♱

Chapter Two:
A Childlike Rage

(112 A.C.)

     There is something strange about Elyana Vaele's demeanor when she reads the letter. She, who is often relatively even-tempered, is pacing around the Great Room, paper shaking in her thin and bony fingers. This alone is enough to make Vevienne anxious; she has rarely ever seen her mother so perturbed.

     She watches her mother's face for a hint of emotion; the slightest quiver of her lip, a glint in her eye, any sort of tell. Elyana Vaele hides her nervousness well beneath her cool demeanor, though her hands still tremble. Vevienne's own leg is bouncing uncontrollably, and her teeth are ripping the skin off her fingers to keep calm.

     An hour has passed since the raven arrived. Vevienne can only imagine the horrible things the message contains. Her father is dead. Her brother is dead. Her uncles and cousins are dead. They lost the war, and the monstrous Crabfeeder will undertake their home. Everyone in Darkhill will die. They'll steal Altair and the other horses, perhaps they'll kill them too. Vevienne will be killed and thrown into the river Vergremar. They can't decide if they should behead her or slit her throat.

     No. They'll eat her heart, just as her forebears did to their enemies— a final insult upon the name of House Vaele as it becomes extinct.

      Ceria puts a cold hand on Vevienne's own, squeezing it gently. They watch Vevienne's mother with urgency, as if something terrible would happen if they took their eyes off her. Even with Ceria beside her, Vevienne's thoughts are racing and refuse to be silenced. But then her mother sighs. One simple exhale of relief from Elyana Vaele, and the world is no longer crumbling before them.

     She smiles as if nothing happened.

     "What is it, mama?" Avya asks, pawing at her mother's wool skirts.

     "Never you mind, sweetling," answers her mother warmly, taking the young girl into her arms. "Vevienne, will you ask Miss Adrya what's taking her so long? I'm quite famished."

     Vevienne nods. The smell of Miss Adrya's cooking is so strong that Vevienne walks into the kitchen with her eyes closed, letting her nose guide her. When she opens her eyes, she sees Miss Adrya on a stool bent over a pot half her size, stirring it with a wooden spoon that looks more like a wizard's staff. She doesn't hear Vevienne enter— a testament to her deep concentration, as Vevienne is extremely heavy-footed.

     There are no other servants in the kitchen today, though Vevienne isn't surprised. It only takes two people at most to cook the meals made for her mother, sister, Ceria, and herself. Miss Adrya was the best cook in the Seven Kingdoms, her father would often tell her. He's known her since he was a boy; she, however, had always been an old woman. Miss Adrya is short and stout, with hands blessed by every god there is.

    Vevienne is in awe watching her cook. Her eyes follow Miss Adrya as she sprinkles herbs and spices of every colour into the pot. Bright reds, greens, even purple— all likely hailing from Dorne or further south. The air is so hearty and fragrant that simply breathing it in makes Vevienne feel like she's already eating.

     Her mouth waters and her stomach growls, and she grows impatient. Vevienne clears her throat before speaking, careful not to startle the old woman, "Miss Adrya, when will the meal be ready?"

     Miss Adrya is still startled despite the warning. She jumps a bit, then holds a wrinkly hand over her heart and exhales sharply. "Gods, child, you frightened me."

     "Yes, because I'm so frightening," Vevienne says, a catlike grin on her face. "This smells delicious! Tell me it's venison stew."

     Miss Adrya grins, and dabs away the beads of sweat from her forehead with a dirty handkerchief. She pulls the spoon out of the pot, holding it up to Vevienne's face. The stew burns Vevienne's lips and tongue, but the taste of it is so euphoric that she ignores the pain. "How's that?"

     "You are a gift from the Gods," Vevienne says in astonishment. She opens her mouth again, smiling when Miss Adrya fills it with stew. "Why don't we stay here and eat the whole pot together?"

      "You are so like your father," Miss Adrya chuckled. "What about your lady mother and your sister? And Lady Ceria?"

     Vevienne hums, "You're right. I'll find Ceria and the three of us can share it." Miss Adrya laughs again as she walks towards her chopping board. "You know they won't appreciate it the way I do," Vevienne persuades. Miss Adrya always makes venison stew with Vevienne and her father in mind. While it's their favourite meal, neither Avya nor Vevienne's mother are too fond of it.

