Chapter Text
Oldtown, 209 AC
Berenece stepped forward, planting the soles of her rough boots firmly into the packed earth of the archery range. Her hands held a weight — no toy. A bow, crudely hewn from yew, but carefully and lovingly polished by her palms until it gleamed gold. She turned her body half-sideways to the target — a shield of planks, sunk into the ground and plastered with straw. Her left hand gripped the handle firmly, wrapped in sinew and a barely-there silk cord with a tiny golden plaque. This bow was her own work. This bow was her only salvation from the sickness that rose in her belly whenever she thought of her last talk with her mother and father.
…"You will be married soon, my dear."
Her mother's voice had been soft as silk, threaded with pride.
"To whom?" The words fell from her numb lips as if she were already on the block.
"Joel Lannister has asked for your hand. I will give my consent soon, daughter. Though he is not the Lord of Casterly Rock, he is a worthy match."
Berenece felt as if a great sword had already fallen on her neck with a dull, wet thud — but her head, for some reason, did not go rolling down the stone steps of her home…
His name was burned into her mind with a white-hot brand, and no matter how she tried to be rid of it, each syllable still stung with a despair that would not loosen its grip.
Joel. Lannister.
Casterly Rock, 199 AC
"Are you deaf, you mad little thing?"
Joel sneered in her face as she jumped and strained to reach his hands, to take back what was hers. But he would not stop. He watched her with satisfaction, openly enjoying the sight of her leaping, tugging at his leather vest, and failing.
"Give it back! It's mine!" Berenece cried, feeling angry tears burn her eyes as her hands clutched at empty air, grasping for the small, handmade bow.
Joel Lannister had plagued her before. Every meeting with him ended in broken toys, pinches and pokes when no one was looking, sometimes a red mark on her cheek or a bloody scrape on her knee. Berenece had always been too small, too thin, too easy a mark for his cruelty.
He laughed, loud and ugly.
"You thought that if you dressed like a boy and cut your hair, they'd let you do men's work?"
Berenece jumped again, with all the strength she had. It felt as if the bow was almost in her hands — but her fingers closed on nothing. Joel raised it higher, watching her with such greedy, hungry pleasure that she wanted to strike him right in his stupid smile.
She blinked the tears away, feeling the insult rise like fire in her throat, mixed with rage — a burning, seething thing that choked her and stole her breath. A sound that was half-sob, half-scream tore from her, and Berenece threw herself at Joel with all the fury in her soul, beating at him wherever she could reach. Like a small, wild thing, she hit and scratched and kicked, trying to repay him for every hurt, every bruise, every broken toy. For one small moment, a flicker of victory blazed inside her.
"Why, you little bitch," Joel snarled, and shoved her hard into the mud.
The fall knocked the breath from her, and for a moment the world swam before her eyes. Fear lanced through her — because even through the haze, she saw the Lannister coming closer. He seized her by the collar and hauled her up. Berenece set her teeth and stared into his eyes, refusing to show fear. She knew he fed on it. She would not give him that.
"So you want to be a boy, do you? Shall I punish you like one?" His voice shook with a thin, trembling rage, and Berenece shut her eyes as pain burst bright and burning on her cheek. She made no sound.
"I know you fear me, little bird. And you should. Keep to your place."
He struck her again, and this time she felt her lip split, the rusty taste of blood welling in her mouth. As if he had grown bored, Joel threw her back to the ground, deigning to give her one last kick to the belly. But Berenece held her split lips tight and did not whimper, though she wanted to cry aloud. Not so much from the pain — she had grown used to that — but from the shame and the hurt.
Her beloved bow lay beside her in the mud, discarded and forgotten, and a small, timid hope stirred in her: perhaps the Lannister would forget it and simply go away.
She was not quick enough to hide her glance. Joel grinned, seeing the toy. His heavy boot came down on the stave, and with a pitiful crack, the bow snapped in two. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the tears at last spill down her cheeks, until the sound of his footsteps faded into nothing.
It cost her something, but Berenece rose. She gathered up the broken bow for reasons she could not name, and ran — ran to the only place where comfort might still be found: the stables.
Oldtown, 209 AC
She took hold of the string. Not with three fingers, as they teach in the capital these days, but the old way — index above the nock, middle and ring below. The Mediterranean draw. So old Lieutenant Torron had taught her. In secret, snatching moments between his watches. At first he had not known her for a lady, and then he had laughed a wheezing laugh, squinting with kind eyes. But he did not stop teaching. He only grumbled that the young ones nowadays forgot all the good old ways — but you, he said, do not forget. Do it right. And she did.
