♱

Chapter One:
    You Must Be Guilty of Something

(112 A.C.)

A young girl is running. She knows not where her feet carry her, nor what she is running from, but there is a hushed prayer falling from her lips. Thorns and sticks prick at bare legs, red joins black and blue upon pale, freckled skin, and she's shaking. There is something that waits for her in the darkness, a great and terrible thing. It creeps up behind her, watching her, tormenting her. The footsteps she hears behind her are not human nor animal; she fears looking back and continues to run.

Has the Stranger come for her at last? This is what happens to girls who do not believe, who think themselves above their gods. They are hunted down like small animals and turned into prey, meek and powerless, they succumb. She falls, mud caking her knees as if the ground was embracing her one last time. And as she rests, she concedes. The taste of surrender is acrid in her mouth and unwelcome after a lifetime of perseverance.

In her final moments, she brings her dirt-stained legs to her chest and weeps. What else is there to do but shriek and wail? In her final moments, she is a babe again, screaming for her mother. In her final moments, she mourns her life as a widow mourns her late husband. She allows the grief to overcome and consume her.

The Stranger comes and wraps her in a cloak of darkness, taking her for its own.

This dream is too vivid to not be a vision, Vevienne thinks, for how does she know what the girl is feeling and thinking in such excruciating detail? She's seen it at least a thousand times before, and it only grows more nauseating each night. Sometimes, she can see through the eyes of the girl, and she too shakes in fear. Other times, it is as though she were the Stranger itself, a harbinger of death.

This time, she watches from above, an idle bystander and unwilling accomplice to the horror occurring beneath her.

Vevienne exits her chambers, still groggy and smelling of sleep. She has no interest in food on mornings like these; her dreams murder her appetite. Instead of going down to the kitchens, she stomps towards the maester's chambers. Maester Seamus is working on a concoction of sorts when Vevienne interrupts him, standing in the doorway with her jaw clenched.

He sighs. "Again?"

Silently, Vevienne enters and sits on a wooden chair across from him. The maester turns to open a small, brown cabinet and pulls out a bag of herbs. He then dumps the herbs into a copper kettle full of water and places it above the fire. He sits on his own rickety chair and continues to tinker with the potion as they wait.

"Would you like to tell me about it?" he asks.

Vevienne shrugs. "Nothing's changed, really."

"Sometimes talking about what ails us makes us feel better," he replies. "It certainly helps your sister feel better."

"You shouldn't ask Avya questions if you don't want her talking your ear off," Vevienne snorts.

"Perhaps you're right," the maester chuckles. The kettle has begun to vibrate, steam spills out of its sides. He holds it carefully, pouring Vevienne's tea into a ceramic cup. "Here you are, my lady. This will ease your nerves."

Vevienne holds the cup with two hands and takes a sip. The tea is boiling hot and burns the tip of her tongue, but the pit in her stomach hurts much worse. She takes a big gulp then, her whole tongue turning sore and raw. Her throat and chest burn, but she knows the physical pain will soon subside. She relaxes.

"Seamus?" she asks. His brows furrow, resenting her informality. "How can you tell the difference between a dream and a vision?" The maester stops. "I mean, Skatha Darktongue– she could see through the eyes of her warhorse– what if I can do the same?"

"Skatha Darktongue could see through the eyes of snakes," Maester Seamus says. "It's how she got her name, you know. She inhabited the body of a snake and poisoned her enemies while they slept."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that," Vevienne scoffs. She knows this better than Seamus does– she's heard all the stories, she's read them all, she's lived them in daydreams. There isn't a single tale told about the great warrior Skatha Darktongue that Vevienne Vaele has not memorized.

"Skatha Darktongue was also a Northerner," Seamus continues, ignoring the interruption. "As all wargs are."

"What if I'm an exception?" Vevienne asks.

"My lady, if you possessed the ability to enter the mind of an animal, I would know about it," Seamus assures. "Besides, your father would've been celebrating it."

"It just doesn't make sense," Vevienne mumbles. "Why then—"

"Perhaps it is the anticipation of your father's return that causes the dreams," the maester says. "You've been having them since he left?" She nods. "Ah. That must be it then— out of fear and nervousness, your sleeping brain creates dangerous scenarios—"

"To do what, exactly? What does that accomplish?"

Maester Seamus shrugs. "Nothing. It is simply a visual manifestation of your apprehension."

"That's stupid."

"It's inconvenient," the maester corrects. A lady shouldn't use such language.

"Well, can't you fix it?" Vevienne asks.

"Once your father returns home safely, the vividness of the dreams will subside," answers the maester. "It will all be remedied with time."

As Vevienne sits in her chair, she sulks over her crippling ordinariness. Her tea calms her nerves, but does nothing to ease her mind.

