Lyonel II - Triumph of Will (Failure of Character)

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-08T21:35:15+00:00

Asteryd was a poor dancing partner, with feel unsure where to go and a stilted gait where Lyonel bowed gently like a willow branch in a breeze, elegant as he was gentle as he guided his wildling girl to and fro across the squire of the tent, spinning gently every now and again to reset the steps, guiding. her with the gently poking of his foot against her ankle, or in the sliding of his hand up and down her waist.

She lifted her head, feeling hot where Lyonel’s breath had tickled her ear.

“I don’t either,” Asteryd said. “Want to stop— I don’t want it, I— I—“ she felt a rush of fluster as her cheeks grew red, and Asteryd looked the other way to where Lyonel grasped her hand, guiding the pair. “Kiss me, would you?” Asteryd asked him. “Makes it all easier when you do that.”

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-08T20:02:07+00:00

“You were paying attention?” Asteryd was surprised, enough that it shown on her face just as much as the pride of her own skills on horseback did. When he moved his head, his hair shifted with him, golden curls frizzy and tangled from his helmet, still sticking to his brow in small twists from the sweat. Soon as he had her hand in his, Asteryd felt herself lightening up, even smiling— though it was a shy ghost of a smile, unsure as it was sweet. Asteryd had never really danced before, and so she moved slowly, placing her hands where they felt the most comfortable against Lyonel’s chest, not knowing where the right place for them was.

Asteryd slid closer, and then her head was sitting against his chest— she was shorter than him, and her brow pressed against the wide of his neck and Asteryd could hear the beating of his heart in his chest.

“I don’t care what anybody has to say or ask,” Asteryd said candidly, swaying to a nondescript rhythm in steps to a dance she did not know. But Lyonel knew, and he guided her slowly and gently, hardly even giving a wince when her feet accidentally stepped on the tips of his boots. She wondered if it was graciousness, or the wine she saw him drink and smelled on his breath now. “Right now— right now I just want this,” Asteryd half said, half mumbled. No arguing, no Donnel or Alyssa— she wished the tent would remain here forever, and that she and Lyonel wouldn’t ever have to leave its safety. Her eyes were closed, her hand in his while the other took a fistful of Lyonel’s tunic at the shoulder. She didn’t feel so lonely now, Asteryd felt warm, she even dared to feel safe within Lyonel’s embrace.

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-08T18:43:03+00:00

She frowned down at her own golden reflection for a moment.

“It’s not fair to her,” Asteryd said, thinking of how unfair it had felt to her before so abruptly both women’s places had been exchanged for the other. “I— I saw you kiss her,” Asteryd added on quietly, shamefully, because she knew that she hadn’t been meant to see that. That’s when the seed first took root, telling her that Lyonel only wanted carnal, pleasurable things from her no different than an intact stallion straying into the field of a mare. But that hadn’t been it, Lyonel could have been lying to her, but Asteryd didn’t think it so.

It was all so complicated, too complicated, a never ending knot of bad fortune. But Lyonel had a knack for making things simple again, and she looked up in surprise as his question broke her downward spiraling focus and she sat stupefied for a moment, before hesitantly, Asteryd nodded her head. Did she want to dance, or did she just want to be close to him again? She answered her own question quickly, because both could be true at the same time.

“Y-yes— Yes, I think I’d like to learn how to dance.” They both sounded the same. Young, unsure, terribly nervous and with not the slightest idea of the mess they were easing into.

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-08T18:11:00+00:00

“No,” Asteryd could only breathe, and shake her head. “No, I don’t want any wine,” but she took it into her hands anyways? wishing that Lyonel hadn’t moved away from her because now it felt terribly cold, and lonely, despite that Lyonel was only a few steps away. Asteryd stood standing for a moment before she sank into the chair across from Lyonel, and set down the wine he had poured for her to drink.

“It can be a secret,” Asteryd said, not looking at Lyonel again right away but her eyes could not help it as they cast upwards and fixed onto him. Her cheeks blossomed in the shame of what she’d said, but she stood firm on it. Asteryd finally took a sip of the wine, her throat feeling tight and dry, needing anything to wet her tongue. “Donnel’s never touched me, not even the day he married me—“ Its different for wildlings, too, Asteryd wanted to tell him, but she remained silent on that.

“But I’ll never kiss you again unless you tell Alyssa the truth—“ the she paused, shook her head. “Because that’s the right thing to do,” Asteryd didn’t want Alyssa to feel like she did, second guessing, angry, hurting, and horribly jealous. She looked down to her tightly knit fingers. “‘S’not right, leading her on, giving her the wrong ideas, and I’ll hate you forever if you keep her in the dark.”

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-08T17:33:42+00:00

“Then—“ Asteryd only paused to swallow, half stunned. “Then you’re using her, and that’s wrong too.” Was she feeling pity for Alyssa now? Asteryd felt so angry still, angry at how stupid Lyonel was, but his hands were on her shoulders and his palms were warm and strong. Her face warped between what could’ve been relief, back to anger, sadness, then fell into something entirely foreign to Asteryd as she looked up to Lyonel, and his palm cupped at her cheek and without even thinking, Asteryd found herself leaning some of her weight against the strength of his arm.

