rosamund

Kings Landing had failed to impress him and he was certain it was not only because of the woman who had her claws so firmly dug into it. If he allowed himself the honesty then it paled in comparison to Crakehall and he wanted nothing more than to return to the simplicity that had been his life before his homeland was invaded. Life was rarely so straightforward and he knew that there was still a long and complicated road ahead of him before he reached the goal that he wanted. Politics were far from simple. 

What was simple however, was the choice he had made regarding the woman before him and he still counted himself lucky that fate had seen fit to grant him such a match. Marriage had always been in his future but he had never been optimistic about there being even fondness in it. But as Rosamund’s lips curved upwards, so did his own and he was filled with a certainty that their union would one where such feelings would only grow. “You must allow me at least one surprise.” But, as ever, he found it impossible to resist her request entirely. “Somewhere far more picturesque than the capital.”

Rosamund had spent so long in King’s Landing – and now so long away from it ­– that being back and having her senses assaulted with the smell, the sights, the dirtiness of the city was worse than she could have ever imagined. She was thankful for the respite of this small journey, and even more pleased by the man who accompanied her; even now, as she looked over at Tybolt, she could hardly keep the smile off of her face and as she watched the Crownlands pass her by, there was a hint of softness in her that only seemed to manifest around those she truly cared for.

A laugh left her lips at the next comment. “Perhaps just one,” she mused with a tilt of her head. If she had her way, he would share all of his secrets with her, just as he often shared so many of his plans. Rosamund straightened her back, though the smile on her face was rather fond. “I certainly hope so, though I would argue that there are many places more picturesque than the capital. Why, all one has to do is smell the air of the city to discern that.”

open starter | the red keep

renly had always been an undisputed party-thrower; anything from hedonistic masquerades at storm’s end to the series of elegant banquets he’d hosted while on progress at sixteen, it was no secret that the lord paramount of the stormlands enjoyed a good party now and then. this, however, was not one of them. his dear widowed sister-in-law had spared no expense - she was a lannister after all, and tywin wasn’t here to object anymore - but it was a dreadful bore; stodgy and tasteful all at once, much like cersei herself. yet he had adorned himself in his best finery ( let it never be said that renly wasn’t the most handsomely dressed in any given room ) and retired himself to a night of boredom. then again, his favourite thing to do at these things was smile smugly at loras from across crowded rooms. it was a win anyway. 

just keeping himself from forcing a yawn at the team of minstrels singing about robert’s rebellion, the lord paramount of the stormlands was the first to rise to his feet and applaud the singers - if only just to get them to leave that much sooner. but then they started back up again, and he collapsed into his chair, desperately reaching out for his glass of wine. “ is she singing about the greyjoy rebellion now? ” renly asked boredly of the person sitting next to him, his expression never giving away anything but rapt attention. “ perhaps tywin lannister will rise from his grave just to make this stop. ”

A Lannister by name and by blood, Rosamund had known that the request to attend Queen Cersei’s feast was little more than a beautifully disguised order; she would represent the family well, though she hoped that she would not carry the name for too much longer. The young woman wore her deep ruby gown with pride, the golden overdress sheer and a lion pendant hanging between her breasts. Her hair was free, curls rippling over her shoulders, with just a bit of the front pulled back so as not to fall into her face. The gathering was much blander than what she was used to, even in King’s Landing, though Rosamund did her best to keep her boredom from her expression.

She supposed that she ought to have found it complimentary to be seated beside Lord Renly of the Stormlands, but as a Lannister, Rosamund thought that spending time with Baratheons was sorely out of fashion. Still, she kept her smile bland and her eyes only partially narrowed as the man stood to applaud the singers, one hand clasped around her golden goblet filled with a Dornish sour. When he sat back down and spoke – perhaps he did not realize she was listening – the young woman allowed herself a laugh, restrained though it may be. “I believe she is. There’s a lovely line about Good King Robert crushing the Greyjoys with his warhammer,” she responded drolly, remembering just how fat and odious the former king had become. Her brow arched. “If Lord Tywin could rise from his grave, I am certain he would be more pleased that his daughter was occupied and not attempting to ruin his carefully set plans.”

It was strange, to be back in King’s Landing and the Crownlands. If she were being honest – which she rarely was entirely outside of the confines of her brain – she had not missed it here. There were too many whispers, too many glances, too many people who saw her as a Lannister and assumed they knew exactly who and what she was. While Rosamund was content to help those rumors along if it helped her, she had found that she rather liked being as adored as she was in Crakehall. She hoped that she would return there soon.

Rosamund offered Lord Tybolt a small smile from across the wheelhouse. She was not certain where he was taking her, but she found herself rather curious about his intentions as well as the destination. If she were to glance outside the window, she would see the colors of the Crownlands but the young woman was inordinately pleased to simply glance at the man across from her. “Might I have any clue as to where we are heading?” she inquired, her ruby lips curving upwards.

Jaw tightened somewhat at her description of what could had happened but he kept his frustration at bay, simply murmuring words that she hoped she could find some reassurance in. “I am sure. I am only sorry that I was not by your side when it happened.” He tried to keep bitterness out of his tone, not wishing to bring anything more negative to to when she had surely endured enough. There was no denying the resentment that he felt, however, that fate had had him fighting by the side of a man he loathed instead of the woman that he intended to marry. Love was an abstract concept to him and he was certain that he did not feel it quite yet but there was an attachment there and a protectiveness that he was sure would grow into more. There was a simmering anger inside him that he might have been robbed of that chance for that to happen and a private vow was made for some sort of revenge in it all.