♱

The weather is always cold and unforgiving in Darkhill. Clouds of charcoal and iron waltz in the sky as symphonies of wind and thunder act as their accompaniment. It's an intricate dance, a delicate one even, something only Darkhill's storm clouds can do. They sing and whisper in a language only they can understand, one that is loud and passionate and destructive.

There is always disaster looming over Darkhill.

But today is unlike any other day. The sun shines on Darkhill for the first time in a fortnight, as it welcomes the return of its liege lord. Vevienne Vaele sits again by the window with a smile on her face as she awaits her father and brother's arrivals.

This has become a routine of hers, sitting by the window and daydreaming. Vevienne sits on top of a mattress nailed to the windowsill, surrounded by piles of pillows, blankets, and books to keep her company. She's had this worry that her father and brother would come home unexpectedly, and she wouldn't be able to greet them immediately upon their return. She sits by the window every morning and evening, and she waits.

For six years, she's been waiting.

Her dearest friend Ceria Frey is waiting beside her, freckled nose buried in a book. Her red hair perfectly captures the sunlight, burning bright like dragon-flame. Ceria's uniqueness makes Vevienne feel even duller than she already does. Vevienne Vaele seamlessly blends in with other Stormlanders, with her dark eyes and square jaw, while Ceria Frey is a delicate beauty. Vevienne is reminded of her insecurity whenever she looks at her friend.

Still, she admires her– after her own mother, Vevienne thinks Ceria is the prettiest girl she's ever seen. Her copper eyelashes make her upturned eyes look larger, emphasizing the green and gold of her irises. The apples of her cheeks are always rosy and perfectly round, and her jawline soft. She is as intricate and magnificent as a painting.

And soon, she will be married off to a rich lord, and her beauty will be his to marvel at. Vevienne can't help but wish she was a man sometimes, so that she could marry her friend and they would never be apart.

Vevienne picks up a pebble from her windowsill and tosses it lightly at Ceria's head. Ceria's lips are pulled into a thin line, copper eyebrows furrowed.

"I'm bored," Vevienne says.

"It was your idea to sit here," Ceria retorts. "Don't you want to wait for your father? And Orwen?"

"I've changed my mind. Come, let's go for a ride," Vevienne insists. Ceria's face is still scrunched up, no doubt displeased that she's unable to continue reading her romance novel. "Etheria keeps going on about how much she misses you."

"I am not riding Etheria," Ceria declares. "Not again, not ever."

Vevienne snorts. "I'm sure she's forgotten all about your little incident!"

"Never again," Ceria reiterates.

Vevienne lets out a huff and crosses her arms as she sinks further into the mattress, pouting. She stops talking and looks out the window instead, while Ceria opens her book once more. But Vevienne's silence doesn't last long.

"But you know–"

Ceria slams her book shut. "Do not try to convince me, Vevi, you'll only make it worse."

"You're stubborn, has anyone ever told you that?"

"And you're incredibly relentless," Ceria retorts. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

Ceria stands and throws her book onto the mattress. Vevienne, grinning devilishly, grabs her friend's hand and drags her through the castle's corridors. They go down the stairs, around the Great Room (so her lady mother doesn't see them, naturally), through the main hall, past the Blood Room, out the kitchen doors, and into the stables. The twin stableboys Adrik and Jon are drinking out of a small, rusty flask and laughing like maniacs.

Vevienne and Ceria are standing in front of them for at least two minutes before Jon elbows his brother in the gut. The two of them stand and bow sloppily, "M'ladies."

"Where is Etheria? Saddle her and bring her to me," Vevienne says, looking around the stables.

"She's not been feeling too well, I'm afraid," Jon says. "Something's wrong with her stomach."

Vevienne frowns, "Is she pregnant?"

"No, m'lady."

"So she's ill," Vevienne concludes, but still raises a brow.

"S'no kind of illness we've ever seen, m'lady," says Adrik.

"Take me to her."

Adrik and Jon bow their heads hastily and lead the two girls through a wooden door and into the back of the stables.

The horses have one large designated sickbed, used for all things from births, physical injuries, cleanings, to deaths . A gray body lay there, still and shrouded in hay. Vevienne kneels beside her, petting her stringy black mane and whispering sweet words. Etheria lets out an exhausted breath, which catches Vevienne by surprise. Tears begin to prick at her eyes but are quickly blinked away.

"Call Seamus. Have him make something for her," Vevienne orders. "She looks like she hasn't eaten in days."

The boys nod, and Adrik rushes off to fetch the maester. Meanwhile Etheria's skin is warm to the touch– feverishly warm. It takes everything in Vevienne not to cry. Etheria is her mother's horse, an engagement gift from Vevienne's father. She's been in the family longer than all three Vaele children, and was like a mother to all the other horses.

