Daella the Delicate

※ "Write to Ser Steffon at Cider Hall, petal, surely he will be eager to be acquainted with you," their father added. Margery rose and left the otherwise quiet supper in a ruffle of green skirts and puffed cheeks.

※ At her Father's insistence, after a fortnight, Margery sat with her ladies maid and penned nearly two dozen attempts of letters, though none felt right. What did one say to their now betrothed they'd never met? A complete stranger with only a name.

※ Garth found her in the garden one afternoon in the midst of another attempt and sat beside her, "You are thinking too much. Introduce yourself, speak of the gardens...father, me. Ask him questions of the same caliber. You needn't know him entirely in a single letter, Margery."

※ "What if I sound silly? Or prudish? It seems so ridiculous to meet with a raven as our bearer." "It is not silly to write to him. I suspect it would be foolish not to. You are simply saving the trouble of that oddness when you first meet."

※ When Garth left her again, Margery finally wrote her first letter. Short, to the point. An introduction of herself, a brief description, her initial reactions to such an announcement. Then questions: How did he, Ser Steffon Fossoway, feel about the arrangement? Did he wish to learn about her? Would he like to exchange letters in frequency, would he even have the time?

※ The first letter to arrive at Cider Hall was handed off between page, maid, maester and finally into Raymun's possession. The sage green of the wax seal was new to him, and bore markings he did not recognize initially.

※ He had heard of Steffon's betrothal to the Oldflowers girl, but hadn't heard anything else of it. Perhaps Steffon's grumblings when another knight in the yard, another cousin perchance, mentioned the match, but never anything that would indicated they had exchanged pleasantries like the parchment in his hand.

※ "There's a letter for you," Raymun came to the edge of the yard where Steffon had just sat to rest after a dummy spar. He chose the dummy over Raymun that morning, just to mock him Raymun thought. "Looks to be from your promised."

※ Steffon, in all his exhaustion and annoyance, sucked his teeth, wiped his face and waved a dismissive hand, "Respond as I would, I've no time for it today."

※ In hindsight, that should have been the first indication of his cousin's lack of honor and care for the establishment of courtship. But, ever the dutiful squire, Raymun returned to his room that evening, read Margery's letter, and began to pen his Steffon's response.

※ It began simple enough, a short introduction to mirror hers. A brief embellishment here and there with what Raymun would call 'flowery language'. Phrases Steffon would call him soft for, a thick-headed romantic maybe.

※ The thought to ask Steffon what he truly felt about the match had crossed Raymun's mind, it did. Though, something told him he would get the same dismissal, if not a clobber to the head next training for not listening the first time.

※ Raymun's replies were honest, how he would feel in Steffon's shoes. A bit anxious, fearful perhaps, but disguised well behind familial pride, sworn duty and his own giddiness at writing to a lady as if he were her promised.

※ Regardless, the only thing 'Steffon" about the letter was his falsified signature. Though the letter was in itself a deception, Raymun felt no manner about it - simply he followed his order, wrote honest and deposited the letter with the Maester as he would any other post.

※ Raymun never would have imagined the course he paved by simply responding to her letter with his own heart.

※ Margery never expected a response but when the raven came a few days later for her, she couldn't help the excitement that bubbled just beneath the surface.

※ Maybe Ser Steffon was not just some other stuck up knight, a man she'd be forced to wed - maybe he was someone who wanted to know her as much as she did him.

※ His words were sweet balms to her nerves, and though those did not disappear, she found penning her next letter to far less of a chore than the first - in fact, she was pleased to write again, to ask of his family and home, of his hobbies and training, of anything that may inform her of who he was.

※ Much to Raymun's surprise, as he sat eating his supper, Steffon joined him, sitting with a heavy thud and slosh from his cider cup. The older Fossoway set in front of him another green-wax sealed piece of parchment.

※ "Handle that will you?" He sniffed, reaching to take a bit of chicken from Raymun's plate. Before Raymun had a chance to swat his cousin, Steffon was up and winking at him, striding across the hall.

※ "Steffon, I can't just..." He sighed, his call futile as the other disappeared around the corner. Raymun frowned, wiped his hand and broke the seal, reading over Margery's fine scrawling script. And slowly, that frown of displeasure with his cousin, turned to a faint smile.