That same anger only tightened its hold on his chest as she gripped his arm in an entirely different manner to that evening they had spent in the orchard. The contrast between the two lodges itself in his mind and he instantly knows that he will do everything in his power to ensure she never had to feel the need to hold on so tightly again. “Rest seems to be the only solution for the moment and I shall approach those necessary when they have had time to come to terms with it all. In the meantime,” Voice lowered, gaze shifting to focus solely on her as he set plans aside for a moment. “you must let me know if there is anything else you require from me this evening.”

Her back remained straight as she listened to him speak, her eyes glancing up only to see that his jaw was tight. Her gaze softened somewhat at the apology that he did not need to give, but Rosamund appreciated it all the same. “I am safe,” she said, her words a careful reminder. “And we cannot fix what has already transpired.” Her fingers tightened around his arm, though not out of fear this time but out of wanting to give him reassurance that she was unable to give in a way she wished to in such a public location. Rosamund had worried, yes, but the worry now was for what happened next. There did not seem to be any organization to those who milled about and her lips thinned even as they walked to a place she knew would be most safe.

Nodding, she knew that his words were correct. “I wonder,” she said quietly. “If this was supposed to harm us or send a message.” Perhaps both, she supposed. And yet the taking of Arianne Martell was so strange that even Rosamund could not fully piece together what it meant or what it would do to the tenuous peace that had now been fractured. At his next words, Rosamund paused, unsure of if she wanted to ask for that which she wished. It was not much, but she had been a woman who prided herself on her own fortitude. “I would prefer not to be alone,” she finally admitted, her voice growing softer as if admitting such a thing was tantamount to admitting weakness. But Rosamund did not think she needed to worry about appearing weak, at least not in front of Lord Tybolt. Or, at least, she hoped not.

Even though it would have been all too easy for him to get caught up in the events when he was someone who liked perfection and seamlessnes and the attack had been anything but. However, he always chose not to dwell on the past however tempting it might have been to get consumed by what if and endless possible outcomes. He could not change the past but he did have the option to affect the future if he chose his next moves carefully. The attack had been something of a failure for them all and that made the sting of it easier to bear when he knew it was not his alone to shoulder. They had all been blindsided by what had happened and he hoped that there would be an opportunity for him to be of use in the rescue effort that would undoubtedly be taking place. No Lannister had given orders to any of the Westermen and it seemed as though it would be far too good an opportunity to miss showcasing what a leader he could be.

Having risen early he had moved to the small tent that was acting as something of a solar for him, a simple table where he had plans and maps laid out to pour over with some chairs should he have guests. On this occasions though his men had strict instructions to let no one but his brother or Lady Rosamund in unless there was an emergency and with Lyle occupying himself with the men, he knew immediately who had entered as the flaps of the tent parted.

Eyes rose briefly from the parchments spread over the table, gaze flicking over her as he tried to discern whether the previous events still affected her or not. “I hope you are well rested and recovered, Lady Rosamund.” Leaving a pause for her to answer he soon found his attention back on the maps, seeing no point in hiding his plans from her when he fully intended for her to have a say in everything that he and House Crakehall did. “I am glad you are here, I would very much like your opinion on this.”

@lioncssoflannisport​

Rosamund had been on edge ever since the kidnappings had taken place. She had been there as the Princess Arianne had disappeared and while she did her best to appear unruffled, it was mostly a front as her mind whirred. The problem, as Rosamund saw it, was that there was no reason for anyone to take all of those people. She would come up with a plausible scenario only to be flummoxed by someone taken. She had considered Cersei, but the taking of Arianne and Tommen made little sense. Similarly, she considered the Northerners, but given the women taken – and Theon Greyjoy – that seemed quite unlikely. Still, she would not allow any to see her concern and she wrapped a cloak around her shoulders as she moved through the camp toward the tent that she expected to find Lord Crakehall in. The guards let her in with little fanfare and as he spoke, her head tilted down in an incline.

“I am rested as well as I can be,” she responded, a smile underpinning the words that left her lips. “I trust you slept well?” She would not even want him to know how rattled the previous days had made her and so she kept her hands clasped over her abdomen even as she listened to Tybolt speak and moved closer to the maps that were laid out in front of him. Her eyes narrowed as she made sense of them and one brow arched. She was not certain what he planned to do and as her head tilted up, her eyes met his own.

“What exactly do you want my opinion on?” she inquired. “I am afraid I have not yet broken my fast today and so my mind is not nearly so quick to respond as it might have been otherwise.” Lips quirked in amusement and her brow furrowed before she sat down in a chair opposite the table. “We were fortuitous,” she mused. “That none from our party were taken.”

“ fools and liars and murderers - yes. ” arianne smiled wanly, casting a sidelong glance at the gilded lannister; with her golden hair and her golden smiles. she was undeniably beautiful and obviously clever - but she was still a lion, was she not? “ i’ve heard the rumours all the way in sunspear. and of course, princess myrcella has her own stories. ” while her father had always been tightlipped about the capital - always the diplomat, always too passive, always too weak  - the princess of dorne had asked her uncle for advice instead. and his words had been unforgiving, a damning account of tywin lannister and the people he called kin. inciting a rebellion against cersei lannister and crowning myrcella might just be the revenge that would break the lion’s dominion. “ and crakehall is much quieter? ” 

it made arianne smile to listen to rosamund speak in circles and chewed off answers, a practised lady if ever there was one. she wasn’t good at doing the same - she never had been: the dornishwoman knew she was too entitled to play the part, too loud to pause and think. she played the game as if she was running out of time. maybe she could learn from her. “ this…agreement seems to suit you very well, ” she offered easily. tyene would likely have more gossip on the matter, but seeing just how the beauty and the firstborn crakehall hovered in each other’s orbits, it was likely far more straightforward. perhaps rosamund would support tybolt’s stance over myrcella’s birthright. 

