Chapter Text
The Stark Girl
295 AL
Rosarra Stark
Sansa had begged to come to Rosarra’s final dress fitting before the wedding. She gushed at the decadence and grandeur of the dress, saying that she hoped her future lord husband’s family would have such a fine dress made for her wedding.
Genna Lannister’s eyes had gleamed at that. The elder woman had been irritated by Rosarra’s insistence that the dress was too wasteful and impractical.
“Perhaps my nephew is marrying the wrong Stark sister,” she had jested, pinching little Sansa’s cheek. Sansa beamed at that. Genna turned to Rosarra and gave her a pointed look. “At least your sister knows how to appreciate a well-made dress, Lady Rosarra.”
“I love a pretty dress as much as any young lady, Lady Genna, as long as I can walk in it.” She would have demonstrated the ridiculous waddling movement the dress forced her to make, but there was a seamstress sewing even more pearls to the dress. “I’ll be waddling down the aisle like a duck.”
Sansa giggled at that, and even Lady Cerenna and Myrielle Lannister – Ser Jaime’s cousins – laughed daintily behind their hands.
Genna waved the seamstress away for a moment. Rosarra disliked how Lady Genna treated the servants and her household. She was the acting Lady of Casterly Rock, yet she treated the household no better than slaves. They seemed shocked when Rosarra and her sisters, having been raised to respect all people regardless of their status, spoke to them like they were people.
Ignoring Rosarra’s scowl, Genna directed her to a mirror. “Look at yourself. You cannot say you look any less like a goddess. They will say Rosarra Lannister looked like the maiden herself on her wedding day.”
And it would be true. The dress was the most extravagant garment Rosarra had ever seen. It was made of the finest silk from Qarth, and bejewelled with over two dozen pears and another two dozen rubies, making the dress rather heavy and difficult to move in. The dress had a square neckline, lined with a pattern of pearls and rubies and Myrish golden lace. The dress and skirt were a beautiful grey for her maiden house, but the cone-shaped kirtle, revealed by a slit in the skirt, was a blazing red for House Lannister, adorned with pearls. There was a girdle wrapped around her waist, trailing onto the floor and ending with a tassle. It was a chain, which was ironically fitting. Her sleeves were trumpet sleeves, large enough to knock over anything she reached for, and were lined by rubies.
Though the grey of her dress honoured her maiden house, the red of the rubies and her kirtle were overwhelming and an obvious tribute to House Lannister. Despite her dislike for the dress, Rosarra could not deny that it was beautiful.
“It is beautiful,” Rosarra allowed, and Genna smiled at her through the mirror, hands on Rosarra’s shoulders as though she was Rosarra’s proud aunt and not Jaime’s. “But wasteful. There are better uses for your house’s gold than a dress.”
“Fear not, Lady Rosarra, my wedding dress was twice as extravagant. Or wasteful, as you put it.” Rosarra flinched as she heard the queen’s voice. She moved into the room like a swan. Rosarra tried to curtsy like everyone else, but the jewels and the constraints of her skirts stopped her from being able to. “There is no need. I remember my own wedding dress. It had three times the jewels as yours does, and a petticoat the size of a small horse.”
“Your Grace,” Rosarra greeted the queen by inclining her head respectfully.
Queen Cersei gave her a dazzling smile and took a seat by Sansa, bidding the seamstresses to continue their work as she sat and watched. Rosarra kept glancing at her, trying to read her expression, but it proved difficult.
“Are you excited for your wedding day, Rosarra?” the queen asked her finally.
It would do no good to tell the queen that she dreaded marrying the queen’s brother, that she found him arrogant and mocking and loathed to spend the rest of her life with such a man. When she first met Ser Jaime, she thought him handsome. How could she not? He had golden hair, vibrant green eyes, a muscular, tall build and a well-structured face. But then, he had opened his mouth, and words of mocking poured out. Rosarra misliked being mocked by anyone, let alone her future husband.
“Very,” she answered instead, with a smile she hoped did not look like a grimace. “Ser Jaime is very handsome and kind. I hope to be a good wife to him.”
Queen Cersei hummed thoughtfully at that and took another sip of wine. “My brother is lucky to have procured such a dutiful wife. If he ever mistreats you, little wolf, do tell me and I shall knock some sense into him.”
“Mistreat me?” Rosarra repeated in shock, and a small laugh despite herself. “I do not think Ser Jaime the type.”
“And you know him so well after, what, two weeks? Three?” Rosarra paled at that, worry setting in. Queen Cersei put down her goblet and shook her head, wearing a small, reassuring smile. “Of course he is not, sweetling. I merely meant that should my brother not appreciate his young, beautiful wife, I should wish to remind him of his luck.”
