Archive of Our Own

Long locks of brown-blonde hair dangled past the boy's collar, a tangled mess of pine needles and tree sap. Squires couldn't always practice in the training yard, but did they have to practice in the woods? Her little brother was lucky he found her before their lady mother saw what had happened. 

"Hold still," Gwendolyn Lydden scolded, wincing as the shears nicked the back of Mordryd's neck. 

"I am holding still," he protested sullenly, voice cracking. 

Humming under her breath, Gwen snipped away, tufts of hair dropping to the floor beside her half-packed chest. But now the skies weep o'er his tomb, with no one there to see...

"What's that?" Her brother turned, nearly poking his eye out on the shears. A glare from Gwen and he turned back around, sheepish. Frowning, she resumed her work. 

"Oh, a ballad of the fall of Tristifer Mudd, set in the ruins of Oldstones. Lord Lefford's singer has been working on it for the singer's tourney at Casterly Rock."

Lord Tytos Lannister held one every year in twelfth moon, part of the lavish celebrations to welcome the new year. The celebrations to welcome the year 260 AC had been rather muted, given the many deaths on the Stepstones, and the unpleasantness afterwards with Ser Tywin Lannister's bold edicts. Thank the Seven that business was done with. This year's celebrations would be much livelier, now that Tytos had reined in his heir.

"Whistling Wat must be desperate for gold, to start preparing for the tourney so early." Her brother wasn't wrong; it was only sixth moon now. "Who cares about a king who's been dead for thousands of years?" Mordryd snorted. "Jenny's song only won two years ago because the nightmare of Summerhall was still fresh. Why else would they weep for a peasant girl? Everyone hated her, her and the Prince of Dragonflies, until they were dead and gone." 

She froze, still holding the shears open, a lock of hair between their blades. Lord Banefort's voice echoed in her ears, stiff and cold as he read the letter aloud. It is with deepest regret that I must inform you of the death of your son and heir, Ser Gerold Banefort. During the last of the fighting on Grey Gallows he took several wounds whilst defending Ser Kevan Lannister from three knights of the Golden Company. Although his wounds were minor, and immediately treated by Ser Tywin Lannister's own maester, fever set in, soon followed by a flux that swept through the camps. 

The locket hung at her throat, the gold cool against her skin. Almost without thinking she touched it with the tips of her fingers, tracing the fine lines of the engraved sigil of a hooden man. Gwen had not wanted to wed Gerold Banefort. She had not wanted to leave the mountains of Deep Den for the salty shores of the Banefort, trading the scent of pines for the stink of fish. 

Not that she had a choice. Lord Cadwyn Lydden was not a man to leave his children's futures to chance. Her father was the envy of the Westerlands already, having caught the young lord of Ashemark for Lysa and the heir to Fair Isle for Briony. Lewys, his eldest son and heir, fostered at Casterly Rock with Ser Jason Lannister; his second son, Joffrey, fostered at Hornvale with their mother's kin. Third daughters almost never wed heirs, so Lord Lydden was practically smug when he sent Gwendolyn away to foster as the future Lady of the Banefort. 

Gwen had done her best to please her future goodfamily, turning a blind eye to Lord Banefort's indifference, Lady Banefort's nagging, and Gerold's wenching. She might not like the Baneforts, but after two years she was used to them. She knew stolid Quenten and wistful Elaine, her betrothed's younger siblings; she knew all the Banefort's bannermen, all the servants in the keep. When her marriage was postponed due to the War of the Ninepenny Kings, she thought little of the delay, beyond the additional time it gave her to prepare for the nuptials. 

When word came of Gerold's death... Gwen had disliked him, but she had not wanted him dead. Now, a year later, she was still adrift, her future prospects as bleak as her father's mood. Lord Lydden was not used to being thwarted, and he seemed to take Gwen's return as a personal insult. It wasn't her fault that Gerold died, no more than it was her fault that Quenten, the new heir, was already betrothed to a Plumm. Negotiating a second match for Gwen would be even harder than the first one had been, with so many lords and knights of the Westerlands perished on the Stepstones. 

Whatever negotiations were going on, Gwen was not part of them. Nor did she have much else to occupy her time. Lady Briony, her mother, was occupied with running the keep. Left to her own devices, Gwen moped and fretted until her belly ached. Would her father keep her in the Westerlands, wedding her to a lesser lord or, Seven forbid, a landed knight? Would he turn to the Riverlands or the Reach to find a richer, more powerful lord? Would he send her to the Faith, rather than see a Lydden wed beneath her station? 

There was no point in asking, unless she wanted to be shouted at. That was why she wrote to Aunt Elissa, begging to visit so she might have a respite from her father's ill humor. Thank the Seven she was leaving on the morrow; the cozy halls and lively society of Castamere would be a welcome change. 

"Gwen?" Mordryd looked up at her. He had the same snub nose she did, the same hazel eyes. How could he be thirteen already? It seemed like only yesterday that her father placed the squalling babe in her arms, too concerned about his ailing wife to consider the wisdom of entrusting his new son to his five year old daughter. "Are you done? Can I go?" 

A few hanks of hair still bore needles and sap; Gwen trimmed them away, brushing the shorn hairs off his shoulders. "There, now you're done. One of the maids should be able to fix the rent in your doublet. Not Tess, unless you want our lady mother to start asking questions." 

Her brother flung his arms about her in an impulsive hug, his chin almost resting on the top of her head. Gods, Gwen hoped he was done growing. She didn't mind being shorter than Lewys and Joffrey; at five foot two, she was shorter than almost everyone. But it was one thing to be five inches shorter than both of one's older brothers, and another thing entirely to be eight inches shorter than one's younger brother. 

"I'll miss you," Mordryd said to the air above her head. The door creaked; her brother pulled away as her maid entered, bearing clean shifts and smallclothes from the washerwomen. 