※ From there, a routine began. In hind sight again, Raymun should have known better. He should have gone to his uncle, to admit it was he, not Steffon, writing to this Oldflowers girl as Steffon kept saying - but to Raymun, she was Margery, his "blossom" as he'd started to call her in their letters. But he didn't go to his Uncle...no.

※ Soon, after the first moon turn, Steffon stopped taking the letters at all. Rather he directed the Maester to take them to Raymun, "My squire will deliver them to me when I've the time." But Raymun knew it was just another duty Steffon neglected that became his own responsibility.

※ A responsibility Raymun began to take pleasure and pride in. One that Steffon didn't know the extent of. His little cousin courting his betrothed under the guise of his very name.

※ Raymun would later admit to Margery that he found enjoyment in reading her letters, in writing to her, in pretending to be something he was not. A knight, an heir to his house, and a suitor to a young woman already promised to him. Steffon had it all. Why would Raymun not capitalize on the opportunity granted to him?

※ And perhaps that simple jealousy, or rather, that loneliness in his position with all the promises of 'one day' is what drove him to truly mean the words he put to page. Somewhere between knightly tales and Steffon's name, Raymun seeped through, the real him.

※ Raymun quickly began to know Margery. And Margery quickly began to know Steffon.

※ Questions about her hobbies, her interests, her fears. Things courtships were meant to learn. He knew she favored tart things - lemons, oranges - citrus the most. She rode horses with her brother. She had a distaste for open water and preferred the small creeks and lakes instead. She enjoyed embroidery and poetry and lyres.

※ She was kind. He saw it in the way she wrote of the barn cats and family servants - her handmaid was her 'friend', the page boy 'sweet Tommen'. She was opinionated in her talks of her estate and what she'd like to do as future Lady of Cider Hall. She was bright, and that both excited and terrified Raymun.

※ Because she'd most certainly find him out...

※ Margery learned her betrothed was a skilled swordsman. He rode and rode well apparently. He liked sweets, and he had nothing but praise for the sweetness of Fossoway cider, something that now graced her family halls in abundance after the betrothal was announced.

※ She read his miserable attempts at poetry for her, there after nearly seven moon turns of letters and giggled. Margery was found on a number of occasions by Garth in the garden, holding the parchment under her nose with a faint flush on her cheeks.

※ Each letter was more detailed and heartfelt than the last. Simple questions about their personhoods shifted to aspirations, to dreams and goals. To romance and wishes of companionship in marriage and not just what the match may offer their houses.

※ Margery envisioned a life at Cider Hall with Steffon as one fulfilled. Their letters reassured her this was not as daunting as she had imagined - that Steffon was a honorable man true to his word. When he spoke of caring for her, of making sure she was comfortable as Lady of the house and as his Lady-Wife, Margery believed him.

※ She laid in bed, with his letters under her pillow as she imagined their wedding ceremony, with the apple blossoms in bloom and whisps of flowers in the air. Of being held by him for the first time. Of what he may look like in person.

※ And Raymun...Raymun allowed himself the pleasure of being that man to her. He filled his letters with hopes and dreams of himself as the knight he pretended to be, winning victories in her name, her hands soothing his wounds, tending to him as he would the orchards or armor.

※ He dreamed of a promised girl, of the smile he hoped graced her lips when she read his letters. The same smile the curled his own when he caught the scent of jasmine and something citrusy on her parchment. It was a scent that would be engrained in his memory at all times. A token of her he'd allow himself.

※ It was a scent he would later learn came from all her time under the jasmine terrace in her Father's gardens, and the lemon balm bundles that her maids added to her baths and the burned in her hearth in the evening before bed.

※ Somewhere in the letters exchanged over the course of nearly ten moons, Raymun fell in love with a girl he'd never really met but knew inside and out. He fell in love with his cousin's betrothed, and there was nothing he could do about it.

※ And Margery, well Margery had fallen head over heels in love with her betrothed. She beamed to her brother on their morning rides of his letters, of Steffon's excitement that matched her own. Of how she desired so deeply to finally meet him.

※ Then Garth mentioned the Tourney at Ashford Meadow. In honor of Lord Ashford's daughter's name-day, he was hosting a tourney, calling all noble houses of the Reach to compete before her. It just so happened Garth would be attending.

※ "Oh but you must take me with you! If our house is there, his most certainly will be!" She pleaded, following her brother down the corridor to their Father's solar as he tried desperately to evade her. It had been a fortnight since he first mentioned it, and she had not stopped asking a day since.