Rosarra calmed at that and gave the queen a true smile. “Thank you, Your Grace. That is a relief to hear.”
“Of course,” the queen said sympathetically. “How difficult it must be, to leave a life once known for a man one barely knows.”
“But you left your home to marry King Robert?” Rosarra pointed out.
“Yes,” the queen nodded. “But I had my brother. I knew that should the king…” She forced another smile onto her face, but it looked more like a grimace. Rosarra frowned, wondering what the king subjected his beautiful wife to. “My brother was my protector. You have… no one,” she claimed slowly and pitifully.
Seeing the glum look on Rosarra’s face, for she realised she really did have no one, Genna stepped in, “You will make plenty of friends, Lady Rosarra. Why, Stafford’s girls are already taken with her, are you not, girls?” she asked Myrielle and Cerenna pointedly.
“We have plans to go riding on the morrow,” Myrielle said, smiling.
The elder girl, Cerenna, frowned. “And Rosarra – Lady Rosarra,” she corrected when she saw her Aunt Genna frown at her, “is going to join our sewing circles.”
Rosarra smiled. She knew their aunt put the girls up to it. Cerenna and Myrielle had been stuck to her side ever since she got to Casterly Rock. Sansa was mad about the two girls, enjoying the companionship of two girls who loved all the same things she did – songs, needlework, and stories –, but Rosarra had been hesitant to embrace their companionship. She did not want to be used or manipulated, but the girls had made good friends and seemed to be genuinely kind, caring ladies, even if they were ordered to befriend her by their father and aunt.
“I always loathed sewing circles,” Queen Cersei dryly remarked. “All that gossip and small-talk. I would sooner stab my ladies with the needle in my hand.” Seeing the looks of surprise and horror on the girls and women in the room, Queen Cersei gave another dazzling smile. She patted Sansa’s knee beside her, as the girl looked the most horrified. “I jest, of course. Fear not, Lady Sansa, you are safe from my needles. But I do loath gossiping. It is a sin, is it not?”
“The Seven say it is, Your Grace,” Sansa answered dutifully.
The queen gave her a pleased smile. “What a good, pious child you are. You should stay south with your sister, Lady Sansa. You would shine in the South with your beauty and sweet nature.”
“Our father wishes for her to return to the North, Your Grace, as much as I would love my sister’s company,” Rosarra informed her.
Sansa scowled at that, the hopefulness from the queen’s comment dissipating.
“When you are older, perhaps,” the queen suggested, and patted Sansa’s knee affectionately.
Rosarra glanced between them sharply, wondering what the queen could possibly want with a girl from the North, who would likely never step foot in the South again.
The dress fitting went on for only a few minutes more. Rosarra was helped out of her dress by her new handmaiden, Cerenna, as well as Marena and the seamstresses. Once she was dressed in her own clothes, Rosarra was amazed at the difference in weight between the two garments. She could finally walk again, instead of waddling around.
Once she was free of her blasted wedding gown, Rosarra went looking for Arya, once she realised with a start that she had not seen her sister all day. Her father had spent the day with King Robert, catching up with his old friend. As the eldest daughter, Rosarra was responsible for her sisters. Sansa never got into any trouble, but Arya…
As much as she loved her littlest sister, she hoped she never had a daughter as wild as her, for Rosarra knew she would surely grow grey hairs far before her time.
After two hours of searching, Rosarra found Arya in the Hall of Heroes, where all the Lords of Casterly Rock, their wives and all the Lannisters who died valiantly for their house were buried.
I will be buried here too one day, Rosarra realised as she looked upon the grave closest to the entrance. Joanna Lannister – Jaime’s mother. She eyed the space beside it, a twisting, eerie feeling in her stomach. It was the oddest thing, to lay eyes on where she was to be someday buried.
Her attention was once again called to her sister, who was practicing swordfighting with wooden, tourney swords with a young blonde girl around her age.
“Arya Stark,” Rosarra admonished. Her little sister looked up at her with wide eyes and an innocent look, as though she hadn’t done anything wrong in her life. “I have been looking all over for you! And there you stand, like butter wouldn’t melt,” she scolded.
“Sorry,” Arya said sheepishly, looking at the ground in shame.
Rosarra pinched her lips together firmly to stop herself from smiling at her sister. Gods, if she couldn’t scold her own little sister, what good would she be with her own children?
“Whose this?” she asked instead, looking kindly at the little blonde girl.
“This is Joy,” Arya told her excitedly, a large smile on her face. Little Joy smiled shyly at Arya. “She’s a bastard, like Jon.”