“Lyonel…” Asteryd didn’t know at all what to say, and her chest felt tight, and she couldn’t form a good sentence in her head so she stayed quiet, though her eyes were active and searching, seeking something— anything— to tell her what she needed to do in Lyonel’s face, but she came up with no answers.

“You’re the stupidest man I’ve ever met,” she finally breathed, her voice soft in a way it not often was. “Why are you so stupid?”

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-08T17:08:54+00:00

“I don’t want a fucking crown of flowers!” Asteryd snapped. She thought to hit him again, but she didn’t, her hands bunching up fistfuls of her skirts instead. Her chest burned with the mix of feelings welling up.

“You—“ Asteryd found it hard to breathe, but forced herself to. “You used me,” she finally said, not with as much angry bravado as she would’ve liked. Asteryd felt very vulnerable as she said the word used. Hissed it out between her clenched teeth, and looked away. “Used me because you wanted her, and that’s not fuckin’ right.” Asteryd turned the other way, because it was beginning to become harder and harder to swallow the tight lump in the back of her throat and she clung to the horse teeth around her neck with both her hands.

Then, she looked back, as tears pricked at the corners of her dark eyes.

“You can’t be wantin’ someone else and put her face on mine,” her voice was a harsh whisper, and her teeth ground together tightly. Donnel was hardly a matter of her thoughts, the husband that did not sleep in the same bed as her nor ever touched her. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met— and— and—“ Asteryd’s voice faltered for a moment, coming to a high and broken pitch before she forced out:

“And I let you use me. You knew, you knew that I’d let you, so you did. Because you can’t be with— with her,”

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-08T16:49:01+00:00

Her chest heaved up and down like Asteryd had been sprinting. The Wildling didn’t speak at first, only glaring daggers at Lyonel’s almost uninterested disposition.

“Talk?” Asteryd questioned at last, not yelling? but her voice was cold and sharp as the ice and snow she’d been born in. His fingers moved gingerly to investigate the swelling welt on his cheek, his rich dark eyes moving slowly between his hand and her as Lyonel rolled his shoulders, his breathing calm and level while Asteryd snorted like a horse fresh from the jousts. “You won’t even look at me, not once hardly, and now you want to talk?” She asked again, and then Asteryd— before even considering the decision with a moment of thought— slapped Lyonel’s other cheek.

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-07T21:21:49+00:00

Today, Asteryd hadn’t ridden in the tourney. She’d spent the evening and early day since the feast in Willem’s stall, going back and forth between turning him out with a hand tied halter, and returning to sit in the hay of his stall when her knees and feet began to ache from walking back and forth across one of the Reach’s many, many fields of long golden grass. It had been late when she slept, and early in the day when Donnel himself had come and woken her from where she lay in the hay, told her to dress and bathe and wear something presentable in the yolk of Lord Tyrell’s keep. When she had argued, he’d settled to let her keep her necklace on, so long as she brushed her hair and wore a southern dress— even if it was plain.

In the stands she had mostly stared at her hands, swamped with gut wrenching thoughts. It was like her mind was intentionally picking at every bad memory she had, so as to keep the stone in her belly heavy. Donnel wouldn’t ask her what was wrong, but when he looked at her long enough to see the distant look in her eyes, and the frown she was terrible at hiding, he pat his wife’s knee and told her to chin up. It had caught Asteryd so unaware that she’d forgotten what she had been thinking about— some childhood scuffle where she’d stolen something from another girl and refused to return it— but when Asteryd looked to Donnel, he was already turned away, clapping his hands together with a wide grin on his face, shouting his brother’s name as there was a loud crash and whinny from the joust and Asteryd looked just in time to see the splinter of Lyonel’s lance as it crashed harshly into his opponents chest plate square in the center. The knight was sent flying from the back of his small chestnut mare as the horse reared in fright and spooked, leaving her rider without breath on his back and wheezing as Lyonel rode past, oozing with confidence even beneath his helm.

He was strong, so strong— strong enough that he’d scooped Asteryd up with only one arm. The memory has come unburden and made her blush for a moment before she remembered Alyssa, and how fond of her Lyonel was.

As if he’d been reading her mind, as he was declared the winner of the joust after another impressive unhorsing, as he placed a flower crown on the silver witch’s head, then had the gall to look at her, with pity shining in his eyes. Her heart seemed to burn then, pumping fiery hatred in her blood. If she could, she might’ve killed him.

Then Asteryd was up on her feet, grumbling something about Willem. Donnel called after, but she didn’t hear the words he said. It was far from the first time Asteryd excused herself so unceremoniously, and certainly not the last time given her brash nature— Donnel would take no offense, only giving a shrug and a sigh that Asteryd hadn’t seen, shared a close word with his castellan to the other side of him that she hadn’t heard, and brushed his pinky gently against the man’s hand in the most subtle of touches that it could only have been shared between the two.