The muscles of her back tensed, strength knotting tight between her shoulders. Her right shoulder drew back, elbow rising. The string bit into the pads of her fingers, threatening to tear the skin, but Berenece held, feeling the wooden belly of the bow creak and groan as it filled with power. The draw grew until the string touched the corner of her lips, and her index finger found the spot beneath her cheekbone — an anchor worn smooth by years of use.
The world stopped. The straw on the target, forty paces distant, blurred to a shapeless smudge. She saw one thing only: the center, a worn place where her morning's work had struck again and again.
She stopped holding.
Her fingers opened, and the string leaped forward, whistling as it cut the air. The heavy grip of the bow jumped in her palm, trying to twist free, but her left hand — taut near to trembling — held it fast and let the power fly into the arrow.
The arrow was gone. Only a flicker of fletching at her cheek.
A dull, heavy thud — thwack! — reached her ears a heartbeat later than she had looked for it. The shaft stood in the straw, dead center, splitting one of the old scars of her morning's shooting. The fletching trembled faintly, shivering the wood.
Berenece stared at the arrow in the target, and with all her heart she wished it were Joel Lannister's head in that center ring. A hole through the skull would put an end to his suit, would it not? She was sure of it. It would help. It would help a great deal.
She let out her breath in a long gust and lowered the bow so sharply it whistled through the air, then kicked a small stone with her toe, as if that might quell the rage inside her. Damn that Lannister — may the void take him.
"You there! What are you about, boy?" Cassian's call cut sharp through her thoughts of blood and vengeance.
"Dreaming of my future husband's demise," she answered, not looking at her elder brother as she drew a worn leather case from her belt and began to wrap the bow with care.
"Gods be good, Reni!" Cassian strode quickly toward her. "I'll never grow used to you wearing a different face. That crop of yours now — you look a proper boy." He smiled, and in the corners of his lips there was something — pride, perhaps, or approval of this small rebellion. He ran his palm over her hair, wound tight and pinned with a ribbon. A clever trick; she and her maid had spent long months learning to bind and hide it, until the motions were swift and sure.
"We found a way with the ribbon," Berenece said, a faint smile touching her own lips. "It will serve me well when I run."
Without another glance at Cassian, she walked toward the target to fetch her arrow, checking it first for cracks. She told herself she must have every shaft for the long road into the unknown. But the truth was, she did not wish her brother to see the fear that glimmered in her eyes at the thought of wedding Joel.
"Reni, do not speak folly! You cannot simply run — it is madness." Cassian kept pace beside her, his voice rough with irritation. But beneath the harsh shell of his words, she felt the restless worry that gnawed at him.
He alone of her brothers — he, the nearest to her in age — understood her. And loved her. Truly. Abelar and Quenton had never troubled themselves much over her; the small attention they gave was not unkind, but it came as snickers and condescending looks. She was only a girl, after all. And such a queer one at that. She would like to see their faces if they ever learned she also played at dressing as a common boy and rubbed shoulders with such as these.
Berenece sighed and crouched by the target, letting a heavy silence fall. She examined the arrow shaft, running her fingers lightly over it, seeking flaws. Cracked, damn it. Good for nothing now. Lieutenant Torron had forbidden her — as sternly as if he had drawn a knife — to cling to cracked arrows. Shoot with one and it would splinter on the string, and who could say it might not fly into your eye? "Who would wed a one-eyed lady, my Lady?" he would chuckle into his beard. Now Berenece wondered whether losing an eye might be worthwhile — perhaps Lannisters had no taste for one-eyed brides? The thought, clearly fevered, throbbed with the panic spreading in her chest.
"And what am I to do, Cass? Bend the knee to fate?" The words came sharp and stinging; the very word "bend" sounded like a foul curse on her tongue. "And then? Wait for him to kill me, or save him the trouble and hang myself with my own hair on my wedding night?"
Cassian looked as if she had struck him. In his warm, hazel eyes was an expression she had never seen before and could not read. She bit her lip in dismay, instantly sorry she had spoken. It was as if she had peeled the skin from her heart and shown him the raw, pitiful truth she had meant to keep hidden.
"Forgive me," she muttered, her fingers digging into the arrow shaft until splinters bit her flesh — as if the arrow were the only thing that held her above the drowning depths of her own terror.
Cassian said nothing. He stood silent, still gazing at her. Berenece still could not read him. And in her mind one thought turned without end: speak, please, do not be silent.
"You know what he is. You have always known. A cruel man, even as a boy. I hear he maims whores for sport. And I — I am his favorite mark." A grim smile slithered across her trembling lips.
"You speak true."