     "Dinner will be ready soon," Miss Adrya says. "You ought to go call on your family, my lady."

     With a huff and a couple stomps, Vevienne finds herself back in the Great Room. This time, Ceria is sat beside her mother and sister, and the three of them are absolutely enraptured by the new scarf that Avya's knitted. It's a bright shade of rosy pink— wool gifted to her by their uncle Serion, surely– and even from a distance, Vevienne can see that there is no pattern to it. In fact, it's knitted so sloppily that she wouldn't even realize it's a scarf had no one said so.

     It's always like this with Avya. Pure, unadulterated adoration from everyone she meets— they fawn over every little thing she does. When she took her first steps, everyone in the Stormlands knew of it. When she said her first words, their parents nearly threw a feast. Avya looks pretty in her custom-made silk dresses, and she is sure to grow up to be the most beautiful woman in all the kingdoms. Avya knits an awful scarf, and she is gifted— a master with needle and thread.

     Their mother is Avya's biggest admirer. Mother's sweet little daughter, her youngest child, her babe who can do no wrong. She coddles her to no end, encouraging all her hobbies and endeavors, and always dealing with Avya's childish outbursts with gentleness. Vevienne's never known her mother to be so kind. She isn't a cruel woman, but she always has an air of rancor about her, as though she is perpetually displeased. This displeasure is almost always directed at Vevienne.

     "Miss Adrya says to come to the dining room ," Vevienne says, which tears her mother and Ceria's eyes away from Avya's scarf. The villainy.

     Her mother stands and holds her hand out for Avya to grasp. They whisper as they walk into the hall. Vevienne catches herself scowling, and wipes it off her face before Ceria notices. Ceria, however, is busy fiddling with her skirts and staring mindlessly into the fire.

     "Ceria?" Vevienne asks, pulling her friend out of her trance. "What is it?"

     "Nothing," Ceria says, her soft voice lulled to a whisper. Vevienne is frowning now, which makes Ceria sigh. "It's only that. . . seeing Avya grow up. . . I just miss them."

     Vevienne can't imagine how Avya, of all people, could make Ceria miss being around her siblings. She wants to laugh, but her friend is far too forlorn to appreciate a joke.

     "I can't even remember what they look like," Ceria continues, shaking her head. "I paint them sometimes. Their hair and clothing, I can manage, but I'm never able to picture their faces well enough. It feels as though I've abandoned them."

     Neither Vevienne's father nor Ceria ever speak of how she came to be his ward, so Vevienne knows very little. The only reason she has not questioned it is because she grew fond of Ceria immediately upon her arrival.  And though Vevienne cannot console Ceria as much as she wishes, she hopes Ceria understands that this isn't her fault.

     "I'm sure when father returns, we can talk to him about it," says Vevienne, uncharacteristically sweet. "He wouldn't keep you here forever. Besides, I'm sure your family misses you more than you miss them."

     Ceria laughs, "I doubt that very much."

    "It's true!" Vevienne says. "I can't imagine a day without you, let alone six years."

    Ceria takes her hand and squeezes tight. Vevienne's fingers throb, but she squeezes back. She's ashamed for feeling upset over the prospect of Ceria leaving. What is she meant to do without her only friend, her best friend? Vevienne can see it all now– days full of nothing but boredom and silence, her holed up in her chamber reading the same three books she always does, and sneaking blackberry tarts into her pockets while the castle is asleep.

     But Vevienne says nothing to her friend, who will surely feel guilty if she knows of Vevienne's true feelings. Instead, the two girls share a look— one that only they know the meaning of— and exit into the dining room.

♱

     There is an intricate order to everything in this world. Unspoken rules are set and heavily enforced. The eldest son inherits his father's lands and holdings because he is the eldest son. When he dies, those lands and holdings will be passed onto his eldest son, and then his' after him, even if they do not deserve it. The eldest daughter is forced into a marriage with someone she does not love, in exchange for an increase in her family's wealth or power because she is the eldest daughter. When she has her own daughters, they will have to do the same, even if they do not deserve it.