“ the best of men? ” tybolt had beautiful manners and kind words to offer, but it had been only moments ago that she had listened to maron’s account of the boar. and arianne had known maron long enough to trust his judgement. “ i suppose that claim could be made of absolutely anyone - the lord reaper, ned stark, even tywin lannister. everyone’s a hero to someone, but that doesn’t make it the truth - does it? ” she could appreciate the other woman’s barefaced support, but she wasn’t swayed in the least. even through her suspicious gaze fixated upon the pirates, her lips skewed into a smirk. “ perhaps you should. they’re rather fun to look at - most of the time, at least. ”

Her brows lifted at the Dornish princess’ comment, though Rosamund said nothing. She was not surprised and she supposed she had little reason to be; Arianne Martell’s aunt and cousins had been murdered in the capital. It was of no surprise that she would not think highly on those who resided there. Rosamund kept her back straight and her expression devoid of anything that might give away her true thoughts. “She has several stories, most of them appropriate.” Lips quirked. “We grew up together, mostly,” she said with an incline of her head. “Though clearly with quite different expectations placed upon us.” The next question rankled, but Rosamund did not let on that it was frustrating in any capacity. “Crakehall is quieter, yes. It smells nicer, too.” And there was a lovely overlook to the sea, but Rosamund did not mention that either.

The woman from Lannisport had learned from Cersei Lannister, perhaps the most silver-tongued woman in the Seven Kingdoms and while she might privately be aware that Cersei’s hold was slipping, she would not begrudge any of what she’d previously learned when it came to twisting the truth to her own aims. “I would say it does,” she drawled, unwilling to give anymore information away, especially given how tenuous any sort of arrangement was at this juncture in time. It would not be long now, she assumed, but Rosamund had little intention of spreading gossip that might not come to fruition, especially when it was about herself.

Rosamund came very close to snorting aloud. “I would certainly not put all of those men in the same category,” she responded. Did Tybolt not have the cunning that Ned Stark did not? Did he not have the restraint that the Lord Reaper lacked? Did he not have the ability to understand his men in a way Tywin Lannister had only dreamed of? It irked Rosamund, incredibly so, that Arianne Martell thought they were anything alike. “And while one could argue it is a category that is more relative depending on who is speaking, I would not agree all of those men could be categorized thusly.” Her nostrils flared and she made a bit of a face. “I would prefer not to, if it’s all the same to you.”

 He had not been devoid of the company of women during his youth but he had been undeniably selective. Not once had he ever paid attention to a woman who might misinterpret his intentions and crave marriage. Until the golden haired woman next to him. Perhaps he had only been able to see her merits because he had not thought of her as an option immediately but all that mattered to him was that they had been noticed by him and he was certain of his choice. Hand was placed on top of hers, not a single part of him objecting to how she had moved closer. “Dragonstone will undoubtedly be formidable but there is certainly something to be said for the simplicity of this.” Romance had never been something he had tried his hand at, never needing to before, but he was certain that he wanted Rosamund to feel as though he had at least tried to court her rather than just assuming she would accept his offer when he made it. Head lowered so that hazel gaze could hold hers for a moment, smile tugging at his lips as he spoke. “I would much rather take it with a beautiful, charming woman like I am now.”

As he straightened up once more he nodded, listening to what she said. Part of him felt guilty that he had not made enough time for her but he also knew she understood the restraints on his time that being a lord caused. Still, he made a note to not let this evening be an anomaly. “I am certain that she would enjoy your company.” He knew that he always did and there was a part of him that felt some sympathy for the Princess’ position. It must be quite isolating and while he had no love for her mother, he was not an entirely heartless man. Besides, it would look favourably upon them to be seen being kind to the young woman and show that they only wanted what was best for The Westerlands.

“It’s fine, even enjoyable at times but their jokes can feel somewhat repetitive.” He did not think himself above their crude remarks but rather he took enjoyment from more witty or dry humour. Something that Lady Rosamund seemed to have more than enough of. “They are all good men, true and loyal, but sometimes I am too aware that I am their Lord and they are my men. It is not the same dynamic as I might get with others of my station. Perhaps we could spend more time in the afternoons together and then we might both be more satisfied with travelling.”

Her brows quirked in interest as they walked and when his hand moved on top of her own, Rosamund allowed herself a small smile, smug and secretive though it was. “Simple things rarely receive the attention they so deserve,” she agreed. “But there is beauty in it all the same.” She met his eyes with her own and as he spoke, there was a light that flickered in them. “And are there many of those often found in your company?” she inquired lightly, her tone meant to be teasing but filled with an undercurrent of curiosity that she could not completely quell.

She was certain that Myrcella would be perfectly acceptable company, though Rosamund would not be surprised if the princess took being invited with her as a slight. After all, they were not, technically, on the same level socially, even if Rosamund were to believe the stories about Myrcella’s parentage [ which she did ]. “Perhaps later this week,” she responded with a smile. Politics aside, Myrcella was still family, even if they were not overtly close through blood. “It was still so incredibly kind of Prince Tommen to ensure my welfare after his brother was murdered. I would not want to be disrespectful after they have shown me so much kindness.” Besides, there was still the chance that Tommen would become king, small though it may be.