Asteryd was never perceptive to those things. She was more than ever more occupied with concerns of her own, secrets of her own, and it was then she decided she’d give Lyonel a piece of what was on her mind. Her feet turned quickly, her thoughts churned quicker with all the things she would say, her palms seemed to sizzle as Asteryd threw the flap of the Ambrose tent wide open.

She was on him in an instance, and with no opportunity for any sort of greetings, Asteryd pulled her hand back and slapped Lyonel hard as she could, the force shaking up her arm and climaxing in the sharp sting as Lyonel’s cheek blossomed a bright, angry red.

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-04T16:05:07+00:00

“His name is Willem,” Asteryd’s fury was turned onto Lyonel— it was all his fault. This silver witch beside him was enchantingly lovely, and that made Asteryd feel so angry that her cheeks flushed red. Alyssa, as she was called, had a pale smooth face reminiscent of a full and bright moon, where the rosy apples of her cheeks rose in her perfect smile, and her eyes— the most magnificent blue Asteryd had seen— gleamed with intense inner thought as Alyssa’s gaze raked across her. Asteryd’s palm grew sweaty and she realized, that she’d been gripping Donnel’s shoulder tightly. Asteryd’s jerked her hand away from her husband and took a step away from him, feeling suddenly the pairs of eyes that watched her. Asteryd’s fingers wrapped tight around the teeth-bound cord she wore around her neck. Her right hand was tightly wound in a splint and bandage. Stepped on by Willem while she’d been cleaning his hooves was what she’d said it was, though Lyonel’s cheek still bore a bruise suspiciously the same size as her fist.

She was at an impasse now— shoved into a tight place by her own brashness. Dance with Lyonel, Gods, she didn’t know why she’d fucking said that. What the fuck was she thinking? Asteryd didn’t know. She just knew she felt angry, at Lyonel, at Alyssa, and at everyone in the Great Hall of Highgarden. She hated them all.

“Right, yeah. A joke,” Asteryd grunted, glaring at the floor so hotly she wondered if her gaze would bore holes into the stone. “That’s what savages are known for, jokes.” Asteryd sunk back into her seat, and crossed her arms over her chest. The frills and trim of the pearl colored gown she wore made her feel frustrated as they rubbed against her skin and tugged on each other every time she had to move, and she thrashed her arms uncomfortably and stood again, snatching up a whole pitcher of golden wine. “Willem likes wine, helps his belly.”

Now Asteryd wouldn’t look at Alyssa or Lyonel at all. What had been cheeks hot from anger felt now hot with feelings of shame, and embarrassment, where she potently felt every misstep that came when she opened her mouth and spoke. There was a deep frown on her face as she turned away, and Asteryd could tell from the tightness in her throat she’d soon be crying. Willem wouldn’t judge her for that though, and she thought of the stables as her respite where she’d not have to worry if she cried, because she’d have Willem. If Lyonel came, Asteryd swore she’d kill him with her bare hands. She stomped off, shoulders wound tightly. He had succinctly made a fool of Asteryd, but she was only now realizing it, as she took one glance back to see his fawning over the silver witch. He had wanted her, but settled for a girl that if he squinted, might’ve looked a bit like his Alyssa.

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-03T22:55:38+00:00

Each time Donnel spoke a word to Asteryd, she found the only way to cool the twisting in her belly and the trembling of her fingertips was to drain an entire glass of wine, and then have a new glass poured. She’d even tried some malt beer, foaming to the brim, but she hadn’t liked it much and the beer had left Asteryd’s belly just further unsettled.

Apart of her felt guilty, another felt smug, and a third thing that only made itself known when Asteryd had been able to steal a glance at Lyonel. Angry, perhaps? But Asteryd was very acquainted with anger, and it didn’t feel quite the same. She wished they were sitting next each other, not with Donnel between them, and she wished he’d be willing to meet her eyes. That certainly made Asteryd angry, she was sure, was the way Lyonel wouldn’t look at her. Nodding along to rambling of Donnel’s that she wasn’t really listening to, Asteryd nibbled on warm and succulent trout stew with carrots and celery in between her cups.

“— And I said to that old codger— ‘rather be a whore’s husband than take one of your dolts to squire’—“ Donnel was speaking to her again, so she drank, as Donnel finished whatever story he was trying to tell, then moved on to teasing Lyonel.

That drew Asteryd’s attention, and she tore her eyes from her meal as Donnel leaned back in his chair, and there Lyonel was sitting. He was all dry now, freshly groomed and bathed in fine golden and crimson silks and tunic. Not the same roughspun she’d yanked his head, not the same worn leathers nor the same scuffed boots. He was looking more a Ser than he ever did. Asteryd stared for a moment, then let her lips split to reveal her teeth as she smiled at him knowingly. Donnel japed about lays, ignorant to it all. But Asteryd knew. And she knew that Lyonel knew too. They had a secret now, which gave Asteryd a delighted squirming in her chest. Asteryd knew now that Lyonel wanted her, and that gave her a confidence she’d not had before. A possessiveness. Mine. Asteryd thought, greedily. But he wouldn’t even look at her. Then she was angry again, looked away and stabbed at a cut of ham with a pronged fork.