"I'll be back before you know it," Gwen said, gesturing for the maid to lay the clothes in the chest with her carefully folded gowns. "And I'll write to you while I'm there; Aunt Elissa won't mind me using the ravens." 

Her confidence proved justified when Gwen arrived at the stronghold of her Reyne cousins. "Cute as a button," Lady Elissa pronounced, patting Gwen's cheek with a wrinkled, leathery hand. "My young brother will find you a new match soon enough." The thought of anyone calling grey-haired Lord Cadwyn young was enough to make Gwen stifle a giggle. "There, no need to fret. Make yourself at home, sweetling, you may have all the ravens you like." 

Elissa Lydden was as good as her word. As dowager lady of Castamere, she had ruled over the keep for over fifty years. Though she was seventy-three, half-blind and afflicted with heart troubles, the servants still hopped to her every whim, terrified of displeasing her formidable sons, bold Lord Roger and charming Ser Reynard. The maester who oversaw the ravenry was the same. Lady Elissa's word was law, and if her youngest niece wished to write to her brother at Deep Den, a raven would be hers. 

At first Gwen had little to write about. Lord Roger's wife, Eleyna Brax, had died of winter fever whilst he was away on the Stepstones, and his amiable squire Kevan Lannister was now a knight, sworn to the service of Casterly Rock. In their absence she'd thought to find her cousin relying on his eldest daughter, Teora, but she'd wed some Tully bannerman after falling in love whilst visiting Hornvale. Gwen doubted whether the marriage would prove a happy one; Teora was flighty and spoiled, used to having her father cater to her every whim. Deprived of his closest companions, Lord Roger spent most of his time working in his solar or training in the yard, leaving his younger daughters to the care of a septa. 

I am convinced that Marla is a demon in the guise of a young girl, Gwen wrote her brother shortly after arriving. Lord Roger's second daughter, she was a headstrong girl of nine, and an absolute brat. Cerenna, two years her junior, is far sweeter, affectionate, bright, and easily pleased. Still, five septas have returned to their motherhouses since Lady Eleyna's death rather than deal with Marla's endless tantrums. Thankfully, Marla was easy to avoid; as sound echoed in the tunnels of Castamere, one could hear her approaching and immediately go in the opposite direction. 

A thousand years before the Casterlys built Casterly Rock, three thousand years before the upstart Lann the Clever founded House Lannister, the mighty Reynes had delved beneath the earth, constructing their halls amidst the same mines which were the source of their wealth. Whilst a passing knave might scoff at the small keep and two stout towers beside the pool, the lords and ladies of the west knew better. Castamere was as lovely as the clear blue waters for which it was named. Stone arches supported walls and ceilings of delicately carved quartz veined with gold and silver that sparkled brightly in the torchlight, so beautiful that even the humblest sections of the keep resembled nothing so much as a children's tale. 

The apartments set aside for lords and ladies were far from humble. Lady Elissa's solar boasted colorful tapestries depicting the history of House Reyne, lifelike paintings of her three children and twelve grandchildren, stained glass oil lamps, plush Myrish carpets and even plusher chairs. It was there Gwen spent her days, esconced with the other ladies of the keep. 

The ladies of the household welcomed her into their circle, each in their own way. Ser Reynard Reyne's wife, Myrielle Lefford, insisted on praying seven times a day for Ser Gerold's soul, a kindness Gwen could have done without. Myrielle did everything by sevens, lest the gods take offense at her lack of piety. She always wore seven pieces of jewelry, tapped the door seven times before entering any room, and insisted any food brought to her come in multiples of seven, whether it be seven small rolls of bread or twenty-one rounds of sliced roasted carrots or, on one occasion, forty-nine grapes. 

"How have the cooks not poisoned her?" Gwen asked under her breath one afternoon, when Lady Myrielle burst into tears upon realizing that there were only six rashers of bacon on her plate, though she never ate more than two. 

"They're used to it," shrugged Amarei, a maid of fifteen and eldest of Ser Reynard's brood of, of course, seven children. "It helps that mother tips them very generously on feast days. And they're that glad to have her running the household instead of Aunt Eleyna, Seven rest her soul. When they upset Eleyna she'd have them whipped or dock their wages; my lady mother just cries until they fix whatever is the matter."

"The Seven-Pointed Star says we must treat our inferiors with kindness," twelve-year-old Lynora added piously. "Whipping a man for lying or stealing is for the betterment of his soul; whipping a man for dropping a vase does nothing but make him jump at shadows." 

"Whipping Marla's whipping girl certainly does nothing," Alys grumbled, unnaturally grim for a girl of ten. She had been in a dour mood all week, even since the dolls arrived. 

There had been one for each of the Reyne girls under the age of ten, ordered from Lannisport with matching silk gowns, tiny necklaces of gold and pearls, and locks of real hair sewn to their heads. Within hours Marla had dropped her doll in a mud puddle whilst playing in the garden, and when Alys refused to let her borrow hers, she'd torn the doll's head off. Marla's poor whipping girl had been beaten bloody for that, but rather than express remorse, Marla had seized the septa's switch, hit the septa with it, then demanded the maester see to her whipping girl's wounds. 

"She shouldn't have a whipping girl," Lady Elissa nearly shouted, making them all jump. "What are we, Targaryens? Even the Lannisters aren't high and mighty enough to use whipping boys." 

"As if Lord Tytos ever whipped his children," one of Elissa's ladies-in-waiting fired back, not even looking up from her book as the ladies filled the room with laughter. 

"Mayhaps he should have." Myrielle was much calmer, now that a new plate of bacon had arrived, the seven rashers arranged into the shape of the seven-pointed star. "For Ser Tywin to act without his father's leave, to usurp the lord's authority so boldly... every man has his place, so says the Book of the Father, and an heir's place is at his father's side, following his father's commands. He served too long as King Aegon's cupbearer; now Tywin thinks he is a king." 

