#leo tyrell

A tourney was being held in King’s Landing to celebrate the first nameday of his now youngest grandson, Aegon Targaryen. Prince Valarr, now twelve years old, found himself attending the maester’s lesson as his eyes drifted to the window to his right. He had grown taller in the last year, and his silver streak was as noticeable as ever. A lean and regal child, he had been named “The Young Prince” by the courtiers around him. At his age, he was already more than well-versed in the arts, languages, politics and trade. He knew the regions of the kingdom, rulers and history almost by heart, as he had spent countless sleepless nights memorizing them just so he could impress his father while breaking fast the next morning. He was quiet and observant, but the lords and ladies at court always claimed he was a kind and polite child. 

As he distracted himself with the birds outside his window, he watched them pose themselves on the railing outside. They were singing to each other. Valarr placed his head on his closed knuckle and sighed; he also wished to be outside, but he had his lessons to finish first. 

“Yes, my Prince?” The maester finished his explanation about the trade routes that connected the realm from the north to the dornish marches. The birds took to the air once again, and Valarr’s head snapped back so as to look at the man, knowing he had been lost in thought for at least a minute. 

“Yes, maester Benjicot.” His spine straightened as his features settled back into complete calmness. The maester’s left eyebrow shot upwards as he eyed  the boy. 

“And what is it that I just said?” His voice contained both annoyance and amusement in equal measures. Prince Valarr thought for a moment before staring at the book that the old man held between his hands. He had been counting each page he turned since the lesson began, and if he remembered correctly – which he always did– he should have reached the fifty second page, which explained the tariffs imposed on goods exported from the Reach. 

“You explained how House Redwyne’s wine exports have seen their tariffs lowered in the last decade, if I heard correctly.” Valarr’s voice held a slight arrogance to it as his lips twitched, hiding both a smile and the dimple on his left cheek which only showed when he was truly amused. 

Maester Benjicot sighed and closed the book as the sound of children’s laughter came through the window. 

“A child such as yourself should be playing during such a beautiful day, Your Highness,” Prince Valarr opened his mouth quickly to object, readying his speech about how duty must always come before pleasure, but the maester lifted his hand to stop him. “And you have done more than enough today.” 

Valarr felt quiet as his mismatched eyes set on the maester. 

“Is the lesson finished, then?” He inquired. Maester Benjicot tried to hide his smile as he turned around and waved his hand to the boy, sending him away. 

Valarr slowly closed the book on the table and stood up gracefully, picking it up and placing it on the bookshelf he had previously taken it from. He turned to look at the maester, who was now analyzing one of his books. 

“Thank you for today’s lesson, maester Benjicot.” Valarr’s hands were behind his back now, his back straight. 

“Away with you now, child. Out of my study.” The maester had begun to sound annoyed, and Valarr’s lips pursed in a smile. Without saying another word, he stepped out of the room and walked the halls of the Red Keep, two guards close on his heels. He walked past the Small Council chamber, and wondered whether his father was already making his presence known at the gardens, where most of the court had convened to celebrate his young cousin’s second nameday. 

He walked past several servants that stopped dead in their tracks and bowed to their prince. One, two, three. Valarr turned another corner and more servants stopped. Four, five, six, seven. There were too many people working at the keep today, no doubt to support the organization of such an important event. Eleven, twelve, thirteen. By the time he reached the interior gardens, he had counted up to twenty seven servants scurrying around the castle. 

The gardens were so crowded Valarr was afraid he would not even manage to find his own shadow. He swallowed before taking a deep breath and joining the lords and ladies of the realm. Many of them saw the young prince and approached with wide smiles and hungry eyes. 

“My my, the Young Prince!” Lord Jorgen Velaryon exclaimed, with his young wife by his side. The man was as round as a ball, and the Velaryon sea blue did nothing but accentuate it. The girl by his side was no older than seventeen, Valarr noted. She was Teora of House Corbray, a lordly house found in the Vale; the prince remembered seeing it on a map. She was looking everywhere but at her own husband. The Young Prince looked at the man and offered a polite smile while shaking his hand. 

“Lord Jorgen, thank you for attending my cousin’s nameday.” His voice did not hold Baelor’s natural warmth, but it did the trick. The Lord’s smile widened to the point of creepiness as he was acknowledged by his prince. 

Valarr knew the most arrogant were the easiest to handle, as his father had taught him. 

“It is our honor, my Prince. We hope to see many more!” What an odd thing to say, the boy thought to himself. Of course he would hope that, or did he believe the child would die on the morrow? 

But instead of sharing his thoughts, Valarr smiled and exchanged a few more formalities before moving on from lord to lord until he felt his shirt tugged. 