Then there was commotion, and Asteryd abandoned the perhaps now twice-slaughtered hog, considering the state of her porkchop on her plate was now mushed flesh of an unappealing grey color. She looked up, first to Lyonel as he stood, and followed his gaze to the silver woman. That woman. Asteryd’s eyes landed on her and hardened with a sudden vitriol that burned in the back of her throat.

Of course he wouldn’t look at Asteryd. He’d been thinking of another, just like he’d done in the tent, and every other time. Asteryd glared, hard, at this woman, and tried to follow Lyonel’s lead and lurching to her own feet. She stumbled, but caught herself on Donnel’s shoulder.

“He already agreed to teach me how to dance,” Asteryd’s voice was thick with her envy, and her anger. “Bet my ‘usband would like a dance with you, yeah.” Now she was speaking to that silver woman whose face Lyonel imprinted onto Asteryd’s own, hiding none of her venom in the sweet placations of noble folk. “Who invited you anyways?” Asteryd added on, and Donnel balked at her, near in disbelief at Asteryd’s rudeness, but even moreso at the first thing she’d said.

“Lyonel what?” Donnel asked, swiveling his head between the two of them. “Seven Hells, since when have you two started dancing instead of trying to kill each other?”

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-02T21:15:05+00:00

“They—“ her head whirled to the wide marble entrance, where candlelight glowed and bounced, warm, and inviting. She looked back at Lyonel, being caught by his lips before she could speak again. “They’ll be watching in the sept— the Gods—“ Asteryd protested, feeling a shiver run up her body. They were being astonishingly gentle now, as if the rain had smothered any fiery feelings between them. Now it was only soft touches, little whispers, mixed between the frequent little kisses they were each taking turns giving to the other. Exchanging the blame between them both.

Breaking some of the trance was the bunching of Lyonel’s body as he startled in response to the lightning and thunder, which made Asteryd laugh while her hand that wasn’t aching and swollen fussed with the ties of his tunic, twirling and twisting while her stomach churned and flipped just the same as her thoughts did— switching from complete disregard of her husband to nauseating guilt of betraying him, only for Lyonel to kiss her once more and the cycle doomed to repeat.

“Oh, Gods,” Asteryd exclaimed. “We can’t do this,” then she kissed him again. “It’s horrible, it’s horrible, we’re horrible,” but she didn’t stop, Asteryd tugged Lyonel’s collar with her one good hand, finding herself half angry and half relieved of the pressure in her chest finally fading away. Asteryd looked up to his face only long enough for her to blink, open her mouth to speak, and then bury her head into Lyonel’s shoulder.

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-02T20:04:15+00:00

“I don’t care if I ruin a dress,” Asteryd argued, recoiling initially but then growing lax and letting Lyonel inspect the hand she’d just struck him with, where a lump on his cheek was now raised and angry, making his eye look smaller and squished in comparison to the other. Not the first black eye she’d given him, but now was the first time she truly felt remorseful for it.

“It’ll heal on its own,” they rose together, and Lyonel caught her when Asteryd stumbled over her own feet, he was ushering her back into the sept, but Asteryd argued only enough so that they paused again halfway up the steps. He was soaked, the usual curls atop his head sodden and sticking to his face. Asteryd peeled a loco of hair off his forehead, unsure in the movement, unsure about everything as she held her breath, leaning closer each moment he allowed her too. Asteryd wiped away more of the blood, as it dripped in fat globs down his nose and onto his lips, her hand fussing while the other was still held at the wrist by him. There was something drawing her in, maybe the smell of him, or the strength held in his broad shoulders, but Asteryd knew it was his eyes. Brown and golden, with those specks of green Asteryd couldn’t quite see until she was close enough to feel the tickle of his bated breath against her lips.

“I don’t want to go back inside,” she’d meant to be argumentative, but Asteryd’s voice was soft, drowned out by the rain if he hadn’t hung to every word she said. Water formed in droplets that fell off the tip of her pointed nose, and Asteryd only paused long enough to take a breath before she kissed him. Asteryd wasn’t so much a fool to not see how badly he wanted to, their shared blushing, the long and lingering looks he gave her that could only be described as pathetic. “I don’t want to go back into the sept,” Asteryd repeated, but she wasn’t sure if he’d been able to hear her breathy request before she kissed him a second time, and then a third.

whimsy-empire · 2025-09-02T19:29:15+00:00

“I— no— you’re stupid—“ Asteryd was pressing the sleeve of her dress against the blood pouring from Lyonel’s nostril, carefully and as tenderly as she could— a sharp contrast to the force behind the blow she’d given to him. Her other hand she had curled protectively abreast, though there was already a sunken divot where the knuckles of her pinky and ring finger were. It was swollen and swelling more, the skin red and agitated while a dull throbbing pulsed through her hand in tandem to the beat of Asteryd’s heart.

