goldenclarice

[goldenclarice]

the day that lady sabitha’s labors began had set the household into a tremulous commotion. clarice had become filled with a sense of as it appeared to her, somehow, that the twins had been curtailed of its high walls and portcullis that allowed for a gale of wind to sweep from above to carry ill omens. as it were, lord forrest had unexpectedly died a moon prior, and his widow’s health was known to been a fine and delicate thing in pregnancy. the whispered tellings of servants did not portend joyous outcomes, and so clarice felt deeply divided at feeling both comfort and agony at the far off cries of her beloved. she had not been at sabitha’s bedside to hold her hand and wipe the sweat from her forehead but hearing her from the end of the hall told clarice she was strong and that the fight had not been lost. as the day carried on, it had been a long, piercing cry from his mother that had set off the new lord of the crossing into a fit of tears. panic stricken that he was, he thrashed fiercely against clarice’s arms when she did not let him pass the entryway of the birthing chamber. she soothed his fears and confusion alongside sabitha’s family long into the night and into the next day, as well. theo had been more calm on the morrow and yet unable to find relief in childrens games and running hither and thither alongside henley and lyonel. even the sun had become a pale shell behind the clouds, the birds flying wildly and hurriedly in the hedges as clarice strode with the three children into the forest, the spritely step of their brown palfrey’s hooves spanking the soft earth and spurring a chorus of laughter. still, even in the outdoors as the children occupied their hands by catching frogs or hunting for quail among the thickets, clarice only watched on with a timeless stillness as if she were listening for a trace of sabitha from a great distance. i must go back to her, she thought after they had taken their meal under the canopy a tree and she helped all three children onto the saddle, holding the palfrey by the reins while she led them on foot towards the forbidding castles of the freys. 

by then, the shadows of servants and nobility alike flared dark and wide against the high curtain walls of the castle. the children were asleep in their featherbeds by the time that clarice had arranged herself among lady lythene, lady jyzene and lady elinor in the sitting area, listened silently to the pleasant patter of their conversation. she had smiled contentedly into the rim of her glass as they lauded sabitha for her bravery amidst the trials of both birth and afterbirth and how she had delivered not one, but two twins girls. they regaled her daughters inky wisps of hair and the sweet newborn smell upon them as they carried them in their arms. “and their names?” clarice’s voice interrupted among the bevy of women. lady lythene’s breath hitched as soon as she was about to answer until lady elinor’s suppressed this detail when she placed her hand on her mother’s lap. “mayhaps you might ask lady frey on the morrow.” clarice did not know what she meant by this, but she found something placating in lady elinor’s conspiratorial smile, and so the tremors of the last two days worked themselves out of her shoulders and down her arms and free, finally, from her fingertips that she held together at her navel. now, she was able to turn in earnest to the correspondence awaiting her in her chambers. she wrote her reports for ser jon and her brother, the septon armond, both the weekly and fortnightly reconnaissance that assured the governance of the reach and the plans that she was devising and fine-tuning. her mind went clean and blank, then rattled with things of all shapes and sizes; the seven blessed oils cut three times through with the smoke of violet-spiked incense, cuts of wood and cloth, biting knots of embroidery, the slant of white marble, dyed feathers in colors of the rainbow and wrapped at the pinion with fine silk. she wandered among these things long into the night, valuing them with her mind’s eye and blank of any desire except for what had to play out. one had to be single minded to create. 

the next day, clarice had been awake long before the first squalls of the cockerel could be heard. she lingered anxiously at the door of sabitha’s chambers and watched for slits of shadows moving under the door, only to find none but the faint melody of lady elinor’s music. it did little to soothe her nerves until a household servant allowed her entry and she met lady elinor in passing, greeting one another with a dip of their heads. however, seeing sabitha didn’t strike her eyelids but the point in the middle of her body that opened up like a fan, filling her with restless and a great sense of eagerness – like wings beating on her chest. she surged toward her ladylove like a flock of white doves startled by a hound: parts of her everywhere and each one intangible in the race forward. “my love!” she warbled excitedly until her face folded over in embarrassment when the baby began to stir at the disruption. clarice took her place on  the edge of the bed and placed her hand above sabitha’s, watching on as the baby settled into her blankets. her gaze then lingered on sabitha for one long moment as she listened on their names. it was jonquil, especially, that stirred a deep love inside clarice, both feather-soft and pure that made her breath come in one dreamy exhale. “ryella and jonquil.” she repeated, feeling a surge of hope in their names, in these new beginnings and in their new lives where flowers could grow from the dead and cold things could become warm. when she leaned over and wrapped her arm around sabitha, it was not their first embrace, nor the most intimate. still, she was conscious of the soft place where her own elbow creased around her beloved’s shoulder in an effort to not hurt her and the newborn swaddled to her chest. clarice embraced her in a kiss that flared warm and golden inside her – it was one of those kisses that lasted and stretched out time. when she pulled away and opened her eyes, she felt as if she had stared into the red-hot burr of the sun and it’s brilliance had spangled the insides of her eyelids and all along the inside her chest. “i prayed for you, ryella and jonquil all morn, noon, and night. ” the breath coiling up now was calm, yoked into regularity with the same care and seriousness that she gave herself unto sabitha’s needs. “i know your heart and i know you are strong, and so i never doubted that you would prevail. but you must tell me the truth of your health and that of your daughters.” clarice’s hand smoothed the hair along sabitha’s temple in a gesture of affection. “there is no shame in it.” clarice stood up from the bed with a great zeal and walked over to the crib where the other child lay, humming with great fascination at the baby’s light twitching and the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. “if you will not tell me, then i am afraid i will have no choice but to stay here all day until your daughters and i are properly introduced.” clarice turned to look at sabitha with a tangible lightheartedness. “besides, the children and i have a standing wager on the color of your daughters eyes. they’ll send me back to you until i come back with an answer.”

16th day of the 2nd month, 130 AC

with.— @goldenclarice

Sabitha's body was shacking, even after the midwife said her girls were healthy and strong. She was safe, Sabitha repeated to herself over and over again. She survived the birth, Sabitha knew she wasn't being rational when she wanted to visit the maester and scream at him for daring to say she wouldn't live through a second pregnancy because he was clearly wrong. It took her mother a great deal of time to calm her down, but eventually Sabitha agree to rest in her chambers while her maids dress her new born girls. She showered and change into new clothes with shaking legs. Blood stopped dripping between her legs as the hours passed and Sabitha finally relaxed.

Thankfully, most guests from Forrest's funeral left. She didn't want to hear anyone's complains. Only her family and Lady Clarice stayed in the Crossing to help her adjust to her new life. She spent the first day mostly sleeping and she received visits until the second day.

Her sister keep her company, playing the harp and singing to smooth Sabitha's temper. Her words were sweet and lovely.

The Mother gives the gift of life,

and watches over every wife.

Her gentle smile ends all strife,

and she loves her little children.

The castle was mourning, but her babies didn't need to mourn a man they never met. Sabitha told her maids to allow the girls wear white. Standing out in the darkness like a pair of little lights. One was named Ryella, the other Jonquil. They both inherited her Vypern green eyes and black hair. « Forrest had black hair too, but it doesn't count. They look like me. » Sabitha smiled as she looked at them. The God's had finally granted her daughters.

Sabitha's singing voice would never match her sister's, but her little girls wouldn't notice until they grow up. For now, she was content having her twins near her body. Holding one of them in her arms. The other was sleeping on her cradle.

The Maiden dances through the sky,

she lives in every lover's sigh.

Her smiles teach the birds to fly,

and gives dreams to little children.

In the privacy of her chambers, Sabitha dressed in comfortable night gowns and kept her hair in a ponytail. There was no point in keeping her wedding ring, but Sabitha wore the silver ring on her hands anyways. Playing with the gemstones from time to time. Her maid Sarya announced the arrival of Lady Clarice and left the room. Sabitha looked at Eleanor and she gave her an understanding look. Her sister winked before she left, she was used to Sabitha's fondness for women after all.