The little girl’s shy smile dissolved at that. Rosarra gave Arya a sharp look, but her sister merely shrugged. Joy Hill… Lady Genna had spoken of her. She was Lord Gerion’s baseborn daughter. Rosarra’s heart bled for the girl. Fatherless and baseborn in a keep like this…
“Arya,” she admonished, before lowering herself on her knees before the girl. She gave the girl a kind smile. “Joy – what a pretty name. I am Rosarra of Winterfell, Arya’s sister.”
“Arya told me about you,” Joy replied in a sweet, quiet voice, rocking on her heels as she spoke. “You’re going to marry Cousin Jaime.”
“I am,” Rosarra affirmed. “So I’ll be staying here for a long time. Do you like to fight?” she asked, nodding to the pretend sword in her hand.
The little girl nodded eagerly. “I love it, but Aunt Genna says that little girls shouldn’t fight. But my father was a great fighter, and Uncle Tyg was really good too – I saw him! And I’m baseborn. Baseborn girls get treated differently.”
Another pang of pity struck Rosarra. “Arya and I have a baseborn brother, Jon. We love him very much.”
Arya nodded fervently in agreement. “Jon’s the best! He spars with me in secret. That’s why he’s my favourite.”
“Not me?” Rosarra exclaimed in a tone of over-exaggerated hurt.
Shrugging, Arya replied, “You’re my favourite sister, but Jon’s the best out of all of you.”
She rolled her eyes at her sister and shook her head fondly, before turning back to Joy. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Joy?”
“No. Only my father. But he went off in a ship to Essos a few years ago to look for Brightroar. He never came back.”
“What’s ‘Brightroar’?” Arya asked, frowning.
“House Lannister’s ancestral sword,” Rosarra answered, staring at the sad girl before her. Gods, what an awful life for a child to live. “You know, Joy. My sisters are leaving me soon and I’ll be very lonely. I’d like to be your friend, if you’d have me?”
Joy flinched away from her, eyeing her distrustfully. It reminded her of Jon. “You want to be my friend?”
Rosarra nodded, smiling. “Of course. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with such a pretty, clever girl who can even use a sword?”
The little girl beamed at her and nodded wordlessly.
“Joy,” they heard a voice call, and their attention was called to a very large shadow which revealed a very small man.
It was not her first-time seeing Lord Tyrion. She had met him in the library once, drinking and reading a book about King Aegon IV and the preamble to the Blackfyre Rebellions. He had a sharp tongue, and a sharper mind. His dwarfism had turned him cynical, that much was clear, for his witty barbs were as cutting as they were defensive, an attempt to protect himself. Rosarra was well-acquainted with the survival mechanisms of outcasts; after all, she had grown up with a bastard for a brother and a hostage as a… best friend. Far be it from her to scorn someone for being different.
“Big Br – Becca,” he corrected himself. Rosarra snorted. “Wishes for you to go to her. Something about playing with the dogs.” He gave her a wink.
“Yay!” the little girl beamed. “Can I bring Lady Arya with me, uncle?”
“That is up to Lady Arya and Lady Rosarra,” Tyrion explained patiently.
Rosarra turned to Arya who nodded eagerly. “Can I, Rose?”
“Yes, of course, make sure one of our guards goes with you, though,” Rosarra told her, but Arya had run out of the Hall of Heroes before she could finish her sentence.
“A rambunctious girl, that sister of yours,” Tyrion commented as he stepped closer to Rosarra. “I see her befriending kennel girls and blacksmiths’ sons and stable boys.”
“Arya makes friends wherever she goes.”
“A gift and a curse,” Tyrion remarked.
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “How would that be a curse?”
“A gift for her; a curse for you and your lord father. It is a rare thing, a young girl who plays with the servants.”
“Not in Winterfell,” Rosarra said. “We do not look down on the smallfolk as much as your family seems to.”
Lord Tyrion smirked in amusement. “Ah, that famous Stark honour. You will put us all to shame, then. Best be careful, though. Don’t let my father see you treating the smallfolk like actual human beings.”
There was a darkness to his tone, and a pain… Rosarra wanted to ask for the reason behind his bitterness, but quickly reminded herself of her place.
“I’m sure the cook spits in his food,” Rosarra stated wryly.
He looked at her curiously. “And what makes you think that, my lady?”
“My father always says that unhappy servants will find ways to get back at a cruel master or mistress. A cook will spit in food, a serving wench could put piss in your glass instead of wine, a servant might put dung in your pillows…”
“I believe my sense of smell competent enough to smell it if there was shit put in my pillow. And I have drank enough wine to tell the difference between wine and piss,” Tyrion remarked. “That says more about the quality of wine consumed in the North than it does of the importance of a well-treated household. Besides,” he gave her a dark look, “you will find that the household of Casterly Rock is far too afraid of my father to ever move against him.”
