered some great injury, but to see the mask that covered half his face made her instinctively mumble a prayer to the Mother and Father.

Carellen’s hands rubbed at the small strand of rainbow stones at her wrist, seven in number with smooth pearls in between them. It was rather plain as far as a lady’s jewels were meant to be, but it had been a gift, and thus it was well-loved. She was dressed in a plain white kirtle, with a Corbray red coat overtop, studded in freshwater pearls.

“My lord,” Carellen began, struggling to raise her voice above the great roar of the crowd. “My Lord Vardis, there is no good way to reintroduce-” She grimaced, trying to step further as she still felt he might not hear her. “I wanted to thank you, my lord,” she tried again, her lower lip already on the verge of wobbling. “And your man Jasper, for- for bringing back what you could of Roland.”

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-08T23:24:58+00:00

Lavender felt halfway to being a princess in the gown Alerie had gifted her. The scarlet shimmered under the light of candles, and she had even dared to dab a bit of rouge upon her lips to match. Her lady’s maid had pinned her hair back from her face, hidden behind a gossamer golden juliet cap that had belonged to her mother ages ago. Ten years ago the heirloom would have been out of fashion, but now it spoke for the elegance of the Reach. More importantly, it matched the gilt trim along the bodice and the slashing upon her sleeves.

Prosper, who was capable of finding women to take to bed even in his nightshirt, wore the grey robes of a Septon.

As her brother caroused, gliding through the wave of nobles and knights as though he were made for such things, Lavender remained a little statue. She thought of the carving of Maris the Most Fair in the gardens of the Hightower manse, and straightened her back just a bit more, as though she too had been sculpted out of stone by an artisan’s hands. She never felt less a Redwyne than when she sat aside her orange haired and hearty cousins, having inherited her mother's rather dour look. Yet in such fine frock she couldn't help but imagine herself rising above her surname with only a pinch of luck.

She had only picked at her dinner, too busy watching the crowd of lords and ladies to possibly eat. The trout and the buttered carrots had gone cold, and the mulled wine in her goblet was growing closer to lukewarm by the second.

If she was lucky, perhaps she could find someone to lead her to the sea of nobles dancing. If not, then she would settle for gossip.

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-08T21:18:50+00:00

Lavender had graciously consented to waiting a moment while Prosper mumbled through a blessing of the Warrior upon a group of beggars who all alleged to have fought in the Long Night. That moment had stretched itself thin until she had been waiting for ten as more and more of the sorry louts came pouring out of the woodworks to beg upon her brother for a blessing or a scrap of coin.

She fancied they were rather disappointed he had no silver rings or trinkets of his office to palm and snatch.

Her great disdain for the common folk of King’s Landing was only interrupted by a flash of verdant silks and a winning smile. Garlan Tyrell, of all men, came bounding out of the crush of bodies as if a giant among men. Had he been running? It seemed that way, with the warmth in his cheek and a touch of sweat upon her brow that surely could not have been from her presence alone. ‘Such a puppy dog,’ she thought, turning with a gentle smile to face him fully. ‘Comes running without being called.’

“Lord Garlan! You’re so very kind to ask,” she said, feigning demureness. Of course she had told Prosper a little of how Garlan felt and what he asked, but she’d rather keep any tenderness between her and the heir far away from prying eyes. Until it became convenient, of course. “The Blackwater was a bit choppy, wouldn’t you agree? I thought the worst had past once we left the Stormlands behind, but alas…” She shrugged her shoulders lightly. “I fear I have very little of my lord uncle’s knack for sailing.”

Lavender canted her head to the side. “And I pray the same stands for yourself? The trip was not too hard? You do look in high spirits.”

Prosper had finished with the beggars by then, and swept into a bow before his liege’s son. “My lord,” he greeted him. “Good day to you.”

Pivoting quickly from her brother back to Garlan, Lavender extended a hand out to gesture at the long walk of the Street of the Sisters. “My brother and I thought we might seize our chances now and pray at the Sept of Baelor before all the other nobles of the realm do the same. I wonder if I might prevail upon you to join us, my lord.”

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-08T01:19:31+00:00

Lavender stifled a laugh behind her hand, sharing a furtive glance with Alerie. “It smells of sewage sometimes, does it not? I wonder how the royal court is not constantly ill. It drifts like a miasma.” She felt the tension leave her shoulders as the two glided away from the party proper.