—My lady... I wish to present to you, Ryella and Jonquil Frey. Although they are asleep, so they can greet you right now. —A soft chuckle left Sabitha's lips as she saw the woman in front of her with a loving smile.

[goldenclarice]

Lady Sabitha and Lady Clarice

I will not apologize for my wildness.

I'll rise, rise, rise.

Until gold covers my halls,

Until we bloom again,

I will not apologize for my freedom.

w.— @goldenclarice

[goldenclarice]

Hope is a Thing with Feathers

Time skip challenge for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood with @daltongreyjoy-rp @goldenclarice @sirenalannysgreyjoy @theredripper and @sabithafrey-rp

Penny had never been prone to indecision, less still to conflicting opinions, or discordance between her thoughts. She’d known for a long time, as long as she could remember knowing much of anything, that her lord-father was lauded as a decisive man, and her lady-mother derided as a stubborn woman; she’d known for only slightly shorter that those words meant the same thing. Penny knew her own mind, as certain in her ways as she was set in them, decisive and persistent, for all the grace and grief alike she was warned it would—and already had—earned her by the age of one and ten. She knew it was right to eat the endless cod and nearly as numerous harbor seals that frequented the shores of Pyke, the ocean sustained them, it was why they were so numerous, and the people who governed her home like her Aunt Amarys and her Uncle Cerrick sustained the ocean in turn.

She knew just as well that was why it was wrong to eat the precious few cows, goats, and chicken flocks the rocky shores of her home had to be endlessly toiled to just barely sustain, a cow steak lasted a moon, if they were lucky, but her mother and her aunts and many of the other ladies who lived in and around Castle Pyke had been making cheeses and butter and offering her milk to eat off the same three or four years for the majority of her life. Anything less would be a waste; what could be worse to do with their own hands than whatever caused the place her brother almost died to be named the same? It was why she had threatened to kill Ronnel for so unceremoniously, so carelessly refusing to check which eggs were incubating and which were to be brought to the kitchens from the coop she and Alannys had painted Robin’s egg blue for her birthday two years ago, why she had shouted that having to clean up what she knew full well was a terribly upsetting mess was not enough punishment for the careless boy already three years her senior—who had managed to push even the seemingly endless bounds of her father’s patience to its limits—and why she had refused to apologize, even though it had earned her a long, tedious lecture from her aunt and bed without dinner from her mother. 

Indecision had crept into Penny’s life slowly, from the moment her father had told her she was old enough to decide for herself if she wished to accompany him and her older siblings on their voyage to King’s Landing, the capital of the Kingdom where they lived, as Pyke was the capital of the archipelago that comprised their home. She had said yes the same evening, after gaining promises from her cousins Rolfe and Helya that they would look after what of The Menagerie could not accompany her, and her goats and chickens in turn; which pets could accompany her on their expedition had delighted her though. All three of her dogs—though Penny suspected her father would not have invited her in the first place if Maroon, Teal, and Orange could not come—her chinchilla, Broadleaf, the hedgehog her eldest sister, Alannys, had given her from a voyage to the Summer Isles half a year before and was named for her in turn, her pygmy goat, Marshmallow, and her bonded love birds, Prince and Princess, who would go into distress if they were parted from each other or Penny for more than a day or two, were all allowed space on The Raven alongside Penny herself, leaving only her chicken flock The Arnolds, the mini pigs Flora and Floris, and the half dozen cats who were only half-domesticated in the first place, and named for the constellations, back on Pyke, for reasons she found satisfactorily justified.

The voyage to King's Landing itself went much like the sparse few others she had been allowed on with her mother, father, and older siblings, and felt shorter than she knew it took by the counted days themselves as they were occupied first by her frequent swaps between The Raven, The Cursed Emerald, The Siren, The Lady of Light, and The Dark Night at nearly anchor they laid so she might spend time with all of her siblings, hearing the latest stories of their voyages and meeting the newest additions to their crews, and second by her mother, Alla's, reinvigorated efforts into her lessons so she might know everything that may come up at Court.

Alla herself, Penny often thought, was a woman defined by duality, firmly set in juxtaposed positions she imagined would send most people's heads spinning into next week. She had taught her the importance of Grace, and where it did not serve, the values instilled by The Seven and where they fell short, how to draw strength from the Drowned God, and yet how there was no strength truer than gentleness, every note, step, and practice prized in the home she had left that she knew sat northeast on maps of Westeros in the region labeled "The Reach", and how they all might guide her life, but should never define it. By the time they arrived she knew seven new dances, could recite not only every noble house and their vassals—as she had already had memorized for the past year—but point out each on the great map of the whole continent kept in pride of place in her father's study on the ship, further memorized the mainland names for all the knots her father had begun to teach her as soon as she'd learned to stand, and had refined her needlepoint and dagger skills in equal measure; though Penny couldn't help but still fantasize on occasion about the mace in Pyke's armory she had only just been taught the correct stance to hold by her eldest brother, Toron.

The time at court in the castle she'd long known was called The Red Keep—but only upon seeing its polished stones the shade of a dried blood streak understood the reasoning behind the moniker—passed even faster than the time it took to sail between Pyke and King's Landing. Perhaps the days blurring together of new faces, new experiences, new friends, and new ideas made the indecision harder to grasp, like a bird in flight, visible but not tangible. Did she like the other girls her age she met there? Some days she felt there was no one in the world she liked better than Princess Jaehaera, Marla, Jocie, Princess Visenya, and even Cerissa and Elissa, though it had taken her a solid fortnight to tell the last two apart and they weren't even related, much less twins like her own older sisters. Some days she felt as though she was only watching them from behind a mirror though, the way they spoke and the things they wished so different that though by the time a moon had passed they called her by the word she had learned meant both sister and cousin in the language of Visenya and Jaehaera's ancestors, "Mandia", it felt more mocking than any taunt thrown in earnest.

Did she like that she saw her older siblings little compared to what she had expected, and her father even less? No. But she enjoyed the people she met there all the same, the older girls who wore dresses that shimmered like butterfly wings and complimented her hair, the even younger children who were barely of an age they could walk without falling over their own feet and their endlessly gleeful smiles, the lady who had just become the Queen yet had still taken time to compliment her curtsy and call her not just Lady Penny but that she must be her father's Precious Penny. She did not like the tone in which people first called her Penny Pyke, only to quickly switch to what their father assured her and all her siblings he had "sorted", Lady Penny Greyjoy, with sarcasm to outshine Rodrik's, half the time followed by contemptful whispers to rival even what her Aunt Amarys called Toron's venomous tongue that all included accusations of "Bastard". She knew what it meant, but definitions were no help in grasping an even more elusive application than the mere glimpses she could catch of the wings of indecision.

There was no indecision when it came to the Lady Penny met she liked the most however, Clarice looked like her sisters, said her name like her mother, and was always towed by the littlest child she'd met at Court not still in swaddling clothes; a small but sturdy boy named Lyonel who's father was "gone, I'm afraid", a glance away confirmed the meaning, confirmed for her that Lyonel needed all the love everyone around him had to spare, and especially with the absence of the Arnolds for the time being, Penny had a lot. She liked the sound of Clarice's laugh and Lyonel's tiny shoes echoing off the stone floor as he ran to keep up with other children's walks the most of anything she heard at the Red Keep, except perhaps the sound of Alannys telling her about the Prince she had met and thought one day she may grow to love. But indecision came into full view then, a week after Queen Rhaenyra's coronation ball, fluttering into her hands like a scared bird after distant sounds of her father shouting and a long afternoon spent with only the knowledge her mother and Clarice were having "tea". Tea took an hour, perhaps up to an hour and a half, according to her new friends, whatever this was took four times that. When asked how she felt about living somewhere else, aware from her siblings, her aunts, the menagerie, even The Arnolds, Penny said only what her mother said they all must when there felt as though nothing else would do, "I wish to serve the Realm and do right by my family."