Valarr turned around to see his younger brother, Matarys, and his cousin Daeron looking up at him. The two had grown quite fond of each other, having shared a wet nurse for some time when Prince Maekar and his wife stayed in King’s Landing. They seemed nervous about something, and Valarr arched his brow. 

“What?” 

“We need your help.” Daeron’s voice was low as he looked to his left first, then to his right, as if he was expecting something terrible to occur. Matarys mirrored his cousin’s behavior, which did nothing but worry Valarr. 

“What have you done?” He sighed and rolled his eyes. Matarys and Daeron were not the greatest mischiefs King’s Landing had ever seen, but boy if they put their minds to something… 

“It was not us!” Matarys raised his voice in defense before Daeron slapped his hand against his cousin’s mouth, silencing him. 

“Shut your mouth!” 

Just then, Lady Myrielle Hightower approached the three princes, and the eyes of the youngest widened as they hid behind the eldest. Valarr turned to receive the lady with a polite smile and a swift nod. She courtsied as low as her swollen belly allowed her to. 

“My Prince,” Her voice was as soft as a summer day, and her golden hair was gently blown away by the spring breeze. When she saw the other two, she smiled at them as well. “My Princes, apologies.” 

“Lady Myrielle, it is a pleasure to see you again.” Prince Valarr gestured to her belly. “And congratulations.” 

Her smile froze for a short second before regaining her composure. She looked around one last time before addressing the young boy again. 

“I apologize for disturbing you, Your Highness, but you are my eldest son’s age, and I was wondering whether you boys have seen him by any chance?” Her sweet voice was now laced with concern. “His father and I have been looking for him, and we thought maybe he had run off to play with you.” 

A small yelp came from behind Valarr, and he immediately knew what they needed help with. He hid his irritation behind a gentle smile. 

“I’m afraid not, my lady. But fear not, I shall ask the other boys and girls about his whereabouts.” He reassured her with such ease and confidence, she was immediately reminded of his charming father. She brought her hand to her belly and sighed in relief. 

“Thank you, my Prince. You are far too kind.” 

“Not at all,” Prince Valarr insisted. “We shall return with him soon.” 

As the lady left, Valarr’s smile slowly disappeared when he turned around very, very slowly, and looked at the two boys. They seemed both scared and consumed by their nerves. 

“What. Have. You. Done?” He took a deep breath and concealed his own anxiety. 

“It was an accident.” Daeron whispered, both ashamed and guilty. 

“Take me there,” The two boys exchanged worried looks before Valarr placed a stern hand on each of their shoulders. “Now.” 

They quickly made their way through the crowd before reaching a solitary area with a single oak tree and a few rocks that were big enough to hide the three of them. There were five rocks, Valarr counted them. Matarys and Daeron walked ahead of him, and when they turned around one of the big rocks, they revealed a sobbing child who held his arm close to his chest. Valarr’s eyes widened at the sight and he quickly noticed how the boy’s arm was twisted in all the wrong places, the color purple expanding through his skin and covering most of his limb. Daeron and Matarys stood back with panicked eyes. 

“We were jumping on the rocks and he fell!” Matarys claimed with a terrified voice. Valarr turned to look at his younger brother, who looked as if his heart was about to explode in his chest. Matarys had always been too sensitive, some would call him weak, but Valarr believed he was just a kind-hearted child. Too kind, perhaps. 

The boy’s cries snapped him back to reality. He was their age, with blonde, curly hair and teary green eyes. He immediately recognized the colors he wore and the sigil in his arm, and Valarr’s eyes widened even more, if that was possible. He quickly knelt next to the wailing child and hesitated to touch his arm, his eyes frantically scanning the wounded area. 

“He needs a maester.” He had done his best to maintain a steady voice, but he was becoming overwhelmed by the situation. He breathed once, twice, three times. 

“But–” Daeron began, clearly scared they could be blamed and perhaps even punished. 

“No, Daeron!” Valarr whipped his head back to look at his younger cousin, Daeron’s face pale. “Go fetch the maester now!” 

The boys hesitated for a second, but Matarys took Daeron’s hand and ran through the garden and inside. Valarr turned back to the boy and bit his lower lip, clearly out of his depth with the situation. What would father do? He wondered. He probably would not have allowed this to happen in the first place, of course. But Valarr had to do something. 

“Is your mother Lady Myrielle Hightower?” His mouth moved before he could even register his own words. The boy’s eyes snapped to him as his voice stuttered due to the agonizing pain. 

“Y-yes.” No formal titles in his response. But it was understandable, given his state. 

“She is looking for you,” Valarr looked around the rock to see if the boys had already reached a maester, but there was no sign of them. He then returned his attention to the boy. “What is your name?” 

