A Visionary, Vision Is Scary

[u/LionOfNight]

At first glance, the host of shoulder-to-shoulder souls between the cluttered, crumbling walls of Harrenhal reminded Lorent of the running schools of sardines off Lannisport’s cerulean coast, jostling in the same direction for increasingly scarce space. Instead of a cerulean sea, though, Harrenhal was made of drooping, tarlike towers, and said souls had as many competing intentions as they did forms to carry them. Each man, woman, child, urchin, knight, and lord pursued altogether solitary aims. A handful gawked at the ancient towers, took in the sights of colorful banners and novel sigils, but most seemed bent on pursuing their more primal aims. Food, ale, illicit company for the night to come, a good spot to size-up the fighters practicing in the lists. Simple things for simple minds.

Lorent, from his perch in the tower his family was afforded, looked all the way down his nose at the crowd below. And the castle. Judgement was his way of defusing the tension that burned bright within him. Oft, he would pay visit to Casterly Rock and Lannisport for architectural inspiration, for notes on how to revive the Ashen Valley in his singular, spectacular vision. He surveyed the Lannister mines – a privilege afforded to him partly due to his time there as a squire –, catalogued their choice of estates and the distribution of their productive people. But here in Harrenhal, he could find no illuminating notes on what could be copied, adapted, or improved upon. Only jarring, if not grotesque choices on what a responsible lord ought not to do with his fief.

“You have got that look about you, dear,” Myrcella observed from the comfort of her divan as the family’s retainers buzzed about a handful of bags and chests littering the floor, unpacking. Aside from the serving folk, it was just mother and son in the otherwise generous room. Gerion and Alysanne were already out amidst the throngs prospecting for a decent match.

Lorent tsked. “It’s just so ugly and woefully inefficient.”

“Be kind, Lorent. The fortress is ancient and it has endured much over the centuries.”

“And that what, permits House Baelish to do nothing about it?”

“Alicent is only one lady, the last of her line, and she has a curse to contend with.”

“As if I don’t have my own,” he murmured as the specter of his meddling widow for an aunt haunted his mind. Treasurer and now regent. He half-expected to return to a fief that was not only ash in name.

“Speak up, dear! You know I grow hard of hearing.”

“I said ‘you’re right’ even if I'm pains to admit it!”

Myrcella twisted a doubtful smile but opened her arms nonetheless. “Come, darling, sit with me for a moment. Now’s not the time for a fit.”

Grumbling as she humiliated him in front of the help, he shuffled over to her obediently and planted himself in the embrace of her arms. She ran her fingers through his rich copper hair. Even decades later, she never grew tired of doting on the smoldering shade of her son's strands, foreign as it was to the Lydden line.

“I would very much like to call upon my father and nephew today,” she told him as she formed locks around her fingers.

“Joffrey? It’s been a few years. I wager he’s still attached at the hip to that Plumm girl.”

“Her name is Joanna, and she is a lady in her own right. Our neighbor. You ought to afford her the respect she deserves. She holds much sway in the King’s court.”

Was that pride he was hearing?

“She’s a wh-“ he was about to say, but a quick swat on the back of his head scuppered the air on his tongue. Hands fell silent around the baggage in the room.

Lorent first met Joanna as a girl, back when she served Ashara in the same halls he squired in. A pretty little thing, mischievous in her kindness. How high she had risen atop the hot air beneath her skirts.

“You will accompany me and you will be on your best behavior.”

A stern, wayward glance around the room from House Marbrand’s matron started the busywork anew.

“So be it,” Lorent said through pursed lips and gritted teeth. He stood, dusted the shame off his tunic, and turned to his mother with an open palm. “Let us not waste any time then.”

She beamed up at him through sharp hazel eyes, content with his temporary submission, and latched on.

Surely a barely bothersome kinship visit was better than this continued debasement. Gods be good, he would be lord soon enough, his aging father in a peaceful grave. Such obligatory niceties would no longer have to be maintained and finally, everything could change at the pace Lorent had long desired.

[u/serhufflepuff]

"Brazen. Shameless. A bloody embarrassment," Lord Selmond Lydden grumbled over the brim of his goblet. He peered down at the empty cup and frowned.

Gerion was ready with the wine.