Penny did not allow herself to dwell on what she may have said, or felt, if the person she had left The Red Keep with—barring her own family—had been anyone other than Lady Clarice. She thought about the weight of Lyonel on her lap instead, the sound of Lady Clarice's laugh, how it felt for the little Lord to play with her fingers, and the stories that passed a fortnight about the place called The Reach she only knew from maps and her Aunt's own childhood on an orchard called Goldengrove. Penny probed about Lyonel's father only once more, and when her Aunt Clarice's face fell, she decided she would not again. Feeling sad is unpleasant, making others sad had always been untenable. She was grateful there were few occasions that followed she felt, or had seemed to make others, feel such a way, but as she heard so many people say she was "much and more" for the fact Highgarden shined, sparkled, in a way that made it easy to hardly think about at all. Perhaps all the pretty smiles, soft silks and satins, kind words and praise, were hiding something, like the way her mother pressed her lips into a tight smile when she was holding back something she wished to say, or her father turned the topic to his own achievements whenever the man who was Lord before him came up, perhaps Penny felt that for now, she did not wish to know if they did.

It was easy to be happy at Highgarden and that made it easy to do everything else. Fresh flowers everywhere, gowns in her favorite shade of blue and more variations of gold than she knew possible, frequent visits from both her father and Alannys, and hardly a moment spent bored; how could anything she faced not feel easy? Even gold was easy there, her Aunt Clarice and all the Lords and Ladies whose names and faces she worked very hard to remember and keep straight used it like it was as abundant as water back on Pyke. Tourneys, Balls, interesting people, and beautiful things, if her Aunt, or Lyonel, or anyone else who lived in Highgarden, even Penny herself wanted something it simply appeared more or less overnight. Penny hardly had to ask before Clarice had shown her a palace onto itself of rabbit hutches, a whole group of other pygmy goat friends for Marshmallow who lived in such luxury as outdoor pets it seemed nicer than even what those allowed in the castle were allowed by her Aunt Amaris, and that was to say nothing of her new favorite bird, which were called hummingbird, with wings even more colorful than most ladies' ballgowns, and surely her most favorite new animal of all, deer. Deer, it quickly became clear to Penny, were as abundant in The Reach as fish were in the Iron Islands, in the latter such a fragile, intelligent, friendly creature would've felt more precious than gold to her, and yet, even on the first hunt she was invited to go on—with her aunt and Lyonel and Clarice's sisters, who she learned were called Victaria and Leona, and easily two dozen others—she realized when they finally shot and killed a stag who's antlers alone were nearly two of Penny, she didn't feel upset. It wasn't a waste here, what better kind of place could there be?

Clarice's laughter was at times hard earned, though that was part of why Penny liked it so much, it was the one way in which she was like Toron; a giggle off her newest Aunt's lips was a reward in and of itself, which was always what made her brother's occasional chuckles from across the long table in Pyke's great hall feel the best praise of all. That's what made Penny decide after only two days that she enjoyed Lady Sabitha nearly as much as her Aunt Clarice, because she laughed more around the lady with glossy black hair and gorgeous purple gowns more than anyone else, she wasn't sure if Clarice loved Sabitha the way her mother loved her Aunt Amarys, but she hoped she did; she even found herself praying for it.

Penny's most frequent company after her Aunt Clarice and Lyonel was a lady named Septa Bethany—she'd quickly come to realize there must be as many women in The Reach named Bethany as there were women in the Iron Islands named Jeyne—but for everyone's talk of how different, how vast the stretch was between The Seven and The Drowned God, only the set dressing in the large room filled with rainbows emanating in every direction was different from where she'd been taught to pray to The Drowned God, and other than the candles, the praying itself was the same too. Septa Bethany had a very pretty smile, and couldn't have been much younger than her mother, she was as happy as everyone else, but hers felt more sincere, harder earned. Like Clarice and Lyonel's father, there was only one thing she couldn't press, after pushing at it once, Bethany didn't wish to discuss why she joined The Faith, and so Penny decided that in so many moons of finding many and more things she need, and wished to know, she was alright letting that one go.

After six moons, both Aunt Clarice and Lyonel's birthday, four visits from Alannys, only one less from her father, and one visit where Lady Sabitha came to visit Highgarden, and one more where Penny accompanied Clarice to another castle called The Twins to see Sabitha, this time her stomach swollen with not one but two babes, like her Aunt Jeyne and her older sisters long before she was born, like everyone said when they talked about The Queen, Penny was finally asked if she wished to return to The Red Keep. She did not: she did not wish to go anywhere except to Pyke for a while to check on her aunts, her cousins, and The Arnolds, she wished to stay and continue making nameplates for the rabbits, following just a step behind her Aunt Clarice, and passing away hours birdwatching with another one of her cousins who loved both dogs and birds just as much as her, named Rowan, who's father was the cousin of Penny's own mother. She would have to stay alone though, and that seemed worst of all, besides she could see Tyanna and Rodrik, tell Toron all her new stories, show her mother and all her sisters her new gowns and the necklace made of solid gold in the shape of a kraken she had taken to wearing every day, and it would be time away from Ser Jon, who she didn't like and who didn't like her just as much as Ronnel back on Pyke, so it was a satisfying deal in total.

She knew what she would tell her mother, though, she hoped her whole family, sat around her father's chambers with her aunts and siblings taking up every seat, or things that could be used that way in a pinch, before she could leaf through the diary she had made her promise to keep of all she was learning so they could go over it together because Penny knew three things to keep away her indecision now; love lives wherever you have family, faith looks like rainbows, and hope is a thing with feathers.

[goldenclarice]

𝐀𝐑𝐂 𝐈𝐈: 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 → a summary of events during the timeskip

(featuring @sabithafrey-rp @daltongreyjoy-rp @sirenalannysgreyjoy @payapreciouspenny @princejoffreyvelaryon)

Queen Rhaenyra's reign has changed things vastly and Clarice's role as Lady Regent has not been spared from this dizzying shift, but she has not let herself be deterred. As one the of strongest voices against the the Iron Islands' ruling liege and their vassals convening in court, least of all to stake their interests in the the small council, Clarice had been all too perturbed at securing peace agreements between the two regions with the exchange a Tyrell son of noble birth, anointed with the seven oils and named in the rainbow of light, for a godless fledgling bastard of Pyke. However, after being presented to the newly legitimized Lady Penny Greyjoy by Lord Dalton Greyjoy and Alla Florent, Clarice knew as soon as she laid eyes upon her that she could welcome her into Highgarden and into her heart. "She will be a daughter to me," she had promised the fearsome Lord Dalton. "I did not know Penny as a seed in her mother's belly, or as a soft babe in the arms of the man who contributed to her conception. My new daughter has come to me already a girl, missing some but not all of her childhood teeth. I am glad to receive her into my halls and my homeland."

Lady Clarice was also glad to not enter into trade negotiations with the Iron Islands, even while she still ensured that the ironborn were to not raid and reave in the Reach any longer. Later on, she had received news of the trade negotiations between Dorne and the Iron Islands with a scoff. Part of the agreement had been to not call upon her southernmost vassals to intercept these ships, but Lady Clarice has been heard to say that she also stills her hand if only to see how long this ruse between these two faraway regions will last. However, it is Lord Jon Tyrell that had grown all the more discontented as time went on. In a manner that was always contemptuous, and always fruitless, Jon had gone into theatrical tirades in an attempt grasp for an offense that would match the one served to his honor and to his weakening image of Clarice. It is by Jon's spite and the harshest critics of the peace agreement negotiations that Lady Clarice's image does begin to sour, with many calling her a conniving woman that has betrayed the Tyrell's and made two innocent children the pawns to her ambitions. To assuage these sentiments, Clarice organized a tourney to celebrate the third name day of her son, Lyonel, and called upon knights and squires of the Reach of both noble and common birth to compete in martial games with the prizes not only being monetary, but also the guarantee of her patronage. In display of her beneficence, she would assure their reputation as knights financially (as patrons are also sponsors) and theoretically in connections to a noble house (championing for noble houses and wearing their colors). The fine selection of men who had won in the contests were glad to receive their Lady Regent's patronage rather than having been shipped away to some border garrison.

