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Daenerys was seated on Myra’s lap, enveloped between her arms. Baby Steffon napping in a crib beside them, and two maids stood at attention behind the lady’s armchair. Every day for an hour—although to Daenerys it seemed an eternity—Myra taught her how to embroider. Daenerys was only five, with clumsy little fingers and undeveloped coordination, so the best she could manage was to hold the needle as Myra guided her hands on where to stick it. In and out the thread went, and Daenerys blinked sleepy eyes and squirmed in boredom. Still, she didn’t try to escape, knowing Myra wouldn’t let her leave until they were finished. They stitched flowers and clouds, birds and pups, and lately sigil and phrases and coats of arms. All of which matched the men and women Daenerys had recently met in court. When they finished a sigil, Myra would tell her stories about the person it belonged to, which were admittedly interesting.
The embroidery itself? Not so much.
Daenerys turned her face into Myra’s arm and hid a yawn. Her small eyes focused on the pretty blue of the late afternoon sky; she wanted to go outside.
“Are you bored, my love?” Myra asked, sweetly amused.
The princess nodded, pouting. “Yes.” Why couldn’t the maid do it for her? They did everything else.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Myra whispered conspiratorially near her ear, and Daenerys perked up. “Do you promise not to tell anyone?”
“I promise,” she nodded, eyes wide, and tipped her head back to watch Myra in expectation. The elder woman kissed her temple, her lavender scent enveloping Daenerys in familiar comfort.
“I don’t like embroidery either,” Myra whispered, mischievous. “It’s so terribly dull.”
Daenerys gasped, appropriately scandalized.
“Is someone forcing you?” she whispered, shocked. She didn’t know an adult could be forced to do something they didn’t want to, but it made sense! “I’ll tell cousin Stannis! He’ll punish them!”
Daenerys started trying to squirm free, her mind totally focused on finding her cousin and telling him that someone was being mean to Myra, but the elder woman hugged her tighter. Myra was shaking at her back, and at first, Daenerys thought she was scared, but then little giggles sounded in her ear.
Daenerys twisted to look at her guardian’s face, her own expression much less amused. “It’s not funny.”
Myra only grinned and nuzzled the little girl’s hair, and Daenerys could feel her smile against her temple. She huffed, confused.
“I’m so happy that you want to defend me, my love, but no one is forcing me—I’m forcing myself.”
Daenerys’s mouth popped open, aghast.“Why?”
Another fond laugh.
“It teaches you many things. Patience, for one. It takes creativity and dedication to hold a picture in your mind and create it one thread at a time. It takes flexibility to fix or adopt little mistakes. And,” her voice was hard now. “It’s a tool every lady should know because she will be judged on it. It’s a game to test one’s competence; and when you play, my love, it should always be to win.”
Daenerys frowned at that; she didn’t think she agreed. But, when she thought about the games of chase and cards and hiding she played with the castle’s children, it was true that winning was more fun than losing.
“So you see, embroidery is about more than stitching—although never let anyone tell you that its established purpose is useless. During the war, we ladies stitched and mended our brave knights’ clothes, and when they went to battle they remembered the hands that kept them warm. But in times of peace, clothing is its own power; a beautiful dress for you or a loved one, to show your skill; an embroidered sigil for a brave knight, to show your favour; a leather place holder for a beloved sibling, to show you know of their love of books. They’re small in substance but huge in meaning; they bring colour to our difficult lives.” Before Daenerys could ask about that last comment, Myra leaned in close, her voice a teasing whisper, “And when you make a gift for a man you love, every time he holds it he’ll think of you—and every time others see it, they’ll know he’s taken.”
Daenerys blinked, picture her cousin as he read, his placeholder an intricately embroidered piece of leather with lavender flowers in black and silver thread. She thought of his clothes, their dullness of colour which only emphasized the elegant, proud sigil always in view. And when her cousin went to war against the Greyjoys, Daenerys recalled that Myra had gifted him with a new scabbard of wood covered leather, decorated with two elegant golden stags—their horns locked in battle. Stannis had stared at the image for a long moment, and then in a rare show of affection had kissed Myra’s wrist. Then he’d briskly turned away, saying he’d be back as ‘soon as he crushed the enemy.’
How wonderful, Daenerys thought, looking at the embroidery in a new light. “I want to make something,” she said, shy. “For you and cousin Stannis…and for baby Steffon.” That last bit was a bit sheepish, because Daenerys had been bad-tempered about the new baby for months now. (It wasn’t her fault; he only cried and ate and slept—terribly dull, in her opinion. She didn’t know why Myra needed to spend so much time with him.)
Myra gave her another smiling kiss. “I look forward to it, my love.”