A round of nervous tittering followed that pronouncement. Ser Tywin Lannister had returned from the war even prouder than he was already. He had not been back in the Westerlands for more than a week when he demanded that all Lord Tytos's vassals repay their loans, or else send hostages until every groat was returned to the Lannister vaults beneath Casterly Rock. 

In his overweening arrogance, Tywin did not even pretend to have his father's permission for such absurd edicts. Not that that had stopped him from forming a company of five hundred battle-tested knights and placing his brother Ser Kevan in charge of running them up and down the countryside, terrorizing vassals for the crime of accepting Tytos's generosity. 

Many lesser knights cowered before them, meekly giving up coin and hostages as needed. "The lion has awoken," Ser Harys Swyft supposedly quipped, as craven as the chicken he took for his sigil, but Reynes and Tarbecks were made of sterner stuff. Aunt Elissa said Lord Reyne had laughed at the very thought of obeying the absurd edicts. "When Tytos is dead, Tywin may roar all he pleases," he told his bannermen. "Until then, only a fool parts with his gold until he must." 

Lord Walderan Tarbeck, husband to Gwen's cousin, Ellyn Reyne, was even more livid at Tywin's presumption. Indignant beyond measure, he rode to Casterly Rock, intending to inform Lord Tytos of what his heir was doing whilst Tytos closeted himself with his mistress. Every bannerman had the right to be heard by his lord, after all. To the horror of half the Westerlands, and amusement of the other half, Tywin boldly denied Lord Tarbeck of the right to speak with his liege, flinging the old man in a dungeon. 

Cousin Ellyn had not liked that. Within a fortnight she answered Tywin's unlawful audacity with defiance, capturing three Lannisters, hostages to guarantee Lord Walderan's safety. To the surprise of no one, the commotion was finally enough to stir Tytos from his mistress's bed. Lord Tarbeck was released, unharmed, his debts forgiven as an apology for the outrage he had suffered. The hostages were exchanged at Castamere, gifts and kisses were exchanged, and all was well, at least until Lord Tytos died. 

“My daughter was never one to suffer a slight without reprisal, but I fear someday she may go too far,” Lady Elissa confided one afternoon. They were alone in her aunt's bedchambers; she'd sent all the servants away so none of them would know where she kept her silver casket of sweetsleep. Though it was potent medicine for a weak heart, it was also very expensive, and Elissa trusted neither maester nor bedmaid. However, as she could no longer see well enough to measure out her daily dose, someone must perforce give her aid. Gwen was not sure why her aunt had chosen her, but she could hardly refuse to help. 

"How much do you need?" The casket was full of fine white grains, crystals smaller than salt or sugar. 

"To slow a pounding heart takes only a dozen grains, niece; use the silver tweezers fitted into the lid." Even Gwen's young eyes could barely count the grains, until she found a Myrish lens. 

"Does Myrielle use sweetsleep?" Gwen asked as she tweezed grains onto a little spoon. "Her heart must be pounding all the time, with how often she panics over this or that."  

"Seven, no, and don't you give her the idea. A few grains each day is enough to keep me alive, but more than that..." A small blackberry tart sat on the table; Gwen sprinkled the grains of sweetsleep over it as she waited for her aunt to continue. "The stuff builds up in the blood. A pinch of sweetsleep gives dreamless rest, but three pinches will make you sleep forever. That's why the maesters give us dreamwine or milk of the poppy instead, though neither of them works so well." 

Lady Elissa ate the blackberry tart in a few quick bites, the juice staining her lips purple. "Thank you, niece. Now, what was I speaking of before you distracted me?" 

"Of Lady Ellyn taunting the Lannisters." 

“That was it, thank you. Wound a man's arm and you may yet be friends; wound his pride and he may count himself your enemy until your dying day. When Tywin takes his father’s place, she may wish she tread more lightly.”

Gwen hoped the lords of the Westerlands were keeping close watch over their account books; there would be a reckoning for all of them when that day came. The thought almost made her uneasy, but then, Lord Tytos was only forty. It might be another forty years before he expired, and who knew what the Westerlands would look like by the year 300 AC. After all, Tytos Lannister was the thirdborn son, only lord because of his brothers Tywald and Tion dying untimely deaths. It was not difficult to imagine that Tywin might also predecease his father, leaving Ser Kevan as the new heir. 

Her Reyne cousins would be pleased should that happen. Kevan Lannister had spent most of his youth at Castamere, squiring for Lord Roger Reyne. Apparently the young knight was amiable and well spoken, with more spine than Lord Tytos but less arrogance than Ser Tywin. The Reynes were so fond of him that Ser Reynard's only son, Kevyn, was named in his honor. Idly Gwen wondered whether her father was negotiating with Tytos for Ser Kevan's hand; at nineteen, she was only two years his elder. She would not object to such a match; even second sons lived well at Casterly Rock, and Kevan might be lord one day. 

But if Tywin should become lord... if he sought retribution against all those who laughed at Lord Tytos... 

Stop it, Gwen told herself, her heart racing as the walls pressed in, enclosing her in a glittering tomb. It was bad enough worrying over her own future; she must not start fretting over the future of the Westerlands. Such concerns were best left to the men of her House, her father, brothers, uncles, and someday her husband and his kin. 

I cannot seem to escape my melancholy, she wrote Mordryd that evening, debating whether she might ask for a pinch of Aunt Elissa's sweetsleep. Dreamwine always made her vomit, but she could use a good night's rest. My thoughts dwell on remote possibilities, brooding over things that shall never be. Were I at home, I could at least distract myself with helping you out of trouble. Seven help me, you are the most most bothersome of brothers, yet I miss fussing over you.