Berenece's head snapped up, staring at her brother. Irritation and mockery rose in her, and she began:
"I know I speak true, all know it—"
"I speak not of what he does to whores," Cassian said, waving a weary hand. "I speak of you. You are right. You must run, if the wedding cannot be stopped."
Berenece could not believe her ears. She gazed at him in wonder — at her brother, who all her life had been the most measured, the most sensible soul she knew. And now he was giving his blessing to her flight, her flight with no plan at all.
"Cass… do you mean it?.." Tears sprang to her eyes, sudden and unexpected, and Berenece was almost certain they came from relief. A strangled sound — half laugh, half sob — escaped her lips. "Seven save us, I feared you would stop me."
"Wait, Reni. I cannot let you run without first doing all I may."
She wiped the tears away, swallowed the knot in her throat, and tilted her head, a question plain upon her face.
"A sennight hence, there is a tournament at Ashford, for the Lord's daughter's name day. Joel will ride. So will Abelar and I. Father and Mother go there to settle the match. But perhaps it may not be settled? I will do all I can to turn Father from this course. And if I cannot… I will help you flee. I swear it by my honor."
"And if they come back here with Joel straight from the tourney? How shall I have time?"
"You will not be in Oldtown." Cassian smiled a crooked smile, as if he had come to the best part of the tale. "You shall ride to Ashford too — as a boy. From there, flight will be easier. You will have some days before our returning—"
Berenece could not contain herself. A wave of love and gratitude flooded her, and she threw her arms about her brother, holding him fast. As she had in childhood, she pressed her brow to his chest — she could reach no higher — and sniffled.
"Thank you, Cass. I love you."
"And I love you, Reni." Cassian held her as tightly. She felt at once warm and safe, the way only an elder brother, ready to dare all for his little sister, could make her feel. In his voice, when he spoke again, there was a longing touched with hopelessness: "Pray to the Seven that I may turn Father's mind."
Berenece nodded, her voice locked in her chest like a caged bird, as a single traitorous tear slid down her cheek when the truth at last struck her: if she fled, she and Cassian would likely never meet again.
Joel. Lannister.
Berenece knew one thing for a certainty: when she loosed an arrow, she could strike a squirrel in the eye at thirty feet. Joel Lannister she could strike in the eye at a thousand.
Casterly Rock, 199 AC
In that vast castle, where Joel Lannister might spring at her from any corner, the stables were her island of safety. Strange to tell, the future brave knight of a proud house was deathly afraid of horses — and the horses, in turn, would have none of him. Horses knew, she thought, whether a man was good or ill.
Berenece loved horses. At home in Oldtown she had her own Star — a dun mare with a mane like straw and a long, narrow face. Berenece groomed her herself, tended her, whispered sweet words, told her secrets, kissed her warm nose.
Now she wept as if her heart would break, her face buried in the mane of a handsome black stallion who snuffled softly, ruffling the short hair at the nape of her neck, as if he understood. She wept for every broken toy, for every shame she had undeservedly suffered at the hands of the young Lannister — a boy himself but a few years older than her, and yet so cruel. The stallion watched her with wise, dark eyes and pushed his nose into her shoulder, letting her hug him and feed him sugar from her palm.
She had heard the stable hands say the stallion's name was Stormwind, and that he belonged to one of the lords come to Casterly Rock for the wedding. She had heard, too, that he was fierce and wild, a man-eater who suffered none but his master near him. The lord even groomed him himself, lest the man-eater trample some hapless groom to death, the Seven forbid. The stable hands laughed, saying what use was such a beast, nothing but trouble. But Berenece would only watch from afar, full of wonder, until one day Joel and his pack of friends cornered her like hounds a hare. The one place she could hide was Stormwind's stall. It told much that she chose to run under the hooves of the fierce horse rather than fall into their hands.
That day she had curled in a ball in the straw, her hands over her ears, trembling lest the stallion attack — or worse, lest the boys burst in. Through the roaring in her ears she heard a great neigh, the thud of a hoof — and then a stream of oaths from one of her tormentors. The voices faded. Only Stormwind's steady breath remained. Nothing else. Berenece opened her eyes a slit and saw with wonder that the stallion had moved away from her, pressed into the corner to avoid stepping on her, and was watching her with one bright, curious eye. She reached out her hand, and he pushed his rough, soft muzzle into her palm — and she was flooded with warmth and safety.