The child’s pain flared again and he gritted his teeth before tearing again.

“Tell me your name.” Valarr insisted, his mismatched eyes finding the boy’s. 

“A-Ab-Abelar Hi-Hightower.” He was beginning to breathe too fast, and Valarr feared he would lose consciousness if he continued down that path. 

“Oldtown has had fourteen notable Lords, did you know?” Valarr began as he tried to regain Abelar’s attention. “And two queens married to House Targaryen. Queen Cerise and Queen Alicent Hightower,” Valarr’s soft and steady voice helped slow the Hightower boy’s breath as he listened. “You are also one of the oldest and richest Houses in Westeros, incredibly prominent in both commerce and courtly politics.” 

“W-what?” The boy was partly confused. He knew the information he was sharing, but he did not know why he was sharing it. 

Valarr continued. 

“Your father was almost named Hand by my grandsire, had my father not been chosen, he probably would be.” 

“I-I did not know, my Prince.” 

Valarr’s smile was genuine when he heard the boy’s whimpers had become fewer, and the shadow of a dimple appeared on his temple. 

“Your mother is also very kind.” This made Abelar nod, and the two boys locked eyes for a second. Abelar was as confused as he was grateful, because the Prince’s distraction had worked. They heard voices and steps that were creeping closer by the second, and soon two maesters, three guards and both Prince Baelor and Lord Hightower were looking down at the two boys. 

“What has happened here?” Baelor asked as the maesters and guards took the boy inside to tend to his wound. The three princes stood in front of the two men, their heads lowered and lips pressed shut. “Speak.” 

“My son’s arm may never recover from this!” Lord Hightower raised his voice, and Valarr saw Matarys flinch out of the corner of his eye. This made him lift his head and stare at the Lord in front of him, blue and brown shining with an intensity Baelor recognized immediately. 

Jena. 

He held up his hand and the Lord clamped his mouth shut. 

“It was I, my Lord, that allowed this to happen,” Daeron and Matarys’ eyes flew to Valarr’s as they heard him speak. “I should have been more careful, I take responsibility for this terrible accident.” 

Baelor subtly tilted his head to the side. Valarr would not meet his gaze, as he focused only on the Lord, but he was well aware of his father’s eyes on him. 

“You boys should be more careful next time.” The Lord’s voice was tense, finding a balance between his anger and respect for the man right beside him. Perhaps even a touch of fear. 

“I will see to it that it never happens again, Lord Martyn.” Baelor’s gaze tore away from his son as he offered the man the same reassuring smile Valarr had imitated before. “Shall I find you later to discuss your proposal to the Council?” 

The Lord’s eyes lit up as he agreed eagerly, and then left the small garden to return to the festivities. Baelor took a deep breath and allowed a few seconds to pass before turning his head and lowering his gaze to set it upon his two young sons and nephew. 

“Valarr,” His voice was stern, but not cold. It had a certain fondness to it, one that should not be mistaken for weakness. His mismatched eyes tried to find his son’s, but he avoided them. “Valarr.” The command was harsher now, and the boy looked up at his father. Baelor could see the seriousness in his son’s gaze, but also the uncertainty. “Are you responsible for this?”

A heartbeat passed before Valarr nodded his head. Matarys opened and closed his mouth twice, and Daeron kept looking down to the floor, not uttering a single word. Baelor looked at the three boys and released a tired sigh. 

Valarr had noticed the birds again; they had sung five times since his father arrived at the scene. 

“Truly?” 

Matarys could not hold it in anymore and he took a step forward, eliciting a wide-eyed look from Valarr beside him. 

“It was us, Father.” He grabbed the hem of his tunic as he avoided his father’s eyes. Valarr placed a hand on Matarys’ shoulders and softly pushed him back. 

“No. I should have watched them, I am sorry.” He quickly added to his brother’s confession, and Baelor knelt down to look both boys in the eyes. He placed both of his hands on the top of their heads and gently knocked them together, Matarys uttering some “ouch” as he held his hand up to his head. Valarr remained silent and lowered his gaze. 

“Boys will be boys,” He shook his head as he remembered what he and Maekar used to get up to when they were the same age, having to hold back a somewhat proud smile. “But the boy could have received more serious injuries. Even you.” He also extended his hand to bring Daeron closer to his cousins. “Don’t jump around these rocks again without someone grown to watch you, understood?” The three of them nodded, the youngest eagerly and the eldest solemnly. 

Baelor’s lips pursed into a small smile and gestured toward the archway. 

“Return to the main gardens, it is time for the feast.” 

Matarys gave his father a quick hug, which Baelor gently returned, and then ran off with Daeron right behind him. Valarr turned to walk away. 