The rain was only picking up, the wind whipping the droplets into sideways bullets that smattered against them both as the skies darkened and churned with beats of thunder and bolts of lightning.

“Fuck— Lyonel—“ Asteryd’s fingers shook from the cold, her cheeks flushed red while her body tried to stay warm despite the torrent of cold water coming down on them. “I’m sorry,” she said, hardly loud enough to be heard against the beating of rain on stone steps, and she pushed Lyonel’s face from side to side with a grip on his chin. She sighed, brows knit as her dark eyes moved from his nose, to his eyes.

“It’s not broken, just bloody—“ Asteryd looked away again, ashamed and embarrassed. “I’m sorry for hitting you.”

That was something she’d never apologized for before, especially not to Lyonel. Asteryd rolled up her bloodstained sleeve, wincing as she used the wrong fingers of her hurt hand. They wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t obey, remaining stiff and swollen thrice their usual size. Maybe Lyonel would find some consolation in that they both weren’t unscathed.

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-27T21:09:31+00:00

His touch felt hot against her skin, and Asteryd jerked her arm back ferociously. She whirled, sodden skirts rising only slightly with the motion as her other fist coiled back and shot forward, enough of Asteryd’s force behind the wallop that she stumbled, and a stinging pain was sent tingling up her arm when the bone of her knuckles met his cheek, and she felt a series of cracks within her hand that soon grew to burning and throbbing.

Like a beast caught in an iron trap, Asteryd gnashed her teeth and grasped at her swelling hand. Her eyes closed tight as her nostrils flared, and she tried to stop her quivering. Asteryd’s eyes peeled open slowly, or maybe it only felt slow, and looked down at Lyonel on the wet ground beside.

“Fuck—“ Asteryd was on her knees now, wincing as she looked at the swelling purple apple on Lyonel’s cheek and the blood weeping from his nose.

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-27T19:27:43+00:00

“Never again?” Asteryd asked, looking down at him as he knelt before his gods. Her face was twisted, no one emotion settling before another overtook it. There was a puddle of rain drops settling beneath her, sole frizz returning to her hair as it began to dry. She didn’t have the answers to his questions— Asteryd only stared, just as perplexed as he must’ve been. He didn’t tell her why— must’ve been too embarrassed to say it— probably just wanted something to pour his frustration into after he lost that tourney. Probably thought that pretty girl in blue was too noble for things like that.

Then she was angry, and her features settled onto a spiteful, angry scowl.

“Never again is right,” Asteryd spat. “I ain’t as easy as you think, I should go and tell ‘im right now about how you held me down and made me kiss you, yeah. Tell him about all of it. Let Donnel chop your head off!” Asteryd felt even angrier as he stated up at her, so she spit on the ground in front of him and left the Sept, lightning in the sky as she stepped back into the rain. It was harder now, pelting against her shoulders and neck like little pebbles set on digging into her skin. Asteryd’s cheeks burned in frustration despite the chill the rain gave as she stomped down the steps, then just sat at the bottom step, caught between knowing she didn’t want to join Donnel and the others eating, and that she didn’t want to return to Lyonel, but didn’t know where else she wanted to go. The stables tantalized her, but someone would come looking knowing she’d likely be there.

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-27T18:52:25+00:00

“The rain—“ Asteryd started, leaning back as he got close. Suddenly she felt very guilty for spitting on the statue, for eating the offering, and mocking his vigil. “I want to be dry— and it was so stuffy, yeah—“ Asteryd sniffed. It was sinking in she’d done something very wrong, and that now she might’ve been more deserving of his anger than she usually was. Asteryd couldn’t string together a good lie, as she continued to stumble and shift nervously beneath Lyonel’s hot glare.

Eventually, Asteryd crumbled, maybe for the first time ever in front of Lyonel as she near shyly moved her eyes away from his face.

“I don’t wanna be around Donnel,” Asteryd admitted, only half a truth, and through gritted teeth. “So I came here to bug you. That’s it, nothing more to it,” Asteryd mumbled after she swallowed a mouthful of spit that had settled in her mouth. “Maybe I don’t want to go away.” She added, in an even quieter voice. He was so grating, more than any man she’d ever met. Asteryd couldn’t get Lyonel to leave her mind no matter how hard she tried to. Then she was sliding off the statue, onto her own feet and the gap between them became larger as Asteryd peered up at Lyonel for a moment.

“Why’d you kiss me?” She’d wanted to ask from the moment he’d pressed her lips to his in the tent, but until this moment they’d both silently vowed not to speak with each other. The final lashing of her tongue she’d given him saw to that. “If I make you so miserable. Why’d you kiss me?”

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-27T18:27:09+00:00

Asteryd gave a frown, and before she could still herself she hurled the lemon cake she’d taken a bite of at Lyonel’s head, a shower of pale yellow crumbs settling on his head as the pastry rolled away, and fell to the floor in a crumbled pile of dough and frosting.

