Brightwater Keep

"Oh joy, another day of wondrous porridge. If boredom doesn't kill me, I'm certain your sorry excuse of a cook will with his concoctions."

The young Lady of Highgarden sighed and turned away from the servant who quietly bowed and left the chambers. She bowed her head in silent prayer together with her aunt beside her before digging in to today's meal of porridge with milk and raisins. It certainly was not inedible, but whatever kitchen staff her captors had hired were not up to par with the cooks of Highgarden. She sighed once more, secretly wishing Edric Storm could have kidnapped some of her cooks as well.

Catheryne was very much a picture of her aunt Margaery at the same age. She had the chestnut eyes and curly locks of the Tyrells, though her hair was much lighter than the regular auburn. She wore a modest dress of Florent colors a few sizes too large for her, most likely dug up from the closets of one of the former ladies of the castle. It may fit her soon enough though, for Cath had begun her growth spurt and was quickly developing the features of a lady... one ready for marriage, she thought to herself in disgust. By the Seven, she had no interest in that oaf of a royal bastard. She had heard enough stories about his royal father from her aunt and great-grandmother to want no part in the spawn of House Baratheon. Yet here she were, stuck in a tower of Brightwater Keep, occupied by a gang of sellswords.

After finishing her meal, Cath rose to stare out the window of her chambers. She could see the Honeywine flow southwards in the distance, all the way to her kin in Oldtown. Could she trust them, though? So many snakes had emerged from the bushes during Spring, were there any banners left sworn to Tyrell, to her? She picked up a bell and rang for her servant.

"Send word to my supposed husband-to-be that I wish to speak with him."

Catheryne stood by the window of her chambers when Storm entered. For a moment she ignored his presence before turning around, her brown eyes meeting his blue. Her face revealed very little, though underneath the neutral exterior were hints of a few emotions - anger, fear, disgust, joy, sadness. Margaery Tyrell sat nearby, seemingly engrossed in some old tome.

"It's no Highgarden, but I suppose we're content for now. However, I take no joy wallowing around in my traitorous cousins' old keep and clothes when my home is occupied by those blob twins. The very thought of those Redwyne cousins of mine seating themselves in Highgarden makes my blood boil, do you understand ser?"

She shook her head to calm herself, taking a moment of pause before continuing.

"For good or ill, I have the son of Robert Baratheon as my ally, do I not? You claim to be a champion of my birthright against snakes like Tarly and Redwyne?"

"On your honor... something of little value these days, it seems. How many banners of my late father now stand against me? Tell me ser, how many of the great houses of the Reach are still true?"

She knew the answer to her question already. Tarly had the Oakhearts, Redwyne had the Shields and the Caswells, while the Hightowers had made allies with the zealots at the Starry Septs. Much of the rest had been wiped out during the Long Night, may the Seven protect their souls. Despite her attempts at stoicism, Catheryne was scared. How many nights had she not cried herself to sleep, weeping for her family and herself? If the gods existed, Old, New and Red, they were cruel creatures. The young girl gave her captor a smile, hiding away her true feelings deep within.

"I'm afraid your ears bare little resemblance to those of the Florents anymore, but I shall take your word for it. Though I must ask, ser, why you still carry the name Storm? A bastard's name, yet you have the blood of both Baratheon and Florent flowing in you. I know your... sworn sword at Norcross changed his, have the urge not struck yourself?"

While noble-born and recognized by his lord father, Edric Storm was still a Storm. Like countless other Flowers, Waters, Stone and Hill, it was usually not a name carried with pride. Catheryne had wondered since she first met the man why he did not lay claim to his father's name. While only the Faith could officially grant such a request, the days following the Long Night had brought with it an age of anarchy and lawlessness. Strength of arms seemed more important to enforce your claims than mere writ of parchment.

There was an honesty in the massive man from the Stormlands that she appreciated, even if he did not speak the words. Catheryne had learnt from an early age that this world was cruel and unfair, especially to those without power. For her, a young girl whose only power was her name and blood, being traded like cattle seemed to be her fate. But like her aunt and great-grandmother, Catheryne refused to be a pretty doll. Tooth and nail, she would do whatever it took to carve out her piece of the world.

"A shame, but not unexpected. When all houses can claim a royal bloodline, oaths mean nothing. The curse of the Reach, its fertile grounds. We will have to find another way to defeat our enemies."

If she meant Storm and herself or her family was hard to tell. Truly, she did not know herself. After years in captivity, it was hard to find other options. Escape was risky, and where would she run? She was the golden prize of the Reach - half the region wanted her dead, the other half wanted her wed. Storm, despite his faults, needed her legitimacy to survive, and she needed his arms. Was he truly the worst option for her?

When Storm asked his question, Catheryne gave him a quizzical look. Then she gave him a smile.

"Indeed I do, and horse-riding as well. Did you go hawking in your youth as well, ser? And I'd love to go hawking again, if you have any here at Brightwater."

Margaery finally set down her book, giving the younger man an unreadable smile, as if she had not been listening on their conversation from the beginning. The so-called "Little Queen", though her royal husbands were long dead and she was close to the age of old Queen Cersei, had kept most of her youthful beauty through the hardships of Winter. While her niece had picked out the old clothes of some Florent lady, Margaery now wore the grey garb of a septa without the headdress.

"Why, I would love to join you. It's been too long since I enjoyed the wind in my face and the sun on my back."

While she was less enthused about her latest husband joining them, Margaery felt so cramped up in the castle she could throw herself out the window to feel the flowing, freeing wind. Anything to feel some sense of freedom.