The words that left his lips did not surprise her; soldiers and bannerment were often cut from the same cloth, with jokes and amusements lacking in originality. Rosamund had long ago found a similar problem with her own handmaidens, though she ignored them mostly. The wheelhouse was more than comfortable and though Rosamund would not deign to ride a horse for more than an hour or so at most, she had missed Lord Tybolt’s company as they had been traveling. She had been used to seeing him more frequently – both at Crakehall and then at Highgarden – and while part of her worried that when she was out of sight, she would be out of his mind, Rosamund had missed his company. “I would like that,” Rosamund said, her tone sure and calm, even as the smile appeared on her face, lips curving upwards. “And surely your conversation is much more amenable than that of the harpies that attend me.” Lips quirked once more and her eyes were alight with unconcealed amusement.

“It seems you and I have a fundamental difference in understanding what a man can and can’t do with lands he holds.” Maron snickered, folding his arms across his chest in a way that could only be described as smug. “Who needs rights when the battles were fought and won in my favour? Perhaps if the lords of the Westerlands whose keeps my men now occupy are concerned about my rights to their lands, they can pick up their swords and find out, again, how much I care about that.” The only thing better than having the Westerlands was lording it over those he’d taken it from. “Aye, none so fierce. None so bloody fickle, either.” Hypocrisy had always been Maron’s strong suit. “An honour for you, perhaps.” 

Maron was wary that Rosamund clearly had Tybolt Crakehall’s ear, and had no intention of surrendering any of the truths about Jeyne to her - she was his weakness, but that was not something he wanted to make clear to a boar and a lioness until he could help it. “An arranged marriage, nothing more.” He said, eyes trained on the ships for fear that he’d give too much away making eye contact. “As for my brother, we have never even had a real conversation - they’d be doing me a favour if they’ve take him too. I think he’s become rather too fond of being the Young Wolf’s pet to have any concern with us.” 

Her eyes narrowed further as the kraken of Pyke snickered at her words. Rosamund’s back straightened and her lips pursed. A brow arched and when she spoke, it was with a lofty condescension that had been practiced over years as a Lannister in King’s Landing. “If you are to hold lands, then you should fulfill your responsibilities in governing them.” Rosamund exhaled, her expression becoming much more placid than it had been before. “Unless…” she trailed off, pausing as if her mind was attempting to complete a puzzle.  She shook her head and at the slight against the Crakehalls, her gaze narrowed once more. “Fickle? Says the man who holds lands, doesn’t govern them, and then wonders why his people are so despised? Or perhaps you do not wonder; you simply do not care.”

She was not certain she believed him as he spoke of his betrothed as if she meant nothing to him; Rosamund remembered seeing them at the Tyrell wedding and she had thought, even then, that they gave off quite the united front. But she said nothing; truth be told, she could not care less whether the Lord Reaper cared for the woman he was to marry or not. She would certainly not wish happiness upon him and she merely hummed lightly, dismissively. “He certainly seems to amass pets, does he not?” she inquired, thinking of the King in the North, though she instantly bit the inside of her cheek. She would not find common ground with the Lord Reaper of Pyke if he were the last man on Westeros.

“Perhaps I have been remiss then, in not learning the ways of the territories I hold.” Maron said pointedly - he was no Westerlander, and thus did not care for the intricacies of which Lannisters did what, but he was not one to let go of the chance to remind her of whose men held her homeland in their iron grasp. “Lion of the Rock, lion of Lannisport - it’s all the same to me. Though rumour has it you may be a boar of Crakehall before too long. You poor thing.” 

Maron had not even considered the thought that Arianne might not have been the only target - the ironborn rarely strayed far from the coast for their troubles, but to launch an attack like this would only be worthwhile if more than one hostage came of it. Panic stirred in Maron’s gut for Jeyne, he should be with her, he would rather have gone with Euron willingly than ever let him lay even an eye on her. But he was resistant to showing that sort of weakness in from of a woman he suspected was looking for ways to pick him apart from the inside. “There are few in the contingent I care enough about to be worried much. My captains are here, my sister is safe on her ship - I hardly see what else would be my concern. ” He lied, as adept with mistruths on his tongue as he was with an axe in his hand.

“If you have no intention of learning the ways of those you hold prisoner to your whims, then you have no right holding them to begin with,” Rosamund shot back, her words more pointed than those before. It was an unusually harsh reaction – at least in public – and inwardly she cursed this Ironborn lord for getting under her skin. Her gaze narrowed. “There are None So Fierce,” she responded to his jab about becoming a boar of Crakehall. While the young woman did not enjoy the colors of the house she intended to marry into, she would wear the house words with a pride that still felt new to her. “It would be an honor to join their family.”

A brow rose as he spoke and Rosamund wondered, not for the first time, if the woman Lord Greyjoy was to marry was the sort that would even survive a harsh winter on the Iron Islands. She had heard rumors, of course, though she thought little of any family who would willingly turn their back on their countrymen in the way the Westerlings had. “I am certain your intended would be delighted,” she drawled, sarcasm heavy on her tongue even as her eyes narrowed. There was something about this man she did not trust, that she would never trust, no matter how much time passed. “Do you not have a brother as well? Or has he finally decided he prefers being a Stark hostage to an Ironborn lordling who steals lands and then pillages them?”