After that, she came to him often. She would chatter of this and that, tell him of her day, how Cassian stole sweets for her from the feast and brought them to her room at night with a merry tale. She even told him the tales, and the stallion seemed almost to listen to the stories of the wedding tourney, of knights fighting bravely. One story she loved above all: the knight who laughed as he charged into the fray, as if he feared neither wounds nor death, and who always won. Berenece cheered for him in secret, with all her heart. The stallion would snort as if in agreement.
This, she was sure, was what true knights should be: protectors of the weak, helpers of the helpless, fearless and bold. And, she thought with a small blush, they should be fair to look upon, with kind smiles. Joel could never be such a knight. He would never sit a horse, never win glory, for he did not deserve it. And besides, his smile was not kind, and he was not fair — though everyone said he was pretty, like all Lannisters with their golden hair.
She whispered this to Stormwind now, sobbing, trembling with tears and rage and shame at her own weakness.
"What are you doing here, little one?"
A voice, surprised, and Berenece spun about — not leaving Stormwind's side, ready to hold him back if he should attack. But the stallion did not attack.
A young man with a thick mane of black, curling hair stared at her in astonishment.
And then Stormwind stepped forward, bumping his head against the man's shoulder, pushing him toward Berenece. The man absently, as if by long habit, reached up to stroke the horse's mane.
Her nose ran, she sniffled, and the tears poured afresh. Perhaps because the stranger's voice was not unkind. Perhaps because of his eyes, which seemed full of warmth. Like the child she was, she hid her face in her hands, smearing mud across her cheeks, and sobbed aloud, hiccuping and wailing. She sank down in the straw and sawdust, found her broken bow, and clutched it to her breast.
"Gods," she heard him whisper, tiredly. A step, two. By the soft rustle of straw she knew he had crouched beside her, and a heavy hand patted her shoulder awkwardly. "What are you crying for, little one?"
She lifted her head and tried to answer, but her teeth chattered and a knot in her throat choked off her voice.
"My bow," she got out at last, wiping her wet cheeks and showing him the shattered remains of her work. He took it curiously, turned it over in his big hands. In his palms it looked like a toy, small and rough.
"Made it yourself, did you?" He nodded, approving. "Good work. Well made." He tilted his head, looking into her eyes as if he expected more.
Berenece gave a weak smile at his praise and sniffled again. She wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"Crying like a girl. Stop it."
"But I am a girl!" She flared up, hurt, and stared at him with all the defiance she could muster.
His eyebrows rose. Then he laughed again, and his laugh was like thunder wrapped in honey. He ruffled her short hair, sparks of mirth in his eyes.
"You would not know it to look at you."
"I cut my hair so I could shoot with the boys, so they would not chase me from the yard," she lifted her chin stubbornly, pressing her lips together, waiting for the mockery.
After she had hacked at her hair with kitchen shears that night, before the wedding feast, her father had shouted so loud the castle shook, and her mother had only stroked what was left of her hair and shaken her head. Her elder brothers — Abelar and Quenton — had not meant unkindness, but they teased and laughed, cracking foolish jokes about how the only girl left in the Hightower was little Tarla. Berenece had bristled like an angry cat, giving back as good as she got.
"And now you are sorry for it? Is that why you weep?"
She scowled at him.
"I am not sorry," she said. In truth, sometimes she was sorry — but only a little. She wanted to explain that it was not about the foolish braid, though that was what had started the trouble with that nasty Lannister. Not that he ever needed a reason. If her braid had been there, he would have found a hundred other excuses. "Now I have no bow. He broke it. And he beat me. He always picks on me, hits me, breaks my things. I cannot fight — I tried…" She hiccuped. "…I tried to hit back, but it only made him angrier."
"Who is this 'he'?" The man's face had grown grave.
"I cannot say. If I tell, he will come in the night and choke me in my sleep. He said he would — me and Tarla. And Tarla is so little, she cannot defend herself…" The tears spilled over again.
She did not see it, but the stranger's face grew dark as a stormcloud rolling in from the sea, promising thunder. She barely heard the whisper that slipped from his lips: "Ought to choke the little beast myself."
Oldtown, 209 AC
Berenece looked from her window and saw that the great shadow of the Hightower had cut across the city like a sword, swallowing the Golden Bridge. The cavalcade would depart in an hour. Her gaze darted about the room, seeking something she might have forgotten. What would she need in the years of wandering ahead? This carved brush? These soft house slippers? Folly.
And yet the thought that she might be seeing these walls for the last time made her sit on the bed, letting her pack fall to the floor. Her maid, Thea — she hoped Thea would be well. Perhaps they would give her to Tarla. Thea would care for the little one, surely. She would not let her forget her runaway sister. And her mother? Her mother would miss her. Her father too, perhaps. Beneath the stern Lord's mask he wore, he loved her. It mattered little that this love had not been enough to save her from the Lannisters' gold, that the true rumors of Joel's cruelty had been weighed and found wanting.
