#cassandra:thread

As a child, much of Cassandra’s fondest memories had been with her elder sister. Katherynne had served as guardian and protector for much of their childhood - and Cassandra had repaid her by slipping away in the night, with a knight, and leaving her siblings to deal with the fallout. Communication had been limited since, though Cassandra had made her promises when Lord Royce had died. Once again, though, she had been forced to let Katherynne down. There was so much they needed to discuss with one another, and Cassandra had no idea where to begin. 

She hadn’t sent word that she was planning to visit her,for she hadn’t fully decided that she would until shortly before. It was always difficult for Cassandra to try and connect with family, and the longer passed between them, the more difficult things became. Still, she could not let her time in Winterfell pass by without at least trying to bridge the gap. 

Her children were with the others, as safe as it was possible to be. Cassandra could hardly remember the last time she had been without someone clinging to her skirts or balancing on her hip. It did, however, offer her the perfect opportunity to finally head to see Katherynne. It took all of her courage to raise her fist to knock upon the door, awaiting the moment her sister would answer. 

“Katherynne?” she called out, gently, flattening her palm against the wood. “It’s Cassie. Will you let me in?” 

It had started small. A running nose, a cough that reverberated through Marya’s chest. Cassandra has mentioned it in passing, had ensured her daughter had a draught to ease her lungs, and thought little else of it. She had worried over her eldest’s every sniffle, but had long since learned that children were hardy little things, that chills and colds were common amongst little ones. She hadn’t been worried. 

How dearly she was now paying for that mistake. 

Perhaps it was more of a shock that it was Marya who lay struggling for her every breath. The cold of The North wasn’t healthy for any of her children, but Marya had always been more robust than her siblings, bolder and brasher, a smaller version of Cassandra herself in both looks and temperament. If it had been the baby, or even Steffon, she may not have been caught so unawares. But this was Marya, her Marya, and she had never thought to see her like this. She’d never seemed smaller, not even as a newborn, and Cassandra couldn’t help the cold, sinking feeling that her next laboured breath could be her last. 

She wouldn’t cry. Not while her daughter was still awake, bundled in blankets and furs, head resting on Cassandra’s lap. Slender fingers brushed dark curls from her face, cold hands burning where they made contact with clammy forehead. She had sent for a maester, god knows how long ago now, and had sent word to her dinner companions for the night. By now, half of Winterfell would know what was going on - though she doubted many would care. 

A rap at the door jerked her from her troubled thoughts, gaze snapping to the lock to check it was not bolted. It wasn’t, and so she called out, her voice hollow and hoarse. “It’s open. You can come in.” 

If there was one thing Cassandra was good at, it was being a mother. She never thought of herself as the maternal type, never even particularly cared for children before, but as soon as she held her son in her arms, that all changed. Now, she not only adored her own, but found herself softening around others. 

She greeted the Dornish woman with a warm smile, a great contrast to her usually more sour expression. “Your daughter?” she asked, a small raise of her eyebrow punctuating the question. “What’s her name?”

“Sorry,” she said, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn that threatened to overtake her. “I don’t mean to be rude. I’ve barely had time to draw breath today.” That wasn’t a lie. For the first time in months, she was bedecked in all her finery, the most gorgeous of her gowns and prettiest of her jewels. It was rare that she had an excuse to look nice, and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to take it. “Blame the fire. I can never sit besides one for too long without falling asleep.” 

What has kept Cassandra away from her family all these years is not regret for her actions. She does not, for the most part, regret them, and cannot pretend to be ashamed of what she has done, not when the last 7 years have been so blissfully happy. What keeps her away is her fierce commitment to protecting her children. 

When Devan was born, a mere three months after his parents were wed, the love she felt for him was incomparable. She would do anything to protect him, his brother and his sisters. Even from their own kin. That was what kept her estranged for so long - the deep, unsettling fear that her children would look at their cousins, look at all the Baratheons had, and wonder why they did not have it for themselves. She made her mind up a long time ago that they would never be scorned for being less than, and had kept them blissfully unaware that this was ever a possibility. 