While his usual temptation was to always address strategy first with those he trusted, on this occasion he found the far more pressing matter to be the well being of the lady before him. His attention had been occupied when the Princess had been taken and he was unsure of what Rosamund had been subjected to in his absence. Leaning in somewhat so that the two of them would not be overheard, voice lowered as keen gaze remained focused on her features. “How are you, Lady Rosamund?” Brow had creased somewhat in concern, a part of him feeling guilty for leaving her alone even for a minute after what had unfolded, even if he had left her side by her blessing. 

He had found little out from his brief walk back towards the camp, only drawing a conclusion that most would be too concerned with their own losses to begin thinking about striking back as a unit. Eagerness to set plans into motion was kept at bay both by the knowledge that no one would listen to him now but perhaps more strongly by simply wanting to properly see that she was not too shaken. “There is no firm news of what has happened and little chance anything will be decided tonight. I think it best we move from here lest they decide to return.” Arm was offered for her to take, wanting to personally ensure no harm came to her when there would undoubtedly be residual chaos and unrest.  “Would you allow me to escort you back to your tent?”

@lioncssoflannisport​

The day had not gone nearly as smoothly as Rosamund had expected. Her gaze was stoic, though those who knew her would be able to see the tells. The strain in her eyes, the way her jawline tightened and clenched, the tightness in the corners of her mouth. Her back remained straight and as Tybolt came toward her, her eyes softened slightly. Her voice was quiet as she spoke. “I am not entirely calm, my lord,” she told him. “I will not incite dramatics, but it was most disconcerting to be having a conversation one moment and then discover that my companion was gone the next.” She had no love for Arianne Martell, it was true, but the woman made a decent conversationalist. At any rate, she was pleased to have someone intelligent with whom to verbally spar.

Her chin inclined only slightly at Tybolt’s suggestion. It was quite a good one, she thought, and she threaded her fingers through his arm. To an outsider, it might look like nothing more than simple politeness, but she knew he would be able to tell her fear by the way her fingers gripped his arm tighter than they had before. “I believe you are correct,” she said quietly, her other hand moving to hold onto his arm as well. Rosamund’s heart still continued to beat in her chest and for that she was grateful. A soft smile rose on her lips, though it was also strained. “I would like that very much,” she murmured as she began to walk in that direction.

the only person she trusted was maron - and with him gone, it was easy to notice just how alone she really was. tybolt crakehall and pretty manners and rosamund lannister was an enigma, but she knew they weren’t to be trusted. and with the dornish still so isolated from alliances made after the war of the usurper, seeing king’s landing in the distance made her feel even more and more uneasy. but for now, she had the lady rosamund to keep her company - and though she could not place her loyalties, she was a puzzle arianne was enjoying.

“ my uncle tells me king’s landing is the very worst place in the world, ” she wondered out loud, glancing across the waters. “ and the princess myrcella says it’s never quiet - no wonder you didn’t find it very homely. ” the smile on her face was sweet, but the glint in her dark eyes was as calculating as could be expected of a martell. when the other woman let slip that crakehall was home, arianne raised her brows in surprise - but her questions had suddenly begun to find answers. “ crakehall? how did you find yourself there? ” she pushed her hair from her face, dark curls cascading over her shoulders as she leaned in to hear rosamund better. there was a satisfied little smile on her lips; a knowing grin that she couldn’t quite help. secrets were her favourite currency, and she felt as if she was on the precipice of one. “ i suppose that’s why you and lord crakehall are so…close. ” arianne didn’t know the truth of it at all, but she had played with enough people to guess their weak points. it may come in hand if tybolt decided to side with cersei lannister. 

without the lord reaper, she could not feel at ease with the ironborn. but despite her public support for the lannisters, arianne’s gaze turned sharp all of a sudden. “ the dornish are just as uneasy with the westerlanders - but alliances don’t always work in our favour, do they? ” she said without pause, smoothing her skirts down. the men were closing in though; faces she could not recognise and expressions that seemed wrathful. fumbling just a little, her fingers grazed the hilt of the blade she carried with her. “ they don’t seem like the lord reaper’s men. ” and they didn’t: maron’s men were scarcely warm and welcoming, but they weren’t quite like this.

Rosamund had no reason to trust anyone Dornish, but she had no legitimate reason to dislike them either. They were, ostensibly, on the same side, though she would not trust Dorne to back Cersei forever. And, if she was being honest – as she often was in the confines of her own mind – Rosamund would hardly blame them if they chose to back the Targaryen king, short though he may be. Cersei had made it quite clear that the throne was her priority, even over the responsibilities of her homeland. There had yet to be named a Lord of Casterly Rock and at this point, Rosamund wondered if the Lannisters would even retain the keep. Perhaps her father would claim it if others did not; knowing what she did, Rosamund believed it very likely that Cersei was refusing to allow Tysion the claim lordship and Jaime was refusing to take it for his own. He had such a strange code of honor, the kingslayer.

