Chapter Text
SWEETLING
The flames cannibalize your flesh.
Not since you were a child, clinging onto your mother as she breathed out a great plume of fire and you reached out, unknowing of anything other than that gorgeous plume of white light, have you burned like this. Even after you began training, even after your mother died, and you took her place in the troupe and shot out great pillowing trails of fire with a single breath, the sear never marred your skin.
You have always been careful. You are more than careful. Fire cannot be contained, nor controlled, only guided with reverence. In your years as the fire breather for the Troupe of Thousands, you never once burned yourself, holding onto that respect like a shield.
Someone holds your hand in a deathly, cold grip. Sweat slicks your forehead, soaking the cotton pillows through the covers, sticking to the back of your neck. You let out a soft whimper, shifting. Your boiling blood spills over the canals of your arteries, spilling into your muscles, setting your nerves alight.
“Sweetling,” a voice far away utters. “They’ve arrived. Hold on for just a bit longer.”
Your mouth is warm, fuzzy, swollen. There are other voices, buzzing and flitting around you, but it’s muffled through this layer of wool covering your entire face. You reach out as the icy hold on your hand tightens.
You squeeze back, as hard as you can. Your husband has always had terrible faith. It trembles and threatens to topple over, but you never fail to rest your back against the slanting heavens, push back, attempt to shoulder the weight of his world.
Within this sickbed, all you wish is to take away that ache and suffering. His hand leaves yours to wipe sweat away from your collarbones and throat, careful and controlled.
“Sweetling!”
Yet, at once, your body jolts towards her voice and away from him, still he stands tall, holding the heavens above your head. You feel him shaking, but you can’t even spare a moment to think of it. You haven’t heard her in so long. Your lips attempt to form words, but your body is clumsy, your teeth clinking together as you squeeze your eyes shut. You search your mind for the machinations, the instructions behind speaking and breathing.
“Sweetling, oh, sweet cousin.”
It comes to you at once. The fire is the sun, and you are running away from her in a breezy garden, jumping through fountains, frolicking through hedges. The stinging slap, the world spinning with the taste of iron and a slash of red.
Tanselle, you wish you could utter. Then, as light seeps through the crevices of your vision: Tanselle, is that you?
The Troupe of Thousands makes good time, arriving three days before the tourney is meant to begin. Enough time to build their tents, to collect and organize the puppets, to practice and explore, finding pollen and wood and scraps of armour or metal being sold by the merchant blacksmiths. You're more excited at the prospect of seeing so many people. You wonder if you'll find the same musicians who had played at the last wedding you performed at in the Reach. A Tyrell marrying a Merryweather or something of the sort...
Tanselle runs out of rosemary oil two days before they arrive at the Meadow. You remark that her hair looks a little tangled, twisted tight into a protective braiding style, and she finally tells you as much, which earns her a whack in the shoulder, and you a shove in the back for being too rough with their prized storyteller.
You, of course, turn around and attempt to clout your father, but he only catches your wrist, and smiles, sending you off to find your flowers and greens.
"Find flowers for paint as well, if you can. Florian's mask needs to be re-touched."
So you suppose your first day at Ashford Meadow is meant to be spent amongst the riverbeds.
Closer to the bridge leading toward Ashford proper, weeds and rushes spring forth from moist, fertile soil. All around, there are stretches of forest cleared for the tourney, but you’ve no doubt there are those well-learned in medicinal herbs around that could put you to key gathering spots, and you start walking towards the arch that signifies the entrance to the tilts. No doubt from there, you might be able to find your way to an infirmary of sorts.
Weaving between builders and other folk, merchants and farmers and squires and girls, the amount of one type of folk lessens to such a noticeable degree that you soon find yourself surrounded entirely by men in mail and armed with steel. Horses nicker and stomp as they’re guided to stable posts, and you glance about. The paths are unpaved but clear, with signage and someone directing the flow of people. Guards stand at a few crossroads where the crowd is thickest, donned in bright orange and shining plate.
You manage to pick your way through to the side of the road. Climbing up onto a fence, you rest your feet upon the rail and grip tight, stretching up to peer over the heads of all the travelers pouring into Ashford Meadow. You’re not sure which way the river is either, head spinning from the heat, and you grapple at your hip, mourning your leaving a water skin back with the others. With both hands on the fence again, your shoulders slump.
Across the way, you observe the nearest tent’s construction. It’s bigger than even their performance pavilion the last you saw, with a closed front, and red banners planted into the dirt, a lion dancing in the slight breeze. Golden hair gleams within the folds of the tent that part for the men that duck in and out. Aside, there are smaller groupings of tents, each with their own banner, and you lean forward, observing with a small frown. You’ve no idea the creature that is painted upon one of them—particularly furry with black and white and grey fur? Was it something more common to the north?