When the raven arrived from Deep Den the next morning, it bore a single scrap of parchment in Mordryd's cramped handwriting. Find someone else to fuss over, then. 

That afternoon, Gwen took his advice, walking up the long steps that lead to the sky above. While the lords and ladies of Castamere preferred their opulent chambers beneath the earth, the nursery was aboveground, in the portion of the keep closest to the shores of Castamere. Beneath the summer sun, young children splashed in the shallows or played in lush gardens, far from the sound of steel in the training yards. 

Few lords or ladies bothered to visit the nursery, unless checking on their own offspring, and the novelty of Gwen's presence quickly led to her being besieged by tiny cousins, all clamoring for her attention. Ser Reynard's youngest children got to her first, their lofty rank making the other children, whose sires were mere knights and retainers, retreat to wait their turn. 

Two-year-old Kevyn crashed into her legs like a rock from a catapult, lisping excited demands for her to pick him up. While she held the squirming boy, his seven-year-old sister Jeyne showed off her newest bauble, an orb carved from "sap-pire". Five-year-old Darlessa babbled on about the book her septa was reading to her, a tale of some ancient Reyne who was the greatest knight to ever live; Leila, only three, wordlessly hugged several dolls to her chest, smiling when Gwen cooed over how lovely they were.  

The nursery soon became Gwen's favorite haunt. Most of Aunt Elissa's ladies-in-waiting were wed, or betrothed, a few were even promised to the Faith once they came of age. All of them knew what their future held; all of them could rest easy, as solid and secure as Castamere. Next to those complacent smiles, the shouting of children came as a relief. Their troubles were so small, their worries limited to the availability of sweets and the quality of their toys. 

As seventh moon faded into eighth Gwen found herself a favored confidant, entrusted with secrets too important for their lowborn wet nurses and too embarrassing for their highborn parents. Little Gawen Westerling was troubled by a loose tooth that would not come out; Gwen gently pulled it, then gave him a silver stag for luck. Leo Lefford was terrified of ghosts; Gwen solemnly promised that a candle by his bedside would keep them at bay. Ellyn Falwell was clumsy, always tearing her skirts on the rose bushes; Gwen stitched up the rips, as she'd done so many times for her little brother. 

Ninth moon began with a brief trip to Tarbeck Hall. The ancient keep lay only ten leagues south of Castamere; with good horses, one could leave at daybreak and arrive just before dusk. All of the Reynes came, save Marla, who was confined to her chambers again, and Darlessa and Leila, who were too young to comfortably ride ponyback and too old and wiggly to be easily carried like Kevyn. 

Gwen and her cousins dressed for dinner in an elegant guest chamber, hung with fine tapestries and set with a silvered looking glass taller than she was. Lady Tarbeck, formerly Ellyn Reyne, came in just as Amarei was finishing doing Gwen’s hair in a new style, one the maids weren’t familiar with. 

Alys shrieked with glee at the appearance of her aunt; a usual occurrence from Lady Ellyn’s look of arch amusement. In quick succession cousin Ellyn accepted a warm embrace from Alys, praised the drawing Cerenna shyly presented, listened as Lynora recited a short passage from The Seven-Pointed Star, and gifted Jeyne a lion carved from a lump of garnet. 

“Cousin Gwendolyn,” Ellyn said as the girls chattered happily, Amarei now occupied with Cerenna’s hair. “I hear you’ve had a difficult time of late.”

“Less difficult than many other young wives, my lady.” She felt awkward beneath her cousin's piercing gaze. Was her necklace askew? Could she see the pimple by her eyebrow that Amarei swore she'd covered with powder? 

“Oh, nonsense." Ellyn twitched the necklace into place, her fingers warm against Gwen's collarbone. "At least wives have children, or the widow’s law. A betrothed gets nothing at all.”

"I just—" Gwen twisted her hands in her lap. Her suffering was nothing, nothing compared to what others had lost, yet still she wallowed in baseless, pointless grief. "I knew my place, I knew my life, and now I am unmoored."

Ellyn hesitated, her eyes cutting to the gaggle of laughing girls, now trying to decide where Lynora should wear her silver brooch. "I recall that feeling," she confessed, quiet as a shadow. "When Tywald died…” For a moment she gazed into the distance, her eyes soft and sad. “When the road vanishes, you must make your own path. I thought wedding Tion would secure my place, but the poor brave fool had to go and die fighting those absurd Blackfyres.”

“And without getting you with child,” Gwen murmured. 

Cousin Ellyn gave her a strange look. “He did. I miscarried. And now I am Lady Tarbeck, with a strong son and two proud daughters all grown. Your father shall find you a good match, I do not doubt. So hold your head high, cousin, and try not to weep into your trencher.”

There was small danger of that. If anything fell into Gwen's trencher, it was more likely to be drool than tears. Once or twice she felt water drip on her head; it was drizzling outside. Although cousin Ellyn had spent plenty of gold on strengthening Tarbeck Hall, she had not yet gotten around to having the old timber roof repaired. A few drops of rain did not bother Gwen; her cousin kept the finest table in the Westerlands, with delicacies to tempt even the most discerning palate. 

"I swear, each time we visit, the banquet is finer than the last," Ser Reynard chuckled over a bowl of saffron rice topped with cuts of tender lamb. "Was there ever a sister so generous?" 

Lord Walderan inclined his wrinkled head and patted his ponderous belly, every inch the satiated grandfather, and Lady Ellyn smiled, baring fine white teeth. "You must thank Lord Tytos, not I, good ser. With my lord husband's debts forgiven, we may entertain as we like."   

That prompted a round of laughter, as did the sight of Lord Walderan's fool, Silverkin, a lanky, awkward fellow, who feigned tripping over a serving maid. When she dodged, Silverkin flung himself to the floor with an almighty clatter, begged the maid's pardon and gave her his cap of motley, and then burst into tears, wailing for his wet nurse. Lord Roger laughed so hard he nearly choked on a chicken bone; Reynard had to pound him on the back until he spit it out. 