     This, Vevienne hates. She is a victim of circumstance. She didn't ask to be Lady Vevienne Vaele of Darkhill; she would be just as happy being a nameless girl. Happier, even. Sometimes she dreams of running away and starting a new life, and gladly would do so if she could survive without the comfort of her home and the safety of her family name.

     The world is cruel and unfair, and Vevienne feels useless if she can't do anything about it. She daydreams of a day where she can do whatever she wishes whenever she likes, instead of being bound by antiquated rules created by centuries-old men. But for now, she must do as she is told— which includes sitting at the table with her mother, sister, and friend as they continue to talk about that damned scarf.

     "Really, Avya, I've never seen anything quite like it," Ceria gushes. "I wish I was half as good at knitting as you. You must teach me soon!"

     "Tomorrow?" Avya suggests, looking to her mother for approval.

     "You have lessons with Septa Juline tomorrow," her mother responds, then takes a sip of her wine.

     Avya's cheeks flush red, and her face contorts in the ugliest way. Then, she grunts like an angry dog. "I don't want to go to my lessons!" she exclaims, slamming her knife on the table as she squeals. "They're boring, and Septa Juline is mean!"

     "She isn't wrong," Vevienne snorted. Nobody likes Septa Juline, not even Vevienne's own mother, but even they can admit— the woman is brilliant.

     "Quiet," Vevienne's mother snaps, then turns to Avya. "You may see Ceria once your lessons are over and you've completed your work."

     Avya huffs. Then groans. Then groans another time, exaggerating her breaths and raising her voice for all of Westeros to hear. Vevienne's fingernails dig into her palms to prevent her from screaming at her sister. She waits for the tantrum to subside, but Avya is screaming now, and slamming her knife again and again and again. Their mother attempts to handle it coolly, as she usually does, but she doesn't succeed.

     Vevienne stands so abruptly that her chair nearly falls over. She walks up to her sister and snatches her knife away, then throws it across the room. Vevienne isn't paying attention, she's blinded by rage— the knife has flown out the window, leaving a gigantic hole of shattered glass in its place.

     "Shut up!" Vevienne yells, which makes Avya scream even more. From the corner of her eye, she sees Ceria flinch.

     "Mother!" Avya shrieks, face drowning in tears and snot.

     "Vevienne!" her mother screams angrily. It isn't an undignified sort of scream, like the ones coming from Vevienne and Avya. Elyana Vaele has a commanding presence, and every word uttered from her lips is law. "Now look what you've done."

    Vevienne notices the window now, and can't bring herself to care. She stares at her mother as if nothing has happened.

    "If you'd told her to stop—"

    "You could've hurt someone!" Elyana snaps. "You could've taken your sister's eye out."

     "Better it were her tongue," Vevienne mutters under her breath.

     "What was that?"

     Vevienne looks at her mother defiantly, holding back angry tears. It's as if she's looking in a mirror— they scowl at each other, two wolves fighting for dominance. The air between them is thick with fury, and heat radiates off Vevienne's body like an open flame.

     "Nothing."

    Her mother sits back, shoulders still tense as she reaches for more wine and orders, "Apologize."

    "What?"

    "Now, Vevienne," her mother demands. Avya is still sniffling, wiping her tears away with her skirts.

     "You can't be serious—"

     "Now!" her mother yells, slamming her hand on the table. Vevienne catches Ceria's flinch with both eyes this time.

     Vevienne turns to her little sister. Her baby sister, eyes glassy and bloodshot. Apologies never sound genuine from Vevienne, because she hardly ever means them. She thinks them undignifying and embarrassing, especially if she hasn't done anything wrong. Her father wouldn't make her apologise— he'd send Avya away to her chambers for raising her voice in the first place.

     But her father is not here, and her mother is glowering at her as if she is not her daughter.

     "Sorry," Vevienne mumbles. Her mother is obviously displeased with her lack of eye contact and sincerity, but does not say as much. Avya doesn't care much either, as she has begun complaining about something else entirely.

      And Vevienne is so furious it hurts. The feeling eats at her, it burns her stomach and throat like bile. She's so angry she may just rip her own hair out. Or Avya's. Perhaps both. Her fury gnaws at her insides, making it impossible to sit still. Her heart beats too fast for her blood to keep up, and her vision blurs.

