Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
loc. the red keep, king's landing. 118AC.
Dear Father,
The capital is a wonder and the people here are very kind. Lord Reyne wanted you to know that there are many ravens in the Kingswood, and that his arrows are sharp. I have my own handmayduns called Harra and Elayna. They are lovely girls. Queen Alicent is verry kind and the King has taken mercy on me. Do not worry for your daughter.
Yours faythfully,
Belphie.
Belphoebe watched the parchment be rolled up and sealed with the scarlet wax bud of House Reyne. Maester Orwyle had steady hands as he pressed a thread through his teeth, holding it fast to tie around the raven's leg. He hadn't been the archmaester on the small council—that had been an older man with a greying beard, one she still did not know the name of.
Belphoebe watched it take to the sky with seething envy; she had once been able to take wing like that. She did not even blink until it became a blurry black dot upon the blue noon sky.
"You have superior penmanship," Orwyle praised as they descended from the rookery. Although Reyne had japed about housing her in that very tower, Belphoebe found the space strangely comforting. She liked the birds and their beady eyes, though it saddened her to see them confined to their cages. She had helped pick up some of the dropped feathers whilst Orwyle went about fetching parchment and ink for the letter Lord Reyne wanted her to write. "I do wish the prince took his lessons as diligently as you."
"The prince, maester?" Belphoebe echoed.
"Prince Aegon, child." A short sigh—she was quickly learning that people often followed Aegon's name with some indicator of exasperation.
"Oh. My older brother taught me to write," Belphoebe mumbled.
"Ah, yes. Lord Aelius," Orwyle sighed. "I was sorry to hear of his passing."
He didn't pass, you stupid maester. He was killed. Are you all such cowards you can't even say the word?
"Thank you, maester," was all she muttered.
"If you wish to continue your schooling, I am sure Lord Reyne will be amenable to it," Orwyle suggested as they came to the foot of the stairs. "I school the princes and the princess in penmanship and composition once a week. I could talk to Lord Reyne about allowing you to sit in on these lessons, as a gesture of good faith."
"I... would like that, I think," Belphoebe said, blinking in surprise. She had always liked lessons back at Sunjewel Hall—her favourite had been history and music. She liked learning about the old kings and warriors, dazzled over the long-gone Targaryens and Velaryons. She sang songs about good queen Alysanne, and Vermithor and Silverwing, about Brandon the Builder and the Age of Heroes. She supposed a septa would oversee that sort of stuff here, and mourned privately for her own one, septa Lenmarsh, back in Sunjewel Hall. What would she do with no children to attend to now?