I should not like to perish choking on a chicken bone, Gwen wrote upon returning to Castamere a few days later. I think Father would disown me for bringing shame upon the family before I took my last breath. 

On a happier note, Lady Ellyn’s family is thriving. I cannot believe Tion is the same age as I am; he looks much younger than nineteen. His wisps of red facial hair are so light as to be nearly invisible. Rohanne teases him about it most unmercifully, as is the right of elder sisters. She and her husband are little changed since their wedding, aside from little Tywald. He will be three next moon, and like all children of such a young age, has the most amusing habits. He is mad for jousting, and goes about mounted piggyback atop some hapless serving man. I made the mistake of carrying him once, and thereafter found myself subject to his whims. Kicking a puppy would be easier than saying no to those big brown eyes.  

Cyrelle and her husband are now expecting their first child. She spent much of our visit frowning over Kevyn, and was quite unhappy with his indifference, though she hid it well. I suspect she will let the wet nurse handle her babe until it is old enough to converse sensibly. 

Speaking of babes, have you heard anything about the betrothal negotiations? I am on tenterhooks; this endless uncertainty grows most wearisome. But do not get into trouble on my account! Await your opportunity patiently, as seeds await the rain. 

Little of note happened over the next several days as she watched for Mordryd's response. Gawen lost another tooth, Myrielle finished a new altar cloth for the sept, and Lord Roger and Ser Reynard disappeared into the solar and did not come out after a raven arrived from Casterly Rock. Lady Elissa and Lady Myrielle were also being somewhat odd; Lady Myrielle spent almost every hour in the sept, and Lady Elissa kept terrorizing the steward and captain of the household guard with trivial questions. So when the letter finally arrived Gwen decided to read it by the pool of Castamere. The soft lapping of the waters soothed her nerves, as did the shouts and laughs of the children in the garden. 

Gwen,

I took your advice and waited patiently. Luckily for you, Father had me tidying up his solar when he was called to attend to some business in the maester's chambers, and even more luckily, he doesn't lock his desk drawers. 

I found several old letters (and yes, I put them back exactly where I found them!) Father was aiming for Ser Tywin, but he's already betrothed to some Lannister cousin. Emulating the Targaryens once again, I suppose. Personally, I should not like to wed my own cousin, but perhaps that's because our cousins are all shrews thrice my age. Yes, I can feel you glaring at me; cousin Ellyn is handsome for a woman near fifty, but I'd sooner wed a wolverine. It would be safer. It looks like Ser Kevan is Father's second choice, but it's been months and Lord Tytos still hasn't responded. No doubt busy swiving the wet nurse. 

There's drafts of letters to Lady Crane of Red Lake and Lord Piper of Pinkmaiden, so I carefully asked around as to their heirs. Lady Crane's son is a widower of forty-five, known for his restoration of Red Lake to its former glory and for his, ah, resemblance to Laenor Velaryon. Rolland Crane does not have silver hair, but he does have a favorite of twenty years named Ser Dorian. Lord Piper's heir, his nephew Clement, is closer to your age, and fond of women, but he is apparently short, fat, and bowlegged. For your sake, I hope Lord Tytos responds soon. 

Love,

Mordryd

Gwen was still smiling over Mordryd's letter at dinner. No one else seemed to be in a good mood. Lord Roger and Ser Reynard finally appeared, both of them very grave, and Lady Myrielle had a fit of hysterics halfway through the fish course and was sent off with the maester. Only Lady Elissa maintained her composure, tasting each course daintily before sending the choicest dishes to the other lords and ladies present. 

Near the end of the meal Lord Roger rose to make an announcement. Ser Tywin Lannister had demanded that Lord and Lady Tarbeck and Lord Roger and Ser Reynard Reyne present themselves at Casterly Rock to "answer for their crimes." As of this night, both House Tarbeck and House Reyne renounced their fealty to Casterly Rock in protest of Tywin's unlawful edicts. Even now ravens flew to Lord Tytos Lannister, demanding that he take Ser Tywin to task before they were forced to defend their lands and persons by the sword. 

An extreme measure, yet understandable, Gwen wrote the next morning, once she had overcome her initial panic. Lord Tytos cannot ignore them now. 

Over the next few days servants came and went, filling the cellars in the event of a siege. Lord Roger did not think Ser Tywin mad enough to attack and break the king's peace, but one should always be prepared. A few lords and ladies came and went as well, scared witless by the very thought of conflict. 

When Lord and Lady Westerling departed, taking Gawen with them, they made an even dozen. No one else could be bothered to leave. The weather was too hot to be riding hither and yon, the roads baked dry as clay. At least beneath Castamere they had respite from the blazing sun. Cool earth surrounded them, cool breezes danced in from the vents, and the water from the wells was coldest of all.

There has been the most extraordinary raven from Lady Tarbeck, Gwen wrote a few days later, still damp from a refreshingly icy bath. She’d needed it, both to cleanse the sweat that came from playing with the children and to calm herself after the commotion in the hall. A headman from one of the furthest outlying villages arrived at Tarbeck Hall, begging aid against a gang of outlaws. Lord Walderan and his household knights rode out to meet them, but instead of a gang of outlaws, they were ambushed by Ser Tywin Lannister and a host of knights and men-at-arms.  

Only a few returned to tell the tale, and their reports are too ludicrous to be believed. They claim Ser Tywin refused to accept quarter from any man of Tarbeck blood, an absurd accusation to make of an anointed knight. Not only that, they claim Ser Tywin had them slaughtered to the last man before mounting their heads on spears, even old Lord Walderan himself after he yielded. Cousin Ellyn cannot take the frightened knaves at their word, but as a precaution she closed her gates and begged Lord Roger to ride to her aid. 