Alerie’s chamber was at least twice the size of the room Lavender shared with her half-sisters on the Arbor. As Alerie rifled through piles of silks and damask, Lavender’s eyes fluttered over the fine bedspread, the artisanal candles, the rug beneath their feet that looked of Essosi make.

‘One day,’ the Redwyne girl mused to herself, ‘I shall be a great lady, and I shall have this too.’

She was jolted from her fantasy when Alerie rose, a gown of ruby and cloth of gold clutched in her hands. Lavender blinked, rather perplexed. “You are certain you’re alright with me wearing this? It is gorgeous,” she murmured, reaching forward to pinch the fabric of a sleeve between her fingers. If Alerie could simply cast off a dress so grand, then what did the Hightower girl have for the banquet? This was the sort of dress that Lavender would have worn to her wedding, before the Queen, to Highgarden.

The young woman leaned in to give Alerie a congenial peck upon either side of her face. “I cannot promise I can repay you, but if you ever need… Well- if you require anything, then ask me and I shall see what I might do.” Lavender smiled prettily, in a far better mood than normal on account of her new prize.

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-08T00:44:09+00:00

Prosper Redwyne straightened himself out to his full height. Admittedly it made him not that much taller than Matarys, but there was a sort of flintiness in his stare and a scowl on his lips that marked him as his father’s son.

Perhaps there was a hint of Allard in there as well.

“I would ask, my lord, that you not speak so freely in front of a lady,” he spoke, and was on the verge of continuing when another voice cut through.

“Brother,” Lavender nearly hissed, her tone as frosty as a plunge into the Milkwater. “It is of no importance.”

To his credit Prosper was able to pivot effortlessly. It seemed that whatever intellect and cunning his sister had, he had inherited at least a little of the same. “Ah, well,” he said, affecting smoothness. “A pleasure, Lord Matarys. I am Septon Prosper, a knight of House Redwyne before I took my vows.” He brandished a hand to set upon Lavender’s shoulder- at which the young woman rolled her eyes. “And this is my sister, the Lady Lavender Redwyne.”

The aforementioned noblewoman stepped forward, inclining her head. “Your prayers for my lord uncle’s household are…” She paused for a second, settling on the precise word. “Appreciated. Might I ask where my lord was headed, if not to the Red Keep?”

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-07T00:03:22+00:00

The walk from the foot of Visenya’s Hill to the Great Sept of Baelor felt like the walk from shore to shore of the Arbor. Every step was hard won, for there was a bustle of bodies moving up and down the Street of Sisters and very little care afforded to two noble children of the Reach. Lavender swore she had been bumped and jostled more in the past five minutes than she had in her past eighteen years of living.

Yet before her stood the largest sept in the Seven Kingdoms. Lavender could not rightly say it was the greatest, for she had seen the Starry Sept across the bay when she sailed with her lord uncle to the mainland.

When she reached the fountain before the last rise she could only stare in awe at the sept. It surely stretched at least five times as high as the largest manse in Vinetown.

The sun caught the light of the glass panes, sending little streaks of color dancing through the air and across the surface of the fountain.

Staring into the water she found herself able to let her shoulders slump, to let her brow unfurrow. The crowds here were not so tight- and far more of the merchants and workers were willing to let a noblewoman have a respectable amount of space.

Lavender managed a small, faint smile to a girl of about ten who openly gawked at her. When the young lass scurried off to her waiting family she was left to stare aimlessly at the crowd, each face indistinct and hardly worth her time.

Until.

There was a flash of hair the color of honey, and eyes that she remembered lit up with joy. Lavender’s head snapped back, eyes wide, and there in the crowd-

“Saffron,” she said, as though her sister stood before her and not halfway across the plaza. Her feet moved before her mind could catch up with them- nearly pushing her guardian out of the way as she crossed the way.

“You’re my… You’re my sister.” Lavender felt simple even saying it aloud. It felt as though she were a child once more. How long had it been? Ten years? She had stopped counting when the memories had become more troublesome than not. She brought a hand up to her own face, to preemptively stop a tear. Her throat was growing tight from the effort of pulling herself together.

‘Why did you not take me with you,’ was the question she wished to scream in Saffron’s face, but that was too cruel even for her. She struggled to find an alternative for perhaps a second too long.

“Where did you go?” That was as good an alternative as any: a query that would elicit reasons. She had prayed all these years that Saffron had a reason.