Her lips twitched. “King’s Landing is…a paragon of fools, mostly,” she responded. It was true; so many thought that because they sat on a throne or a council that they had power. In truth, their own hubris had become their gods and Rosamund thought that few would be hard-pressed to truly govern the seven kingdoms – or was it now six? “It smells rather awful as well,” she continued, disliking the idea that King’s Landing could ever have been her one and true home. “And the Princess is correct; it is rarely quiet. I find that I much prefer to hear myself think, as it were.” Lips quirked once more and Rosamund hoped to give off the impression that she was involved in the conversation, though she did not wish to give away anything that would not benefit her in the long run. Eyes remained alight as they discussed Crakehall and Rosamund inclined her head. “My father and the previous Lord Crakehall made an arrangement for me,” she responded, leaving just enough information to the side. Nothing had been formalized and the original discussion had been with the second son, but the way her life had gone recently made Rosamund very aware that her ambition of becoming Lady Crakehall would, eventually, come to fruition. “Lord Crakehall is…the best of men.”

Eyebrows rose at the assertion that the Ironborn did not look as if they answered to the current Lord Reaper. “I would not know,” she said primly. “I do not make it a habit of gazing at Ironborn pirates enough to know what they look like.”

“And yet the only name more hated in these parts than Greyjoy is Lannister, is it not?” He supposed that was why she was circling Tybolt Crakehall like prey - better to jump from a sinking ship before Cersei Lannister made the wreckage unsalvageable, after all. 

Maron knew those men had been ironborn - he’d only met his uncle Euron twice, once when he was very little back on Pyke, and once while he was sailing in the east with that silent crew of his. They were as far from family as two men with the same surname could get - Aeron’s stories were clear on that - but Maron knew his uncle’s machinations when he saw them. The quietness of the attack by men dressed like ironborn so that Maron himself might be blamed, the strategic taking of the Dornish princess to send a message - it chilled him to his bones. “Aye, it would. But it’ll take more than a few felled crates and a bunch of the Crows Eye’s turncloaks to take me down, I assure you.” 

Rosamund’s brows arched, though she did not wish to dignify his remark with another heated one of her own. While her words were often sharp and scathing, Rosamund preferred to deliver them dripping in honey. “There is good reason to hate the Lannisters of The Rock,” she offered instead of the comeback he was likely expecting. “But, thankfully, those in the Westerlands know the difference between those of the Rock and those of Lannisport. I may still be a Lioness but I have no desire to ensure people hear me roar.” Her lips twitched at the corners. No, if she had her way, they would know that there were None So Fierce.

He did not respond to her heated jabs in the way she had hoped he would. It was almost disappointing, Rosamund would admit to herself, and her lips thinned once more as she looked at him, wondering just exactly which barb would hit him the most. Would any? If not, perhaps she had found an adversary worthy of her intellect. Rosamund’s brow rose. “It may be difficult for them to take down the Lord Reaper of Pyke.” The words were delivered in a derisive tone. “But perhaps you forget that you have not traveled alone. The Princess Arianne means little on her own; certainly they have taken others.”

@lioncssoflannisport​ | arianne + rosamund.

they were so close to king’s landing, and she could feel the slots of her plan locking into place with calculated ease. but being on the harbour so far from her own retinue and surrounded by strangers she knew only by name, arianne could hear her uncle’s voice in her head, reminding her to never trust anyone within spitting distance of the capital. this had been the place where rhaegar targaryen had left his wife and children for another woman; where crownlanders killed children without remorse. it was only natural that she was uneasy. but when crates of supplies had been pushed over the edge and their party had halved immediately, the princess could feel her uneasiness grow. “ lady rosamund, ” she greeted in a lilting, smiling tone that belied any suspicions she held, ignoring the quiet lull in the air and the sudden realisation that she couldn’t recognise a single person in her company. “ are you happy to return to king’s landing? it must have been a second home to you. ”

the woman was clever, that much was obvious. as much as arianne knew her greatest vice was arrogant, pretty men, clever women were another form of beauty altogether. and she appreciated great beauty. when the heir of dorne had met cersei lannister, she had noted enough fire in her to rival a martell of sunspear: the woman may not have been armoured, but she understood power better than prince doran himself. lady rosamund had given her the same distinct impression - another lioness with her golden hair and her gilded tongue. but who was she loyal to? 

their silks were blowing with the sea breeze and there was a distinct tension in the air; so she filled it with unbridled laughter on purpose. men were men, at the end of the day: and they were never as complicated as they thought themselves to be. “ there are entirely far too many ironborn here than i care for, ” arianne divulged quietly. 

Rosamund Lannister had little desire to be here and, if she was being honest, there was a small amount of fright inside of her at the moment. It was strange, to see that many crates fall to the point that Tybolt and even the Lord Reaper of Pyke had gone to help. Her lips thinned and when the Princess of Dorne approached her, they curved upwards into a wan smile. “Princess Arianne,” she said, inclining her head as she looked over at her. The Princess was beautiful and Rosamund wondered if she was pleased to be getting closer to her home.

The question was not one that surprised her. She had lived in King’s Landing for a long while and while there were aspects of it that she missed, most of them were relational. She had no love for the Red Keep or for the city that smelled so horribly. “I spent many of my formative years there, it’s true,” she acknowledged, lips remaining in their smile on her face. “But it was never close to home.” Home was the Westerlands, home was greenery, home was the seaside. She clasped her hands in front of her abdomen and her eyes narrowed as she spoke to Arianne. “I would prefer to be back home. Crakehall is beautiful this season. It was such a shame to leave it.” It was only after she spoke that Rosamund realized she’d referred to Crakehall as home. It was a strange realization and she did her best to school her expression.

Arianne was correct – there were far too many Ironborn here. Rosamund could hardly trust them one bit and her lips thinned even more before they twisted into a scowl. “Yes,” she agreed. “I do not like the idea of them here, among us, not after they pillaged our shores.” Her eyes moved back to Arianne’s. “They still hold parts of the Westerlands and yet we are allowing them to help us? It seems foolish.”