The next event that followed Lyonel's name day tourney was a welcoming ball in honor of Lady Penny. It was an evening with great fanfare where the honored guest became a beloved novelty, delighted over by all. Invitees arrived to witness Clarice's newly remade family, curious to get a look at the girl who had so spectacularly regaled a grand evening. As the days went on, Clarice filled her daughter's days with artists, educators and a septa so that they could engage her in topics of numbers, philosophy, religion, and the arts. It is from these innovators that Clarice hopes that Penny will learn her sensibilities so that she may lead a morally just and divinely inspired life. However, it seemed to Clarice that Lord Dalton always arrived to undo her work. His visits to Highgarden are unwelcome and consistent, but she withstands him for the sake of Penny even if she had allowed his entrance inside the castle a sparse few times. The presence of men and knights of strength double during Lord Dalton's visits to let him know that he is not trusted. Lady Alannys's presence is less welcome as well, but as she comes with Prince Joffrey on the dragon Tyraxes, more consideration is taken into making her visits more welcoming only while she remains in the presence of a Prince of the Realm. Still, among the maid servants of the castle it is known that Clarice has asked them to inconspicuously separated Lady Alannys and Prince Joffrey at times so that Lady Leila Rowan can beguile the prince instead. It is Lord Toron, Lord Dalton's heir, that has been ignored altogether. While he has not embarked to Highgarden, he has written plenty of letters to Clarice with requests to establish trading voyages at the Arbor. These letters have gone unanswered even if she shared weekly correspondence with his father where Lady Penny and Lord Henley's wellbeing are discussed, with some of these letters even including portraits of Lady Penny in the Myrish painting style and Lord Henley by Lord Dalton's unsteady hand.

Clarice's correspondence with Lady Sabitha of The Crossing was a different matter altogether. Clarice was not so unfamiliar with herself to not recognize that she might have grown infatuated during their initial meeting, and while they continued to socialize at the Red Keep, Clarice started to believe that she may have spun their friendship into something that couldn't and probably never will be. Still, Clarice was happy to receive Lady Sabitha's ravens and quickly grew enamored at her friend's poems that sent her heart racing. Clarice could be seen writing into the long hours of the night until one day she received word from Lady Sabitha that she was pregnant. It was an easy decision to brave a journey of hundreds of miles to the The Twins with Lyonel and a small retinue from Highgarden. Lord Roger Tyrell had petitioned for more important tasks as of late, and Clarice was all too happy to appoint him as castellan in the meantime while Lord Jon had grown distractible in his duties. It was at the Twins, where much attention had been paid to Lady Sabitha's wellbeing, that their passionate love affair began. None could be seen without the other thereafter, and while Clarice was seen entering the guest room during the nights and emerging from it in the mornings, the bed had always been neatly arranged from the day before and many of her items and smallclothes were found in Lady Sabitha's chambers. There was much talk about Clarice's unexplained animosity towards Lady Amarei Charlton and how quick she was to dismiss her at every turn, and on one occasion, these ill feelings had culminated into a heated argument between the two that no one but Lord Forrest had been able to qualm. Nevertheless, Clarice continued to visit the Twins as much as time allowed, with Lord Roger ever poised to prove himself as castellan in her absence.

[goldenclarice]

CATERINA DA CREMONA LEONARDO (2021)

[goldenclarice]

TEXT:

SPRING PRAYER

God grant me the courage of the unsteady foal that picks his gangly way through spring mud, startled afresh each time that his hooves sink, yet forges on, refusing mulishly to seek refuge under his mother, until he takes a stand on dry ground at last.

God grant me the wonder of his eyes as they struggle to take in so much green, so much world.

[goldenclarice]

lady sabitha may be unknown to her yet, but there is a familiar bend to a woman's elbow that allows clarice to readily graft onto her companion. two ruling ladies walking arm-to-arm and with agendas of their own - that alone required something to live beyond meeting; would clarice need victoria's brilliance? her mother's ambitions? franklyn's tales of knighthood? perhaps clarice own strength of character would suffice, and she might dare to delight her like a knight from the stories, those great paragons of chivalry and honor that beckoned beautiful maidens from a tower and carried them off by swordpoint. and while clarice was not of champion-build, and sabitha was no moony-eyed maiden in need to be rescued, clarice still had strength and honor aplenty. her courage carried her forward with the surety of a noble steed between the grip of her knees. at present, the fog seemed to have lifted between them and so she allows a half-suppressed laugh at sabitha's own estimation of her needlework skills. "perhaps you may want to read us one of your poems at the weaving circle instead. a poem that speaks on why they call you the 'lady of ladies.'" clarice shares a shy, close-lipped smile with her. "i am curious to know why they call you that."

her curiosity only grows at mention of the hightowers and the hand they will play at sabitha's own ambitions. there are machinations yet to be discovered and they race in clarice's head in so many shapes and colors that she cannot help but feel as if the air around her has been pinched out of her whe she realizes the mistake she has made. she had easily judged lady sabitha's worth as another frog mucking around the pond and not perceived the clarity of her companion's ambitions - she held the confidence of the queen and arranged a marriage pact with the second most powerful house of the reach. clarice could not allow herself to trust her just yet, so she would bid her time during this meeting until she could bring these revelations to her mother, franklyn and victaria and see what sense they made of it. for now, she nods towards sabitha with respect and temperance. "the hightowers and the citadel are the torchlight that have always carried the realm forward in all the ways of enlightenment. they are also our most powerful vassals." clarice quirks her brow with a modicum of suspicion. "you are wise to know whom to ally yourself with." the sentiment goes through the same motion as wilting when her eyes brighten with warmth as she considers the light of the reach. "lady sam is my own kin besides, a rowan from from her mother and all the more beloved by me. knowing this, i am certain lady leyla will be good to your son." her smile persists on and roots onto sabitha now, only now it is borne out of sympathy. "my lady, you are a good mother to look out for your son's interests, even if you may do it alone. i am sorry to hear that you and your son's honor has been tainted by your lord husband's indiscretions. in interest of your son's rightful rulership, i would see to it that your husband's bastards are sent far away. bastards are made of evil and sin and will grasp at any small measure for power."

clarice folds in on herself as she takes a moment to glance at the ground, not out of bashfulness, but in emulation of a sore that had been prodded. her lorence would forever be held abreast to her like a silver arrow that had torn through the tenderness of a fallow deer. that arrowhead had once pierced through the soft and yielding core of her, leaving her with bated breath and a tremor of excitement running through the roots of her. now, it drove into her like a hammer onto the anvil, leaving a searing pain that left her gasping for relief. her heart had always been a betrayer in her own body, but no truths pulse across her face. instead, she faces the question with a dignified seriousness. "my lord husband was a good man. a fierce leader and a gentle husband who was loved by the commonfolk and highborn alike, long before i had become his lady wife." there is a pause between the statement and her next, an inhaled breath of softness as she thinks of their son. "he did not live long enough to be a father that a son could remember, but i know he would have been a patient, guiding hand to our lyonel, too."

clarice feels herself stiffen at the attention placed on the worst spectacle she has had to face in the short arc of her life, so she breaks away from sabitha and faces her with a grim seriousness. life would have it that she would not be a bride for long, but instead the lady-regent of the richest region of the realm. the strength it took to rise up from a broken heart is a fire in her eyes with little patience for illusions. "but i don't need your pity," she begins. "if we are to be friends, all i ask is for your understanding. so you must understand how he died." she resumes their journey along the length of the courtyard and keeps an even pace with sabitha. "he was killed by dornish spearmen along the prince's pass. they bled him like a pig long enough under the sun that he cooked within his armor." she lets out a straggled exhale at lorence's pain and her own. her hands grasp onto each other and begin to shake. "when they brought him back to me, the spear that dealt the death blow to his neck was still attached. i took it out and tried to mend the bones together with silver wires but it was impossible. my lorence was a broken thing that i could not fix." a rush of wind passes through them as a small disturbance and in the time it took for their surroundings to settle as they once were, clarice's expression had twisted with a corrosive hatred. "i used to rest easy knowing that he feasts in the Father's golden halls... that he does not suffer any longer. but that was before i was made to share a hall and make merry with the people that butchered my lord husband and the pirates of the summer sea who continue to kill the commonfolk of my lands. now do you understand?"