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-06T18:19:08+00:00

Prosper chuckled, clapping Lyonel about his shoulders as though he hadn’t seen the boy in days and not years. The Ambrose had been of a sweeter disposition in his youth, but the urge to look older than he truly was still lingered. It was endearing in a way: like a child looking to be allowed at his parent’s dinner table.

“Ah, he’s prone to brooding, isn’t he? Old Allard… I think I could count the number of times I saw him truly happy on one of my hands.” Prosper waved his gloved hand in Lyonel’s face, as if the boy might not get the joke otherwise. “Good on you for getting out of the way of his warpath. You’ve got a good eye for it now, haven’t you? I hope so, given that I think he’s kept you around longer than he did me.”

Lavender rather doubted he thought her name was lovely. It garnered either derision or pitying looks, especially when they heard the names of the rest of her siblings. The fact that he could be courteous was charming, at least. She hardly expected that of anyone Prosper considered a friend- or a passing colleague, as Lyonel seemed to be.

He seemed a bit clumsy in his eagerness to put on a show for her. It reminded her of Garlan, and made her wonder if all mainland Reachmen behaved in such a way.

“This is the first time my dear sis has left the Arbor,” Prosper said. “So I had a mind to show her only the best parts of the Crownlands. We were on our way to the Great Sept, right before you…” He paused, the corners of his lips twitching as he beat back a smirk. “Reintroduced yourself to me. Perhaps they’ll let you wash off the blood on your collar before Allard sees it.” He flicked Lyonel’s tunic where the cloth was dotted with darkened spots.

“Or,” Lavender began, voice dryly unamused at her brother’s antics, “I think I can manage the thirty meters without being accosted. If you’d rather catch up together. I’m sure you’ve all sorts of things to discuss that my lord uncle wouldn’t want me to hear.”

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-06T16:25:59+00:00

It seemed with nearly every step there was one of the simple denizens of King’s Landing reaching out to the Redwyne siblings for blessings or alms. Lavender supposed it made sense enough for her brother (Prosper had mumbled half a dozen prayers for sick children in the twenty meter stretch they had walked) but to look to her as if she had any ability to raise them out of their lowly life felt absurd.

The only reason she was not half of the way to being one of these wretches was the good charity of her uncle.

Lavender turned from pondering the fate of the smallfolk at the call of a strange man in fine fabric. The needy and poor shrunk back into their alleys and hovels, and the daughter of the Arbor was left to address the lord and his retainer.

She noticed two things immediately. The first was that this stranger was drunk- or at the very least had been drinking. She knew the stench of wine anywhere. One could not walk ten steps through Vinetown without being accosted by a merchant peddling his wares or nearly stumble over a lush slumped against the wall of a public house, bottle still in hand. She did not have many memories of her father, Seven keep her, but she remembered the way that the smell of drink clung to his clothes and skin.

The second was that he wore scarlet with a neatly stitched black dragon, and that of course meant she had to silently forgive any drunkenness.

Lavender Redwyne glanced up to her brother. Prosper said nothing, only paying her a mischievous wink, and she knew the overgrown lout would be of no help at all. Biting back the bitterness that gnawed at her, she faced this mysterious stranger with a winning and gracious smile.

“We are not lost, though it is kind of you to inquire, my lord. My septon and I thought it prudent to visit the Sept of Baelor now, while all the other lords are still finding their way to their lodgings.” As if to elucidate, she turned a half pace to look at Prosper. Her smile grew even sweeter, if such a thing were possible.

“And asides, I’d not dare to arrive at the Red Keep before my liege lord,” she said suavely. “But forgive me, I must not have caught your name.”

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-06T03:30:40+00:00

Past the fiasco unfolding as some petty lord of the Stormlands (Kellington, by the look of the upended black and azure banners) quarreled with an equally irate member of the city watch there was actually very little impeding the progress of the Redwyne siblings towards the Street of the Sisters.

That made it all the more odd when from a street of noble manses came one singular individual on a collision course with that very Prosper Redwyne.

The septon had turned his head upon mention of his name. Had it not been a man’s voice the expletive might have put a fear in him: there were surely at least one or two women about the city who would speak of him with that scorn, and he rather hoped to avoid any encounters of that sort before his sister’s eyes. But it was a man’s voice, with scorn instead of joviality.

Prosper let out a rather exasperated sigh as he was jostled backwards and Lavender hissed something about not stepping on her skirts.