“Not you, son.” That was enough to freeze Valarr into place. He faced his father very, very slowly. 

A moment of silence passed between father and son as Baelor looked at his child. Valarr had grown up to resemble some of his father’s features, such as his mismatched eyes, dark hair, and even the white streak that was proof the dragon’s blood coursing through his veins. But he looked just like his mother; his sharp nose, thin lips and strong brow were all hers. His heart softened. 

“I know it was not your fault, my boy.” Baelor began quietly, but Valarr tilted his head away from him. 

“It was. I should have—” 

Baelor’s stern eyes stopped him right there and then. He closed his mouth. 

“You were doing your duty, were you not? Welcoming the lords and ladies of the realm?” He inquired, already knowing the answer, because he knew his son. He was hailed as “the perfect heir to the perfect heir”, and he knew the weight his boy shouldered. Though it was necessary, it sometimes pained him to see his son grow up so quickly. 

Valarr nodded once. 

“And were you here at the time of the accident?” His father’s voice grew softer with each question. 

Valarr shook his head.

“Then you are not the one to blame. It was an accident, Valarr,” He patted his son’s head and then placed it on his temple. “You helped the young Hightower boy, you did good.” 

Valarr’s head lifted and his lips parted as he heard his father’s compliment. He thought he had done good? Truly? One heartbeat, then two. His eyes were twinkling with excitement and pride. 

“Truly?” 

Baelor smiled. 

“Truly.” 

He embraced his son, and the young boy melted in his father’s arms. His hands held onto his tunic and he became a little child for just a few seconds, one that could simply hide in his father’s arms and bid farewell to the rest of the world. When they stepped away, Valarr’s dimple was so visible it made his father smile as well. The dimple was neither Baelor’s nor Jena’s. The dimple was his grandmother’s, Myriah Martell. 

“Shall we return? I believe it is Aegon’s day, after all.” Baelor stood up again and held his hand out to his son, who looked at it as if it were all the gold of the world. 

“Of course, Father.” With a wide smile, father and son walked back to the main gardens. 

Five springs after the birth of her younger sister, Rosalyn's life had been changed forever. Highgarden had become a much happier place, with the small girl's laughter echoing through the halls and reaching all who lived within the Keep.

Now, as the six-year-old child chased a blue butterfly around the lush gardens, the now eleven-year-old Rosalyn Tyrell sat on a wooden bench under the shade of a cherry tree. Around her, its pink leaves fluttered and fell, some sticking to her dark hair. Rosalyn was still as quiet as she had been as a child, but she had also become much more perceptive of the world that surrounded her. Wearing a soft, pale yellow dress with flowery patterns sewn to its hem, she watched the girl in front of her laugh, fall down, and immediately get back up. The child, who had been named Delena Tyrell, shared many similarities with her older sister. They were both pale, with round cheeks and a small nose; even their dark curls were the exact same. Delena, however, had inherited her father's green eyes, while Rosalyn's held shades of brown passed down from her mother. Rosalyn stopped embroidering the lilac flower on the cloth that rested on her lap.

Her mother.

Her hazel eyes looked up into the sky as the pink leaves fell. She remembered the fateful day Delena had been born, but what haunted her most were her mother's screams while bringing her into the world, and what came after. The maesters' coming and going, the tears shed by young handmaidens, and the way her flowers died in her hands. She sighed and immediately returned to her task, as she found repetition to be as calming as a summer breeze. She heard her sister cough twice, and Rosalyn remembered how she had been doing so for quite some time in the last few days.

"Sister!" A high-pitched, energized voice came from a few meters away. Rosalyn looked up to see young Delena looking at her with a wide smile, but one of her teeth was missing. Delena had been so excited when it fell. "I caught it!"

Rosalyn arched her eyebrows as she tilted her head. In between giggles, Delena showed her closed fist and shook it slightly.

"I caught the blue butterfly, for you!" She sounded incredibly excited, but something tugged at Rosalyn's heart at the idea of the poor creature.

Rosalyn stared at her sister for a few seconds before reaching out with her right hand and very gently opening her sister's fist, which Delena allowed her to do despite her confusion.

"What are you doing?" the youngest inquired, believing her sister would have been happy to receive her gift.

Delena's fist revealed a very still blue butterfly whose wings held touches of green and yellow, and Rosalyn thought it was beautiful. She waited for the insect to fly, but when it refused to do so, Rosalyn's lips pursed; surely her sister had inadvertently harmed one of its wings. She was gentleness made flesh as she nudged the butterfly to move, and when she got no response, she placed it on top of her own hand.

Delena, who was known for her never-ending energy and chaotic spirit, remained as still as the cherry tree behind Rosalyn while she watched her older sister. She was perhaps the only person in the entire Reach to be so fascinated by Rosalyn's quiet nature, even if her sister did not understand why.