Lord Roger rode out the next morning, accompanied by nearly two thousand men. Most of the household were still asleep, but Gwen rose early so Kevyn might see his father and uncle on their way. Silver banners flapped proudly in the wind, their red lions roaring defiance, and Kevyn nearly deafened her doing the same as he frantically waved farewell. 

With so many men gone, one might have thought things would be quiet. They were not. The underkeep bustled with activity, with hundreds of servants running to and fro. Hostlers and stableboys prepared the dusty stalls of the stables, stocking them with fodder. Butchers slaughtered cattle, pigs, and chickens, filling casks of salt brine with fresh meat. Serving men hauled down all the valuables from the upper keep, storing them in the vaults. 

Although the maids aired out and cleaned the little used second nursery, none of the children seemed to like it. They were splashing in the waters of Castamere under Gwen's watchful eye when a household knight arrived to fetch Leo Lefford back to the Golden Tooth. Nor were the Leffords the only ones nervous about whatever Ser Tywin was up to, judging by the letter Mordryd sent her two mornings after Lord Roger's departure.  

Last night I dreamt you singing to me, off key as always, but your voice grew faint before vanishing entirely. I looked for you, and found nothing but darkness. Please, come home? 

Annoyed by the unwarranted insult to her voice, Gwen waited several hours before penning a reply. 

Don't be silly. With most of Lord Roger's men gone, I should have a very small escort on the road home. I'd rather suffer a siege by knights solemnly sworn to protect all women than test my luck against mountain bandits who have never heard of honor or chivalry. Really, the very idea. The Peakes killed King Maekar, and even so, not one of their ladies were harmed. 

Life went on. Sieges were long, tedious affairs, and Lord Roger had left in such a rush that he'd failed to bring any ravens. Bless them, the children hardly noticed much difference, aside from the few of their playmates who had gone home. Cerenna was hard at work on drawing the flowers in the garden, trying to capture the graceful lines of the water lilies that floated on the pond. Jeyne wandered the garden, searching for a jeweled bracelet she'd lost. Darlessa and Leila played with their dolls, reenacting their favorite stories as Alys read them aloud for the benefit of the younger children. Kevyn demanded piggyback rides, having decided that his cousin Tywald was quite right to refuse to walk anywhere under his own power. 

And so Gwen had a heavy two-year-old atop her shoulders when she heard the thunder of hoofbeats approaching the keep. She barely had to say a word before the wet nurses collected their charges, nearly frantic to get them out of the open and down into the underkeep. Gwen ought to have followed, but some strange impulse drew her to the yard. 

Whatever impulse led her there, Gwen wished she had not heeded it. Where once two thousand men gathered to march on Tarbeck Hall, now only two score knights dismounted from horses lathered with sweat, their bardings filthy with mud and blood. Ser Reynard's face was grey and gaunt, but not half so frightening as the sight of Lord Roger. He did not ride, but lay in a makeshift litter slung between two horses. For a moment Gwen wondered why he lay on his belly, before she saw the feathered quarrel of a crossbow protruding from his back. She covered her mouth with her hands, swallowing a scream of dismay. 

"My lady!" Ser Reynard had glimpsed her. "Get below!" 

Tarbeck Hall is fallen, she wrote late that night, heart pounding in her ears. A draft of sweet, clean air from the vents wafted through her room, and the candle at her elbow flickered. May the Stranger receive Lady Ellyn with all honor and may the Father grant justice for her death. Ser Reynard says they arrived too late; by unhappy chance, a great boulder crashed into the roof of the keep, and the old timbers collapsed, killing Ellyn and Tion in an instant. Traitors opened the gates for the Lannisters; we do not know what became of Rohanne, Cyrelle, and little Tywald after they were taken prisoner. I suppose they will be sent to their husbands' families, or to some minor Tarbeck holding. 

The keep was still aflame when the Reyne host arrived. Ser Reynard says Lord Roger swore bloody vengeance, tears streaming down his face, before leading the attack against Ser Tywin's camp. Alas, the attack failed, for Ser Tywin had twice their numbers, and his men were well disciplined. Lord Roger took a crossbow bolt between the shoulders; it fell to Ser Reynard to lead the retreat of those few yet living. Even fewer came back to Castamere; he sent the survivors back to their own keeps, except for his remaining household knights. 

The news of Lady Ellyn's death was a terrible shock to Aunt Elissa. I think her heart could not take the strain; she suffered a terrible fit. Her entire left side went numb and drooped, she swayed, as if dizzy, and her speech became slurred. Ser Reynard had to carry her to her bed, for she could neither stand nor walk.  

Aunt Elissa's care has fallen to me. Lady Myrielle refuses to leave the sept, as do many of her ladies. Amarei hides in her room, weeping, and Alys swears she'll take up a sword and avenge Ellyn Reyne herself. Well, I cannot leave Aunt Elissa to the care of servants, not after she has treated me so kindly, so I've refused Ser Reynard's offer of an escort to Deep Den. 

I am surprised Lord Tytos has not yet intervened. Perhaps he is gathering his own host, to force Ser Tywin to stand down? Such precaution seems unnecessary; I am sure Ser Tywin's wrath has ebbed, now that Lord and Lady Tarbeck are gone to face the Stranger. Lord Roger will soon join them; he is feverish now, barely sit up in his high seat, yet he plans to seek single combat against Ser Tywin as soon as the Lannisters arrive. I do not doubt that the chance to personally slay Lord Roger will prove too tempting to resist, although I hope Ser Kevan Lannister will not watch it happen. How unlucky, to be caught betwixt his brother and his former knight master, yet he is well placed to soothe Ser Tywin and ensure a fair outcome. 