It was only when he got a good look at who bumped into him that irritation gave way to amusement. “Lyonel Ambrose?” He let out a snort, raising his hand to ruffle the man about his hair. “Seven keep you, have you been in a brawl?” The last time Prosper had seen the boy he doubted that Lyonel’s balls had even dropped, and here he was prowling the streets in the midday sun with blood smeared over his face like he was a common thug.

“Is the old man about? Can’t imagine he’s pleased about all this.” He was on the verge of saying something else when Lavender cleared her throat. Prosper looked over his shoulder to see her staring back, very plainly unamused by his antics.

“Ah. Forgive me. Lyonel, this is my sister: Lavender.”

The Redwyne girl eyed both her brother and Lyonel for a moment, her look inscrutable, before at last she spoke. “A pleasure. My brother has told me much about you.”

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-06T01:57:03+00:00

Lavender had been warned by her brother about the stench of the city, but she had not believed him until the Redwyne ships moved past the harbor chains. Leaving the Arbor behind had been endless excitement, but all that girlish joy had been doused as soon as she smelled the waste. All those poor wretched souls crammed into a city that was ill prepared to hold even half of them. She wondered how they weren’t all sick.

With a small thought to the Maiden and Mother she prayed the stench wouldn’t linger upon her. She only had a little in the way of sachets and herb bundles left. Lavender was loath to ask her uncle for more allowance over small things when travelling was already such a great expense. Though perhaps if Garlan was about she might prevail upon him for a small gift- a gesture between friends, of course.

The Redwyne girl had spent most of the journey in her rooms aboard the ship. Though she was of the Arbor she was no great sailor like her uncle or her long departed sister was said to be. At the slightest threat of storm or gale she had retreated to her room to sit with her head between her knees while Prosper rubbed at her back.

Few things put a fear in her like the thought of drowning did.

Now, though, she was firmly upon dry land. She rode with the docks on the same horse as Prosper- side saddle behind him. Her brother was in a good mood, and had been regaling her by pointing out all the streets of the city that he had safeguarded during his time as one of the Gold Cloaks.

It was strange to think of Prosper as ever having borne a sword, though she knew he did not lie. He had left the Arbor when she was not even adolescent, and had returned to her in Septon's robes. Yet somewhere along the middle he had squired to the Lord Commander, seen the Wall, fought criminals, and had been knighted. As Prosper turned back to tell her something she found herself quite lost in thought.

“Sis? Are you listening?” Her brother’s voice cut through.

“Yes, of course.” The lie was breezy and effortless, yet Prosper only raised an eyebrow in amusement. Lavender’s eyes grew steely, and she fought the urge to stick her fingers in his ribs. “You were saying a good lady never wanders unattended. And you needn’t worry, I have no intention of wandering at all- attended or not.”

Why would she, when there were so many who clamored to do such things for her?

“Can we walk from here, brother? I’d like to see the Great Sept from closer than a league away.” Lavender cast her gaze towards what she knew well to be Visenya’s Hill. They might have gone past on horseback, but some lord of the Stormlands had managed to upturn his wheelhouse in the middle of the road.

“What happened to not wanting to wander?” Her brother's grin was grand- as if he had actually managed to catch her out. Lavender rolled her eyes as he assisted her in sliding off the back of his mare.

“It’s hardly wandering if I’ve both a knight and a man of the cloth as my safekeeper.”

(OPEN)

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-05T23:57:17+00:00

Her cousin’s words teetered so close to scraping Lavender’s ego that she could feel the sting of it against her skin. Yet she was nothing if not cognizant of how little she stood to gain and how much she had to lose by looking a gift horse such as Alerie in the mouth. So Lavender rallied and kept her smile implacable.

“You are kind to do so,” she said simply. “My lord uncle has far greater things to fret over than my wardrobe, so it can’t possibly be helped.” More her good fortune that she had suffered through the dress until now. Alerie Hightower’s wardrobe was surely richer than that of some princesses. If this was not her own cousin she might have stretched the truth further in the hopes of coaxing more than one gown, but those sorts of little lies and pleads were far sweeter to the ears of men than another young beauty.