"Ornithoptera goliath," Rosalyn whispered, inspecting the butterfly as curious green eyes followed her every movement.

"Orni… Orni… Orni what?" The young girl kept tilting her head from one side to the other as she attempted to decipher what her sister had just said. Rosalyn's eyes scanned the butterfly's wings.

"Ornithoptera goliath." Seeing utter confusion etched on her sister's face, she smiled softly. "Or birdwing. They are also called birdwings."

"Birdwing." Delena repeated, whispering in amazement. "Is she hurt?" She placed her hands on her sister's knees and gave two quick jumps that indicated she still had too much pent-up energy.

Rosalyn gently lifted her hand and stretched her arm to distance the butterfly from both herself and her sister.

"Is it–" Delena began saying, but Rosalyn lifted her other hand to silence her. Against her better judgment, Delena obeyed and tried her best to keep quiet.

Minutes went by with the birds being the only ones singing. The two sisters had remained still, and just when it looked like Delena would implode while holding a cough, the butterfly began batting her wings and she soon took off, circling the sisters twice before flying away between the flowers. Delena squealed in excitement and jumped up and down again, frightening her sister with her sudden movements.

"It flew away!" she giggled, and Rosalyn nodded with a polite smile. "Do you think it will remember us?" Delena asked with eyes full of joy and excitement, and this time, Rosalyn's smile was genuine as she shrugged her shoulders.

"Butterflies don't have the cognitive capacity to remember."

Delena stared at her as if she had just spoken High Valyrian.

"So, yes?" She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, eliciting a genuine laugh from her sister. Rosalyn's laugh was very unique—high-pitched, unheard in her own voice, and with a few snorts as well. Lorence, the few times he had heard her, called her a pig, and so it was very rare that Rosalyn laughed so freely. She immediately covered her mouth with her right hand, but it was too late; Delena was already laughing with her, not at her.

The two sisters shared a happy moment before falling back into silence. Delena decided to sit next to Rosalyn on the bench and began dangling her legs, happily moving her feet. She could not be still for a mere second, Rosalyn thought. Delena looked at the flower her sister had been stitching with a curious expression. She coughed again.

"What flower is that?" She attempted to grab the cloth, but Rosalyn moved it away from her grasp, making the young one glare at her.

Rosalyn pointed ahead of them, directing Delena's gaze to the flowers in the gardens—specifically a group of small purple flowers with elongated, curved petals that formed semi-circles around the flower's core. Delena's expression lit up as she forcefully closed her eyes and furrowed her brow, trying to remember the flowers' name, as Rosalyn had taught her before. The eldest waited patiently as she let the breeze blow some of the pink petals away.

A few seconds later, Delena shouted the flower's name:

"Spring Cornus!" Rosalyn flinched at her tone, looking away from the girl before shaking her head. Delena's body mimicked Rosalyn's, turning just as her sister did and raising her eyebrows at Rosalyn's reaction. "Is it not?"

Rosalyn shook her head again and looked down at the stitch. She slowly continued her work.

"Well? Will you tell me?" Frustration laced her sister's words.

"Crocus. Spring Crocus," Rosalyn whispered as she made quick work of the needle. Delena clasped her hands on her lap and rested her chin on her sister's shoulder, watching her work.

"That is what I said."

"It is not."

"Yes it is."

Rosalyn gave her a sidelong look as Delena returned a toothy smile, knowing well she had not said it correctly. Rosalyn's lips pursed in a smile and she shook her head.

"Why are you stitching that one?" Delena wondered. Rosalyn held her cloth up to compare it with the real flower, and she let out a satisfied hum.

"Why not?" she countered, making her sister groan. Rosalyn and Delena were complete opposites; while the youngest lacked patience, the eldest had enough for all seven kingdoms. Delena needed all the answers immediately, and Rosalyn wanted to teach her sister how to build that same patience she clearly lacked.

"Rosalyn!" Delena demanded, growing impatient. Rosalyn let out a soft laugh, and she noticed a bee approaching the flowers right next to them.

"It is for you," she said simply, but she immediately felt her sister tense on her shoulder. Just two seconds later, Delena squealed once again, jumping off the bench and standing in front of her older sister.

"I love it, sister!" she exclaimed with pure excitement. Then, slowly, it faded away as she stared at Rosalyn. Delena had learned at just six that Rosalyn's actions were always guided by specific motives, and that her older sister preferred communicating through her choice of flowers. "Why the cornus?"

Rosalyn pressed her lips into a thin line, tilting her head to the right as she glared at her sister.