Thank goodness that Castamere did not have a dilapidated roof. Generation after generation of Reynes had worked hard to make their underkeep secure. Only three paths led down into the underkeep, all of them cramped tunnels defended by great ironbound gates. Even if someone was fool enough to attempt fighting their way in, they would face first boiling pitch, then, when that ran out, boiling water from the many sunken wells. 

Ser Tywin might be proud and arrogant, but he was not a fool, nor did Gwen think he had the patience for a long siege. After all, Lord Tytos could arrive at any moment. No, Ser Tywin must be decisive, and that meant he must accept Lord Roger's offer of single combat. It was a suitable arrangement for everyone, after all. Lord Roger could die in battle, rather than die slowly of his wounds. Ser Reynard could surrender with dignity, and send for Teora to return and become the new lady of Castamere, though Tywin would strip most of the lands and incomes. And last but not least, Ser Tywin could finish wreaking his vengeance before his father or King Jaehaerys caught wind of what he had been doing, and before he upset all the lords with kin visiting Castamere. 

Unfortunately, the Lannisters arrived before Mordryd's reply. Gwen did not bother visiting the maester after that; keeps under siege rarely sent or received ravens, given how likely they were to be shot down. Even the terms Lord Roger and Ser Reynard offered Ser Tywin were not sent by raven; instead, a pair of household knights remained outside the keep, under a white peace banner. When Ser Tywin wished to reply, the knights would place the terms in a bucket and lower them down the same deep shaft which allowed a great beam of sunlight to illuminate the high seat of the Reynes in their hall. 

Tired of his sickbed, Lord Roger sat upon the high seat all day. Her once proud cousin could not sit upright, but leaned heavily against one arm of his throne, the pallor of his face unsettling in the bright sunshine. Even more unsettling was the way his daughters Marla and Cerenna clung to his legs like limpets, unwilling to let go no matter how hard Gwen tried to wheedle them into the nursery where they belonged. 

"Tell me about Teora," she finally asked, sick of arguing with an obstinate Marla. "I can't recall who she married." 

"Sorry," Cerenna mumbled. Overhead Gwen heard the sound of men; thank the gods, they'd be lowering the terms any moment. Then the children would have to let go of poor Lord Roger so he could be carried up to face Ser Tywin. 

"You don't need to apologize, Cerenna," she soothed, stroking the girl's hair. "I know you went to the wedding, you must know the groom's name." 

"She said his name," Marla snapped. "Simpleton." 

"Peace, Marla." Lord Roger's voice was strained. "His name is Sorrel. Ser Sorrel Roote, of Lord Harroway's Town." 

"Thank you, my lord," Gwen said agreeably, resisting the urge to scold Marla for her rudeness. "Is he the heir, or—" 

A loud thump interrupted her, and the sunlight was gone. 

The next day, sitting by Lady Elissa's bedside as her aunt mumbled gibberish, Gwen found herself thinking about Ser Tywin's flair for the dramatic. Despite there being plenty of torches, the unexpected darkness had sent the whole hall into a panic, one Ser Reynard was forced to quell with smooth words. Even so, everyone seemed to be avoiding the great hall. All the lords and ladies kept to their guest chambers, or to the sept, which Myrielle still refused to leave. 

Effective as it was at causing dismay, Gwen did not see the point in covering all the shafts which let sunlight into the underkeep. Was he trying to confuse them as to the passage of time? They knew it had been four days since the Lannisters arrived. 

They also knew that it was finally raining outside; water kept dripping down the air vents, forcing the poor maids to constantly mop up puddles. There was even some water pooling in the lowest chambers, those by the gates. After a day, the pools of water were knee deep. "A great storm, nothing more," Ser Reynard told everyone. Drainage was always troublesome, with the quartz walls of the caverns so airtight, but the rains would soon cease and the water would ebb. 

The water rose. 

"I need every boy older than ten and every man younger than seventy," Ser Reynard said, his voice loud so every servant in the hall could hear him. Lord Roger sat in his high seat, an unseeing observer, sweat dripping down his brow, his girls clinging to him even as he shook with chills. The hostlers and stableboys were shivering too, their clothes soaked to the bone, those who had not- those who weren't- those who retreated upwards, those who could forget their charges. She wished she could forget the screams of the horses that echoed through the tunnels when the water overtook their stalls. "We shall go to the furthest reaches of the mines and clear the drainage shafts so that the water falls."

Gwen kept busy. She fed Aunt Elissa, helped bathe her, held her wrinkled hands. Sometimes she thought out loud, pondering whether to accept the Crane or the Piper match, should her father ask her thoughts on the matter when she returned. Crane wouldn’t pester her over performing her marital duties, but he also might not give her children. Piper did not sound very pleasant to lie with, but maybe it would not be so bad. She’d heard someone say plain men tried harder to please their brides, and Pinkmaiden was closer to Deep Den. Yes, Piper would be her choice, so she could visit Mordryd and send ravens whenever she liked. She would tell her father so, when the water fell. 

The water rose. 

Ser Reynard never returned. Nor did any of the two hundred men and boys who went with him. The waters swallowed up the storage rooms, the vaults, the laundry, the forges and the carpenters' shops. It did not matter, it didn't. 

“Ser Tywin can’t kill us all,” Gwen insisted, fluffing her aunt’s pillow a bit harder than necessary. “He can’t. He won’t. The whole west would rise up against him. Lydden and Brax, Lefford and Broom, Farman and Payne, Estren, Jast, Foote, they all have kin here, or had kin wed to the Tarbecks. They’d hunt him down like an animal, like a beast, see how bold he is when his claws and fangs are pulled one by one. He must open up the mines, any moment now the water shall drain away.” 

The water rose. 

Gwen stepped into the kitchens, water sloshing about her shins. No matter how she yelled, maids no longer came at her call. Even so, Lady Elissa must have her porridge, and the children in the nursery must have their suppers. They would need their strength; they must hold their heads high when the rescue came. 