« Well... that was better than expected. » Sabitha was fully ready to receive a slap on the face if Lady Clarice stayed as furious as she appeared. She made enough bold moves to make her mother faint. Lady Clarice's blush was a welcomed surprise; Sabitha didn't expect to become just as red as her, that was for sure. Her hand was forced on the lady's heart, what other reaction was she supposed to have? « View on her eyes. Keep your damn view in her eyes, Sabitha. Have her eyes always been this pretty? Sabitha focus. » The thoughts were worthless, Sabitha was hooked by her brown eyes. « Oh, no... »

She tried to keep her composure. Although she realized her mind will keep coming back to this moment.—You're correct. Our sons one day will need to forge alliances of their own. —Sabitha tried to return to he political machinations, but she was difficult, her head slowly becoming a mess— It may interest you, my son Theo will soon be betrothed to Lady Leyla Hightower. So the Reach and the Riverlands can grow stronger... together.

Trust is built slowly. Sabitha had a lot of it. She felt the loneliness insert the Court too. She intertwined her arms with Lady Tyrell's. Hopefully it came as comfortable as possible for the other woman. —A good friendship must have mutual understanding. I wish to know you, my Lady. — She followed her steps, already forgetting where they were supposed to go in the first place. —As you can see, I'm terrible at neddlework, but I quite talented at poetry. Lady Jyzene proposed my marriage to her son, Lord Forrest, after she read it. Back at the time I wasn't the "Lady of Ladies", but simply a maiden with no interest in boys; instead I had a strong devotion to the Seven, my dream was to become a Septa. —Two ladies bonding over religion wasn't weird or suspicious. At least that was what Sabitha told herself.— My Lord Husband keeps asking for another boy, but I can help but pray for a girl. He has his own seeds back at the Crossing... But me? Only Theo. — « Am I sharing too much? » Sabitha straighten herself. « Just ask. It's just a harmless question. » — I know lost can be difficult, do you wish to speak about your late Husband?

[goldenclarice]

Floating roses ~ Polina Kovaleva

[goldenclarice]

𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 → monologue

the sixth moon of the year 126 ac marks the wedding celebrations of lord lorence and lady clarice tyrell at the castle of highgarden (featuring lord lorence tyrell)

My lord, the hour of the bat has come and sweet summerwine has relaxed the limbs and cares of men – my own brother Gyles dances on tabletops to alert us of the lateness of the hour. Let us remember him like this. Let us remember the night as it comes alive by our wedding feast, the sound of grigs in the crackling grass, the night birds stirring into wakefulness as we have our fill of the last of the strawberries and cream. Will you always remember how the bards sang “The Maids That Bloom In Spring,” to the tune of a harp made of goldenheart? Say you will! Because while the maids may bloom in spring, as I look at you now, I swear I am marigold, blood-blooms, and evening primrose barreling from the ground up, filling the gardens with a golden scent so strong that the very butterflies and larks swoon. By the waxing of the moon I may wither but the scent shall persist on and on. I am a woman newly made today, but I swear to you that my love for you will go on and on even after I wither. I love you, Lorence. Always remember this. And I shall always remember how your kisses mark a silver arrow inside me, and how that light runs deep: like starlight in the bones of trees, it shines on, on, and on. And while my petals may fall, and your light may dim, our love will always live on in our gardens with the larks and the butterflies.

[goldenclarice]

it startles her in no small amount to be treated so cavalierly by the manner of sabitha’s words and the closeness by which their bodies are entwined in, as though slander and upheaval was particular only to the lessers and no member of house tyrell had ever been tried by it. courtesy was a lady’s armor, but sabitha frey’s lack thereof strikes clarice clean in the chest where her pride can only strain for succor with biting words of her own. the back of her ears burn red in anger, then, as sabitha appraises her muddied, pond-slick riverlander blood in favor of house tyrell’s humble origins – a heritage that notwithstanding could field the greatest of armies and had enlightened the whole of the realm like the rising of the sun at the touch of dawn. it was a matter of pride as well as a grievous insult unto her beloved husband lorence, who had bequeathed their son with a most ancient blood that for centuries had been the justiciars of honor and glory. in par for the course, clarice readies herself to prescribe judgment upon sabitha until her companion serves her a death sentence with a mere six words: you are faraway from your little garden.

sabitha’s gutting observation is not so much as a valuable leap in logic, but a deadly accompaniment that magnifies how alone clarice feels: you are faraway from your little garden. this fact struck her like lightning through the core of a great oak tree, leaving the earth under her feet in a tremor. clarice holds her place before sabitha, still and straight — garden-taught as her body is, it will bend but not break, but her eyes regard sabitha haltingly. between them, it is understood what sabitha means to say; queen rhaenyra gives to house tyrell in a show of  excess and wariness  – here is  a  room;  you  may disperse  in  it. here is a table;  you  may  fill  it.  but  the  limits  are  always  clearly  defined  by  walls  and  corners,  sharpened  edges  so  that  they  always  remember  that  their  space  here  is  only  borrowed.  it is a mummer’s show of heathens and murderers overplaying their hands in queen rhaenyra’s small council, while the lady-regent of the realm’s profligate garden has to make do with trifles and hollow assurances instead of being able to drive policy to her own advantage.

she looks on as sabitha takes her hand in her own and plants a kiss on her hand, the feeling of sabitha’s lips brushing against her knuckles like the soft, downy feathers of a swan sending a shiver along her arms. clarice waits for sabitha’s eyes to meet hers, though not without wondering how many women (herself included) had blushed under such a gesture, and if sabitha expected the same from her. she takes sabitha’s hand into her own and places the palm flat on her chest, atop the warm place where her quickening heart sits so that sabitha may find her heart true in her next words: “my son and yours, you don’t mean for them to romp in the grasslands with wooden swords all their life. our heirs will soon grow tall and strong and lead our houses into the next century. i am a crone at my one-and-twenty years, with no husband to give me daughters so that we may unite our houses in blood. that means our sons must carry our houses in common cause as allies. will you have my son as an ally to house frey?” her fingers tighten around sabitha’s hand. “will you have me as your friend in king’s landing?”

A sigh left Sabitha's lips as she heard Lady Clarice's answer. « What's the point of having information if no one knows? » Her web was still small and growing for the moment. The Twins received a lot of travelers, but it haven't catch enough whispers to make a reputation from them. Sabitha simply nodded in icy silence.

—The Mother Above watches us all. —Sabitha echoed the prayer as second nature. She understood why the people in the Reach held the Gods with such importance, most of her life Sabitha studied the Seven-Pointed Star in the hopes to becoming a Septa; unmarried and gleeful. The Gods judge her and decided for her to become a wife and mother instead.