     The room is silent for a moment. The entire castle is silent, save for Vevienne's heavy breathing and Avya sucking the snot back into her nose. It's ominous, the sort of silence that occurs after something bad has happened.

     Or right before.

      At first, Vevienne thinks it's because everyone is reeling from her outburst. Gods know she is— she'll be angry about this for at least another week. She looks at her mother, whose shoulders have since relaxed. They slurp and chew their stew without looking up from their plates.

      Ceria, however, is still timid. She takes smaller bites and washes them down more frequently with drink. Unlike Vevienne, Ceria despises confrontation, and prefers to keep peace rather than disturb it. Vevienne wonders if she could ever behave in such a way, or if her animosity will always get the best of her.

      Even her bites are angry. She chews the meat as if it's offended her personally, and swallows like she's settling a debt. How a simple act like eating can seem like a fight is beyond her. She cannot pretend she isn't bloodthirsty— especially now, as she watches her mother's indifference towards her once again. It has always been this way, yet it will always sting.

      Soon, Vevienne's bowl is empty. Her mother insists on calling Miss Adrya into the dining room to serve more, but Vevienne refuses. She ignores her mother's protests as she walks into the hall, bowl in hand. Her hands are shaking and she thinks she might drop it any minute.

      She stands above the pot of stew in the kitchen and refills her bowl. In this moment, she'd rather die a gruesome, painful death than sit beside her mother. So she flumps on a stool and  hunches over her bowl as she tries to stomach her favorite meal. All she tastes is blood from biting her tongue.

     Vevienne fills her bowl up once more. Before sitting back down, she rummages through all the cabinets until she finds a bottle of her mother's wine. It smells delightful, like honey and pomegranate and summertime. It tastes just as sweet, but it's much stronger than she expects. Still, she takes the bottle back to her stool and drinks.

      The lightheadedness must be a consequence of her drinking— she has no idea how much wine it takes to get drunk, only that she feels much better after downing half the bottle. Vevienne burps and then giggles at it; it's so guttural that she can't believe it came out of her.

     She does know this: alcohol impairs one's senses, rendering them completely useless. She wonders if hallucinations are part of this, because she swears she can hear footsteps coming from down the hall. She tells herself that it's probably one of the servants shuffling about, and relaxes. Vevienne will not have her meal spoiled any further.

     From her seat, Vevienne can see the torches illuminating the stone walls. She's entranced as she watches the flames dance, jumping excitedly in every direction. A smile erupts on her face, eyes wide with wonder. She begins to laugh again until the footsteps interrupt her. They're heavy and shaking the ground, as if commanding her attention. This is not the way her mother walks, full of grace, nor Avya, scattered and whimsical, and least of all Ceria, timid and careful.

     She hears muffled voices now, words too far away to decipher. For a moment, Vevienne forgets that she is in her own home. Everything is unfamiliar— everything but the bowl of stew in front of her.

     And then she hears a laugh.

     A laugh that fills every hall and every room, hearty and full of joy. The sort of laugh that comes from the deepest pits of your stomach, and makes you elongate your vowels because you cannot bear to part with your bliss. The voice wheezes in between laughs like old men tend to do.

      It is as if she's been gripped by the hands of the Warrior himself and torn out of her drunken stupor. Eyes are wide again, only now tears stream down them freely. Vevienne does not hide her shock and happiness when she sees the man in the doorway. Instead, she throws herself off her chair and into his arms.

     "Father!"

     Vevienne's father has a firm grip on her, as if he wishes to never let go. He holds her close to him, so close that she can smell the faintest bit of blood and iron in his hair. His hand, large against the back of her head, holds her steady as she cries. "How I've missed you, little one," he mutters. "Come, let me look at you."

     They pull away, and her father wipes her tears with his meaty thumb. He looks much older than he did when she last saw him. There are more wrinkles on his forehead and in the corners of his eyes, and both his beard and hair are extremely unkempt. He has a new scar, bright red and reaching from the right side of his forehead all the way down to the left side of his chin. His eyes are still the same, though, still icy blue and full of love for her.

     She embraces her father again, too content to say a single word.

     "Look here, Sulvan," a voice chortles. It is her uncle Mavrok, as tall and confident as ever, holding the bottle that Vevienne had drained just minutes before. "She really is your daughter, eh?"