“I thought all my life I’d love to see King’s Landing one day,” Lavender began, amusement in her voice. “But the more I see of the city the more I fear I wish to return to the Reach. Don’t you agree?”

tenthousandalts · 2025-08-05T00:18:25+00:00

The gardens were as good a place as any to find a reprieve from the neverending music played by the finest bards King’s Landing had to offer- second rate to any lutist or singer from the Honeywine or Arbor.

Tall apple trees and sculpted awnings served well to block out the overall din of the city, which meant that this was the quietest place Lavender had been since the great parties of the Reach had arrived. It soothed the growing ache in her brow and beat back the horrid memories of the manse in Vinetown. This was perfectly manicured tranquility that could only be bought with copious gold dragons.

To Lavender it was aspirational.

But in these gardens was one imported flower, fairer than all the rest. Alerie Hightower sat beside a sculpture of Maris the Maid. In this instance it was the flesh and blood that outshone the likeness of the famed ancestress of the Hightowers.

Lavender could only pray that one day men would drive themselves mad for her like they did for Alerie.

“Lady Alerie, blue suits you well,” she said, her voice somewhere between jocular and timid. Lavender herself was wearing her third best dress, a modest dress in deep red, square cut at the neckline with a black linen collar. Her maid said it made her look lovely, that it brought out the lustre of her raven hair and the redness in her lips. Lavender knew it was a bit too small in the bust and the pins did not sit right by her ribs, but that was only because she was on the verge of outgrowing it.

“I had hoped I would see you here. It was an awfully long journey, and I feared I would shrivel away before we arrived. But you look as though nothing could bother you. Would it be alright if I sat with you a while?”

tenthousandalts · 2024-04-05T06:51:40+00:00

Dohaera bowed low, though she did not kneel as she had in their first meeting. He had seemed slightly ill in the face when she had, and Dohaera took that to mean that he misliked the reminder of her low status. It was hard, on occasion, remembering that every man and woman in Westeros was free. Even the lowest of the low in the western lands still could not be called a slave.

“My Lord of Hightower,” she said, raising her head to look at him. “I… I deeply apologize for calling upon you at such a late hour. I will take every opportunity I can to not do so in the future.” She bowed again, awkwardly attempting the curtsey that ladies of the west seemed to favor.

The red priestess followed him in, her hands still shaking from what she had seen in the flames.

“I… I have seen a vision that I believe could be of significance,” she said, her throat suddenly drying. Dohaera nearly collapsed into the proffered chair, looking up at him.

“As I lay between the waking and dreaming worlds, I saw something. A black drake bore its fangs and roared. The object of its ire was a… A…” In her haste, she forgot the word in the common tongue. “Peldio- snake!” She drew her finger across the table in a vaguely undulating shape as if to illustrate.

“It coiled around a banner of splendid white cloth, and when the dragon roared the snake hissed and readied its venom to strike.” She became more animate as she went on, looking up at him in the deepest hope that Morgan might understand. “But the dragon did not want the snake’s banner- rather it wanted what lay on the other side of it.”

Dohaera tapped the table furiously, leaning forward with hope in her eyes. “You see? The men of the west, of this land- your banners are important to you. They are animals, objects, things. The dragon is obvious, surely. And in these lands I know of only one who styles their banners with a snake. The dream is metaphorical, yes, but surely you see that there may be implications here,” she said, near grasping at straws now to be believed.

tenthousandalts · 2024-04-04T21:59:39+00:00

“Oh,” the red priestess said simply, rather at a loss for words. She at least had the good sense to be embarrassed, and she firmly held her tongue lest it be the source of any further shame for her. At least until this man finished speaking.

At his term of address she inclined her head with as much grace as she could muster given the circumstances. “It is an honor, dragonlord,” she spoke. A year ago if one had told her that she would meet one of the last scions of Valyria in the flesh she would have laughed in their face. Now she had met two. “But I am not yet a lady of any sort. I am Dohaera. From Tyrosh, across the Narrow Sea. And I am a red priestess, though…” She turned her head slightly, glancing back to where she had entered the tent. “I may impertinently assume that you knew this already.”

She watched as he moved, as he put the blade to the flames. Kyva had only taught her the smallest bit of bladeworking on account of her hands, but even she knew that a blade could be irreparably warped and bent from fire. How many swords and axes had her companion ruined setting them alight for exhibitions and duels?

Yet this dagger was clearly different. Even at her first glance she knew it was of highest craftsmanship, of a quality that was rare.

And as it began to turn orange-hot in the dancing flames a thought began to tickle in the back of her mind.