“Something interest you, my lady?”
Jumping out of your skin, you whirl around at the handsome man leaning on the fence beside you, resting his chin upon his forearms. Dressed in a dark doublet with fine golden detailing, the man wears a fine undershirt, too, dark brown designs stitched in the shape of deer and antlers. His eyes are dark, shaded by thick eyebrows and a well-groomed beard paints his jaw and chin.
You climb over and hop off the fence onto the same side the man stands, curtsying clumsily. They stand half-a-fence length apart, but even the air seems to tremble, curling around your bare throat as if warning you of what stands before you.
“M’lord. I apologize, I didn’t notice you.”
“Didn’t notice…” He does not straighten up immediately, watching the crowds move himself. His hair, steely grey and curly, is frazzled from the humidity, and when he turns his head at last, as if remembering he began the conversation in the first place, an earring dangles along his jaw. “Sorry. The heat is dreadful. Flies.” He swats. You blink. “What was I saying? I saw that horse over there bite at the other horse’s rear, and I thought, what dreadful manners, and whatever thought before then was lost to me.”
“I… see?”
He pins you down with a look. “Do you remember?”
You resist the urge to flat-out gawk at him. “Are you slow?”
“No, that’s not it.” He straightens up, resting a hand atop the fence. The brooch of a leaping stag upon his breast and more well-worn gold rings glimmer when he gestures idly towards the people. “I was asking if something interested you. Or someone.”
“Could have,” you answer. “I’ve lost my thoughts now, too.”
The man laughs, and when he does, his head tilts back and his eyes squeeze shut. It’s a loud, booming noise, but instead of making you cringe back, you want to lean forward before remembering yourself.
He saves you from making such a clumsy move by closing the distance himself. A hot flash comes over your face. “We’ve minds alike, dear lady.” The man’s hand finds your shoulder, squeezing gently. You blink, and he leans forward, cocking his head. His breath smells faint of mint. “For you are one, yes? Of what house?”
“No, m’lord.” He cocks an eyebrow, jerking back as if you’ve revealed a scandalous secret, and your words tumble out of your mouth. “I’m a puppeteer. An entertainer. Our troupe has come for the tourney, and I, uh, well, if you find yourself among the crowds, I would hope you enjoy it.”
“For the eyes to feast on a beauty such as yourself would be no joyless task.” His hand lifts and tugs at the strap of your gown that had slipped along the slope of your shoulder back up. Heat spreads across your face like honey and your head jerks up. “Your name?”
“Sweetling.” He removes his touch. You can’t stop staring at him. “All who know me call me by this, except my father whenever he’s cross with me.” Swallowing, you venture out, “And yours?”
His lips part to answer when a sharp call cut between them like a warmed knife through butter.
“Lyonel! Stop mingling with the whores and get over here, you stupid cunt.” Two heads jerk towards the road. A man rides at the head of a slow-moving procession, and the rider himself does not pause lest a confused knot of people begin to push up against one another. Your eyebrows shoot up, and you turn to your companion who only takes a step back.
“My cunt of a younger brother,” Lyonel informs you, sniffing. He takes hold of the fence and climbs up, swinging his leg over with ease. Your heart skips a beat at his easy smile. “I’ll club him in the head for that, my lady. I assure you.”
“There are worse things to be thought of than a whore, m’lord.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He pauses for a moment. “One could be the Lord of Storm’s End, for example.”
Shivering, he hops off and melds into the crowd. You climb after him, standing on the bottom rail of the fence to follow his bobbing head of curly grey, but you don’t catch him until he is mounted atop a horse once more. A regal steed, with a high crest and good bearing, its pale mane braided with gold and black ribbon. The man who called seems to chastise him, but Lyonel only laughs again, shrugging haplessly. You stare even after his back turns to you entirely. He doesn’t look back, and you sigh to yourself, shoulders dropping. Lowering yourself back to the ground, your feet pick a direction and you walk.
When you come back, bundles of rosemary clutched tight in a green-stained hand, Tanselle admonishes you for coming back so late. You play with the strap of your dress, and shrug apologetically.
“There’s just a lot to see, cousin.”
“Lots to see,” she echoes, eyes narrowed. Her own fingers are coloured with paint, a smear of it somehow dried on her cheek, and you reach up to wipe it away. “I’m sure.”
“You know, the least you could do is believe me.”