Vevienne is still crouched beside Etheria when Maester Seamus enters the stables an hour later. He rushes in, carrying a glass vial filled with orange liquid. He kneels down in Vevienne's place, setting Etheria's head on his lap as he uncaps the vial. Without warning, he opens the horse's mouth and pours the liquid down her throat. She swallows it reluctantly and Vevienne winces– she's tried Seamus's medicines before, and none of them were even remotely decent tasting.

Seamus moves Etheria's head off him and back onto the hay, and stands up. "She should be fine in a couple days," he says to Vevienne. He then turns to the stableboys, "Feed her small meals until she is able to regain her strength. And put an extra bucket of water in her stable, she must drink two everyday."

"Thank you, Seamus," Vevienne sniffs, eyes slightly bloodshot. His reply is a kind smile, a bow, and a quick dismissal.

As the two boys tend to her mother's horse, Vevienne approaches her own. A big, black monster of an equine hidden in the furthermost stable, asleep. His name is Altair, gifted to Vevienne by her father. He's the runt of his litter, born sickly and weak. As a pony he'd contracted a disease that damaged his vision— his eyes had to be carved out of his skull, otherwise the infection would've spread to his brain and killed him.

Now, he is the strongest of them all. Tall and sturdily built, and could run for days before getting exhausted.

Altair has an erratic disposition, unsurprisingly, and is incredibly temperamental. His enclosure is taller than all the others, and its doors are held together by steel locks. He isn't fond of most people, and extremely particular about the horses that accompany him and Vevienne on rides. He tolerates Kalypso, a smaller, gentle white horse with a mane of gold, but will grow agitated around all others. And when he is agitated, he's completely unmanageable.

This is the reason why he and Vevienne were drawn together in the first place. A mutual dislike for people and undeniable petulance.

When Vevienne first approaches his stable, he's alarmed. She announces herself before undoing the locks, and when he's at ease, she enters. She presses her forehead against his, and his breathing slows.

     Altair is by no means patient or able to stand still, so Vevienne must always sing him a song as she prepares him for a ride. His favorite— and only one he likes— is an old Valyrian lullaby that her mother would always sing to Avya. Her voice is barely above a whisper; she brushes his back and sides and moves his hair to the side of his neck. She starts the song over again as she saddles him, and sings gentler when putting the bridle in his mouth.

     "Ready, boy?" Vevienne asks him, and he lets out a whinny.

     When she rides Altair, she's as tall as a grown man. The pair of them make Kalypso and Ceria look like a child and her pony. It certainly feels like it too – while Altair takes long and quick strides, Kalypso's are leisurely, completely relaxed. Even so, she has no trouble keeping up with him.

     The two girls ride through the woods in silence, enjoying the breeze passing between them. The sun is high and shining through the trees; the light feels warm on Vevienne's skin. Darkhill hasn't been this warm since her father left — in fact, it rained for two moons after he'd departed, as if the skies were grieving his absence.

     Vevienne can't wait for him to come home. She thinks about all the stories her father will tell her of the war, and all the battles he's won. He'll tell her stories of the sea and its storms, and of the dragons that flew into them, setting the sky ablaze. Her favorites among all his stories are the ones of his forebears mounting their enemies' heads on their castle's spikes and painting the walls in their blood. Their entrails would be hung on the castle's gates for six days and six nights, both as a celebration and a warning.

     Sometimes, depending on how bad of an enemy they were, their hearts would be cut out of their bodies and eaten. A final, mortifying blow.

     Vevienne's always wondered what it would be like to eat a human heart. She imagines it being hearty and tender, like venison, but much less gamey. An enemy's heart would taste like righteousness, her father tells her, like justice. All things taken in the name of justice are the sweetest– be it vengeance, freedom, or the heart of a dead man. Her father's eaten a heart; he's eaten three, actually, but that's a secret between himself and Vevienne alone. Her mother wouldn't understand, she never does.

     He's probably eaten thousands of hearts now.

     The sheer excitement he and Orwen must be feeling makes Vevienne resent her home. There isn't much fun in sitting beside her mother and younger sister by the fire, embroidering, knitting, sulking. And though she loves Ceria's company, she feels that reading in a meadow everyday is far too understimulating.

     There are times when Vevienne thinks herself more suited to manhood, to adrenaline and exhilaration. The last time she saw her father, she was far too young and weak to hold a sword, but now perhaps he would consider teaching her to wield one.

      Her mother's head would surely explode if she saw steel in Vevienne's hand. She's always commenting on how she wishes Vevienne could be more elegant; to chew with her mouth closed, and to cross her legs when she sits. Vevienne, on the other hand, likes to talk while she eats (she gets bored otherwise), and thinks there is no point in crossing your legs if no one could see them anyway.