"Where is everyone?" She asked the lone cook, an older woman up to her elbows in flour as she kneaded bread. 

"In the sept, m'lady," said the cook. That made sense, it was the highest ground that could be had outside of the Reyne family apartments. Not that they needed to pray. The Seven would save them soon, she knew it. There would be no Crane or Piper husband, no children of her own blood. Her future lay in a motherhouse, where she would thank the Mother every day for having mercy upon her and saving the folk of Castamere.  

"Has anyone fetched a meal for the children yet?" Gwen asked. Surely the wet nurses would not abandon the sweet babes they nurtured as their own. 

"Not since yesterday, m'lady. They're praying too." 

Gwen frowned. “Well, then. I require porridge for Lady Elissa, and a proper meal for the children. Some cheese and fresh bread will do, and whatever meat you have on hand. Oh, and blackberry tarts." The children loved blackberry tarts. 

The cook kneaded the dough, turned it over, thumped it with a gnarled fist. "Begging your pardon, m'lady, but all the sugar and honey are gone.” Thump, thump. “They was stored below, and they're drowned, drowned like my poor Hal and my Lew and my Rollam."

Sugar, Gwen thought dimly as an abyss opened up beneath her feet. Drowned. Again she heard the horses scream, unable to escape the flood. Ser Reynard’s men had screamed too, the awful cries echoing through the tunnels as they splashed, spluttered, and at last succumbed. There would be no miracle, no motherhouse, no morrows to fill with dreams. 

A great butcher’s knife lay on the table, the steel sharp. She stared at it, dizzy with fear, and suddenly it was in Gwen’s hand, the blade hovering over the blue veins in her wrist. How did that happen? Perplexed, she gazed into the metal, seeing first a pair of wild hazel eyes, then a silver casket, piled high with fine white grains. 

She put the knife back. The cook was watching her, silent as the grave, so Gwen forced herself to smile. “Just make the tarts and porridge, you can forget the rest. Bring them to Lady Elissa's room when they're ready."  

The porridge was cool when it arrived, but that didn’t matter. She sweetened it carefully, then began spooning it into Aunt Elissa’s mouth, mindful not to get any on her gown. Her aunt always liked to look her best. When the bowl was empty, Gwen pressed a kiss to the old woman’s leathery cheeks, then turned her attention to the tarts. 

Gwen had expected to find all the children in the nursery. Unfortunately, while those present were very excited about blackberry tarts, half of them were missing. While Alys agreed to fetch those in the sept with their mothers, Gwen forced herself to return to the hall. 

As the hall was below the nursery, on the same level as the kitchens, Gwen found herself wading through knee high waters. Only the dais remained dry, and that was where Marla and Cerenna were, exactly where she’d left them. 

“Oh, sweetlings,” Gwen sighed, sinking down to her knees beside the high seat. “It’s time to come to the nursery.”

“We can’t,” said Cerenna, her voice high and plaintive. “We have to be here when Father wakes up.”

“I’ll bring you right back,” Gwen promised. Marla stared at her, her eyes wide and white, her arms wrapped around her father’s leg.

“There’s blackberry tarts, one for each of you. Unless you want to let your cousins eat them all?” 

That convinced Cerenna to let go, but Gwen had to pry Marla loose, wincing as her fingers brushed up against the cold, rigid flesh that once belonged to Lord Roger. Even then she had to carry Marla away slung over her hip while Cerenna held her free hand. 

There were more children in the nursery when Gwen returned; all of them, in fact, even pious Lynora. Thankfully she’d thought to place the tarts out of reach. She got them down and handed them out, one for each child. 

While the children devoured their tarts, Gwen fetched their favorite things from around the nursery. She pressed dolls into hands sticky with berry juice, got down the illustrated books from their bookshelves, crawled under chairs to rescue lost trinkets and toys. When they were all smiling, she chivvied them toward the largest featherbed.  

“Which story would you like?” She finally asked, once each child had a soft pillow and a blanket. Kevyn was already yawning as he crawled into her arms and nuzzled his head against her chest. 

When the children could not agree on a tale, Gwen made up her own, about a mother badger and her cubs. Each cub wanted to prove itself, and they went on funny little adventures with other creatures of the forest. Kevyn’s eyes fluttered shut first, his breaths warm against her chest as she told the story. One by one his sisters and cousins joined him in sleep, curled up under their blankets, their treasures clutched in their plump little hands. 

Long hours passed before Kevyn’s chest at last went still. Gently she set him on the bed, tucking him in beneath the covers, wiping the last bit of blackberry juice away from his mouth. “Good night, my sweet ones,” Gwen whispered as she smoothed stray hairs and pressed a kiss to every brow. 

There were no blackberry tarts left for her, no chance of sweet release from the water rising upon the floor. Surrounded by her children, Gwen closed her tired eyes. 

Darkness consumed her. No longer did she resist her grief; it carried her, floating upon a sea of broken dreams. She watched herself embrace men with blurred faces, each of the husbands she might have known. Lusty Banefort groped her, aloof Crane ignored her, bowlegged Piper danced with her, and heartless Lannister turned away at the sight of her tears. She watched herself grow fat with child and play with the babes she would never bear, saw herself pray in a septa’s robes, saw herself old and wrinkled and content.

She hoped she would see the children again, someday, when the gods saw fit to release her from serving penance in the seven hells. Would they understand what she had done? Would they be as they were now, young and innocent? Would they grow to adulthood in the seven heavens, and curse her name? 

Whatever else happened, she wished she could see Mordryd one last time. Her sweet brother, what would he do without her to look after him? Would he even remember her when she was gone? Heartsick, she wept, wept for her stolen future, wept for her brother, wept for herself, wept until her eyes ran dry. 

And still the water rose.