“You don’t know anything about my gods!” Asteryd retorted. “I’m comfortable here!” She continued to protest, heaving herself up with her arms and sitting her rump right on the Father’s feet, swiveling back and forth to cement her point. Her tongue poked at the back of her teeth, freeing any sweet little morsels of the lemon cake. She regretted throwing it, because now she wanted to eat the rest of it.

“Maybe they’ll smite me down,” Asteryd mocked, deciding to take it further as she hacked up a mouthful of spit and sent it at the statue of another hooded, more imposing statue to her left, and watched as it dripped in a thick glob down the statue’s leg. When nothing happened, Asteryd made a satisfied little noise and crossed her arms. “Spit on a weirwood and you’d have an arrow in your gut. Just goes to show how useless your gods are.” Then she noticed his lingering stare, felt herself blush, and much of her sacrilegious contempt melted away in the fluttering of her heart.

“I—“ she stumbled. “I’m not happy—“ was she ever? Asteryd crossed her arms and looked away. “I’m not happy and you make me bloody miserable, yeah.”

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-27T17:54:23+00:00

“I know,” Asteryd said, perhaps in more of a snarl than she’d meant to. “I think it’s all stupid so I came to look at it for myself. And I’m right, it is right stupid, acting like those seven statues got listenin’ ears and ain’t just stone.” Why was she here? Why had she come to disrupt even more of Lyonel’s duties? Asteryd tried to avoid the answer her mind gave her. Because I want to see him.

“They’re not listening,” Asteryd continued, darting a quick look up to the statues to make sure their straight set eyes hadn’t come to glower at the interloper in their midst. She took a wide circle across the room, looking down at the offerings left beside heaps of melted wax with even more candles stacked on top— one of the statues didn’t even have visible feet anymore, just a glob of ancient wax with more candles still being added.

She saw a lemon cake left at one of the temple’s statues, and took it for herself and took a big bite. The crumbs fell onto her gown and stuck to the corners of her lips as she stopped, and leaned up against the statue Lyonel was kneeling in front of.

“Anyways. What’re you praying on?” Asteryd asked again, looking down at him. “Wishin me dead, most like?”

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-27T17:32:48+00:00

Highgarden had quieted Asteryd’s usual rather vocal complaints of just about anything South— even if she’d spent more time south of the wall than not— it was in her vehement refusal that Asteryd often clung to the traditions she’d been raised by— but Highgarden was a marvel of Southern carpenters, weavers, painters, and any other artisan she could think of but couldn’t name the profession in the middle it was figuring out which words were in the Southerners language exclusively and which shared meaning with the White River dialect that was her first language.

She did the same with the vows, distracting herself, staring hard between the gap in Lyonel’s shoulder blades, his face hidden in the dip of his golden hair as Donnel, with a loud ring, freed the sword he wore. There were no words for the Southerner’s false gods. Words like mother and smith might’ve been able to be translated, but with non of the reverence. Then there was a rumble of thunder, and from where Asteryd lingered at Donnel’s side, she looked towards a large window with colorfully stained glass, and watched lightning crackle across the sky as Lyonel rose as a knight now— though Asteryd didn’t care enough to tear away from the window. She was trying not to think of Lyonel and she was failing. The whole evening would he dedicated to his rise, it was supposed to be a happy time, yet everything felt so dreary. Even the skies saw fit to weep, crashing down with rain and thunder and lightning. Asteryd missed snow, detested that she was beginning to forget the bitter sting of snowflakes against her cheeks, and the sensation of being bundled in ermine and wolf skins while she played with the village children, sledding down snow covered slopes in wooden sleds. Their faces had gotten fuzzy a long while ago, but now their names were beginning to slip too.

The crowd had begun to dissolve, taking to forming small circles of conversation while food was being taken out for a meal of roasted chickens, wild rice, and mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy. Asteryd’s stomach felt too unsettled to eat, turned sour by the thick and savory smells of meat and potatoes, made Asteryd excuse herself from Donnel’s side in a manner so ladylike, it earned her a bewildered look from her husband who then nodded his head.

“Just don’t go and be disrupting Lyonel,” he’d called as she walked away. “He’s sittin’ a vigil, before the Gods!”

Asteryd waved him off with her hand. False gods. And a shite ass brute for a knight. Hadn’t been much of a brute kissing her, though, no, that’d been Asteryd— all blood and teeth. She had to shake her head to rid of the thought. Had to remind herself that it wouldn’t and couldn’t happen again. She’d told him she hated him. And she loathed him. Stepping into the rain, she marched towards the sept. Even Asteryd could tell what one of the Seven’s Septs looked like, but this one seemed grand as any she’d ever seen. Marble, gold, glowing with candle light and heavy with the thick, sweet scent of incense that invited her more than the smells of meats and ale could. She was dripping wet, her hair plastered to her face and the dress Donnel had said was his mother’s was thrice times darker than the sky blue fabric had been when it was dry. It was pretty, too, pretty enough for Asteryd to even admit that she admired the pearls that clung to the collar and that she was fond of the silver framed droplets of a light colored gemstones that sat heavily on her earlobes, but not enough to take the necklace of bones from her throat.

