three. the godswood
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?
Orwyle bowed his head. "I shall talk to Lord Reyne about it. And failing that, the Queen. She seems to have taken a liking to you, child."
Belphoebe did not know what to say to this—Queen Alicent did seem kind, but it was a struggle to think that anyone in this strange place could truly like her, or that she could truly like them.
At the foot of the stairs, her two guards met her. They were nameless, faceless lackeys from Lord Reyne's personal guard; two of them stood post around her twenty-four hours a day. He even had them flanking the door to her chambers whilst she slept. Orwyle inclined his head respectfully to them as Belphoebe stared at the ground. All she could see of either of them was their eyes behind their visors; one had brown and the other blue.
"Alright, little raven?" japed the one with blue eyes, leaning against the wall. "Must've felt right at home up there, eh?"
His brown-eyed counterpart shook his head. "Lay it to rest, you fool. Speak with some respect."
"Why?" sneered the first. "She's nothing but a lost birdie."
"She is a lady," the second said sharply. "Mind your station. We're here to protect her, not mock."
"Think Lord Reyne cares?" scoffed the blue-eyed soldier, but he turned his head away with a sigh. "C'mon then, little lady. Reyne wants you back in your room quick as possible."
Belphoebe's eyes widened. She couldn't stand the thought of being shut up in that tower again with only her handmaidens for occasional company. "I—I wanted to go..." She cast her mind around quickly for something to say. "To the godswood."
"Don't matter what you want, does it?" the blue-eyed knight sighed. "We got our orders."
"I have to dissent, ser Geryrd," Maester Orwyle frowned. "The child has a right to pray."
The brown-eyed guard stood up a little straighter. "It is an impudence, to be sure... why don't you relieve yourself of your station early, Geryrd? I would be happy to escort the child to the godswood and back to her quarters afterward."
"You're a bleeding heart, Dontar," ser Geryrd sighed. "But fine. Make sure you get her back before them handmaids show up, else we'll both get our ears boxed." With that, he rolled his shoulders and took off down the hallway. Belphoebe blinked up at her brown-eyed knight, ser Dontar. When he caught her staring, she thought the skin around his eyes crinkled as though in a smile.
"Come along, Lady Wytherhall," he said courteously. "The godswood isn't far."
The relief that Belphoebe felt at this extra hour of freedom was such that she practically skipped along the knight's side. "Thank you very much, ser Dontar," she babbled as he led her down the corridor.
Her knight chuckled. "You're quite welcome. You know, I..." he trailed off uncertainly, and she saw his eyes flicker about the abandoned space in a nervous staccato. "My own family comes from Sunbloom. We're not a noble house—my father was a smith. Still. The Wytherhalls are decent folk. I was... upset, to hear of what happened." He took a deep breath. "You may not realise it, but you have friends at court, my Lady."
Belphoebe felt her throat tighten. The notion seemed so impossible, and yet here ser Dontar was in the flesh. "You—you are a true knight, ser Dontar."
He laughed somewhat breathlessly. "My lady is too kind. Here—pray a while."
They had arrived at the godswood—a wide but enclosed space. There was a wooden veranda shrouded in wisps of wisteria and ivy over a painted wall—and in the centre among the smaller trees, a great white twisted trunk with scarlet leaves like bloody handprints. Belphoebe stared at it, disquieted—and then at the face that took shape out of the knotted white bark, staring out at her with bleeding eyes, its gnarled mouth a grim smile.
"A weirwood tree, my Lady," ser Dontar muttered. "One of the few left outside the North. You'll find an oak heart tree by the eastern wall if you want to pray to the Seven."
Instead, Belphoebe walked around, circling the flowers and plants. Several of them she had no name for—only a few sorts grew in Sunbloom, for their soil was tough and salted from the mines that ran like veins beneath it. The plants that took root were usually coarse and devoid of pretty flowers, so these wondrous blooms robbed her momentarily of breath. Even the weirwood had an eerie sort of beauty, she supposed—though only when she couldn't see that ghastly face etched into the bark.
Some fifteen minutes into her exploration, as Belphoebe was kneeling beside a bush cascading with scarlet blooms, there was a small commotion from the entrance. There was a woman lingering, someone she did not immediately recognise—but the sheet of silvery-blonde hair did not leave her reeling in ignorance for long. In her arms she held a small child, a boy of perhaps two or three with a head of dark curls, and behind her trailed another, slightly older.