“Your father rules through fear,” Rosarra surmised.
“You have heard of the Rains of Castamere?” Rosarra gulped and nodded. How she hated that story, and it was even more horrifying now she was to call the villain in that tale her good-father. “Fear has worked well for my father. There is not a man in Westeros who does not shake in terror at his name.”
“I should hate to be feared. Would you prefer to be feared or loved by your people, Lord Tyrion, should you ever rule over lands?”
Another dark look. There was a bitter twist to his mouth. “My affliction means that I will never receive either, my lady. Who would fear or love a dwarf?”
Rosarra frowned in thoughtfulness, realising the tactlessness of her question. “When you walked in here, you casted a very large shadow, my lord. I will be sure not to underestimate you.”
She gave him a kind smile then, and he looked up to her with surprise in his eyes, and a small smile on his lips.
“And I am beginning to think House Lannister best not underestimate you, Lady Rosarra,” Tyrion commented thoughtfully. “You might be the first Lannister since my lady mother that the people find likeable.”
“How terrible,” she said in mock-horror and with a short laugh.
Tyrion grinned at her, but a frown came upon his face. “I wish you good luck charming my father. I hear he has not smiled since my mother died,” Tyrion told her. “He wishes to see you. He sent me to fetch you.”
She paled at that. “What does he wish to speak to me about?”
“Your upcoming nuptials, I presume,” Tyrion shrugged. His expression became kind when he saw her face contorting in worry. “I am sure you have done nothing wrong. Most likely, he is going to impart on you the importance of keeping up appearances. Lannisters don’t act like fools, he is ever so fond of saying to us,” he explained, doing a very good impression of his father. “Come, I will escort you to his solar.”
They chatted along the way, discussing their love of strategy games and reading books. Tyrion’s books ranged over numerous genres and topics, while Rosarra mainly enjoyed books about wars, and sometimes about Targaryen kings and queens. Tyrion may have been the cleverest person she ever met, other than herself. It pained her to admit someone was cleverer than her. It wounded her pride, even, but no one could deny that Tyrion Lannister was anything less than a genius.
Rosarra entered Tywin Lannister’s solar when she was bid. They were alone. It was the first time Rosarra had to face him on her own. She called to mind her mother’s words. The lion does not intimidate the wolf, she reminded herself. She was a Stark of Winterfell, not some feeble-minded girl who was easy to intimidate and cow into submission.
“Lady Rosarra,” he greeted.
“My lord,” she greeted in return, dipping a curtsy.
“Take a seat,” he bid her, and she did as she was told.
As he continued to write letters and documents, Tywin left her sitting there for… well, Rosarra didn’t know. She had lost track of the time. Did he expect her to speak first? Surely that would be rude, as he was working and of higher standing than her. Rosarra wondered if he did this with his children, or his siblings. Lady Genna would not allow this silence to go on for very long, and Jaime and Cersei would be incensed at their father ignoring them, especially Jaime who Rosarra could see lacked patience.
But Rosarra had been taught patience from her father and courtesy from her mother, so she waited. She took the time to look around the room, taking in the numerous books and records of accounts. There were paintings as well, one of Lord Tywin with his late wife and children. Tyrion was not in the painting; Rosarra presumed he had not been born yet.
In the corner of the room behind his desk, Rosarra noticed a gameboard. Her eyes widened when she noticed what it was – Conqueror! She had intended to have her own board brought down from Winterfell, or use her allowance as Jaime’s wife to buy one.
“Do you partake, Lady Rosarra?” Tywin asked her, having finally looked up from his writing to find her eyeing his gameboard.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Are you any good?”
“Very good, my lord. I have not lost to anyone since I was one-and-ten.”
Her father bet her when she was one-and-ten, and that had been the last time. She had defeated him every time since.
Lord Tywin quirked an eyebrow at that, placing his quill back into the inkpot. “Is that so?” he asked, intrigued. Rosarra nodded. “And how can you be sure that your opponents are not just letting you win, or that you have just been choosing your opponents wisely?”
“I would be greatly displeased if they were, my lord,” Rosarra told him. “As for my opponents… I believe them to be skilled. But if you doubt my claims, then perhaps you ought to challenge me yourself.”
He barked a laugh at that. “I have not lost a game in forty years. King Jaehaerys the Second was the last person I lost to. I have only played against one worthy opponent since him. I doubt you will be another, my lady.”