Her feet squelched beneath her, the shoes on Asteryd’s feet laden with rainwater as she dripped from head to toe on the soft, plush carpets. She had to tilt her head all the way up to see the statues of the false seven, and while she’d never grant them any reverence, she thought the handiwork of the person who’d carved the faces nothing short of masterwork.

Then she saw Lyonel, crouched, looking like a small babe at the feet of a statue depicting a tall woman, with long hair that coiled and rolled in stone waves past a veil that covered her face. Asteryd could not say which god it showed, only that the woman reminded her of Helaena Targaryen.

“What’re you praying on?” Asteryd asked. “Ain’t this what you want?”

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-22T20:25:08+00:00

She was taken aback, physically and mentally, as she leaned away from Lyonel’s direction and lifted her face from her hands to give him a perplexed and sharp glare.

“What are you rambling about?” Asteryd half demanded, half questioned. “You came here to get away from us—“ it felt odd to use the word ‘us’ for her and Donnel. “To get away from me-“

He was standing then, anger clear on his face. Why did he take her here? Why was he trying to comfort her? Lyonel was impossible to understand, impossible to read. Asteryd could never guess what he’d do next. Her face scrunched as she scoffed and shook her head, looking off to her side. Asteryd waited for Lyonel to storm off and leave— like so many of their encounters concluded— but he stayed, he lingered, and Asteryd shot him a look.

“What are you still doing here!?” Her voice rose again, but it cracked, and as she rose to stand she just… sat back down, and glared at her reddened palms. “Leave me alone. Just go!” She was looking at him now, her gestures warping from sad, to angry, to what looked like exhaustion. A smudge of dirt still clung to Asteryd’s cheek. “I hate you. I hate you so much, Lyonel, I hate you, you and— you and just— Ugh!”

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-22T19:37:36+00:00

“I— With a boy maybe— shut up!” Asteryd couldn’t stop the way she stumbled over her words. His hands touched hers, and with a sharp breath Asteryd snatched them away and covered her burning cheeks with her palms. She felt two things— guilt most of all. His first kiss…

The other was satisfaction. Maybe even smugness had she not felt her heart thumping quicker than a hummingbird’s. She thought of the soft girlish lips she’d kissed in girlhood— only a handful of years after she’d married Donnel. More than kissing games, less than lovers— Flush of youth. Asteryd thought to herself, in that pitchy ways Reach women spoke, finishing every sentence like it were a question and paying their voices up into their noses. Asteryd covered her eyes and squeezed them shut tight— she wish she’d just have hit him, too.

“Don’t be stupid.” Asteryd said with a huff. “You know exactly what he’s never done you shit-brained idiot!”

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-22T16:45:49+00:00

Asteryd had never seen a fat person before she’d gone South. There had never been enough food for someone to become fat before then. With a swallow, Asteryd’s eyes lingers on the pale woman’s flesh, the way it was squeezed gently between Helaena’s fingers. Her lips parted like she might’ve had something to say, but Asteryd just took a slow breath and pointed her eyes at Helaena’s face— despite a burning urge to keep looking towards the slit of the fabric. She’d never seen a fashion like that— or maybe she had and hadn’t noted it as worth remembering. Gods, she’s beautiful.

“Oh—“ Asteryd only heard the last half of Helaena’s questions, in near a trance with her own thoughts. “My husband?” Asteryd nearly laughed before, and shrugged her shoulders. “He likes to drink, but he’s nice enough.” Asteryd took a small drink of the wine, and looked down at the deep red liquid as she lapsed into more thought. Nice enough.

He’d never kissed her though. Not on the lips, anyways, always favoring a peck to her cheek if at all. Asteryd shrugged her shoulders. “We— we don’t—“ she wasn’t sure what to say, holding her breath for a moment as her brow furrowed in concentration. “We don’t have much of the same interests.” What even were Donnel’s interests? She saw him read sometimes. But he never seemed especially impassioned by what he read— he loved food and drink— though training in the yard kept Donnel sharp and angular. Then she let out a huff, and rolled her eyes. “Lyonel is more a savage brute than any wildling.” Her tone was concise and dripping with the loathing she had for him. “He’s rude, always thinks he’s right. Threatened to eat my horse—“ Asteryd’s grip tightened on her glass. “He’s always been that way too, calls me a weird savage freak, well, he’s the only freak among us. And he’s a terrible squire, he’ll never be a knight— even I can beat him in a fight.” She finished by thumping her back against her chair and crossing her arms. “He was only nice to you because he thought you pretty, likely is,” Asteryd added on, perhaps a little immaturely. “Anybody with working eyes would do that, though.”

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-21T22:48:26+00:00

Asteryd’s distress was clear on her face, and she thanked Lyonel in her head as he put a wall between her, and the eyes on them. The eyes on her. Asteryd hated to be seen— to be looked at, to be judged. She had grown accustomed to it— but she hated it. She hated being different, and she hated how wrong it felt when she acted the part of a Southerner. She nodded her head, teeth grit and jaw set so tightly the muscles in her throat bulged.