The children had all been kept close since the events of the coronation. This worried Cassandra somewhat, but thus far, the other noble’s offspring had not brought about any cause for concern. And so, Cassandra watched her eldest three, the twins on chubby toddler’s legs, her firstborn looking more like a young man every day, whilst her youngest slept in her arms, nestled close to her mother for warmth. 

There was something familiar about the boy Devan had chosen to play with. Cassandra’s brows knot as she studies his face, though the answer does not come until his own mother makes herself known. Marina Tyrell - her sister, despite the years since they had spoken, and suddenly, all of Cassandra’s fears seem to come to the forefront. 

“Devan,” she calls out, doing her best to keep her gaze way from her sister as she rises, moving to her son’s side with her free arm outstretched. “Come away, Sweetling. Do not make a nuisance of yourself.” Her priority is to move him away, to end the contact between the two and hope she does not have to confront Marina’s wrath. 

Setting : The year 465, Lannisport

Usually, visiting the homes of other lords and ladies of Westeros was utterly boring. Cassandra could usually find a way to weasel out of things. But now Katherynne’s own marital prospects had been settled, while Cassandra’s were still up in the air, it was getting harder to find an excuse not to accompany her father. Being trotted out all across the continent wasn’t Cassandra’s idea of fun, but when it came to Lannisport, she didn’t mind so much. 

She wouldn’t call Jeyne Lannister a friend - but then, Cassandra would call very few people a friend in truth. Still, she was less irritating than most people Cassandra knew, and could even be quite entertaining at times. That was enough to make the trip worth it, she supposed though Cassandra much rather would be back in the Stormlands. 

“Have you seen what Lady Brax is wearing?” she turned to the other, the smirk on her face revealing everything she thought about Lady Brax and her choice of attire. “It’s at least twenty years too young for her, and it’s much too big. She looks ridiculous.” 

Cassandra knew she had been blessed. Too few women could boast that they genuinely loved their husband, but for her, she worshipped the very ground Willmiere walked upon, and had done since the moment they had met. She knew that what they had, and the life they had built together with their children, was special, and most of the time, she knew that it was worth everything she had given up. 

Still, things hadn’t exactly been easy of late. As much as he told her not to worry, Cassandra couldn’t help but do anything but. There was a weariness that hung around him that she simply wasn’t used to, and that had knotted itself into an anxiety that rested in the pit of her stomach. She had so many questions for him - questions that remained on the tip of her tongue for fear of what the answer would be. 

Still, perhaps in Winterfell, away from home for so long, they could get to the bottom of things? If there was any way of getting their marriage back to where it was, this was it. So for the moment, Cassandra put aside all worries of poison and fires, ensured her children were safely tucked away for the night, and set her mind upon giving WIllmiere her undivided attention. 

“It’s cold,” she announced, pressing an icy hand to his cheek with a devilish grin. “I thought there were supposed to be springs that heat the castle, but I think they must be broken. If not, I dread to think what it would be like without them.” Cassandra slowly withdrew her hand, dropping it to rest in her lap. “I fear we’ll have worn through our furs before we get home. I don’t think my Winter wardrobe has ever seen so much wear.” 

Setting : The year 466, Highgarden 

For as long as Cassandra could remember, Victaria had been her dearest friend. It was only natural, she supposed. They were of a similar age, both daughters of great houses. It seemed only natural they were drawn together. There was nobody Cassandra wanted to talk to more than Victaria right now, and time was running out to do so. Her child was growing in her belly, and plans had been made to ensure they did not come into this world a bastard. Like Victaria, she was to be married soon, though that was something kept in utter secrecy. 

Cassandra didn’t knock before entering Victaria’s chambers, but she did call out to announce herself. “Shouldn’t you be packing?” she teased, moving to take a seat on the bed. She had only missed five of her monthly courses now. Still, only she and the father knew of the pregnancy, though they couldn’t hide it much longer, and she grew tired far quicker than usual. 

“Unless you have decided not to go after all. I wouldn’t blame you. I certainly wouldn’t allow myself to be carted off to the Iron Islands. I’ll go and tell them the wedding’s off, if you like. It’ll give you time to slip out the door and on the King’s Road before you know it.”