"Corcus!" Delena immediately corrected, and her sister nodded in satisfaction. "Why this one?"

Rosalyn shrugged as she gave her work its final touches, ready to be given to the youngest of House Tyrell.

"It is like you, the flower."

"I am not purple." Delena shook her head effusively.

"I can see that," Rosalyn mused harmoniously as she placed one last stitch, effectively finishing her work. The flower was a shade lighter than the real specimen, but it was its exact reflection. "Cheerful, young, and bright."

She placed the cloth in her sister's hand, and Delena looked down at it as if it were the greatest gift anyone could have ever given her. Without wasting a single second, she threw her arms around Rosalyn's neck and shoulders, embracing her sister, who seemed slightly taken aback by the gesture. Rosalyn was not used to physical touch—not even from their mother—as she had always valued her personal space.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Rosalyn's initial discomfort turned into genuine pride as she heard the love in her sister's voice, and she slowly embraced her back. "I shall cherish it forever."

"It is a simple stitch, sister–"

"No!" Delena pulled away from Rosalyn, her big, green eyes boring into Rosie's hazel ones. "It is perfect." She gave her sister a messy kiss on her forehead, and Rosalyn's expression turned back to discomfort, but she allowed it.

The two girls shared a sisterly moment before a voice came from the path behind them.

"Girls?"

They turned to see Lady Eleanor approaching them, her gown matching both of theirs. Delena sprinted to hug her mother's legs, and the woman laughed and caressed the top of her head.

"Hello, Mama!"

"Hello, sweetling." She looked down at the girl with eyes full of warmth and love. "I hope you did not get up to too much trouble while I was away."

Delena's eyes shot upward and she shook her head thrice.

"Not at all. Look!" She proudly held up the flower Rosalyn had stitched for her. Lady Eleanor's gaze widened in surprise as she took the cloth her daughter was holding, and she observed the craft with care.

"A very fine work, Rosie." Her voice was laced with pride as she turned to look at her older daughter, who was still sitting on the bench under the tree. Rosalyn's eyes found her mother's.

She immediately remembered how they rolled back into her head as she started shaking uncontrollably.

Without saying a word, she turned around and looked at the flowers in front of her. Lady Eleanor, of course, noticed, and with one last loving touch to Delena, she continued walking until she reached the bench, where she sat down next to her daughter. The youngest quickly followed and sat on her mother's lap.

They shared a moment of silence, Delena choosing to bring the cloth as close to her face as possible so she could look at even the most minute details. Eleanor also stared at the flowers in front of her, mimicking her daughter's behavior. A heartbeat passed between them.

"The garden looks beautiful today, does it not?" she inquired softly.

Rosalyn remained quiet for a few seconds.

"It looks the same as it did yesterday, and the day before," she stated flatly, and her mother looked at her out of the corner of her eye.

"And tomorrow, probably!" Delena chimed in, making Eleanor shake her head in clear defeat. She loved Rosalyn so much; the girl was so dear to her, and yet… She felt as if she seldom knew how to communicate with her. Lady Eleanor was a woman of sharp words and proud character, and it was clear Delena had inherited much of that, but it sometimes clashed with Rosie's silence.

Rosalyn, on the other hand, had never been able to look at her mother the same way after her sister's birth. The maesters said she could have died, and probably would have had they not reacted so quickly. No one knew what had happened; some argued blood loss, others a reaction of the nervous system to physical trauma. But nobody knew, not truly. Rosalyn had read a dozen books in the following days, trying to find the answer, but she did not. Why had she not died? Why had she come so close? What had changed in the split minutes between when she began shaking and when the maesters tended to her?

She could not say, but every time she thought about it, bile rose in her throat. She would never forget her mother's pale skin, weak voice, and shaky hands.

"Little mouse," Lady Eleanor began softly. "You are doing it again." Rosalyn's eyes snapped to hers, and her mother gestured to her brown locks, which she had been twisting between her fingers. Something she often did when lost in thought.

Rosalyn ceased immediately. Lady Eleanor tucked one strand behind her daughter's ear, and then she placed both hands on her own lap. Delena sneezed once, then twice. Her mother turned to look at her, and she noticed the girl was beginning to have a runny nose.

"Let's take you back to your bedchamber, little one." She slowly stood and picked up the young girl in her arms.

"Rosie?" The child reached for her sister while in her mother's arms, urging her to come with them. Rosalyn remained still, her eyes locked on the flowers.

"In a minute," she offered her sister a small smile, and Delena beamed at her.

"Okay!" she exclaimed. Lady Eleanor looked at Rosie with a powerless expression, hesitating to leave. But when Delena sneezed again, she sighed and walked back inside the Keep.