It was a poorly kept secret that the heir of Crakehall had been somewhat impossible to please when it came to finding a wife. So much so that his father seemed to have given up entirely on suggesting matches, instead relinquishing the choice to his son. Things had undeniably changed since then, his father now lost to him and him shedding the title of heir to take up the mantle of Lord instead. However, what had not changed were the exacting standards he had for whichever woman would become the future Lady of Crakehall.

Up until recently he had been almost certain that he would have to settle in some way. To sacrifice one of the traits he was searching for in the name of having heirs to carry on his House. With his father gone it had become more crucial than ever to secure the Crakehall line. It was not until he had started paying more attention than simple passing politeness to the woman that his brother was supposed to marry that he realised that perhaps there was a chance for him to have it all after all.

With Lyle having far more interest in war and weapons than he ever would in marriage, the eldest Crakehall had felt little guilt nor any hesitation in beginning to pursue the woman he had grown to respect so. Others might have looked upon them spending time together with curious eyes but it did not matter to him when he had a delicate plan in place and it was far more important to him that Rosamund felt courted the way that she deserved. “Undoubtedly a hard won luxury that we must do our best to make the most of.” Rare smile is given as he looks down at her, relaxing into their time together when things seemed to flow so easily. “Dragonstone should provide us with a better environment once we get there.” Genuine interest sparked his next question, already prepared to do whatever he could to ensure she was as satisfied as possible. “I trust your journey has been comfortable enough so far?”

The past few weeks had been filled with many things. After the death of Lord Roland, Rosamund had worried about what her future would become. She’d had no intention of marrying Lyle Crakehall – it had never been her intention even when it was first proposed by her parents. No, she would settle for nothing less than the heir and as she’d gotten to know Tybolt, Rosamund knew that her original plan was the best for her. They worked well as a team, she’d learned, and though she had agreed to be patient before discussing her future once more, this next trip to Dragonstone made her position all the more precarious. She expected that he would propose to her at some point, or at least that was the impression she’d gotten when they’d returned to Crakehall to lay Lord Roland to rest.

The stop this evening was a nice respite from her thoughts, however, and Rosamund tightened her grip on his arm as they walked through the orchards, moving closer to him than was, technically, appropriate. “I think, my lord,” she mused, her lips quirking at the corners. “That I would choose this environment as opposed to the barrenness of Dragonstone. There is something rather idyllic about taking a stroll with a handsome man through an orchard at night, wouldn’t you agree?” Her eyes shone in amusement. “Though I suppose you would not take many walks with handsome men at dusk, would you?” Rosamund so rarely felt free like this, free to speak her mind, to tease a man she found intriguing, and she would take advantage of it while she could.

At his question, she inclined her head. “I have no complaints,” she said quietly. “It gets a bit lonely in the afternoons, I suppose, but I am comfortable as can be. Perhaps I will see if the Princess wishes to join me one of these afternoons.” Her lips curved upwards. “And how is the journey with the men?” she inquired. “I hope they are not too boorish.”

@lioncssoflannisport​

The men of the Iron Fleet were not known for their silence, and the quiet that came after the shock of the attack chilled Maron to his bones. Perhaps if his immediate company had merely been Wyll he might have expressed that, but when Lady Rosamund, and Tybolt remained nearby, there was no chance of showing weakness. 

He supposed it was both a blessing and a curse that the Martell princess had been the one taken, and not the Lannister woman or Tybolt fucking Crakehall, for though he liked Arianne immensely, and feared for her safety in the hands of his uncle, he knew it would have reflected poorly on him should the two people that were known to be his enemies disappear into Greyjoy custody on his watch. His axe was wet with his countrymen’s blood (traitors under Euron’s sails as they were) and there was no remorse for that in him. 

“We need to get back to the others - tell them what has happened here.” Maron’s features bent  out of shock and into cruelty. “It is too bad we must share news of the Princess’ capture, it would brought me at least a little joy to share that Lord Tybolt had been lost to us, or you, perhaps, Lannister.” 

It felt like it had been hours, though Rosamund supposed it was likely only moments. In one, crates were falling into the river and in another there were men who looked so familiar and yet so strange all at once. When the commotion was over and done with, Arianne Martell was gone and Rosamund, much as she hated to admit it, was rather shaken. She sucked in a breath as her hands rested over her abdomen, fingers clasped. When Lord Greyjoy spoke to her, her eyes flicked to his own.

The Lannister woman’s brow rose at his words. Though she knew that propriety dictated she remain civil, she personally thought civility to be out of the question considering the man in question had led his men to plunder her homeland, holding vast portions of it for reasons only the gods knew. “I am surprised they have taken the princess at all,” she said, her words deceptively coated in honey, lest he not decipher the true meaning behind them. “One would have thought that the target would have been yourself. Your death would certainly make it easier for many to flourish, would it not?”

There was seemed little point denying that his life had been altered by his father’s death and some things that he had thought he would have more time to a decision on had become all the more crucial. He had always been a man who adapted well to whatever was thrown his way and for the most part he felt as though he had been successful in rising to his new station, mostly thanks to how well his father had prepared him. But even with the smooth transition, he knew it was only a matter of time before he had to move to secure the Crakehall bloodline and even though he knew it was of the utmost important he still refused to settle for just any bride.