     "'Course she is!" her father laughs heartily, mussing her hair. "Got a stomach of steel, this one!"

     The shadow of her brother appears from behind them, arms crossed in disapproval, "Mother won't be pleased to see her like this."

     "Shut that stupid gob of yours, will you?" her father snaps. "Always got something to say. . . There's nothing wrong with your sister having a bit of wine to celebrate."

     "A bottle isn't 'a bit'."

     "Go greet your mother," her father barks dismissively. "Go on! Away with you!"

     Orwen leaves the kitchen looking annoyed, but Vevienne is too overjoyed by her father's return to care.

     "Pain in my arse," her father mutters, face red. He pinches Vevienne's cheek. "I ought to take you with me next time. Leave him here with the women where he belongs."

     "I'm a woman," Vevienne points out.

     "Yes, but you're my daughter," her father laughs.

     She wonders if he's forgotten about his other daughter, and finds herself hoping he has. In the darkest part of her mind, Vevienne feels ecstatic that someone likes her more than Avya.

     He finally puts her back on the ground so that he may greet his wife. When he exits the kitchen, she sees her uncle and cousin Ellion sitting where she had been before, chugging down ale as if they were dying of thirst.

     Her uncle smiles at her, a glimmer of light catching his blue eyes as he fills another cup and slides it towards her. "Come, have a drink with us, Vevi."

      She sits beside him, holding the cup in both her hands. Ale smells of horse stables and the boys that maintain them. Her nose crinkles in disgust, but she takes a sip anyway. It's more ghastly than she thinks.

     "What was it like?" she asks. "The war?"

     "Terrifying," her uncle says. Vevienne cannot fathom a man as fearsome as Mavrok Vaele being scared of anything.

     He sees the disappointment in her face and continues, "A man who isn't afraid of war is a fool. There is nothing more frightening in this world."

     "Other than marriage," Ellion snorts.

     Mavrok slaps the back of his son's head and howls with laughter, "That's because you don't know how to please a woman!"

     Ellion's face is glowing bright red when he buries it in his cup.

     "My father isn't afraid of war," Vevienne tells her uncle, challenging him.

     "Ah. So either your father is a fool, or I'm a liar."

     Vevienne shakes her head, "I think some people's life's purpose is to fight, and my father is one of them."

     To this, her uncle agrees, "Men like your father, like the Sea Snake and—"

     "Like Skatha Darktongue," Vevienne interrupts. "Men aren't the only ones that fight in wars."

     "You're right, Vevi," her uncle says apologetically. "People like your father and Skatha Darktongue, they live for the thrill of battle. They don't care about death, as long as they've won."

     "But if they're dead, they've already lost."

     "Death may be eternal rest," says Mavrok, "but it isn't an end to anything other than strife." Vevienne nods, but she does not understand. "Our family has always believed that the dead never truly leave us. They're part of us as we are them."

     All this talk of death sends shivers down Vevienne's spine. She looks at her uncle, unphased by it all— he has seen men bleed out on the battlefield, and yet he sits here, luxuriated in his chair and at peace. All the while, Vevienne is tormented by dreams of it. She closes her eyes and sees the girl again, the Stranger's cloak wrapped around her trembling shoulders. Maybe Mavrok would know something about her dreams.

     But today he is smiling, laughing with his son in a way that she imagines he has not done in a long while. She keeps her thoughts to herself.

♱

     Mavrok, Ellion, and Orwen are fast asleep in the Great Room after having fallen victim to six flagons of ale. They look comfortable, snoring like bears beneath their furs. Orwen's more relaxed than Vevienne's ever seen him, head hanging off the back of his cushion and his mouth wide open. She's tempted to put an apple in his mouth for her own amusement, but every so often, he shifts, stirs and chokes on his spit. She should gag him instead.

     She envies their ability to sleep undisturbed. It takes her hours to fall asleep, and she rarely woke up feeling rested. Maester Seamus's teas and concoctions may subdue her pain and dull her overactive senses, but even he could not create a brew strong enough for her to remain asleep for the entire night. Vevienne lies awake in her chambers, staring at the night sky through her window. She makes up a story in an attempt to quiet her other thoughts. The trees are gigantic sea monsters, with large pointy branches as arms. The moon is hidden treasure, the key to ruling the world, and the thing the monsters fight over. The sky is the sea, vast, endless, and deep blue— it'll swallow the monsters when they inevitably kill each other.