※ "Margery, I said no. I'll not have you wandering about whilst I am trying to preserve my neck in the lists," he replied, for the thousandth time. Margery didn't budge, already trying to dart into his field of vision as he rounded the corner and ascended the stairs.

※ If there was one thing Garth could never say no to, it was her pout. A pout that Margery had perfected in her lifetime. "Brother, please! I'll remain in the stands or tent while you are active. I'll only go looking when you are there to chaperone. I swear it."

※ She did not swear it. Her fingers were most certainly crossed behind her back and if they weren't, her toes were in her slippers. She had every intention of finding her betrothed at the tourney with or without her brother escort. But he did not need to know that.

※ Finally, standing within their father's solar, the two men gave in, and Margery's things were to be loaded into a trunk - a single trunk - and added to their little caravan.

※ She wrote to Raymun Steffon that night. He had not mentioned the tourney, and in honesty had been hard pressed to find time to reply the last few weeks, only two or three letters as opposed to their weekly communications.

※ Margery's last four letters were stuffed in Raymun's sack on his saddle paired with his last three unfinished ones. He hadn't the time to reply since he, Steffon and their party left Cider Hall for Ashford days earlier than needed. He knew he'd have to spend at least a few hours that he would on sleep, replying to her. He needed to. For his sake.

※ Margery's letters had become Raymun's solace, and in her, in their little created world, he could escape. He could put aside the squire duties and focus. But with the tourney preparations, travel and arrival, Raymun had no time. And he had just missed her latest letter that arrived at Cider Hall the morning he left.

※ The letter that would tell him she would be attending the tourney with her brother as chaperone...all to meet Steffon.

※ "You. Stay put. I'm to make our presence know to Lord Ashford and enter the lists. Then we may go find the Fossoways. Am I understood?" Garth stood before Margery, knuckles nudging her chin to meet her eyes. His brows rose in the way their father's did when expecting an answer and Margery just huffed.

※ "Yes, yes. Go on then," She shook her head and waved him off, turning to watch as their things were unpacked and the tent was raised, their House banners lifted to match. Garth stood by a moment longer, not convinced she'd listen, but then finally left towards the keep.

※ Margery watched him go over her shoulder, and once she was sure Garth was out of sight, she handed charge of the pavilion to his squire and ventured out into the tent rows in search of the Fossoways.

※ Raymun grunted as he dropped the shield and wooden sword to the grass by the tent opening. Steffon had clobbered him, and in front of some other rather large knight too. The ache in his temple would be there the rest of the day, and he tried to ignore it with a swallow of cider and a silent prayer.

※ "Pardon me, Ser," a chiming voice spoke behind him, drawing his attention around. The first thing he noticed were her eyes. They were wide and hopeful, if not a bit nervous at the corners as she studied him.

※ It was less their color, though a beautiful shade that he didn't have words for, and more that they met his head on. She was a tall girl, taller than any woman he'd met before, and though he'd never admit it to anyone, he stood a bit straighter to meet her.

※ Her hair was a wild mane of dark curls that fell over her shoulders framing her lovely face, and she tilted her head with an amused pull of lips as he floundered with a cough around his cider, blinking at her.

※ Ser. She'd called him Ser. He could have laughed if he hadn't been so stunned by her beauty. Though, Raymun didn't correct her. After a moment and a blink, he spoke, "Mi'lady, how might I be of service?"

※ When he spoke, Margery's smiled only widened and she looked passed him towards the tent flap and back, almost eagerly. This man was handsome, at least in a boyish way, and he was a Fossoway, given his doublet...but was he her Fossoway? "I...I am looking for Ser Steffon Fossoway. Might I find him here?"

※ Of course. Of course this stunning creature was looking for Steffon. Every fair maiden from Cider Hall to Highgarden looked at Steffon before ever glancing Raymun's way. He sniffled and looked away, a habit more than anything but it was the scent that drew his brows together.

※ Jasmine and lemon...or was it honeysuckle? Some familiar undertone recalled in his senses like a dream come to life. And it wafted from her when she glanced back, her hair catching the wind.

※ Oh fuck, Raymun thought, oh fuck indeed. His eyes widened and he looked back to her. The green of her gown, the silver locket necklace she had described as her mother's in their letters. Raymun swallowed thickly, "Y-you...You're Lady Margery?"

