♱

Chapter Three:
Half Savage and Hardy, and Free

(113 A.C.)

A fortnight before her brother's wedding, Vevienne dreams of blood.

It is as eerie as all her other dreams, but much more vague. She sees nothing but the blood, oozing through cracks in stone walls and pouring down onto the floor. It crawls towards her and pools at her feet, warm and viscous, as if it has a mind of its own.

Maester Seamus assures her that she is only having the dream because she is anxious about her own moonblood. After all, she is twelve now, and rapidly approaching womanhood. She will flower any moment, as her mother is so fond of reminding her. Every mention of such a thing fills Vevienne with overwhelming dread.

Thankfully, Ceria is a never-ending well of information when it comes to womanly matters. She has told Vevienne that drinking the juice of limes will delay her flowering, so Vevienne has made it a routine to eat two whole limes everyday. Now, her father thinks she is only overly fond of limeade and lime pastries, so he arranges for monthly deliveries from Bitterbridge, unknowingly aiding her in her plan.

At this rate, Vevienne will not see a single drop of her own blood until she is ready. Maybe she will never flower at all— she isn't sure that she'll ever be ready.

She shares in her family's joy for Orwen, truly. She's ecstatic— albeit a bit surprised— that he's managed to find someone he actually wants to marry. She's even happier about her mother's gaze being torn away from her and directed towards the wedding instead. But even then, it is difficult for Vevienne to enjoy herself fully when her family members are all winking and whispering about how 'this will be her soon'.

Vevienne does not wish to think about her own marriage. She is far too young to be burdened with the duties of womanhood and, frankly, the prospect of it makes bile bubble in the back of her throat. She does not wish to abandon her family's name or bear children or be a mistress to a castle, no matter how large. She sees marriage as a punishment akin to being thrown into a dungeon. No, all Vevienne wants is to be free to ride and play and read as much as she pleases, and such freedom will only be granted to her at Helgate.

Vevienne is tormented by the thought that she will no longer be living in her own home one day. That, instead of becoming a fearsome warrior, she will be a mother, chained to screaming babes for eternity. Even Skatha Darktongue herself could not tell Vevienne that such a life would be enjoyable— she has seen what motherhood has done to her own mother, and would sooner die than meet that same fate.

Again, Maester Seamus assures her that she will not marry for another four years or so, but that is still not enough time for Vevienne to come to terms with reality. How is she meant to sleep in a stranger's bed when she can hardly find comfort in her own? Sleep is a luxury ill-afforded by most— even highborn ladies, it seems.

So rather than rotting in her chambers when she cannot sleep through the night, Vevienne bides her early mornings outside, often on rides with Altair or wandering the grounds when he is particularly lethargic. She'll pick stray flowers and herbs, keeping them in a journal so that she might study or draw them later when she is bored, or build small houses made of sticks and mud in hopes of trapping a fairy or some strange insects. She is particularly fond of crafting weapons, and though she is no metalsmith by any means, her bow has been looking better and better everyday.

It is just after dawn— the most opportune time to ride, as the sun has only just awoken from its slumber and has not yet had time to warm the land. The birds arise and sing their morning song, perched on thick branches and the gates of the castle, basking in the sun rays that peek through thick clouds. She greets them with a smile, and they call out to her, almost beckoning her towards them.

More birds stand on the roof of the stables, guarding the horses like their own kin. With the stableboys and kennel-master rendered drunk and unconscious every night, Vevienne is grateful for the attentiveness of the birds, and how easy they make it for her and Altair to slip away.

She adjusts her hood with one hand and guides Altair with the other. By the time she mounts him, the air begins to smell like rain. Vevienne pulls her hood over her head and kicks Altair's sides until he begins to run. The harsh blows of wind force her hood down, her curls sticking up in every direction. Spits of raindrops stick to her skin and eyelashes, trailing down her chin and beneath her cloak. She pulls the hood up again and tightens her grip on the reins, pulling Altair left and right and forwards and backwards through the rainwood.