“I may not be skilled enough yet to score a win against you, but I promise you that I will be a worthy opponent,” she told him confidently.
His eyes narrowed at her, as though sizing her up. Eventually, he relented, “Alright. Best hope you do not waste my time, girl.”
Rosarra merely shot him a small smile as they moved over to the gameboard. Lord Tywin handed her the black pieces – consisting of eight mice, two hawks, two cats, two elephants and Lion King and Lion Queen. In Winterfell, the strongest pieces were the Wolf King and Queen. She wondered if every great house had placed their house’s sigil in the role of king and queen.
The rules of Conqueror were both very simple and very difficult.
A mouse could be taken by a hawk or a cat, but not an elephant or a king or queen.
An elephant could kill a cat, hawk and a queen. An elephant could only be killed by a king or queen.
Only a queen or a dragon could kill a king, and a dragon could only be created by getting a mouse to opposite end of the board.
The only piece that could kill a dragon was a king. Rosarra found that insulting. Queen Visenya was more than capable of killing a dragon.
Rosarra’s game was a defensive one, trying to keep as many of her pieces alive as possible until near the end. All her attacks were strategic, though rare, and well thought-out and planned for. Her game was slow, and required a player who acted quickly and was not skilled in foreseeing potential attacks and identifying areas of vulnerability.
Lord Tywin was a player who sought to dominate the board from the centre, which was a good and often-used tactic. He never sought to turn his mice into dragons, the most powerful piece on the board and the only piece that could move in every direction. Ever the brilliant tactician, he took a long time to make his move, no doubt agonising over every single possibility. It made Rosarra move slower as well, spending even more time scrutinising the board than she usually did.
They played for five hours, until Tywin was left with a king, a queen and an elephant and Rosarra was left with a king, a dragon and a mouse.
When Tywin took her dragon with his king, he looked up at her and tutted, “You lost many pieces to get that dragon then you left him vulnerable.” He had trapped her dragon in the corner with his elephant. Rosarra did not answer him as she moved her mouse to safety. Triumphantly, Tywin took her king and declared, “Conquered.”
Rosarra sat back in defeat, but smiled nonetheless. Though she hated losing more than anything in the world, she had never enjoyed a game as much.
“You play very well, Lord Tywin,” she told him truthfully.
“And you are a worthy opponent, as you claimed,” he responded. “But you make a common mistake.”
“What is that, my lord?”
“You spent most of the game trying to get your mice to ascend to dragons, with only one piece succeeding. How many pieces did you lose? You missed many opportunities to trap and conquer my pieces because of your efforts,” Tywin advised her.
“A dragon is the most valuable piece on the board.”
“And yet he can still be killed,” Tywin reminded her. “The purpose of the mice is too be used as cannon fodder. It is difficult to resist the temptation to create the most powerful piece on the board, but the cost is too great. Sometimes you must see a piece for what it is.”
His words caused a chill to creep down her back. You must a see a piece for what it is. She received the impression that they were not just talking about the boardgame. No doubt, Rosarra was a piece in his game – perhaps his children were too, for he didn’t seem to care for them at all, especially not Lord Tyrion.
“You have potential,” Tywin said to her. “But no one will ever obey that girlish voice. And you are much too eager to please. You will be a Lannister in a few days. Lannisters do not concern themselves with the opinion of the sheep.”
Rosarra went red at his criticism. She hadn’t realised her voice was girlish. That was new thing to be self-conscious of.
“I am not eager to please,” Rosarra argued.
Tywin huffed. “You should aim to please yourself in a duty well-performed and a house well-served. Your wedding will take place soon. There will be a bedding afterwards. You know what that involves, I trust?”
She nodded mutely, going redder.
“You will fulfil your duty and allow my son to bed you. You will do your very best to ensure House Lannister has an heir by the end of the year. It should not be too difficult, given your mother’s fertility and your wide hips, but you will do your duty in the marriage bed. Am I understood?” Tywin asked her, eyes narrowing in an attempt to intimidate her.
Not an attempt. It was working.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good,” he said, and then his tone became lighter – well, as light as Tywin Lannister’s tone could become, she had quickly realised. “I enjoyed this game. I will send for you again. There is much to be learned from this game, I think. Jaime never had much time for it. He never understood the rules and did not have the patience to learn. I am glad his bride-to-be does.”
Despite the fear Lord Tywin instilled in her, she was excited at the prospect of more games. She wanted to get better at the game and playing with a master was the only way to improve.
“I would like that,” she told him earnestly. She gave him a small smile. “Beware, my lord. Ofttimes the student becomes the master.”
He looked at her appraisingly then. “I am counting on it.”