#calla 002

          the time had just gone midnight; the new day marking a new age for guinevere of house lannister, and yet there was a solemn sense of suffocating silence within the lannister apartments that night. for to sleep would allow time to pass as swiftly as it does; awaking from slumber with no knowledge of how many hours had passed. there had been little throw in their path for the lannisters to ever have to adjust to change; for the status quo was to be stuck to, in order to maintain their superiority over those secret thorns who wished to climb above them. standing within the torchlit hallway holding the apartments of calla lefford, her first cousin through her lannister aunt, she momentarily froze when she was informed that the chambers were empty.

at such a time? peering an emerald gaze into the courtyard below, she was unable to make out anything in the darkness; it became abundantly clear that they all had secrets. and how it had been the undoing of her; the thin line between grief and hate being fundamentally blurred as their families finally came head to head. turning on her heel, resigned to returning when dawn broke, she was quietly relieved to see the familiar face of calla returning to her chambers with her hood raised over her fiery curls. she cared not to ask her where she had been; she only prayed she had been safe and happy wherever that was. attempting to read the facial expression of her cousin, wondering whether the woman would be disappointed in her for her choices and secrecy, she looked toward the chamber door.

the golden light of late afternoon stretched long over the stone walls of lannisport, gilding the air with that hazy warmth only the westerlands seemed to possess. amir manderly rode at an easy pace, the steady rhythm of his horse’s hooves lost beneath the clamour of the city’s gates—merchants barking prices, the clash of metal from distant drills, and the constant hum of the gathering swelling like the tide.

he sat tall in the saddle, the stark direwolf stitched silver over his dark cloak, though he wore the badge of his office—the merman of white harbour—at his breast as he talked to younes corbray to his left.

the sea was close. he could smell it in the breeze, that sharp tang of salt threading through the dust. but then came the sharp, panicked scream of a horse. amir’s head snapped toward the commotion near the gates, where a mare bucked violently, nostrils flared, hooves striking the air. her rider—a flash of sunlit hair, curls torn loose from their braid—struggled against the fraying reins. the horse twisted, dangerously near the stone edge where the cobbles dipped steep toward the ditch. one wrong step and—

amir didn’t think. heels to his horse’s flanks, he surged forward, the crowd scattering as his mount cut through with practiced ease. the mare was all wild muscle and terror, eyes rolled white, until amir’s hand caught the bridle in one hard pull, anchoring her mid-buck. “easy now—woah, girl—steady!” his arm strained with the force of it—the raw strength of the beast nearly tore free—but his grip held. what had he gotten himself into?

the mare’s chest heaved, lathered with sweat, hooves skidding against the stone before she stilled, trembling beneath his hold. the mare fought it, snorting thick and wild, but the pressure broke through her panic.

she staggered sideways, hooves scrabbling against the stone before her weight sank heavy beneath amir’s hold, breath coming in great, shuddering bursts. “seven hells,” he muttered, running a palm over her slick neck before glancing up at the rider. and there she was. the same fiery red hair, the same narrow emerald catlike gaze that widened in a face of panic. the memory hit quick—a storm in dorne, sand swirling so thick you couldn’t see your own hand. she’d been half-buried by it, her curls crusted with sand, skin raw from the grit, when he’d pulled her out, coughing and cursing the gods. he hadn’t thought of her since.