Even from this distance, Vevienne can still see her castle towering over the land, its sharp spikes skewering the clouds. The iron gates stand tall and fearsome, glistening with stormwater. Lightning is almost afraid to strike it, avoiding the blood-streaked towers and attacking the trees beside them instead. The rumbles of thunder shake the land and the skies themselves, but Helgate remains calm and unyielding.

Vevienne heads deeper into the forest and Altair slows, treading carefully. She has heard many a tale of the rainwood– both factual accounts from Septa Juline and epic legends from her father– but both agree that one should be careful when entering it. There is a path between the trees that cannot be strayed from, they warn, and if one were to find themselves lost in such a place, then they might never escape.

Her eyes watch for her and Altair's safety; she guides him away from fallen branches and sharp bushels, and towards the muddy path. When she looks down and squints, she can see hoofprints in the ground. A curious thing, as the past night's rainstorm surely would've washed all imprints away.

They approach more carefully now. Altair's breaths are few and quiet, as Vevienne's nerves and his own become one. She presses a hand to his neck, a gentle gesture of reassurance; he huffs and walks on. She can see the bright-colored leaves in the distance, glimmering with dewdrops. Between all the shades of green, they stand out as vibrant as a wine stain on fabric. As Vevienne nears the tree, she can see its bone-white branches and the face carved into its trunk. The eyes are as red as its leaves, dripping sap like tears.

Kneeling before the heart tree is the silhouette of a man, head lowered in silent prayer. Vevienne is still far enough to remain unheard— she dismounts Altair and ties his reins to a nearby tree. She lulls him to his quietest possible state before parting from him, concealing herself within the shadows of the trees. The wind blows again, rustling the leaves and leaving her hair cool to the touch.

Vevienne watches the man as her nails are ground between her teeth. He sits still, with his hands on his knees, holding himself steady as his lips utter things only he can hear. He doesn't look so old from this angle, though all Vevienne can really see of his face is the stubble crowded around his chin and lips, and the long, black tufts of hair that fall on either side of it. His sword is sheathed and at his side, handle trembling before the old gods and their forest.

She does not feel frightened by the stranger, though she knows she should. She's heard what men like doing to little girls– it is how Vevienne discovered there are things worse than death. It is one of the many reasons why she thinks girls ought to be taught how to wield weapons.

Vevienne does the wise thing by lingering in the shadows, but draws nearer. Carefully, avoiding stray twigs and fallen leaves, she is close enough to see the other side of the man's face. Indeed, it is riddled with stubble, both black and white speckled like salt and pepper. His brows are thick, but not so much so that he looks perpetually angry. Beneath them are closed eyelids guarded by long and delicate eyelashes, slightly softening the rest of his features.

The man shifts suddenly, lifting his head to look up at the face in the tree. He smiles almost bitterly and pulls out a dagger from his belt, carving something into the mud beside him.

Vevienne feels a light tug at the bottom of her dress. At first she thinks it a trick of the wind, but when she hears shrill mewling, she dips her head and sees a kitten covered in dirt. She bends down, holding her finger to her lip as if it'd understand and obey her command. Vevienne tries to shoo it away, but it continues its wailing, tripping over its own feet and tail. And although she feels sorry for the kitten, she does not know what'll happen to her if the man she's been spying on is anything but friendly.

She has never dealt with an animal this small. She has tended to calves and foals, but never a kitten. It's much smaller than she assumed it'd be, with tiny, pointy ears that stick up as straight as needles and bedraggled fur. Beneath the grime and filth on its face are two bulging red eyes that shake like gooseberry jelly. Vevienne holds the kitten up with the tips of her fingers and places it in one of the folds of her cloak. Within seconds, it calms and falls fast asleep in her lap, as if it'd been there all along.

A twig snaps and she turns to see that the man is no longer kneeling before the tree, but standing behind her, dagger in hand. She crawls away from him, stumbling until her back is against a tree.

He bends down, pointing at the kitten with his dagger. "Seems like she likes you."

Vevienne stares, eyes dark beneath her hood.