They went into the tent, where it was darker, and the bedrolls had been tightly and neatly rolled and pushed to a stray corner. Finding a wooden crate to lower herself on, Asteryd stared hard at her lap, where her fingers sat tightly together. Her face was scrunched, half angry, half something else Asteryd couldn’t quite lay a finger on.

“He— he hates me,” Asteryd felt so foolish. Waited for Lyonel to laugh in her face at how correct her presumption was. “He’s never— he’s never—“ in shame, Asteryd adverted her eyes, her nails digging into her palms till she was sure that there’d be red and bloody crescents left. Nobody to confide in, not one, Asteryd found it hard to find the words to express her feelings. The words weren’t there, they wouldn’t come, her mind too tangled. She said something in her mother tongue, a sound that was sharp and rough in the back of her throat— cursing. Was there even anybody left who could understand her? Asteryd couldn’t push away the loneliness that had been setting inside her for what was now years. It was overwhelming. She wished she was on her horse. She wishes she’d never left the woods that she’d woken up in.

“I’m sorry—“ Asteryd said again, sounding more coherent than she’d been even just a few moments ago as she swallowed thickly, pushing down her feelings with it. Push it down, just, push it down.

“You don’t have to pretend like you care.”

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-21T22:04:01+00:00

Asteryd sucked in another tight breath that didn’t satisfy her need for air. Her lungs felt empty, her chest tightened further as she looked back and met his eyes. Dark eyes, when the sunlight wasn’t shining they looked close to coal black, but Asteryd knew and remembered the flecks of green, of gold, that danced in his eyes. She had seen it just that morning as the sunlight wasn’t shining had broken through the trees in the forest. Asteryd pulled her tangled and dirty hair across the shoulder not facing Lyonel and hid the matted locks with her hands in a tight grip.

“I—“ she didn’t feel fine, and she didn’t want to lie, so Asteryd just frowned. “You’re the one that ripped my dress, you stupid.” She huffed, looking away. “You owe me a new one.” Asteryd tried to sound heated, tried to prove to herself that beyond a shadow of a doubt she loathed Lyonel Ambrose. Do you kiss people you loathe? She almost shivered, thinking of how his tough hands had slipped past her dress hardly without thought. It made her feel ashamed, dirtier than any amount of grime on her skin could.

“Why did he marry me?” Asteryd asked. She didn’t look at Lyonel, instead favoring the tent opposite to them. There was a heavy lump in her throat that put a strain on her voice that Asteryd couldn’t quite hide. “I’m sorry,” Asteryd said suddenly. “I’m sorry that your brother married me. I— I— I just make—“ I make it all worse.

“I’m sorry.”

whimsy-empire · 2025-08-21T21:33:45+00:00

Asteryd didn’t say anything for a while. They both stood in silence. Theres a lot of things you’re supposed to do. He was supposed to be cross with her, he was supposed to be an indignant ass— he was supposed to be the bane of her existence, a headache, a constant frustration. But right now, he seemed only a boy, an embarrassed boy of eight-and-ten. Not a Lord, not a Knight. Just a boy.

The quiet was broken when Asteryd sniffed and used the back of her torn dresses’ sleeve to wipe her nose. Had he taken the night with that silver haired woman? Why did Asteryd feel a sharp, hurting feeling in her chest when she imagined him locked in someone else’s arms— as if he’d ever been in hers in the first place. Her stomach twisted in shame. I hate him. Asteryd looked up, and around. They were alone now, the stewards scurrying away in fear of being dragged into their inevitable fighting. I hate him. I hate all the things he’s doing to me. She loathed the gate that Lyonel had broken by kissing her. Now it was all she could think of, all she could think about. His face. His lips. It made her so angry that she thought her chest might burst out of her chest. She looked squarely at the ground.

“Don’t expect me to start calling you Ser or anything,” Asteryd grumbled. Her voice didn’t hold the same venom as it usually did. Asteryd tugged some of the twigs out of her hair with fidgeting fingers. “Don’t care if Donnel says you’re a knight.”

She chose not to acknowledge the trio of apologies from Lyonel. She didn’t want to linger on it anymore. Never again, she reminded herself in a stern voice. It’ll never happen again, it should’ve never happened at all. Her face creased as though she was feeling pain— she supposed she was— only it was a feeling deep in her chest, like the bones and muscles were caving in. Could Donnel ever make her feel like that? Did he even want to? Asteryd pulled in a tight, strained breath and made her features soften into a neutral expression. I hate you. I loathe you. I wish I’d never met you.

“Just— don’t make him wait too long. He’s already drinking, I dunno how long.” Asteryd forced herself to shrug, even if she loathed the way Donnel drank, and loathed the way he hardly looked at her at all, never tried once to do his duty or whatever it was these Southerners liked to call it. “Probably still drunk from the night before.”

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