—We are both mothers, my Lady. My son may be sickly by nature, he might not be the best playmate for the princelings... Perhaps Lord Tyrell could spend time with them too. Is that the liveried work you named as you speak of our house? You call it as such, isn't it? Then it won't be a position worthy for our Warden in the South. I suppose it's an opportunity for someone else to take. —Sabitha walked until they were face to face; whispered into Clarice's ear. — Your house was only stewards not long ago. My house isn't the greatest of its kingdom. But it's older by centuries than yours. You can stay all mighty, but you are far away from your little garden. My offer of friendship stays, even if you wish to spit in it.

Sabitha stepped even closer. She hold Clarice's hand long enough to kiss her knuckles. A manly thing, perhaps, to do. As her head straightened, Sabitha looked at her with a scary confidence.

—I excuse myself, as I don't see the point of your haughty disdain.

[goldenclarice]

𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋 → analysis

Lady Clarice's gown is a frontispiece to House Tyrell's strength as Wardens of the South, as well as an ode to the religious importance, cultural richness, and chivalric spirit of the Reach. It is stitched together with brocade green-and-gold fabric and lined with satin, bearing the golden flower of House Tyrell's heraldry as well as all manner of perennial flowers that speak of the Reach's enduring spirit. Below the lined bodice rests a long girdle belt made of gold and faceted in a pattern of seven sensitively chosen diamonds in the color of a rainbow, a symbol of the Seven Above. Much like the gown, House Tyrell's master jeweler has woven the radiance of yellow gold, the softness of citrine quartz and the strength of silky, freeform ivory pearls with a pink-green luster to create a statement neckless. Her black-and-white headpiece is very conservative and structured, denoting her status as a woman-grown, but more importantly a woman that is ineligible unto the intrigues of courtship due to her momentous position as the Lady-Regent of Highgarden. The headpiece is framed with pairs of gold-and-white beads on golden needle inclusions that shine by the light of overhead chandeliers, framing her face in the likeness of still water reflecting the light of the sun.

[goldenclarice]

queen rhaenyra’s invitation to make acquaintance with the lady-regent of the reach had set the tyrell apartments abuzz like one of the great apiaries of honeyholt, sparing no sound, no moment of silence in the passage from clarice’s solar to the bath. lady selyse had laid out a gown of green-and-gold for her while the servant girls scrubbed her clean and made her anew with soaps and fragrant oils. now, looking at herself from where she sits, it is not for vanity that clarice watches her reflection as her mother gathers her hair into a headpiece that bears the brunt of their treasury – a jeweled band of seven inlaid gems in the likeness of a rainbow, all in a nod to the Seven Above – but merely as a distant sort of tether. clarice was years elder than lady leila and lady meredyth, but looking at herself in her most unadorned form, she considers that she looks their counterpart. her sisters were of an age to be wed and soon to grow with child, young enough to still be allowed to gather their own hair in a latticework of braids rather than the auspices of a woman-grown, but clarice had long ago looked well in the shape of a mother, for it was a world where girls as young as five-and-ten like the late queen aemma were called to take to the childbed early on. so to see her become assembled with a woman’s look was unbecoming. as it were, circumstances had laid her between lady selyse’s two great palms and rolled her in a clay meant for another. would it that victaria had wed my lord husband, all those years ago, she sighed, always in want for the will and likeness of her elder. what would her sister do, with her steely heart and easy wit?  

lady tyrell carves her way through pale red stone and grand staircases, her brother and escort, ser franklyn, moving the earth on either side of her and leaving visible lines where she may tread. noblemen, sentries, and servants part, stop, stare, and turn motionless in their need to observe. it is obvious which chamber they journey to, and so she nods with solemness at those she passes, her hands tucked together before her navel and eyes half downcast. 

in their winding journey, ser franklyn speaks to her about entreaties and cause of action, only offering him senseless hums and nervous assurances until they finally arrive at the entrance of the small council chamber. it is not just fear in her, not all of it. she trembles with a thing yet unseen, a terrible anticipation, a fevered excitement. her brother urges her forward at the guard’s announcement, both of them crossing into the room with evenly paced strides. once inside, queen rhaenyra receives her in raiment of yellow-gold, brilliant and true like the length of rowan gold-tree’s hair or sunfyre’s scales as they bound in crescents in the sky. the gesture softens something in clarice, folding open like petals at the break of day. she longs to take her queen’s hand for that alone, to make the simple choice now and be led by the queen to assured victory. but the thing that softens goes through the same motion as wilting. o, curse my weak heart! she chides herself. this was only the beginning, with too many words and acclamations yet to be spoken with another, the winds of change still undecided if they will divide them or allow them to come together. 

“your grace,” clarice’s knees drop with her gaze in a pose of deference, feeling them shake. ser franklyn bows from the neck and just as easily rises from this position to begin making prolongations to the queen’s long awaited summons and good-will. her own lips flatten in admonition to franklyn’s fawning before she amends his blunder in a quick exchange: a kiss goodbye on the cheek for a copy of the seven pointed star that he held in his hands all along. the weight of it in her hands, now, fortifies her resolve and does not allow her knees to buckle. clarice allows herself to study the queen openly now. there is nothing aggressive in her appraisal. “your grace,” she begins again, “allow me to express to you with my own full fledged gratitude for receiving me today. you esteem my house, and myself, greatly in accommodating us in the capital as well. i do hope we may continue to strengthen the ties between our houses in the years to come.” clarice’s head dips in respect, her tone taking on the tempered quality of invocations spoken before an altar: “may the whole realm, by this means, be indebted to you not as an imitator of your virtues but indeed as an inheritor of them.” her head rises then, both arms extending the seven pointed star to one of the servants so that she may present it to their queen. “if it pleases you, i have brought you a gift i have made by my own hand, so that you may find my heart true.” she motioned to the embroidered cover and spine in red-and-gold, with interspersing motifs of dragons and the Seven Above to illustrate the concord and harmony that could exist not only between their two houses, but between rhaenyra's queenship and the Faith.

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.”

[goldenclarice]

twelfth month of 129 ac      king's landing, exiting the red keep                   @stunningladysam​

the point of exit of the red keep is as a river and hordes of trout swimming upstream, churning under the blanket sounds of chatter and palfreys that bristle under the grip of a liege’s knees or from the push and pull at being harnessed to a wheelhouse. only here clarice is uncharacteristically filled with a mildness more often seen in hummingbirds – it asks for very little, and takes even less. all it needs is some sun and favorable winds to carry her wings onward so that she may drink in every cup of beauty. as it were, a throng of courtiers and sycophants mark the arrival of the lady oldtown, pressing upon her like a gurgling stream swallowing a single floating water lily. clarice stands at the threshold of her wheelhouse, advancing forward as hummingbirds do when they seek to slake their thirst on the sticky nectar-center of a flower. 

"my lady sam!" lady tyrell called out enthusiastically in shades of freshness and familiarity that bespoke of their shared origins at the banks of the mander and the vines that lined the winding paths of their metropolises. “would you like to ride into the city with me?"

