#sweetnmay

the beginning of it all . . .

HOUSE OF TYRELL. growing strong.

284AC - 307AC

what if it was a dream . . . and I have only now begun to wake? What if none of it ever came to pass by the war, the fire, the betrayals whispered behind silken veils? what if i am still she, the Lady Demitria of Highgarden, with sun-warmed stone beneath my bare feet and the scent of blooming roses clinging to my hair? What if the banners still fly golden and green, and my mother is in the solar laughing over some petty court tale, and Garlan is sharpening his sword in the yard, and I—

I am simply myself again.

Not bowed, not broken, not lost. Just Demitria. Whole. Clever. Alive. There are moments, just before waking, when I believe it. When I swear I hear the music of the summer birds, and feel the weight of my braid against my back, and I almost turn to call for Margeary or Loras or Father. And then the dream ends.

And I remember.

Gods, I remember.

what if it was a dream? . . . that question haunted her more than most things. she had been a girl born into luxury, yes, but not into stillness. even as a child, Demitria moved like wind through the gardens, her laughter trailing behind her like ribbons. she had a way of looking at the world that made it feel like a game she was already winning. her tutors taught her numbers and heraldry, and how to curtsey just low enough to flatter and never to submit. but no one taught her how to carry grief.

no one taught her how to survive a world where beauty meant danger, and kindness meant weakness.

she had brothers who loved her in their own ways Ser Garlan with his long silences and tired patience, Loras with his flashing smile and rare moments of honesty but she was the youngest, and the most watched. there was always someone watching. her mother, her Septa, the ladies of the Reach. even her husband, once she was wed.

that marriage had not been her dream, but dreams did not matter. she smiled at the wedding feast. she said the right words. she played the perfect lady. and when he died quietly, and without glory she wore black and said little, just as was expected.

but inside, something shifted.

widowhood gave her a different sort of power. there were no more lessons. no more talk of matches. no more eyes on her belly or her posture or her embroidery. for the first time, she was left alone with her thoughts. and that was when Demitria Tyrell began to see things clearly.

the court was full of cowards. the roses were not always red. and not all brothers kept their oaths.

she was no fool. she saw what was happening in King’s Landing. she saw what was being whispered behind goblets of Arbor gold and gritted smiles. and when the raven came when the seal of her house arrived scorched and broken she knew before she opened it. her house was gone. Her family, scattered or dead.

the golden girl of Highgarden became a ghost overnight.

some said she fled. some said she was taken. others swore she died in the chaos. but none of it was true.

she lived.

in shame, in shadow, in silence,she lived.

and sometimes, late at night, when the wind rustled through whatever forgotten place she now called home, she would close her eyes and pretend.

pretend the bells were ringing for her name day.pretend her father was still alive, stroking his beard and telling her to speak less boldly in court.pretend her siblings were laughing in the halls.pretend the roses still bloomed.

pretend she was still Demitria Tyrell, Lady of Highgarden.

and not the ghost the world forgot.

because the world had taken everything from her..her name, her family, her place, her peace. everything… except one thing.

she had not fled alone.

beneath the folds of black silk and silence, she carried a secret: the child of her late husband, growing quietly within her. unseen. unknown. the last small piece of a life lost to fire and betrayal.

and for that reason alone, Demitria endured.