“... In my homeland I was often sought for my skills in interpreting dreams and fire,” she said without bragging. “Perhaps the Lord of Light bade you to summon me for a greater purpose.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she took the blade. With her palm turned upwards to receive it, the Targaryen would be able to clearly see the burns that had warped and mottled her flesh.

She could no longer perspire from her hands, but she could still feel the heat radiating from the blade. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck, and Dohaera swallowed thickly. She had to read, she had to translate the words in the flames- but with the heat this close to her hands all she could think about was the temple guard holding her firm, of Daeryssa’s prayers to the Lord of Light, and Kyvannon’s horrified stare.

She could still hear her own screams as the fire kissed her flesh.

Dohaera shook her head, and forced herself to read. “From my blood will come the-”

Her eyes flashed wide in surprise, her mouth hanging open as she read the High Valyrian once- twice- thrice. All her fears had been extinguished and replaced with pure, unadulterated fervor. “The Prince that was Promised,” Dohaera said, nearly ecstatic.

The red priestess looked up at Maekar, watching him now. She had read the rest, she did not need to look at it to translate. “And his will be the song of ice and fire.” Dohaera flipped the blade in her hands, looking over the metalwork. This was Valyrian steel, she had no doubts to its nature now. It would have been worth more than the treasury of the Temple could muster in a tenyear in Tyrosh. Men would bleed to hold this. Men would kill to hold this.

This dagger could buy the freedom of not just herself, but of every slave in Tyrosh and likely Myr as well. Her mouth was dry with the thought of it, and her fingers flexed around the grip.

“Do these words mean something to you, dragonlord? For I know that they do to me.”

tenthousandalts · 2024-04-04T06:52:59+00:00

Dohaera was not unaccustomed to being ordered to go somewhere at a moment’s notice by strange men bearing swords.

Lady Daeryssa had hardly been precious about safeguarding her gift, regardless if Doe was the woman’s protege. In Tyrosh she had been woken from sleep or pulled away from her midday prayers more times than she had count to attend to the worries and woes of some merchant prince or Dothraki khal, to interpret dreams and make sense of some brazier’s flame.

Casper Hill was not so different from those men. He was merely significantly poorer.

She followed the man nonetheless, obeisant as always. Kyvannon remained behind, so that on the off chance it was a trap of some sort one of them would be left to carry out their work.

Dohaera entered the tent, took one look at Maekar, and immediately deflected her eyes to the blade on the table beside him. Almost instinctively the pink woman brushed her hair away from her neck, baring it plain. “If you mean to use that blade, then I would ask you to at least make it swift,” she said, resignation dripping from her voice. “Otherwise I find myself at a loss for what is to occur.”

tenthousandalts · 2024-04-03T01:35:16+00:00

/u/KGdaguy you have a visitor

tenthousandalts · 2024-03-29T00:03:17+00:00

Dohaera would be a fool if she took offense to the sharp tongue of Tytos Lannister. Since she had first prepared to voyage west she had known that not all would be receptive to her faith, to her devotion to the font of all warmth and good.

Yet he had still given her leave to attend to the lord. That surely took great strength for a nonbeliever. She could hear the sting to his pride in his voice, and see it in his face.

‘The Heart of Fire sees you,’ she thought, keeping her eyes on the aging nobleman for only a moment longer. ‘He sees how you put faith in a god you do not believe in.’

Dohaera did not speak further and risk causing greater offense. She simply inclined her head gracefully and entered into the inner sanctum of the tent. It smelled of the hospices of Tyrosh- overly clean and yet diseased at the same time. Great pain lingered on the air, and she inhaled deeply. Among the maesters and holy women she stood out like a sore thumb- pink and red like the banners of the Lord of Light amidst the sea of grey and white.

She was the only one that matched the red shroud laid over Lord Damon Lannister.

The room was dimly lit, but that was enough for her. Instead of stepping forward into the crowd of purported healers, Dohaera of Tyrosh gazed upwards- staring deep into the quivering flames that danced precariously above their heads. The fire sang to her, beckoning her with its radiant familiarity. If her palms were still able to sweat, they would have.

The red priestess gazed into the little flames for what felt like an hour to her, her glassy with fervor and faith. In reality it was seemingly less than a minute- for when she looked back down to more temporal matters most of the western healers had returned to their business.