While his plans were always kept closely guarded, there had been one recently with whom he had shared a glimpse of his vision for the future. If there had been any doubt in his mind about who he wished to have by his side through whatever might come his way, it had been dismissed upon the trip to Crakehall that had been taken to put his father to rest. Now he found himself rather impatient to spend some quality time with the woman he had grown so fond of when travelling did not make such things that easy. 

After halting his men for the evening in a spot he had picked out in advance, he wasted no time in offering a hand to help his House’s guest down from her wheelhouse. “I was told that the orchards up here are supposed to be some of the finest in The Reach.” After gesturing a little way down the path, he offered his arm for her to take. Tone had been neutral, as if he was doubtful that they would be anything worth being impressed over and his next words said as much as a smirk tugged at his lips. “If nothing else they might provide us with some semblance of peace for a short while.”

@lioncssoflannisport

Rosamund had never been one for riding a horse. She could do it, of course, like many young women her age, but it was never a pastime she had employed with great frequency. As they moved back toward King’s Landing, toward Dragonstone, she found herself in a wheelhouse, watching the scenery pass her by as the horses pulled her along. She had companions some days, of course, but Rosamund had never been afraid of being alone and she enjoyed the quiet time, even if she missed some of the conversations she would have outside of it. There had been a great deal of travel of late, however; she had gotten back to Highgarden from Crakehall mere days before they’d left now and Rosamund was missing sleeping in a bed that was not constructed each evening and packed up in the morning.

When the wheelhouse stopped, Rosamund straightened her skirts and allowed herself one look in a small looking glass to ensure that her hair was still in the fashion it had been earlier that day. She pinched her cheeks to bring color to them and when she stepped out of the wheelhouse, none need know that she had spent the day cooped up. A smile rose on her face as Lord Crakehall – and it was strange, for Rosamund to think of his new title now – helped her down and at his words, it grew even wider. “I would like that,” she responded.

When they had walked a short while, her hand wound around his arm a little tighter and she lifted her head so she could better look at him. “There is that,” she mused. “And I would not turn down a small bit of privacy. We’d had so little on the road.”

tragedy did not suit the golden princess well; myrcella had always been better suited to sunshine and laughter, to cheerful smiles and pretty words. the black silks of mourning would have looked ill-suited on her had they not been her family’s colours already. the one comfort in her own grief was the number of people who shared it; when her father had died, few had mourned past what was proper for the loss of a king, save myrcella. as myrcella had tried desperately to get used to life without her father, she’d found that few truly missed him in the way she - and perhaps tommen - did.

now, though, it seemed everyone had lost someone dear to them. though in truth myrcella could scarcely feel anything at all, she did not wish the pain she felt on anyone else, and would rather shut herself away than face the grief so clear in everyone’s expressions. the end of her brother’s short-lived reign and the beginning of tommen’s rule left her with a feeling of uncertainty that instinctively had her retreating to old memories of loss, of betrayal. rosamund had left her once when myrcella’s entire life had been upended - in her zombie-like state, she’d simply assumed the past would repeat itself. “it is good to hear that,” she said, shocked by the strength of the relief she felt. “not the details of it, of course, but it is good to have a comforting face here amidst the chaos.”

if she chose to dwell on it - and she likely would not - myrcella supposed she too should be grieving for lord roland. though her mother had her own opinions on the crakehalls, they were still lannister bannermen; the loss of a western lord was a loss to her family as well. “i never knew him,” myrcella murmured, shifting her gaze to the flickering light of the candles before them. closing her eyes briefly, she sent a quick prayer for him, though it lacked the heart it truly deserved. “our homeland will miss him dearly, i am sure.” the diplomacy in her voice echoed cersei at her finest; myrcella had learned from the best how to speak with sincerity even when she scarcely felt it. unlike her mother, though, she knew her words to be true; though she felt her emotions as if through a fog, myrcella could think with sufficient clarity to understand the importance of this loss. “that is all we can hope for, for everyone.” she sighed. “i am sorry for your loss.”

She did not like being in the sept, did not like praying to the Seven in hopes that things would change and the bodies would stop piling up. But Rosamund had always been somewhat of a pious sort and she would not stop praying simply because she could not see the results. It did the men good, she thought, to see that women prayed for them, that they were not alone. Besides, there was part of her that drew comfort from the Seven just as others did, though she would rarely be one to admit it to another.

There was part of Rosamund that was surprised at Myrcella’s words. The young woman had been gone from King’s Landing for so long, had remained away from Dorne, that she had expected Myrcella would prefer it if she remained gone entirely. There was a certain relief to be felt, to know that their friendship would not entirely fall by the wayside. She inclined her head as she looked at the princess. “I hope that I may be a comfort to you, if you wish it,” she said quietly, her tone both soft and yet tinged with a steel. Rosamund would be no one’s pushover, even if she was a princess. “There are so few of us here now, I worry for those of our homeland.” She shook her head to clear the thoughts from her mind.

Lips curved upwards, though only slightly. “He was a genial enough man,” she said. “His men loved him. They were incredibly upset when he was murdered.” She recalled having to send them on a hunt, having to ensure that their new lord would be allowed his moments of grief before taking up his new responsibilities. In her own moments of grief, Rosamund missed the elder man. He had been kind to her when others were not, had clearly seen how she could benefit their family moving forward. She tightened her fingers around her skirts. “Thank you,” she said, her words coming out softer than before. “We will move forward, I am certain of it.” Her lips thinned and she tilted her head to the side. “For what more is there to do?”