※ Margery blinked but gave a simple nod, assuming Steffon had spoken of her, or their betrothal at the very least, and the thought of him doing so sent a flutter of excitement to her belly. "I am, yes. I was hoping to meet with Ser Steffon. Is he about?"

※ Raymun had no idea what to do nor how to do it. He couldn't simply come clean and admit to the farce he'd been fanning for nearly a year. Steffon had long forgotten about the letter exchanges, he hadn't mentioned it in months. And neither of them had been any wiser to her suddenly appearing at a tourney!

※ Raymun blinked, cursing his cousin to the Seven Hells and back, and cursing himself for not having thought this far ahead. Perhaps he was a green as Steffon claimed. Then he spoke before he thought anymore.

※ "I swear to you I intended to write to you this evening, Mi'lady, but it seems I'll just have to invite you to supper and cider instead," He stepped forward the short distance and took her hand gently.

※ "Oh," She blushed, granting him the touch. Warmth flooded her with a giddy wave as he kissed her knuckles, his eyes lifting through his mop of dark hair. Margery knew she was blushing like a maiden, for a man who she had just met, but she couldn't help it, she knew him.

※ Margery did not attempt to confirm he was her betrothed again, instead trusting the instinct in her belly that this young man with dark curls and a smile that reminded her of a puppy was certainly Steffon. He mentioned her letters and that was well enough for her.

※ "Then you did not receive my latest letter then?" She murmured, head tilting.

※ "I regret that I did not," Raymun replied, his boyish grin widening. He could play at this for the time being. He'd think of a justification over a cider with her. Just a bit longer to gaze upon her pretty face and feel the affection he'd gotten from her letters in real time, "Come, let me fetch you a cup."

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⁙ These whispers followed her her entire life. In her infancy she hardly cried, and often times her nursemaid or wet nurse found her simply staring at nothing within her bassinet - still as a corpse, scaring them on a number of occasions.

⁙ She grew. Slowly and sickly and still she grew. A girl-child with too long limbs and a distance in her eyes that perturbed most other court children of the High Tower, all those but her brother, Ormund, and their cousins.

⁙ Queen Alicent would later declare to her Lord-Husband her cousin was "Simple. Not stupid. Simple. She is a kind, quiet girl and none suited for the likes of him."

⁙ Simple in only that she chose when to speak and when not to. When to acknowledge those around her or retreat into her mind. When to learn and what she wished to. She attended her lessons, her culture and etiquette and her Septas always praised her, despite their weary glances when Labella would stare off into the darkened corners, absent.

⁙ Corners and shadows that had shapes in her mind. The shape of a kind, handsome man. If asked, she could not describe him; nothing more than "He is there. Just there." Round and round and round, and down and down and down, deep into the High Tower's lowest levels in her dreams, she followed him.

⁙ But her dreams were not only dreams. She knew the man, this stanger who never spoke his own name, but sang to her in the night. Always clouded in shadow and always in the hour of ghosts.

⁙ "Sweet Labella...darling girl...come back to me. Visit me...walk with me..."

⁙ She ventured as far as the fused stone tunnels one night after her tenth name-day, following his whisper of her name, the polite stranger lighting her way. He woke and beckoned her with a promise of adventure, of a gift. The promise of freedom.

⁙ She wasn't sure what freedom looked like but she craved it. The whispers promising paradise, a world where she may pray and lend aid and guide those whom need her. Be with him.

⁙ But Labella awoke to the sound of waves. A spray of sea water in her face and a sputtering as if yanked from a dream. A dream she had walked through to the base of the tower, into tunnels she hadn't know existed, right to an opening to the Whispering Sound.

⁙ Scared and staring at cliffs edge, she fled back the way she came, the way she had dreamed she came. Five-and-ten year old Ormund found her mid-morning, clad in only her little night dress with dirt-streaked tears on her face and an unbelievable dream.

⁙ "Night walks, my Lord," the maester told their father when Ormund brought Labella to him. Her dreams were so deep they drove her to wander on her own, guided her but not to safety. "Had she not awakened...I fear what may happen should she wander off on her own again, my Lord."

⁙ It was ensured she would not. A guard, a sworn knight of house Hightower itself, a cousin, Gallahad, was stationed at her door, night after night.

⁙ He learned quickly not to wake her, for when his hand touched her shoulder, or took her own to shake her into consciousness, she screamed - panicked and frightened. It was more frightening to find herself awake with no recollection of getting there, than it was to guide her back to bed, especially in the early years.