Berenece shook her head, casting off this pity for herself.
All was in readiness. Cassian had paid the maester well to say that the young lady was stricken with a quinsy; none might enter her chambers save himself, for her care, and the maid who brought food and medicine. All others were forbidden, for fear of the contagion. Berenece herself had told the weeping Thea the truth the night before — and Thea, though she wept for her lady, fiercely approved of the flight from the "monster."
"I will do all you ask, my lady. May the Seven keep you! I pray Lord Cassian succeeds, and you come back to us." Thea had dried her eyes and looked at her with such warmth and sorrow that Berenece could not help but embrace her.
"I shall miss you."
Thea only sniffled in answer.
Berenece rose. She took the bow from its stand, her fingertips stroking of themselves the black silk cord with its golden plaque on the grip. With years, the cord had grown into the wood, and the pattern on the plaque had long worn away, leaving only the faintest trace of lines. Even as a little girl, she had always touched it, so as not to forget the knight who had given her this token so long ago. For luck.
Casterly Rock, 199 AC
"If Joel troubles you again, say to him: 'Storm watches over me.'"
"Him?" She pointed at the snorting stallion, and the man laughed aloud, throwing back his head. Berenece, to her surprise, felt herself blush. She did not want to seem foolish before him.
"No, little one, not him. Just say it. The Lannister will understand. Storm watches over you and your sister always. And if he thinks to touch you again — Storm will strike him down — and laugh while doing it. Say the words, just so. Do you mark me?"
"Yes, ser. Thank you."
"Wait. Take this, too. As a token for that bastard, and for any other who might trouble you."
Her mouth fell open. Berenece was not used to such words; this fine new curse was a marvel. Something flickered in the knight's eyes — an expression she could not then read, but which grown she would have known as a man's rueful acceptance of his own folly, and a certain relief that he would not have to mend it.
A moment later he held out a black cord of twisted silk with a golden plaque. Upon it were two spreading branches, or perhaps roots. Berenece had seen such cords on Lord Florent's baldric — he was fond of her and answered her endless questions.
"When you make a new bow, tie this to it. For luck." He winked, sudden and boyish.
Berenece smiled. Her father forbade her to take gifts from strangers, and from men most of all. But at this moment his command flew clean out of her head. She wanted only to make a new bow and try out this luck at once. The man watched her, clearly amused, and Berenece felt a wish to thank him.
"You are a knight — you must have something for luck too." She nodded at her own thought and began to search her pockets. Where was it… She smiled in triumph when she found it. A red satin ribbon, the one her mother had loved to braid in her hair all through her childhood. It looks well with your fair hair, Mother always said. "Here. You may tie it on your lance."
"This is a worthy gift, my lady." He spoke with such sudden gravity that Berenece's cheeks burned. Though his eyes danced. Then, quite unexpectedly, he took her hand and touched his lips to the back of it, as if she were grown!
"Do not speak to me as if I were a lady," she muttered, flustered, thinking of her mother, so elegant and fine, of her Aunt Nerissa, whose every motion was grace. Berenece could never be such a lady. And she did not wish it.
"But you are a lady, are you not?" He smiled. "Even with straw on your face."
She frowned and wiped her burning cheeks on her sleeve, then looked at him with something like pity for his slowness.
"When I am grown, I shall be a knight. I would be a squire — perhaps to you. And you would make me a knight."
"A girl cannot be a knight," he said gently. He was used to girls of her age dreaming of being fine ladies, or princesses rescued from towers. Such girls did not dream of knighthood, and did not cut their hair to steal into the training yard. Her earnestness touched him.
"But why?" She wiped her nose again, looking up at him with the stubbornness of a child demanding an answer to a simple question, heedless of the ways of the world.
"Custom," he said with a shrug. And Berenece, as was proper for a child with a lively mind, was outraged at an answer that was no answer at all, but only a grown-up rule.
"A foolish custom."
"I do not gainsay you. In return, I might wed you when you are grown. Would you like that?"
She looked at him doubtfully, as a merchant might eye a chipped cup. This offer was plainly less to her taste than the other.
"Well enough. But you must let me use your sword. And let me shoot. And bring me red apples and little cakes… no, lemon cakes! Lemon cakes."
He laughed again, head thrown back, as if she had said the finest jest in all the world. Berenece thought suddenly that he laughed more than any man she had ever known. And his laugh was a thing one wished to bottle and open in the dark, before sleep.
"Done, little one."