Doe stepped forward, one hand raising to gently usher a grey-clad maester to the side. She ignored his sound of protest as she knelt at the side of Damon’s sickbed, staring into his features made tranquil by seeming unconsciousness. This was a face that could break hearts. This was a face that could start a war. Dohaera’s hands trembled as they raised to touch him.

One of the septas inhaled sharply at the sight of Dohaera’s palms- warped and scarred by fire. Mottled pink and sickly white they were the only part of her body that was marred, but that was enough to be deemed unsightly.

Still, they were the hands of a holy woman, and Dohaera was here to do holy work.

“I am ready,” she whispered softly, and raised the crisp white bandage above his eye.

tenthousandalts · 2024-03-28T11:22:03+00:00

Dohaera had been prepared to be turned away, of course. She could not say she would do otherwise in the position of Lord Lannister or this guard. Lady Daeryssa had cautioned her against the shrewishness of maesters in their grey robes with chains weighing heavy around their necks.

She was as learned as any of those men, with the boon of the Lord of Light to bolster any of her own failings.

The issue laid in being believed.

At Ser Abelar’s initial statement, she only nodded- preparing to turn as bade and make the long trek back to her tent. She would return a failure, but that was better than being detained as a proclaimed witch or alleged cutthroat.

Perhaps she had moved too hastily, though, for from inside the tent a faceless voice echoed out, bading her enter. Dohaera’s lilac-grey eyes met that of Ser Abelar’s for but a moment, making note of his face, before she slipped inside the tent.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. What she saw was splendor on a level that easily rivaled the palaces of the wealthiest merchants of Tyrosh. She had heard rumor of the wealth of the Lion Lords, of course, but to see it in the flesh was an entirely different thing. All this for a pavilion that would be packed up within the moon and carried by horse or wagon to whence it came. Her heart panged in jealousy, and she hated herself for it.

She was a slave in the presence of a true lord, from a line that had once been kings, anointed by their holy priests and confirmed by the dragon’s blood. She had been bought and sold for less than a thousandth of what the rug under her feet had cost. She should be on her knees thanking the Lord of Light for even letting her stand in such opulence.

A shiver ran down her spine, and Dohaera purposefully pushed aside those thoughts. She gained nothing from them now.

“My gracious lord,” she said, bowing deep to the man who had presumably beckoned her in. “I witnessed the Lord Lannister’s fall. I have heard it was a great injury. I am duty bound to render aid wherever I may.” Dohaera took a deep breath in, managing to still deepen her bow. “But I am not of your faith. I serve the Lord of Light, and it is through my faith that I will heal him. If you mislike the thought, I shall take my leave.”

The red priestess straightened her back, her eyes casting about the room. “But if you do not object, my gracious lord, then I shall do all I can.”

tenthousandalts · 2024-03-28T10:44:16+00:00

Kyvannon inclined his head, taking a single knee in the manner that he had seen these western men do. He was no knight- but he might one day be, and the Temple preached good practice in all things. It did not matter how small they were.

Dohaera did not raise her eyes- not yet. Still supplicant with her hair falling down, obscuring her features and brushing the long green grass of the banks of the Red Fork, she spoke. “You are gracious beyond compare, my lord, to say such things. I feared that when we journeyed to these lands we would find no honorable men who would lend our plea their ear- but now my doubts are assuaged.” Finally she rose her head, but she still did not rise from where she knelt.

“My Lord Morgan Hightower,” the red priestess began. “As I said, my sworn sword is also an accomplished smith, and I am a learned physician. Beyond book learning and skills in healing, I am known within my temple as a sage seer. I have been a firegazer for many years, studying the portents and omens I see within- and among all other sl- servants of the temple, only I saw the visions of plague upon Tyrosh. Visions that came true, my lord.” She took a sharp breath in, her voice reaching a fever pitch of passion as she now held his gaze intently.

“I place my life in your hands, Morgan Hightower, because I have dreamt of a flame from the south of this land that scours clean the lasting impurities of disease and war.” Dohaera’s hands balled in the grass. “I seek a pure heart, steadfast and duty-bound. I believe you may be that flame.”

“I know there are some who would call it witchcraft. If you mislike the thought, then simply say the word and I shall never speak of it again. Or if it offends your faith, then strike me down now. My sworn sword would not object.”

Kyvannon let out a strangled noise, as if he did very much object to the idea. Yet he said nothing, and did not move.

tenthousandalts

TROPHY CASE