⁙ Gallahad often followed her when she'd walk after those first few moon turns. He was there to ensure she did not harm herself, not wake her. He was not permitted to let her leave the levels of the apartments, but at times, she managed to evade him in a stairwell.

⁙ The stranger visited her in her dreams, lurked in the shadows of the High Tower even when she was awake. Yet she did what she might to ignore it.

⁙ Her visits to the Sept became more frequent as she aged. No longer did she fight her mother on prayers, but sought them out. Times for prayer were her solace.

⁙ Those same whispers her mother endured followed long after her death, where Labella kneeled before the Stranger's idol in the Sept. Candles flickered and shone over her sunken features and she prayed for nothing specific, only comfort in her mother, and father's passing.

⁙ When she kneeled before the Mother, it was for guidance, for protection. When she kneeled before the Maiden, she asked for beauty of her heart, for strength in her faith. And when she kneeled before the Warrior, she bid her brother, cousins and uncle courage.

⁙ But when kneeling before the Stranger, all was quiet. The whispers in her mind, the feeling of courtier eyes vanished and she felt peace. Something she rarely felt in the presence of others. A peace that lingered like a warm cloak over her shoulders.

⁙ "You do not resemble his idols..." she murmured once, with her face cast down as if someone unseen listened. She thought none were around, alas her brother stood not far off, jaw tense as decisions were made in his mind long before they'd ever be voiced.

⁙ At ten-and-five, after Ormund took the lordship of their house with their father's death, she came to him. Still only a girl-child with no moonsblood yet, Labella was an anomolly in court. She kept no ladies, entertained no suitors, and was more devoted to the Seven than any of her peers.

⁙ Ormund had been expecting her next words - he had been waiting since their father's death to decide his sister's path. Marriage for the sake of their house, or protection for the sake of his sisters quiet, innocent and at times worrisome disposition.

⁙ "I would like very much to take more lessons with the Septas," she said, sitting cross-legged on the carpet of his bedchamber across from him. His wife had long retired and Ormund occasionally entertained his sister's whims before he too retired. But this...

⁙ He observed her for a long moment that night, noting the ways she glanced about, picked at her nails and swallowed around nothing. How she went entirely still when she blinked and met his eyes, waiting for his reply.

⁙ It was a stillness that would haunt him. For reasons he could not describe, it was as if he looked upon a corpse. Her skin pale and eyes distant. She was not unpretty as some who asked to join the Sept could be in his opinion - girls unfit for marriage by sad disposition.

⁙ "Touched by the Stranger she is...tis only a matter of time before-" the whispers came to an echoing halt in his mind.

⁙ He conceded. Their uncle, Otto Hightower opposed this idea, often prompting Ormund to seek her a match, a betrothal until her moonsblood came and she might be ready for marriage. Ormund ignored him until he could not.

⁙ Her night-walks seemed to cease after her first moonsblood at ten-and-seven, far later than her mother, or even that of her cousin the Queen. Many whispered and gossiped the Lord Ormund did his house a favor by letting the odd girl join the Sept.

⁙ She was, after all, touched by the Stranger. Those whispers lingered and they traveled. The Lord's simple sister kept secluded to the High Tower and the Starry Sept, muttering at shadows and staring at walls as if they spoke back to her.

⁙ Then, ten-and-nine, Labella was only moons away from completing her training as a Septa. She'd take her vows at the next Maiden's Day feast in the Starry Sept. Accomplishment felt within her reach - a soon-to-be solace she'd have forever.

⁙ But a single raven would change her path - alter her dreams and reshape her from inside out.

ADULTHOOD / MARRIAGE

⁙ Two moons before her vows in the year 120AC, Ormund received a missive, a summons from the King himself for Lord Otto Hightower to return to King's Landing. The caveat? He was to return with the Lady Labella at the King's request.

⁙ When Ormund announced this to Labella, in her bedchambers after the sun dipped low on the other side of the tower, casting her room in candle light only, Labella sat in that same stillness that shook him to the core years ago.

⁙ She did not speak to him. She did not speak to anyone after that day. For nearly a fortnight, until her departure from Oldtown, she said not a word. Her prayers were silent, her requests of maids simple and direct with nods and expressions.

⁙ But in the night, when the tower had gone quiet and still as she was, she cried. Heavily. Open weeping like one would grieve a loved one since passed. A hollow opened in her chest and her faith seemed to unravel in her heart.

