GROWING STRONG ... j.lannister

chapter seven; periwinkle

He sings slow and sad love songs. Some in the Common Tongue. Some in Valyrian. And yet, throughout it, everyone sits silent, transfixed by the swell of his voice around the room. Some cry. Is it the wine that moves them to tears or the way that he keeps his eyes – like fields of heather scattered across sunlit mountaintops – on a certain Stark woman? Even she has started to cry, silent tears falling over her long eyelashes and down her chin.

Caecilia takes a sip of wine and realises her hand is shaking. She can feel eyes on her. Pretty green eyes that she has grown so used to seeing. Never again. They will be gone from sight forever and she will be forced only to dream of them. Rhaegar's voice is soft and slow and lilting. She finally looks at the member of his Kingsguard sitting just on the outskirts of their circle. Jaime's white cloak is too stiff and he sits too straight. But, his eyes have filled with tears and they are stuck on her.

After the tourney, they will never see one another again.

Her wine tastes suddenly bitter in her throat and she struggles not to spit it out. Rhaegar finishes his singing with a flourishing bow and joins his wife again, grinning from ear to ear. Even when he scatters kisses across her cheek, his eyes stay rooted to the Stark table.

He is setting a dangerous precedent. But, he is their future King. What are they to do but allow him to do what he wishes?

Lyanna wipes the tears harshly from under her eyes. Benjen laughs, loudly, at her, hand slapping across his knee, head thrown back so that scraggly, brown hair falls to the end of his nape. The she-wolf stands, grabs the closest jug of wine, and douses his head in the sticky red liquid so that he is still spluttering through it by the time she storms out of the feast and into the coolness of the night air. He is quick to follow after her, wiping wine from his face, sent by his older brother with a stony glare.

"That was beautiful, was it not?" Lunette uses a napkin to wipe the tears from her eyes. "The music in the Reach is beautiful, of course, but it is nothing like that. It felt like centuries of longing were reaching from silver strings. No?"

Caecilia nods. What more can she say? She has felt longing like that for far too long. The fire that heats below the navel at a single, green-eyed stare. The churning of the stomach at the brushing of fingers. The wild beating of the heart at realising you are in the same room, at the same time, just metres from each other and yet not permitted to be close. Just the thought that at any moment she could be swept away into the madness of thought-consuming love. It makes her sick. Does Trevyr not deserve love like that too? And yet, she can never be the one to give it to him.

"Tarly."

Their heads twist in the direction of the tall, broad-shouldered man standing behind them. Robert Baratheon has his hands on his hips, chest puffed out, stony-faced as he stares down at the trio. Their entire table is staring at them now. What have they done to annoy the Lord of Storm's End? He holds his large hand out towards Trevyr. It is rough with scars from fighting and covered in coarse dark hair.

"Do you drink?"

Trevyr shrugs. "I can." He almost cowers from Robert's overpowering height. He must be over six feet. Trevyr is barely much taller than his wife. "I mean, if you are asking me to drink with you, I will."

Robert laughs, barking like the Starks he spends so much time with.

"Good. Come. Lonmouth and I are playing a game."

"What game?"

"Do not worry. You will enjoy it!"

He takes Trevyr by the arm and sweeps him away from the Tyrells and over to where Richard Lonmouth is setting up tankards of ale for himself, Robert and whichever poor men could be forced into their drinking competition. Lunette giggles as she slides closer to Caecilia.