      Vevienne has no qualms with femininity, other than finding it irritating when it's forced upon her. It comes naturally to people like her mother and Ceria, who are perfectly poised and perfectly graceful women of perfect breeding. They are everything Vevienne could never be.

     Then again, she is only eleven, so what does she know? She has not even flowered, she cannot yet call herself a woman. Ceria herself had only flowered the previous year, but already Vevienne could see a difference in her face and demeanor. Perhaps Vevienne would grow into her comeliness when she is of age. Maybe when she begins to bleed every month, she will shed the skin of a disagreeable child for that of a fair lady.

     She decides not to think of it any further.

     The two girls soon reach the river Vergremar and dismount their horses, both of whom run towards the water with saliva dripping from their mouths. Vevienne and Ceria sat beside each other in the grass, their dresses growing damp with mud from last night's storm. As Vevienne watches her friend happily humming to herself and plucking flowers out of the ground, she cannot help but remember the girl in her dream.

     The girl who died helpless, alone, and screaming, with no one but Vevienne to mourn her.

     She wonders if the girl is even real, if she's someone from the past or the future. Could there be such a thing as seeing things from beyond your own time? Vevienne has heard such a thing in stories of Skatha Darktongue; strange visions that helped her win her most troublesome battles. But Vevienne is no heroine, she has no war to win and therefore no reason to have such dreams.

     And yet. . .

     "Vevienne?"

     "Hm?"

     "Are you alright?"

      Vevienne looks down at her hands. Her palms are red and dry, crescents dug deep into the center, nearly drawing blood. Her nails and the skin around them are jagged and inflamed. She subconsciously sticks her fingers in her mouth in an attempt to rip off the remaining skin to no avail. Vevienne looks back at Ceria with a sheepish smile on her face.

     "You're nosy," Vevienne snorts, hiding her hands beneath her dress.

     "I'm concerned," Ceria corrects.

     Vevienne sighs, frowning pensively, "Do you ever wish you had magical powers?"

     Ceria looks as though she's holding in a laugh. "Maybe," she replies. "What sort of magical powers? I wouldn't want to be a witch or anything."

     "Like being able to see things that other people can't see," Vevienne says. "Or in ways other people can't see."

     "That sounds an awful lot like a witch to me," teases Ceria, poking Vevienne's side with her finger.

     Vevienne looks over at her horse, lapping up water as if he'd never had a drink in his life. She looks back over at Ceria. "Do you think I could be a witch?"

     "Do you think you could be?"

"I'm not sure," Vevienne hums. "I don't think I'd like to be."

"I don't suppose anyone would be too happy if you were one," Ceria says. "You heard what Septa Juline said about witches. They're evil creatures, more sin than flesh."

     "I think they're misunderstood," Vevienne says with full conviction. Her friend's face sours at this. "Besides, Septa Juline is a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

    "About other things, sure," replies Ceria. "But she's completely right about this."

      Vevienne goes silent, which visibly worries Ceria. "You don't really think–"

     "No," Vevienne says. "I think I've been reading too many stories."

      She lies through her teeth. She thinks her dreams are strange, and not an endearing sort of strange like Altair is, but incredibly abnormal. Ergo, she is abnormal, as she is the one having said dreams. Vevienne hopes that her father might know something about them; she has no one to rely on now but him.

     Vevienne's mind quiets as she lay in the grass, listening to Ceria ramble on about a new pastry recipe she's found, and how she thinks she may be in love with Adrik the stableboy. They stay in the forest until the sun is about to set, basking in warmth and crisp air. And after Ceria finished naming all her and Adrik's future children, they mounted their horses.

     She is sure her father has arrived by now; it's nearly nightfall. Vevienne listens for drums, but hears none– she can hear a shout or a laugh somewhere in the distance, but the voice is too far away to detect whose it is. This doesn't discourage her, however; she assumes that her father may already be inside the castle, embracing her mother and sister or drinking ale.

     But when Vevienne and Ceria arrived at the gates, they were met with silence. It was so quiet, in fact, that Vevienne could hear the blood rush to her ears. The sun has set, and she has yet to see any men or horses. Ceria suggests that they head inside for the night, that maybe Vevienne's father will arrive later that night or on the morrow. But Vevienne has a strange feeling.

     Not long after, a raven arrives with a letter.

A/N: ive been writing and rewriting this chapter for WEEKS now and i think its best to just post it so i don't dwell on it any further!!!! bc im going crazy!!!!!!!!

ANYWAYS just want 2 clarify that i am severely altering the hotd timeline to make the plot fit; the war of the stepstones is now 6 years long instead of 4 & takes place during 106-112 AC! pivotal events in the show, like births/deaths/weddings, are all scrambled up on this lovely little timeline but i promise it'll be easy to keep track of (i did the math so u dont have to<3)

hope u all enjoyed hehe hopefully chapter 2 will be up soooon <33