They Said "Kid, You Gotta Fake It Till You Make It"...Then I Did
(Closed starter for @goldenclarice)
One Moon Ago; The last day of the fourth month, two days before King Viserys’ death
“The Lady-Regent is of House Rowan by birth, gentle, intelligent, and sociable, everything a young Lord-Paramount would be lucky to find in his consort, and that is to say nothing of her connections.”
“Which are?” Rhaenyra’s eyes flitted over to the tall, lithe, and dark-blonde haired woman who stood opposite her in front of a map of The Reach and its borderlands the pair were surveying as she spoke. Lady Willow Fossoway, the eldest child of one of the Tyrell’s strongest banner men, had served as the new Queen’s lady-in-waiting for a decade; she was a stunningly talented musician and composer, so much so that the skill alone was more than enough to keep her in Rhaenyra’s employ, shielded from marriage to a man she would surely find no joy with, and lavished in the company of beautiful but lonely wives and gorgeous, self-abnegating eldest daughters. But the justification was only that, because the true purpose of Lady Willow’s service was as her liege’s principal spy, and spy mistress, in the kingdom’s wealthiest region, the place she was least likely to find allies of her own, the beating heart of The Faith, The Maesters, and the will to see Westeros’ first Ruling-Queen fail.
“The Shield Isles, to begin, she is one of thirteen children, and their Lady-Mother has seen them married despicably well.” Willow laughed shortly, “The eldest three girls all married the now-Lords of the islands, except Southshield, the Serrys are Lady Rowan’s maiden house, their alliance was never in doubt. The heir is my good-brother through Alysanne.”
“The second in your circle?” Rhaenyra questioned, clearly impressed, and Willow nodded satisfiedly.
“The very same! The spare is married to Lord Caswell’s eldest.”
“Wed to a woman set to inherit her father’s fortune, is that not the dream of every second son?” It was the Queen’s turn to laugh, then, and her lady hummed in amused agreement.
“The middle girl is married to the newly inherited Lord Tarly, and the Lady Regent’s closest older sister to the heir to their vassals, Petty Lords by the name of Hunt. As far as anyone can tell all to spurn her mother and the late-Lord Tyrell, which I imagine would’ve made a much larger statement if her sister had not married him herself less than two years later.”
“And the younger ones?”
“The youngest daughter recently came of age, it seems Lady Rowan will settle for no less with her than the heir to House Redwyne, there’s two younger boys as well, it seems they’re waiting in the wings to sure up alliances wherever they’re needed most. The second-youngest girl has accompanied Lady Tyrell to court though,” one of Willow’s perfectly manicured eyebrows raised as she concluded, “They aim high and higher, Lord Cedric and Lady Selyse, and you can be sure there’s soon to come great offense at the match of Prince Joffrey and Lady Alannys. With no marriage pacts to offer and Lord Greyjoy sitting on your council,” she bit the corner of her lip and sighed before concluding, “There may be no true leverage you hold to sway this faction to your side.”
“And their alliances with Oldtown?”
Willow laughed again, but far more harshly than the first, “None to speak of, Your Grace, though certainly not for lack of trying. You mustn’t allow yourself to fall into the trap of seeing these matters as black and white…or even black and green, the late-Lord was no true friend of the Hightowers either, but we will be played for fools if we rely on that simple neutrality.”
“And the late-Lord Tyrell, Lorence, right? Do you know the truth of what happened to him?”
“A skirmish in the Dornish Marches, it was seen by a dozen, and the wounds that caused his demise by thrice that.”
“I see,” Rhaenyra swallowed hard at the feeling of her stomach twisting; the Dornish envoy arrived not a week before, how could she accomplish anything, if she could not even put a stop to this meaningless fighting?
Now; The last day of the fifth month, one week before Queen Rhaenyra’s coronation
The meeting was to be held in the Small Council Chamber, formal introductions had been made on the Iron Throne before her father’s funeral had even come, but this was a conversation between allies, not a missive from a ruler to her vassal. Rhaenyra dressed in gold, daring to hope it would be taken as the show of good faith she intended; what was her reign if not the product of a decade, or three, spent making such gestures.
The Lady Regent is one and twenty, her son, Lyonel, just two.
The reminder bounced around her head, hitting a hundred sore spots on its path. Jace is twenty, Clarice not even a full year older, Rhaenyra herself already had two sons by that age, Joffrey would come before the year was out, she had been ruling Dragonstone nearly five years then. But the memory most in prominent in her mind remained how desperately lonely she had been...and how thoroughly trapped she had felt in the only tangible proof of her father’s love.
She has a mother, a father, half a dozen older siblings too, all supporting her, stop fretting over mothering someone who is not a child, and neither needs, nor wants it…
What would you not have given for the ally you could be to her in this Court? Where would you be if you hadn’t promised yourself so many times the Court you created would not be built off the backs of broken girls?
The battle in Rhaenyra’s thoughts did not cease until the guard outside the door announced, “The Lady-Regent Clarice Tyrell, for you, your Majesty.”
“Of course,” Rhaenyra stood to greet her guest, golden silk swirling around her as silver-gold curls hung elaborately around the Queen’s face and down her back. She was met by a girl with large, dark eyes, wearing an equally lavish gown, who upon closer inspection, could pass for even younger than already apparent youth. Her stomach twisted as the thought intruded into her already fraught mind; the girl you wished so badly for Jace to be…she’d look just. like. her.
Rhaenyra forced a dazzling smile, charm was a skill so practiced in her life she could fake it with an ease most did not even have when operating on intuition. “My Lady, it is a pleasure and a privilege. You have my thanks for making the time to speak privately and I am glad we’ve gotten this chance to acquaint ourselves with one another properly.”