⁙ Labella began wandering again, a week before her departure. Longer dream-walks that Gallahad followed her on, a guiding sentry leading away from stairs and balconies, back to her bedchamber after too long.

⁙ The night before her departure, Labella broke her silence, stopping before Gallahad with a grief-stricken glaze in her eyes. her hand found his in a gentle squeeze, "You are the only one I shall grieve, cousin..."

⁙ Upon her arrival in King's Landing, she and Otto were welcomed by the Queen with open arms and reserved affections. Labella knew little of her cousin, but would grow to be her closest companion (more on this later).

⁙ The King, Lord Ormund and reappointed Lord Hand Otto had already made the arrangements, made the agreements, however reluctantly on the Hightower end.

⁙ Labella was to be wed, not join the Sept. Labella was to be wed to newly appointed Lord Larys Strong, Lord Confessor and Viserys Master of Whispers (f&b text).

⁙ Her life, in a matter of a moon turn, had changed entirely for the worse. Labella's dreams of the Sept, of the faithful devotion to the one thing that brought her comfort was stripped with a signature, a short walk and a cloak that was colder than anything she had ever experienced before.

⁙ But her handsome stranger stood vigil, just out of her sight, just beyond the reach of her peripheral vision where her gaze strained beneath the heavy veil. And only one person on the dais noticed...took note, and slotted the glance away in a very full, very long memory.

RELATIONSHIPS

⁙ Labella and her parents, Lord and Lady Hightower, had a relatively normal noble parent x child relationship. She was closer with her mother, only because she shieled her more from court gossips and taught Labella faith. Her father, rather, catered to her reclusive and introverted behavior by allowing her to dismiss maids and ladies and focus on the Seven and High Gardens.

⁙ Labella and her brother, Ormund, had a different closeness. They were two moons orbiting the same star, that being their House name and accompanied reputation. Where Ormund was duty, Labella was sacrifice. Where Ormund led with Vigilance, Labella guided with the Seven. Two halves of a whole Hightower.

⁙ At times the two butted heads as all siblings do. Though for Ormund, Labella has always been his duty. His to protect, his to manage and his to decide her fate. He loves her, in his own brooding quiet way - with an upturned nose and weary glance every now and again.

⁙ Allowing her to take the faith felt like the right thing to do, the only option he had to retain her sanity. The decision to send her to Oldtown came with lengthy convincing from Otto and yet, her last day in the tower, and at the end of their story, Ormund feels nothing but guilt when he looks at Labella.

⁙ Gwayne was older than Labella, just by a handful of years, and was one of two cousins she actually interacted with regularly. He was loud and gallant, and Labella admired this, from her corner. She held quiet affection for his kindness and at times stubbornness, but admired his dedication to house and faith above all.

⁙ Gallahad, Gwayne's brother, on the other hand, was Labella's closest companion in her youth and well into adulthood (more on them to come - another oc). Posted at her door, Gallahad came to know her routines and enjoy her conversation when it was to be had.

⁙ At first, like Ormund, they orbited each other. Dusk and dawn and the occasional hour of the wolf meetings were what they grew used to. Labella often invited Gallahad into her chambers for tea before she retired, or a venture to the gardens before the Tower woke.

⁙ Labella was comforted more by the gentle shift of his armor outside her door, or the clearing of his throat in the night just as she was comforted by the crackling of candles in the Sept. Gallahad offered a physical representation of safety from herself - she loved him for it.

⁙ For the quiet nods of acknowledgement, the side glances as he worried for her on the more troubled nights, the smile on his lips after she gifted him more books for the hours of his post. The guilt wanned as the years went on and she longed for his shadow beneath the door.

⁙ Even when she moved to King's Landing, when her chambers were new and strange and smelled, she stared at the sliver of light from beneath her door and prayed for Gallahad's shadow to cross. It never did.

⁙ Otto and Alicent were blips in Labella's mind. Rarely ever did either cross it unless mentioned in conversation around her. They were all but strangers to her. Otto came and went from the city, but Alicent, she had only ever spoken to through raven.

⁙ But as her days in King's Landing numbered, and her routine began, she became ever closer to the Queen, one of her ladies when not attending to the Princess Helaena as was her additional duty.

⁙ They spoke quietly, and Alicent often watched the two sit in silence, one in prayer or reading and the other embroidering. And when Labella attended to Alicent, she often did so in silence lest the elder ask of her husband or daughter.

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