[goldenclarice]

in the running mill of hearsay and idle chatter, the one’s on the other tether of a tale don’t think much of winning or losing, but they spend enough time with causality – from the lands beyond the wall and the coast of cape wrath, moments like these may well be the lynchpin of the world, every moment built around cultivating the weak spot, the break in the plate, each searching for the flaw, the poor weld, the hook, line, and sinker.

clarice's face takes on a look as if seizing up a weapon, for sabitha's words protrude like swords and lances that warn any warmth and lightheartedness away. she settles on the truth, then, that sabitha frey is looking for the one who plays games.

clarice has hoops aplenty for jumping through, words to bandy till the flagons dry with the last drops of arbor reds – perhaps it would be easier if she did. it is the inclination of humans to play in some regard, and perhaps this would bring comfort. as she is now, a creature of the present in every way that matters, she is glaringly reminded about lord dalton and his string of bastards, all heathens and despots alike, and how they have taken every small measure and made it another of their conquests. but there are machinations worse yet, and there is not a soul or far-star in this moment that has not heard of the betrothal negotiations between a prince of the realm and the lesser twin of one of the greyjoy bastards. clarice had spit twice-over when she'd heard the half of it, looking unto her sweet sister leila with resounding despair at being disregarded altogether as a future princess of the realm. how could it not be so when the reach, as well, was disregarded – summoned to the capital only to be left aground. forsaken.

it would seem that cravens and adders also marauded from the boneway and prince's pass and into the capital. unbowed, unbent, unbroken they had decreed from their black stallions, their bannermen flying their coat of arms at the princess of dorne's great arrival. all the while her dead husband's broken body had been given to death's handmaidens and laid into an early grave. lady sabitha seeks to provoke her with japes and mockery, but this is not a meager inquisition, nothing fair-weather about it— clarice had borne these indignities to lay out and count on every doubtful look cast upon her by her household and bannermen, leaving only her rage and anguished misery.

"the crown and house tyrell have always come together to grow, create value, exchange value and serve one another well." she counters tactfully, but there is no denying the acrid taste on her tongue, least of all when her companion spurs her shame further. "there is much talk these days, yes, but perhaps your question is best suited for ser tyland lannister. i'm sure he is one to say that the realm, in due time, will see why squidlings and bottomfeeder fish are meant to stay by the sea, for it is the lion that reigns foremost on land. such is the natural order." clarice chuckles facetiously, then, the sound of a low chime passed through by sluggish wind. "we are women, yes, but we are mothers above all. the Mother Above is more fearsome than the Warrior when her children are harmed. she has cast her eyes upon the land of her children and will spare none from the scales of judgement."

clarice receives sabitha's hospitality with the hollow interest of a drink of water, something to hold between her hands in gratitude but ultimately set aside for something of more masterful craft, like sweet and dry arbor reds. such finely crafted items only existed within the seat of knowledge and culture of the realm, while the riverlands were a land with no sign of devotion to anything but nature and a people who were set to flee under the shit-dipped arrows of the crannogmen. how presumptuous, then, for sabitha to think herself the world and the sonder she does not see — what's another riverlander among the fisherfolk of the blackwater rush, another water beetle under the boot of the red keep? clarice's mouth widens in an insolent laugh. "i thank you, as does the rest of my house, for your invitation. i know how important hospitality is for your people. though i suppose if i need word to travel fast, you will be the liveried messenger? if word of how you run your household rings true."

𑁍┊⟩» Sabitha's delicate skirts trailed behind Lady Tyrell as the both walked. She made her best efforts to look as regal and dignified as Clarice. After practicing for weeks, Sabitha was feeling more comfortable walking in the high heels, the soft sound of her steps echoing across the hallway.

As Lady Clarice turned around, Sabitha doubted herself only a few seconds before looking back at her. A sudden realization inside her mind. « The game is more fun with two players. Don't you think, my Lady? »

—Is not favor with the Queen what you are looking for? Aren't you furious the small council now has an ironborn as Master of Ships? We both heard the rumors, the Red Kraken managed to arrange a betrothal for one of his daughters, aren't you curious how he did it? Although, we are simply women. Who are we to care about such things? —Sabitha let a soft smile on her lips, her words tinted on sarcasm. She hoped it'd be enough to get Lady Clarice's attention.

She was sure it was a provocation, but Sabitha wouldn't stand as her homeland was being tarnish.

—On the Riverlands we are taught to fight the weather with grace. —Sabitha half joked. Was it truly the Riverlands without the humidity, moisture and fogginess? Sabitha had her trusty pair of boots fully covered in mud, but her dresses were always clean and neat. A perfected skill after years of wandering on the most unstable ground possible.— Archery and hawking may not be the most refined hobbies, but they are amusing. Isn't that why we assemble in the first place? The Riverlands are a place of old traditions. I'm think you'll find it stimulating... if you learn about it. You are always welcome if you choose to visit the Twins. Our castle is your home and we are well connected in case you ever need some word to travel fast.

[goldenclarice]

clarice turns to look at her with an approximation of surprise, taking a few moments to consider lady sabitha’s boldness between the time it takes her to lead her from the corridor to an adjoining walkway, open on one side to allow the sun’s shine through. the light shines upon her companion like a halo of gold or stars upon the riverbank, and with one look clarice decides she is beautiful. in spite her grooming, sabitha has a certain sharpness to her of that of a woman running through boughs and thickets, a certain look of disheveledness and wildness when they emerge from the wood. but clarice does not falter, her chin held high in the same practiced manner of her drawn shoulders, as though she were burdened with the weight of tome or a pile of stones on her head. clarice had long learned that the sign of noble blood was to walk as though you must prevent something from spilling out. this, too, is the mark of womanhood; they do not like being confronted with lucidity or consequence, preferring the comfort of the unspoken and the ambiguous. so when she turns to sabitha with a placid smile, she lies breezily: “i’m afraid i don’t know what you mean.” her smile rounds conspiratorially, “unless there is something you would like me to know.”

truths and lies. it is a tenuous thread that binds the courtiers of king’s landings, each with their kingdoms of their own imaginings in their eyes. as it were, sabitha frey much talked about in these circles, with tales of her governance and strange ways that stretched far and wide across the red keep on account of her new role as lady-in-waiting to the queen rhaenyra. “i like to extend invitations to ladies of the realm and engage in activities and talk of the arts,” she offers in truth. “do the women of the riverlands do the same? or are they taught to mistrust it and the company it offers?”

𑁍┊⟩» Back on the Riverlands, Sabitha would host tea parties for the other riverladies. They would drink, talk and dance until late at night. « Enchanting Ladies, we should have another reunion of our own. » Her parties became popular enough to cause a grapple between the Blackwoods and the Brackens —although they never need excuses to fight each other—, when she invited her friend Alysanne Blackwood but no Bracken to the gathering.

She was so used to being the organizer, she was relieved to finally become the guest. Sabitha was delighted to receive an invitation to Lady Tyrell's weaving circle she forgot how lacking her skills were now.

In her youth, Sabitha learned how to use needles and thread by her mother's hand. Until her embroidery skills were acceptable for a lady of her station, her Lady Mother finally let her at peace to ride to her heart's desire. Over time, Sabitha slowly forgot the intricate designs she was taught and nowadays her fingers could only remember some simple needlework.

She tried to cover up her lack of skills by asking about the other ladies' lives. Sabitha never got the opportunity to visit the Reach and she had a great deal of curiosity over their lifestyle. Usually she wouldn't have any problems charming beautiful ladies but her current company proved harder to impress than her riverladies.

Lady Tyrell definitely noticed her struggle to sew when she spoke to her and Sabitha was grateful for an excuse to leave the room and the stares. Most of the Ladies surrounding her were strangers to her, Sabitha wasn't sure how to awe them. She smiled awkwardly at Lady Clarice.

—Not at all, my Lady. Lead the way.

Sabitha followed Lady Tyrell until they were away from preying eyes and interested ears.

—I supposed making each other's acquaintance wasn't the only reason behind your invitation, my Lady. If you wish to satiate your interest, you may do it now.