Ser Dontar drew himself up to his full height and bowed his head. "Princess."
Princess Rhaenyra smiled; Belphoebe saw her violet eyes come alight with it. She was truly beautiful—the sort of woman they sang songs about, Belphoebe thought. And so regally she held herself, even with the babe tucked against her neck, her elegant red gown catching the watery sunlight.
Belphoebe stumbled over and curtsied clumsily. "Your Grace."
"You must be Lady Wytherhall," Rhaenyra observed. "Lord Reyne hasn't stopped talking our ears off about you for the last two days. It's quite an exhaustion." She paused, her pale eyes seeming to soften. "For all the headache you've been causing him, I might have expected you to be a monster. But you're only a young girl, aren't you? How young?"
"Seven, Your Grace."
"Seven," she repeated faintly. "These are my sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys. Boys, make your greetings."
The older son—Jacaerys—bowed respectfully. "My Lady."
"Hello," the younger muttered shyly, before jamming his head back into his mother's neck. Belphoebe's mouth twitched.
Rhaenyra's gaze lingered for a moment, lips pursing in thought. Then she set Lucerys down though he tried to cling like a limpet. "Go and play for some minutes, boys," she instructed. Jacaerys took his brother's hand and dragged him off, casting a curious look back at Belphoebe as they passed. Belphoebe watched as they found two sticks on the ground and started playing knights.
"How are you finding the Keep, my Lady?" Rhaenyra asked lightly. "I imagine your position must be... difficult."
"A—a little, Your Grace," Belphoebe muttered, panic curling in her gut. She was the daughter of King Viserys, and on the Small Council with her own jailer, Lord Reyne. Surely she could not say too much. "B-but—everyone has been... very kind to me, and... I find the capital very beautiful."
There are many ravens in the godswood, and his arrows are sharp.
"Hm." Rhaenyra tilted her head. "Yes, I'm sure you do. It is lovely. Though I imagine you must be lonely."
"Lonely?" Belphoebe swallowed with difficulty. She remembered her father's strong hands and her mother's silk skirts. She remembered Aelius reading to her and Avel's shadow puppets. "I..."
There was a calculative edge to Rhaenyra's gaze when Belphoebe dared to meet her eyes. "My sons and I will take breakfast outside tomorrow. I would extend you an invitation."
Belphoebe's mouth hung open. "A-an invitation, Your Grace?" she squeaked.
"I should be delighted if you would accept," Rhaenyra said lightly—though there was a small glimmer of amusement in her expression that was incongruent to her diplomatic words. "My sons grow boisterous. I think they could use the influence of someone as level-headed as you, my Lady."
Belphoebe looked at the boys again; they played under the dappled light of the strange weirwood tree, casting reddish light over them. Jacaerys had the clear upper-hand against his younger brother but was too kind, it seemed, to mock him properly for it. He let Lucerys press his advance with his stick and mimed falling over when the younger boy jabbed it into his armpit. Belphoebe felt her eyes sting. Brothers.
"I think I would like that very much, Your Grace," Belphoebe mumbled, her eyes glued to the scene before her. Lucerys giggled and pawed at Jacaerys's hand to pull him to his feet. Princess Rhaenyra followed her gaze, that melancholy line to the laughing, scrapping boys, and squeezed her shoulder lightly.
"You must miss your brothers," she murmured, crouching down so that her skirt crinkled. "I, er... only had one true brother, and only for... for a very short while."
"Prince Aegon and his brother are your brothers too, aren't they, Your Grace?" Belphoebe asked.
Rhaenyra laughed. "Yes—my half-brothers, in truth. And Lady Helaena, my half-sister. Though we are too far apart in age for me to feel like a true sister to them."
"Queen Alicent said I was the same age as the younger brother."
"Prince Aemond." Rhaenyra hesitated. "A smart boy. He studies hard, and seems courteous." There was a cautious edge to her tone now. "I'm sure you two will get along very well."
Belphoebe wasn't so sure. She hadn't heard much about prince Aemond—but she'd heard some of the ways people talked about his older brother, prince Aegon.
How could his younger brother be any different?