Rosalyn stood still, listening to the birds and watching the petals fall. The air was colder now, perhaps the reason behind Delena's runny nose, she thought. But it was just a cold, probably.

A few minutes later, she stood and walked inside, careful to avoid her older brothers, who would probably return from their training at any given moment.

A week later, tragedy struck House Tyrell. What was supposed to be "just a cold" turned into a life-or-death battle for the young flower, who now lay on her bed with a cold cloth on her forehead, her round cheeks flushed red, and her breath coming quick and labored. Lady Eleanor sat vigilantly by her side, holding her young daughter's hand as Lord Tyrell spoke to the maesters, demanding they do something to break his daughter's fever.

While Leo Tyrell had never displayed any fondness toward Rosalyn, he had enjoyed the lively spirit of his youngest daughter, which perhaps explained why he seemed so worried. Lorence and Rowan stood guard outside, two real guards beside them. They had decided not to leave the hall until a maester passed by and updated them on their sister's well-being, but they had yet to stop one.

Rosalyn was once again sitting on her bench. The world was spinning too fast within the halls of the Keep, and the young girl could not take it anymore, so she had decided to step outside. It was just a cold, she thought. The garden felt cold now, the flowers too distant, the birds nowhere to be found. It was just a cold. Rosalyn's hand twitched, and she immediately picked one strand of hair and began twisting it, her hazel eyes focused on the ground. She had seen her sister just twice in the past few days, and the girl's fever had been so high she could not even talk. Rosalyn had just sat in the room in silence, but she replaced the flowers in the vase on her desk every single day—sometimes dark colors, sometimes brighter ones—trying to cheer her sister. She did not know what to say as she heard her mother sob and her father scream. She also did not know what to do when Lorence walked in and simply stared for a while before leaving, or when Rowan sat on the opposite side of the bed and read Delena her favorite children's book. But she did not want to remain in that room for long, remembering her mother's screams, her pale skin, her weak heartbeat.

It was just a cold. As simple as that. A cold was surely not enough for the Stranger to take her sister. For the first time ever, Rosalyn closed her eyes and prayed. Her mother had never been devout, and so she barely even knew the words, but she tried. Perhaps the Gods would listen. Perhaps the Gods would grant Delena the mercy they had not granted Rosalyn when they made her as she was.

It was just a cold.

When the morrow came, the young flower, Lady Delena of House Tyrell, died holding Rosalyn's stitched flower in her hand.

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The birds did not sing that morning.

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The spring breeze ran through Randyll's hair as he helped set up the ridiculously large Tyrell camp. At least thirty men and fifteen women were a part of the camp — it was a proper lord's camp, especially one of the richest men of the Reach. He stacked his belongings beside those of his lord for their belongings were to be in the same pavilion; it was not unknown for a knight and his squire to share a pavilion during tourneys, especially not if the two were of the same presentation.

All thirty of the camp's men believed that Randyll Webber was an alpha or at least did not want to upset their lord by questioning the young squire's presentation — it was obvious that the majority of the women within the camp knew of Randyll's true presentation. He was not lucky enough to present as alpha, unlike his elder sister, Lady Rohanne Webber. No, when he presented as an omega at age sixteen, his father sent him off to ward with Lord Leo Tyrell in hopes that the lord of the Reach could make a good knight or whore out of the boy — Lord Tyrell did both.

Randyll had just finished placing his belongings beside those of his secret lover, and he turned to take in a good look at the tourney grounds. In the distance, he could see Lord Tyrell's alpha daughter, Lady Hyacinth Tyrell, seemingly already chatting up one of the participants of the tourney; from what he could tell, it was perhaps Ser Beesbury. Soon his gaze was turned towards a man he had never seen at any tourney before because the size of this man would have been incredibly hard to miss, along with the three horses that he led behind him — most likely a fresh knight from the looks of the tall figure.

He could hear familiar footsteps behind him. Normally, he never even bothered to memorize the way someone walked, but when it came to his Lord Leo Tyrell, he made sure to memorize everything he could about his lord. "Quit lazing about, boy, I have a tourney to win," Leo Tyrell spoke the last part much quieter than he did the beginning, his mouth getting dangerously close to the shell of Randyll's ear. There was no one truly paying any attention to the pair as they wordlessly walked to the jousting grounds after grabbing dull sparring swords and wooden shields to use during their sparring match.

The jousting field was already nearly full of other knights, lords, and their loyal squires who were training for the tourney. It seemed awfully elaborate for a girl's thirteenth nameday, but that was the way lords and lady's were — elaborate parties, and tourneys were an excuse just to show off their houses' wealth. Randyll didn't have much time to think about it as he got into a position to fend off the attacks of Lord Tyrell. He stepped back, blocking a hit with his shield, and he quickly shoved Leo's sword off of his shield and swung an attack of his own. His attack was not nearly as efficient or skilled as Leo's, but he was still better than the majority of the young squires also on the field.