"If I remember correctly, my cousins used to track down the Honeywine in search of prey. We should do the same."

Hawking it is

Years and years had passed since he held a falcon on his hand. But he was cousin to kings, he knew how to. Of course he did. Robert would not have had it otherwise, he dragged courtiers, kin and servants into long hunting parties, be it with spear, bow or hawk: he did them all. They preyed on the deer, the birds and the boars. That was quite a long time ago, when he sprung early in the morning, fresh like the leaves of the young oaks besides the kingsroad. When he was full of hope and pleasantries, Andrew the Gallant, the king's cousin. Tall and broad, he was, but not as tall and broad as the oldest Stag. After all, he was but a turtle; he only had dropplets of their blood, a daughter of the Laughing Storm was his grandmother. That made such a match agreeable to Lord Steffon, that and his kinswoman's beauty, for Lady Cassana had been fair and gentle, with sparkling green eye: it was said only Renly looked like her mother, more than Robert and Stannis did. Andrew was but five when she died.

Turtles are slow, insignificant, ugly little shits from the sea or the river. But they could withstand the pass of time, they had a shell. And now, the stags were almost gone. Robert, the strongest, felled by the foulness of a woman, Stannis, martyred against the Dead, Renly, victim of his prime and his own brother, if one could believe it. And now, he, who was but a cousin, had married the widow of two or three kings. He was not the man he was before. Estermont did not fool himself, Margaery had little love for him, if any, but alas to the victor the spoils. And he knew better, Edric could not have a full-grown woman of Tyrell blood laying unmarried around: it was easy to change a woman's claim for another woman's claim. Estermont was not a threat.

He truly was not. He felt tired. Fourty and one name days he had seen. Lean and lithe, yes, and there remained the grace of his gallant years: he resembled a Lyseni condottieri now, weary from years of war and the very end of the world. And he felt old, old as the roots of the earth: too little butter for too much bread. While he cleaned himself with fresh water in a basin, with a loincloth, he looked at his battle harness, green-enamelled steel, ribeted with gold. Fluted and angular was the design, a style not in fashion in Westeros, where they prefered rounded designs, more organic. The bascinet shone under the morning sun. The steel he hoped not to wear in a long time. But again, old men don't fool themselves, blood would be spilled. Estermont was tired, tired of raising the sword's arm, but there was not going to be another way. He sighed. The knight just hoped to raise his kid, or more if Margaery consented on it, even if doubtful. A child that would not see for a long time the rains of his father's land, where wind howled and battered and the rain was clean, running down your face like the blessed balms of the septons. He missed the deep and old forests, the greenish stone and the furious waters. The round tower of Storm's End.

After all this years, he was without a castle. Just a horse, a sword, and armor and a would-be lord. King, lord, he no longer presumed to know what Edric was or would be. He thought he could get to be king, but now there was no throne and there were at least two queens and a king in Westeros. The daughter of Stannis, married to the Onion Knight's son -Warrior bless that man-, the queen in the Isles, the armor-clad Greyjoy, the king in Dragonstone, silver-haired spawn of Dragon and Kraken, surrounded by walls of oak, sail and rope. Maybe there was a second king, a child in Winterfell, where snows had melted and springs watered the lands, rich and bountyful again -if one was to believe the chatter of traders and fishermen and men of the sea-.

A servant tied the doublet, placed the belt firmly around the hips and helped with hose and tall boots. All in green, deep like the sea around the Turtle isle, in velvet. Estermont them placed his hands in a pair of thick gloves, one of which was enough to held a fearsome predator of the skies perched, no matter its talons were sharps as daggers. He lowered towards the courtyard by stone hallways and staircases, slow, without a hurry. The sun welcomed him outside, like the warm wind of spring and the gentle smell of the flowers littering the Honeywine's lush riverbanks. His horse awaited, reins held by a squire, if one could consider him that. Estermont had difficulty thinking himself like the knight, sworn and annointed, that had left to distant shores more than ten years back.

Catheryne and Margaery drove their steeds like possessed by spirits of the wind. Faster, faster, the rush of the wind streaking through their clothes. The two were almost of one mind in this endeavor - out here, riding without a care in the world, the two Tyrell women could pretend that everything was as it was supposed to be. They were back in Highgarden, with the whole region bowing before Catheryne, with Margaery by her side. No traitors, no wars, no plots, no kidnappings and no sellswords. For a brief moment, they felt liberated from reality.

A*s they rode on, reality would catch up to them. The ever-present figures of foreign outriders and sellswords, along with the presence of Edric Storm and Andrew Estermont, was a constant reminder that despite how much the two were allowed to fly, Catheryne and Margaery were still birds locked in a gilded cage. Would they ever be free? Was this a world where they could ever be free? No matter how far they ran, they would always be pawns in someone else's scheme for power. Only power could check power, so only power would set them free.

After travelling down the Honeywine a bit away from the castle, Catheryne made a sign for the group to stop, with Margaery waving forward the bird cages. They had stopped near an open field not too far from a grove. Cath looked around, then nodded.

"This looks a good spot, good sers. The birds will have a good view of the surrounding area, and the grove no doubt houses a few smaller animals looking for food out in the open from time to time."

The young girl put on her glove and picked up her hawk. It was young and much smaller than the adult ones, and Catheryne wondered if it would have the discipline to return back to her. She rummaged through the pouch on her hip and produced a small piece of meat, holding it forward before the hawk. It quizzically tilted its head before chomping down on the offered food. After it was done did Cath remove its blinders before releasing it, watching it sail into the air above. Now it was only to wait and see, the fight between hunter and prey.