"Do not be frightened," he tells her. The man sheathes his dagger, and holds up his two hands.

"Do not tell me how to feel."

"Very well," he says, smiling in amusement. "Be frightened if you wish."

With her free hand, Vevienne looks for a weapon should he dare to come any closer. A stick will not do, but her fingers brush against a rock sharpened to a point. She palms it, and looks at the man with defiance.

"I'm not."

He smiles. He keeps his distance from Vevienne, standing as still as the trees that surround them. His eyes seem kind at this length.

"I heard your horse the moment you'd arrived," he confesses. "And your footsteps aren't so quiet either."

"You didn't act like you'd heard us."

"I was in the middle of a prayer."

"There isn't another forest you could pray in?"

He looks at her softly and holds a hand over his heart. "Ah, but I've come all this way to pray in the beautiful godswood of Darkhill," he says. "Forgive me, I am Ammett Dondarrion, a good friend of Lord Sulvan Vaele."

"I've never heard of you," Vevienne scoffs.

"Then I shall add this to my long list of grievances." He laughs wryly.

"Have I done something to amuse you, Lord Dondarrion?"

He raises a brow, lips still upturned. "It's ser."

"Do I amuse you, Ser Emmett?"

"Ammett."

"Yes, yes, it's all the same."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady. . ."

"Vevienne," she answers, hostility in her voice. "Vevienne Vaele."

"Of course. My apologies, Lady Vevienne," he says, bowing his head. "You are just as your father described."

"Yes, well, I'm pleased to know my father isn't a liar."

He clicks his tongue and rubs his hands together in preparation to stand. Vevienne watches his hands carefully, as though he might reach for his sword at any moment.

He points at the kitten. "Have you given her a name?"

"I've only just found her," Vevienne says. "I wonder where her mother's gone."

"If she's alone at this hour, then her mother is probably dead."

Vevienne backs away, holds the kitten in her hands, and looks at him as if he'd cursed her whole bloodline.

"It is not an uncommon thing, my lady," he assures. "It only means that she'll be in need of a new home."

She looks at the kitten, the tiny, helpless thing, trembling in her fingertips.

"Mother would be furious. . ." she mumbles to herself. Her mother's head would roll off her own body, shouting about the diseases it'd bring, the filth tracked into their home. The thought of it makes Vevienne want to howl with laughter.

"Then perhaps I should—"

"I'll keep her," Vevienne decides.

The corner of Ammett's eyes wrinkle as he smiles, and it settles Vevienne's nerves. His eyes look dark in the light of the rising sun, but she can see the faintest tint of blue, like the Vergremar river at night.

"Shall I escort you back to the castle, my lady?"

She looks back at the heart tree, its frozen face calling to her. The godswood ignites this feeling of ease within her, one of belonging and comfort. Her conscience keeps her from returning often, otherwise the guilt will gnaw at her relentlessly. She cannot forsake the gods of her family, and yet she is loath to call those gods her own.

"No, Ser Ammett, I need to pray still."

"Very well," he replies, dipping his head. "I shall see you at the festivities later this evening, then."

She musters a small smile, and nods back. "Good day, Ser Ammett."

Vevienne watches Ammett Dondarrion turn and mount his horse. She watches their figures grow smaller and smaller in the distance. The air around her is thick with fog, blanketing the sky and swallowing the tips of the trees. It smells like rain still, a bittersweet scent that'll linger on her cloak for the rest of the day.

She clasps her hands together and looks down at her knees in prayer. First, she prays for Orwen to have a happy marriage, for him to have lots of children and for him to treat his wife well. Then she prays for the health of her family, Ceria, and Altair; she asks the gods that they will protect them from all harm. Finally, she prays for an end to her suffering, for the dreams to stop, for her to sleep through the night again. Her hands are clenched so tight that her knuckles turn white.

If the Seven won't heed her prayer, then perhaps the Old Gods will.

A raven lands on the branch of a neighboring tree. Vevienne feels its eyes on her; its head cocks to the left when she meets its gaze. It lets out a low, guttural croak. It looks like a raven Vevienne had seen before in a dream– though, she supposes every raven would look this way.