"Come on, my lord, surely your age has not slowed you that much," Randyll spoke to Leo, his face growing a smug smirk as he watched Leo's face harden before faking an attack and then smacking Randyll in the face with the wooden shield that was decorated with a fading golden rose. The shield knocked his head back, but luckily, it did not break his nose but rather busted his bottom lip as he tasted the familiar metallic blood with a flick of his tongue as he stared wide-eyed at his lord.

Leo Tyrell couldn't help but smirk at the boy, his pheromones masking those of Randyll's as he could smell the boy's souring omega pheromones. "How is that for slow, boy," he asked as he couldn't help but flick his eyes down to the blood that was beginning to roll down his squire's chin. A rumble came from his chest — his inner alpha coming awake, he was coming dangerously close to his rut.

The pair trained until the sky began to turn into a beautiful light orange color as the sun began to set. The two of them led each other into Lord Tyrell's tent to spend the night together as they always do. The moment the two of them were inside the tent, Leo grabbed the front of Randyll's doublet and pulled his young squire into a ravenous kiss — his tongue immediately licking at the swollen bottom lip of his lover, tasting dried blood and sweat. Randyll immediately whined the moment Leo kissed him, heat rushing down to his stomach and groin.

Instinctively, Randyll's hand went down to cup Leo's cock, the older man's cock nearly fully erect, but his hand was swatted away by Leo, who let out a soft grumble. The kiss was broken, and Randyll was shoved towards the bed. "Undress and get on the bed, boy," Leo's voice was rough with lust — Randyll did as he was told. He sat on his knees, the bed soft underneath him, and his hands on top of his thighs as he ignored the slick between his legs and his erect cock, he didn't dare touch himself.

"Grab a pillow and rut into it until I say stop, do not stop even if I touch you," Leo spoke as he walked towards the bed where Randyll sat. He sat on the edge of the bed before continuing, "Go on, fuck that pillow like the omega bitch you are." Once again, Randyll did exactly as he was told without questioning his beloved lord — he grabbed the smaller pillow on the bed, putting it underneath him as he lay on top of it and began to rut himself against it with another whine. He had barely been touched, yet it felt like his skin was on fire with ecstasy as he continued to thrust his cock onto the pillow; his thrusts were unskilled and almost awkward, though it did nothing to curb his lust.

The young squire's hips stuttered as Lord Tyrell sank two calloused fingers into his dripping wet cunt. "Gods, you really are a green fucking boy," Leo's words sounded muffled to Randyll as he continued rutting into the pillow, nodding his head along to whatever his lord had said. Leo had stripped himself of all clothes and stroked his large cock with the hand that wasn't busy fucking into the boy's cunt — the rings on that hand added to the pleasure. "Keep going, boy, just like that," his voice was almost drowned out by the sounds of Randyll's moaning and the squelching of the omega's cunt. Randyll kept rutting his cock against the pillow, his hips moving in a steady rhythm now as he was coming closer and closer to his orgasm — the moment his orgasm hit him, a broken moan left his lips, and his hips stuttered to a stop, matching the way Leo's fingers stopped inside of him as his cunt greedily squeezed them.

There was no time for recovery as Leo flipped Randyll onto his back after moving the cum soaked pillow out of the way. Leo slotted himself between Randyll's legs, hooking them over his shoulders as he pushed himself inside of the omega. He began rutting himself into his omega mercilessly, the poor young thing caged underneath him in a mating press. "You are doing so well for me," Leo spoke softly as he repeatedly fucked into Randyll, making the younger man's eyes roll back as the pleasure was overwhelming. He couldn't help but moan as he felt the omega's cunt flutter around him. Randyll couldn't even speak as he was being fucked by his lord, his moans were desperate as he was beginning to become overstimulated as another orgasm ripped through his body, the cum from his cock sticking to his sweaty stomach and the slick from his cunt making an obscene squelching as Leo's cock kept using him.

"One more time, boy, you can do this. I want to feel you draining me of every last drop," the words came out of Leo as more of a groan than anything as his thrusts became more and more sloppy, his own orgasm creeping up, and Randyll responded with a sob. It did not take long for the two of them to orgasm, Leo's cock swelling with a knot inside the young omega underneath him as his own body shook slightly from waves of pleasure. The pair stayed like that for a few seconds before Leo rolled over onto his own back, placing Randyll on his chest as the two of them waited for his knot to deflate. Leo placed a kiss on Randyll's head, "Such a good boy for me," he murmured into the boy's hair, getting a purr-like response from the boy.