[goldenclarice]

fourth month of 129 ac      king's landing, tyrell apartments                   @sabithafrey-rp​

this  is  what  they  dictate  is  women’s  work:  it  is  what  is  kept  away.  it  is  quiet,  calculated,  exacting.  clarice  had  been  raised  on  this  kind  of  work  by  her  mother,  sisters,  and  cousins,  each  teaching  her  with  clever  and  patient  hands.  now  a  woman-grown,  clarice's  hands  reflected  that  same  softness  that  bespoke  of  years  spent  running  her  fingers  through  yarns  and  skeins  of  thread.  there  is  much  weariness  in  this  world,  but  there  is  less  of  it  when  in  women's  company  where  they  may  sit  in  close  quarters  and  weave  stories  of  their  own.

as  it  were,  gossip  is  something  never  lacking,  least  of  all  in  clarice's  weaving  circle,  but  it  is  often  very focused:  of  the  riverlands,  there  had  been  much  talk  about  fool  frey  and  his  wayward  wife,  the  lady  sabitha.  they  say  she  governs  half  of  the  twins  and  is  girt  with  sword  and  bow.  most  of  all,  they  speak  of  the  truth  of  lady  sabitha's  heart,  eyes  as  wide  as  a  doe  with  none  of  the  innocence  as  she  seeks  womanly  company  of  her  own.

to  find  a  strain  of  truth,  clarice  sends  her  courier  to  the  frey  apartments  with  an  invitation  for  sabitha  frey  to  join  her  and  her  loyal  retinue  for  an  afternoon  of  art  and  music.  in  clarice's  quarters,  there  is  a  harp  player  spinning  silk  from  behind  a  screen  for  the  enjoyment  of  women  draped  over  couches  or  settees.  amidst  of  it  all,  clarice  is  driving  a  needle  through  an  evenweave,  stealing  sidelong  glances  of  lady  sabitha  and  exchanging  incredulous  glances  with  her  favorites.  it  was  plain  that  sabitha's  hands  were  unused  to  the  work.  clarice  did  not  have  to  look  again  to  find  pity  in  that.  setting  her  weaving  loop  down,  clarice  turns  to  sabitha  with  a  careful  smile:  "lady  sabitha,  it  would  seem  i  have  finished  the  purple  thread.  it  seems  you  also  require  this  dye  in  your  work.  would  you  care  to  join  me  to  find  more?"

[goldenclarice]

WELCOME CLARICE TYRELL, Lady Regent of the Reach. We’re delighted to see she has arrived safely on her journey to King’s Landing. Around the court the twenty-two year old has been praised as curious, clever, and resilient but some have whispered she is also haughty, restless and insecure. Upon her arrival it is clear that she is excited about the upcoming coronation of Westeros' first ruling queen, and while the eyes of our court may be fixed on our new Queen, House Targaryen, and the future of Westeros, their true allegiance will always be to House Tyrell and the Reach.

🏵️   »    alliances​  :

allegiance: Sworn to uphold the interests of House Tyrell and the Reach. Always trying to consolidate the goodwill of the godsworn of the Faith by her own means or via her brother, the Septon Armond. Also seeking to strengthen ties with Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and the Targaryen's of King's Landing. Still assessing the the Targaryen's of Dragonstone and how each may benefit their own respective houses. In court, she has tentatively agreed to peace agreements with the Iron Islands by taking Lord Dalton Greyjoy's youngest daughter as her ward. mother:  Lady Selyse Rowan of Goldengrove father:  Ruling Lord Clifford Rowan of Goldengrove. siblings:  Twelve. children:  Lyonel Tyrell, the heir of Highgarden. marital status:  Widow of Lord Lorence Tyrell. paramour:  Lady Sabitha Frey of the Crossing. ward:  Lady Penny Greyjoy of Pyke.

🏵️    »   headcanons :

The stretch of Clarice's life can be measured on the pinwheel of the Reach's heaping offerings; green as the hills by Silverhill, blue as the Red Lake, and yellow as the golden apples of Goldengrove that Rowan Gold-Tree buried deep in a pit on a hill. When she was naught but a sapling herself, Clarice conceived the idea of breeding a new apple cultivar that would rival Rowan Gold-Tree's boon to the land. It was nigh on four-and-ten years later that Clarice's apple grafts finally flowered and yielded fruit, whereupon Goldengrove's orchards were rife with a new variety of golden apples with a pink blush. They were a novelty in her household and essential in nearby market towns, with many carts and jams being sent to the motherhouses and orphanages of the Reach. At the tourney to celebrate the new lord of Highgarden, Clarice presented Lord Lorence with one of her prized apples as a token of her favor at the lists, much to the ridicule of the attendants that day. Lord Lorence, recently jilted by Victaria, found it within himself to be charmed by the gesture. At the archery match, he shot an arrow through the apple on the head of a hedge knight and thereafter his courtship began in earnest. Clarice would soon promise him another bounty; many sons and daughters to fill his castle with laughter and song. But Lorence died at the hands of Dornish spearmen along the Prince's Pass, and so that promise died with him too, her loins and the seeds of her invention never to bear fruit again. As regent over the center of learning and culture of the realm, the Lady Clarice has been privy to invaluable texts written by timeless contemporaries, learning from refined ideas and deeper truths only – but Clarice is also a woman learning as she goes, a girl learning as she does, making her very sharp on the surface level but thoroughly underdeveloped and soulless in the essence of her ideas – a conglomeration of a hundred sharp blades that have never forged anything on her own. As a maiden, her influence within her family had also never been exceptional; her physical strength and offensive capacity easily dwarfed by her lady mother and Ser Franklyn, nor it could be said she was as graceful as Leona, or oft-celebrated for her sleight of tongue as Victaria. Rather, it was her piety and fidelity to the the Seven that set her apart, for purity was not merely a moral position, rather a condition of holding no falsehoods or dualities. Now, as both mother and widow, it would seem that every turning of page in the story of her years has woven a greater narrative for her to be in a position of eminent leadership and authority. From the rooftop gardens of the castle, where she may contemplate over from where the oceanroad meets the roseroad, Clarice understands that she may not lead with experience, but with a singular purpose that moves her to action: to protect the Reach's interests and the commonwealth of her people, both high and low born. Highgarden is not the navel of chivalry and honor by happenstance; these are ideals she will call her son's banners to defend till the bitter end. Nowadays, each day is a podium, a new avenue to prove her worth: each hour, a chance to consolidate her son's birthright. Every minute of every day is not hers, but for the plights and grievances of the people she leads. Recently, she has taken to regular hunting excursions with her lords and vassals to establish rapport and enforce allegiances. But it is not the woodland creatures she has grown to fear, but the conflict stirring at the foothills about the crown displeasing the Faith. It is a sentiment that Clarice would hope to smother with a well-timed word and a wave of her hand, but is she not also beholden to the greater sentiments of her people?

🏵️    »   rumours : tw self harm

The happenstance of her marriage to the late Lord Lorence Tyrell comes with a great stretch of rumors: she stole his affections right from under Lady Victaria's nose, or Lord Lorence had his way with her in Highgarden's briar labyrinth after she seduced him on the eve of a masked ball. The steward of House Tyrell is a thorn on Clarice's side; his absence from court is proof of this. He argues with her for the sake of provocation, citing her ignorance borne from youth, and her tenderheartedness due to her sex. She has appointed him keeper of Highgarden and to rule in her name until she returns from King's Landing. After the death of Lord Lorence, Clarice has taken extreme measures to safeguard the safety of her son, Lyonel, that verge on outlandish. She is known to go into fits of hysteria and rend the skin of her face bloody at any perceived danger. Clarice is beholden to the whims of her grasping brother, Ser Franklyn, and her ambitious mother, Lady Selyse. She has bestowed gold and offices to her mother and brother's favorites, depleting the bounty of the Reach. Clarice plans to levy her influence and supporters of the Realm against Dorne and its delegation due to a personal vendetta, all under the pretense of crying foul on Dorne's continued raids on the Westerosi reachlords and stormlords. She is profoundly offended and displeased with the Queen's choice of master-of-ships, due to the Reach's bloody history with godless iron islanders. She seeks to replace Lord Dalton with one of her men, notably the liege of House Redwyne. This is mostly a matter of pride albeit a sound strategy to secure influence in the Queen's small council.