She tries to look away, but another raven comes to sit beside it, fanning its tail feathers. Two more sit on either side of them, croaking together like a choir. More join in until the branches are covered in black birds, staring down at Vevienne.

Maybe this is a dream too.

Vevienne looks down at her fingers and sees that her nails are still bitten down and jagged. She turns and finds Altair still tied to the trunk of a tree, pacing in place. Her hand reaches up to feel her hair, which is still thick and curly and her own. The only thing that is different is the kitten in her lap, sound asleep. She is herself, and so this cannot be a dream. She repeats this over and over again– she is herself, she is in her own body, and she is safe. Or maybe this is a trick of the mind as well.

Vevienne Vaele is far too young to go mad, but she fears that it may be inevitable. Any previous feeling of comfort has now been overshadowed by the watchful eyes of the ravens, who glare at her like she is an intruder. She is not welcome here, she never has been.

She bows her head as a final sign of respect to any god that may hear her, then approaches Altair. She coaxes him out of his panicked state with the Valyrian lullaby he so loves, then mounts him after he has calmed. They walk the path that Ammett and his horse had not long before, only this time, Vevienne feels as though she has left something behind.

The ride back to the castle is silent, save for the mewling of her new pet and Altair's footsteps wading through the woods. Vevienne takes one final look at the godswood, the vermilion leaves and the willowy trunks that hold them steady. And when her eyes meet those of the heart tree, she swears she can see it frowning at her.

♱

A raven cuts through the clouds, croaking shrilly as it flies above Vevienne's head. She stares at it with narrowed eyes as it settles on a fence, gawking at her. She approaches it slowly, undoing the mud-colored twine around its leg and taking the scroll. It croaks again, then flies back into the clouds, as if it were never there to begin with.

Vevienne looks down at the letter and runs a finger over the seal, red and regal with a three-headed dragon imprinted into the wax— the sigil of House Targaryen. She wonders if the ferocious expressions on the dragon's faces have anything to do with the news being delivered. Perhaps it is something about the war her father had only just returned from. Maybe a new war is looming and he will need to leave to fight again. Maybe the Crown needs assistance from her house. Or maybe they don't need anything at all, and they're just offering their congratulations on the future heir of Darkhill's impending marriage.

She cannot help herself; she digs a fingernail beneath the wax seal, trying to part it from the paper as discreetly as possible. She ought to deliver it to her father, the person the letter was so obviously intended for, but Vevienne's curiosity and nerves will eat at her forever if she doesn't read it herself. So she rips the seal right off instead.

Her eyes scan the message carefully, delicately written in pristine, kingly strokes. She reads it once, twice, then all over again, focusing on "Lord Sulvan" and "Master of War" and "King's Landing".

"Vevienne!" a voice calls from behind her, startling her half to death. She turns quickly, hiding the letter beneath her cloak.

"Seamus." She lets out a breath of relief. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," the maester replies as he approaches, a basket hanging on his forearm. "Where have you been all morning? Your lord father's been looking for you."

The letter is growing wet and warm in her sweaty palms and she is sure the ink will begin to fade anytime now.

"Has he? What for?"

"He's gone off to prepare the tents with your brother and uncles. He thought you'd want to join," he says. "Unless you'd rather stay with your mother."

Vevienne stifles a snort, and he nods, already knowing what her answer will be.

"Where is Ceria?" she asks. "I want her to accompany me on the hunt."

"I'm afraid I haven't seen Lady Ceria since the night before last," Seamus says. His lips press together in a thin line. His eyes rake over her body in concern, his grip on his basket tightening. "Are you alright?"

"Of course I am," Vevienne says, as if he'd done something to offend her.

"You will forgive my saying so, my lady, but you do not look well."

"That is very kind, Seamus, thank you," Vevienne scoffs. "Do you remember where you last saw Ceria? I need to speak to her about something urgent."

He steps forward to examine her more closely. The note is completely damp now, and crumpled in her heavy hands. She jerks back before his hand can come into contact with her skin.