      Vevienne longs for such an adventure, for something to take her away, if only for the night. It's a particularly difficult one; her body feels like a prison of flesh, and her fingernails are bloody, digging for an escape. She writhes and thrashes in her bed, unable to make herself comfortable. The room is freezing cold, but her body is as warm as the sun. And there is an indescribable pain in her mouth, it's sharp and leaves her gums throbbing. She presses a hand to her cheek, and it feels like she's on fire.

     She starts to cough and sits up, about to vomit. Her mouth spills blood all over her night clothes, and soon it looks like she has bathed in it. Blood splatters onto her white sheets when she coughs again. It's more violent this time, her whole body convulses like her innards are being pulled. With one final cough, she bites something hard in her mouth, and spits it into her hand. It's her tooth, split in half and bloody. She starts to tear up with worry, raising a hand to her cheek once more.

     Then, another falls out, uncoerced and intact. Another follows shortly after, and now she stares at a handful of her teeth. Her mouth tastes rotten, the way an animal smells after it's been dead and out in the sun for days. She reaches for a glass of water on her bedside table, but it's disappeared. She throws the teeth onto her bed and runs to the door.

     A hoarse croak calls her. A raven sits at her window and stares at her with black, beady eyes. Neither of them break eye contact as Vevienne sits back on her bed. The raven leans in and cocks its head to the left. She can see the tiniest reflection of her in its eyes, but she is not herself. Her hair is not her own, though it looks very similar— still dark and thick, but longer and more luminous. Her eyes look different too, they are not their usual shade of muddled brown. In fact, they are not there at all— all she sees is black holes where her eyes used to be.

    The raven croaks again and makes Vevienne jump. It flies off the windowsill and onto her bed, eyeing the teeth. It sniffs one, then takes it into his mouth and swallows. Now he eats the rest, and Vevienne watches, still horrified. It leaves her only one tooth, and this one is pushed towards her with the tip of its beak.

     The raven is the last thing Vevienne sees before she wakes. Her hair and body are damp with sweat, and she can feel her heart racing. She sticks her fingers in her mouth and lets out a relieved sigh when she feels her teeth still lodged in her gums. She touches the skin of her eyelids and feels her eyes squelch beneath her fingers. There is no blood on her clothes, although she can still taste it lingering. There is no raven at her window, either, only her copy of The Great Warriors of Westeros.

     She knows Seamus is sure to be asleep, so this is her only hope of solace. She leans over and grabs the book, flipping through the pages. Her fingers trace over the drawing of Skatha Darktongue. She had a ferocious sort of beauty— eyes bright green with slits for pupils and a forked tongue, courtesy of her enemy (or lover?) Vaemar Malgaris. Her armour is jet black, like her hair, and streaked with vermilion. She stands at an angle, hand on one hip and a sword in the other, and her foot pressed on the head of a corpse, his brains leaking out from where his eyes used to be.

      Vevienne feels Skatha staring her down, almost disappointed. She is weak and small, crying over things she sees in her mind. She thinks of what her heroine would do— Skatha Darktongue has been said to use her abilities to her advantage. She'd never cower in the shadows like Vevienne is now.

     In her father's stories, he always refers to Skatha as "a fearsome thing to behold"; Vevienne hopes she'll also be referred to as such one day. He speaks of her as if she's a friend, this woman born a century before him. They have this sort of mutual understanding— all warriors do, it's a language that only they speak. When men gather and talk of battle, it is the only time they are truly undivided.

     But Vevienne is not a warrior. She is a child haunted by things she does not understand. She lays her head back onto her pillow, wondering if she will ever be more than she is now.

      Vevienne Vaele does not sleep that night, nor does she ever wish to again.

A/N:   last chapter before the first ever timeskip wooooo!!!! im so excited to get to the next two chapters bc there is a biiiig celebration AND we r so close to seeing aemond !!!!!  lots of new ocs introduced in ch3  that im rly rly rly excited to write bc they are all very dear to my heart<333 plz excuse that this chapter is a humongous filler, i hope it was tolerable nonetheless!!!!!