Maester Seamus looks at her, eyes still unsure and full of worry. Vevienne musters the energy for one final smile, and he finally relents.

"I will find her," Seamus says. "I will find her and send her to you, but you must go join your father now. Otherwise he'll skin me and have innards for dinner." His smile is sardonic. "Or so he says."

With a final bow of her head, Vevienne bolts, legs carrying her faster than Altair or any other animal ever could. When she is inside the castle, huddled in a corner lit only by a small candle, she opens the letter once more.

At first she thinks she might've hallucinated the words. She flattens the paper against her knee, hoping that maybe she'd be able to read it again, but it is too late. The ink is smeared into abstract lines and blurry writing, but she can still make out the words she'd lingered on before. Lord Sulvan. Master of War. King's Landing.

She looks around the room and listens for footprints. Once it is silent, she grabs the candle and holds the letter above its flame. If her father does not see the letter, then he has no cause to leave— and if the king was so bold as to send any more ravens, she will burn their messages as well. She's only just gotten him back; there is no one entitled to her father's presence except herself.

Vevienne rubs her sweaty palms against her skirt and stands. The halls are alive with the scurries and hurried speech of servants, rushing to make the castle ready in time for the festivities.

They have already done a great deal. The castle is dressed up in banners of cobalt blue and blood red– the colors of the houses Florent and Vaele respectively. Shining ribbons of silver are hung from the ceiling, sparkling like so many shooting stars. Wreaths of flowers wrapped in red, blue, and silver ribbon are hung on every door, and the beds inside are made up with new furs and the fluffiest of pillows. By the time they've hung up the last of the decorations, Helgate has completely lost its menacing atmosphere.

All to make Vevienne's home more digestible for their guests. But if they cannot digest it, then why should they be allowed in to begin with?

Being surrounded by this many colors at once makes Vevienne's stomach churn. How nauseating it is, to share her sacred space with people she does not care for. She misses the torches made of bone, the mounted heads of animals on the wall, and the way she could feel strange things lurking in the shadows of every corner. Now, everything is bright and cheerful and perfectly fit for a wedding.

Vevienne kicks the ashes of the letter away and slips out of the castle once more. Random horses and men wander the grounds, helping themselves to the food and beverage laid out for them on a long table. Miss Adrya scampers between them, eager to greet the servants of her guests and fill their bellies with delicious morsels.

When Vevienne slips past them, they all bow their heads in unison, and she can't help but laugh. All that separates herself from them is her name and yet they act as though they revere her. Such respect should be earned, she thinks, not given out to any simpleton with a castle. Her father has earned it, and her uncles too— even her mother has— but Vevienne has done nothing to deserve it.

But she will. Someone must uphold Skatha Darktongue's legacy, after all.

On her walk to the Vergremar River, she daydreams of how she will feel when she has finally made her heroine proud. She will one day be a worthy subject of many songs and stories, ones people will sing and tell for generations to come. She and her strong warhorse Altair, and her giant sword and glimmering armour. She and her blood-stained hands that no longer tremble.

It all starts here, today, with the first hunt she has ever been on.

She sees the river before her, glistening like diamonds beneath the sunlight. Even more noticeable than the river is the giant tent positioned in front of it, made of bright red fabric and held up by wooden poles as long as fully-grown trees. The tent is composed of three compartments furnished in black and brown furs and cushions, and an endless table that runs through them all, filled with all sorts of food and drink.

Vevienne's pace hastens as she sees a figure in the distance, waving at her. She squints and sees her father, hair braided away from his face, grinning like a madman.

"Vevi!" her father shouts, drawing nearer. "There you are!" His hand reaches to muss her hair."Tell me, do you think it's bad luck to kill a man during a wedding?"

Vevienne shrugs, "It wouldn't be worse than killing him any other day."

"Right you are!" her father laughs heartily. "Now, your brother would disagree. His heart's too soft for all that. I couldn't have him swooning in front of the other men, could I?"

"He could benefit from some humility," Vevienne hums.

"Wise girl," her father says, squeezing her shoulder. "Are you well? You haven't eaten, have you?"

"I haven't the stomach for it."

"Ah, worry not. Your appetite will grow something fierce during the hunt," he tells her. He claps her on the back gently and grins. "I have something for you."

He smiles wide, like a child biting back a secret. He digs through his pockets, the ones in his trousers, shirt, and cloak. As he pats himself down, a string of curses fall from his lips as freely as the waters of the river before them. Vevienne looks at her father in awe as he presents her gift to her.

It is a dagger, a tiny thing in her father's thick palms, but perfect for her own, and buried in a gilded black and red scabbard. The handle is lined with small jewels, glowing brilliant red and silver in the sunlight. When Vevienne unsheathes it, the blade is sharpened to a point and glimmering.

"She's made of Valyrian steel," her father says.

Vevienne's eyes are so wide they might pop out of her head. "Like Skatha Darktongue's sword?"

Her father's head inclines, a devilish grin on his lips.

Tears prick at her eyes as Vevienne jumps into his arms. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaims. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She pulls away and admires her new weapon. "I will use it everyday, Father, I promise. I'll never let go of it."

"I should hope so," he says. "But remember, Vevi, it's not some plaything. She could easily take someone's eye out, so you've got to wield her carefully." She nods. "Such is the responsibility of a warrior."

A warrior. The word sends chills over every inch of skin on her body. Vevienne Vaele, a warrior. Vevienne Vaele, the wielder of a weapon– and one of Valyrian steel, no less. It does not matter that she doesn't know how to use it, she will learn. She will learn and be just like Skatha and her father– perhaps even greater.

With her father's arm around her shoulder, Vevienne walks towards the tents. Her aunts and uncles, her mother and cousins, her brother and sister, they're all wrapped up in conversation and drink to pay her any mind. She stands beside her father silently while he speaks, riling them up like they are to ride off into battle.

At the far end of the table, she sees Ammett Dondarrion with his arms crossed and his sword laid out before him. He does not smile until his eyes meet Vevienne's, but even then, his lips only quiver so slightly. He seems to hate the noise more than she does.

Vevienne's father sends her cousins Ellion and Mateo off to bury a bottle of Tyroshi rum– a tradition that all her ancestors have partook in. Once the beast has been slain and eaten, they will all enjoy the rum together. All the while, the remaining hunters finish sharpening their blades and arrows, then let out whoops of excitement. They move like a wave, synchronized footsteps and laughing in unison.

Vevienne leads the charge with her brother and father on either side of her, weapons unsheathed. Her father's hound Ebras is prowling beside them, sniffing the path. She emulates their strong postures, her head high and shoulders straight. Surely she must look as confident as they do now, with her eyes looking only forward.

The forest is less eerie with the company of others. Her uncles and cousins spread out, but they avoid the godswood the same. All who remain in the heart of the forest are Vevienne, Orwen, and their father– weapons at the ready in determined hands. Vevienne has no hopes of slaying a beast any larger than a squirrel with her dagger alone, but she holds it fiercely.

Orwen bends down to examine the dirt road with Ebras beside him, his nose covered in mud. Vevienne recognizes the scattered hoofprints of Altair and her blood freezes.

"Someone rode into the godswood," Orwen says. "It couldn't have been earlier than today, father, look at the path."

Their father grumbles as he bends over.

"Are we here to hunt or to pray?" Vevienne asks quickly. "Whoever it was, they'll have heard us and run away by now."

"She's right," her father agrees. "Though you may go if you wish, Orwen. And take Ebras with you." Orwen nods, and once he is out of earshot, their father mutters, "Gods know you'll bloody need him."

A bush only twenty paces away rustles. Vevienne's father's grip on his broadsword tightens as he motions for her to follow him. Together they approach the bush slowly, careful to be as silent as two stocky Stormlanders could ever be. And only when they are five paces away does the bush rustle again.

"'Twas only a rabbit!" he yells, frustrated.

"Father, look!" Vevienne exclaims, pointing between the trees. There, beneath glimmering sunlight, stands a stag with antlers as big as the branches of banyan trees.

Her father reaches behind his back and groans, "Ach! Your twat brother's gone and took the arrows."

"We'll manage without them, won't we?" Vevienne asks. Her father nods, and the two of them approach.

The stag's large black eyes scan the forest, and Vevienne does not know how it hasn't seen nor heard herself and her father. Their steps have become less graceful as they grow hungrier and more impatient. Their strides are long and quick– though stealth has never been her father's strong suit, he wills it to be so today. Ritual sacrifice is a thing that must be done meticulously, after all. The pommel of his sword is raised in his mighty fist as he approaches the stag from behind.

Before he can strike it, an arrow flies from the other direction, piercing the stag's heart.

"Ammett!" her father yells and curses as the man walks towards them. "That was my kill."

"The meat will be sweeter if it isn't imbued with fear," he says, patting the fallen stag's side.

"You know as well as I what the tradition entails," her father says sternly.

"I am sorry, Sulvan, truly," Ammett says. "I only mean that I did not wish to see the animal in pain."

Vevienne knows her father does not see it this way. The stag is meant to be an offering to the gods, to bless the marriage of the newlyweds and give them health. It is meant to be sacrificed with intent and goodwill, and such can only be done if the animal is not aware of its fate. And now a stranger has murdered it.

"Dead is dead."

Vevienne's father binds the legs of the stag together with rope as thick as his wrists, and hauls it back to the tent. There, the remainder of her family have created a circle of stones in the grass in preparation for the sacrifice. The stag twitches as it's dragged through the earth, eyes open wide, and Vevienne can see her father's face twist ever so slightly.

As they edge closer to the altar, her father stops to untie the stag. Though the beast is just barely smaller than his own son, he carries it in his arms and slits its throat, blood spilling all over the stones. Her aunt's shrill squeal would've startled her if she weren't entranced by the blood. Vevienne can't remember the last time she's seen this much of it— perhaps it was the time she'd fallen off Altair and cut her thigh wide open.

The stag falls into the center of the circle, completely lifeless. Everyone is silent as Vevienne's father prays to the Warrior and the Mother. Vevienne is hypnotized by the carcass, she cannot look away. She watches as the blades of grass glow dark red, as if the seasons are changing before her eyes.

She can feel her mother's presence beside her, wrapped in her usual air of discomfort. Her fingers are laced tightly together and guarding her womb like a shield. While her mother is silent, her aunt is overcome– her sobs are muffled by her husband's arms, which barely keep her from collapsing.

Sulvan Vaele concludes his prayer and pats the stag's side as a final send off before it is to be cooked and eaten. The offering is dragged away by Vevienne's uncles, leaving a trail of blood behind it.

Vevienne cannot help herself, and bends down to touch the blood. It feels as warm and thick as it is in her dreams.

In the red puddle, she sees her reflection. Tired eyes, face pallid and swollen. She looks like she has not slept in years, a walking cadaver created by her own design.

There will never be peace for Vevienne Vaele.

A/N:      AND WE ARE BACK !!!!!! first slaughterhouse update of 2023 woohooooo!!🎉🥳🍾🍾🍾🍾  this is funny bc there's been a one year timeskip between ch2 and 3 lollll life imitates art ig😩😩😩 anyway i have rewritten this chapter a total of like 8 times and i promise i've been writing since december and then didn't open this draft till like a week ago and i finally got around to editing it TN! but i do lowkey hate it so i'm sorry if there r mistakes and for overall suckage but guess what.    aemond is finally in the next chapter SO ❗️❗️❗️❗️❗️

also the first of my long long loooooong list of ocs has finally appeared,,, mr ammett dondarrion 🥳🍾🍾🍾  i need him for smth later on in the story but i just rly wanted to write a sexy middle aged man bc dilfs are fun!!!! anyway i hope u all enjoyed reading this n it wasn't too boring lololol trust chapter 4 will (hopefully) make up for it🤞🏼