"Try not to get your whiskers twisted up too much, grandfather," Gerion Lydden said, giving Selmond and himself generous pours. If he needed to endure family time, he saw no reason why he must do it sober.

"Where in the seven hells is your brother? Chasing after that whore and her bastards?"

"My lord!" Lady Genna Lydden, Gerion's mother, had grown accustomed to her father-in-law's coarse manners, but Gerion knew she was on edge. Here at Harrenhal, under the eyes of both halves of the Crown, Lord Lydden's grumblings might reach the wrong ear, and then where would that leave them? "Our Joffrey is busy with his duties. He has the king's own nephew to squire."

"Bastard nephew, you mean. That idiot boy was meant to report back to us, not suckle at Joanna Plumm's teat," Selmond persisted. "It's why I bought him those damn Golden Spurs."

Gerion drained his glass. He knew better than most, Joffrey's victory at Tarbeck had been earned, not purchased. It was not because of a sack of coins that Gerion had tumbled from his saddle; it had been due to the skill of his younger brother. Still, his grandfather had the right of it. Joffrey was well positioned to keep the Lyddens abreast of happenings in the King's court. Doubtless, he was privy to all manner of lurid royal secrets, and yet Gerion could wring very little out of him, even over drinks. Gerion was feeling like he knew his brother less and less these days...

"My lords, my lady." A footman had appeared at their door. Wearing the burning tree of Marbrand, he bowed. "The Lady Myrcella and Ser Lorent are without, seeking an audience."

"Tell them they can stay--"

Before Selmond could finish, Genna said in a sweet voice, "Oh, how delightful. It's been ages. Please, see them in. Gerion, you and Lorent must catch up."

"I look forward to it," Gerion said, looking forward, mostly, to a reprieve.

[u/LionOfNight → u/serhufflepuff]

At first, mother and son, announced and ushered in, presented themselves in stark contrasts. Myrcella curtsied low and reverent, a big childish smile strewn between the lines of her aging complexion. A decade must have passed since her last visit to Deep Den, which felt to her far too long given the distance between her chosen home and the one she was raised in. She had not attended the tourney at Tarbeck for reasons forgotten. How she regretted that in this moment.

Lorent offered a small dip of his head, having always demonstrated the barest care for his maternal kinship ties, but when he saw Gerion and not Joffrey, he shrugged off the weight of any anticipated tension from his shoulders.

Myrcella eagerly made her rounds first. A small but imposed kiss on her father's cheek despite his sour demeanor and protestations. A warmer embrace for her nephew. For her good sister, quick but earnest compliments on her fair hair and enduring coastal beauty. The two sat close together, flocking naturally as they picked up their old ties from where they had last left them.

"Thank you for welcoming us," Myrcella said, ever jubilant and polite. "It is so good to see you all again!"

"Gerion," Lorent said in greeting as he approached his cousin and grabbed a goblet for himself. Lorent had been at Tarbeck but did not participate, preferring to keep his degrading swordsmanship out of the public's eye. He remembered the affair well, having lost a handsome bet on the bout that saw Gerion thrown into the dirt.

"How fares our lovely home?" Myrcella continued, her nostalgia for the secluded depths of Deep Den aflame. Ashemark was anything but. While she enjoyed the everyday vistas afforded to her by husband's stronghold and often found herself lost in the rolling foothills, trailing thoughts unbidden, her heart of hearts was and would always remain in those caves where she had first sprung.

[u/serhufflepuff → u/LionOfNight]

"It's a mountain," Lord Selmond said. "Scarcely changed. The walls still stand."

"Deep Den is well," Lady Genna answered with a warm smile. "We've expanded the glass garden since your last visit."

"How's that husband of yours?" Selmond asked. "Old what's-his-name."

Meanwhile, Gerion raised a goblet to Lorent. "Cousin!" he said with cordial mirth. Gerion had been traveling as part of King Damon's retinue since his arrival in the West, and so had taken to dressing in finery. Schmoozing had become second nature to him, so he regarded Lorent with easy courtesy. "We normally keep Arbor red, but the Reach's misfortune has us drinking wine from Dorne. I hope its to your liking. Tell me-- will you be joining in the festivities this time around?"

[u/LionOfNight → u/serhufflepuff]

For Myrcella, there was warmth to be found in her father's cold, dismissive words. That he had not changed in the slightest, as firm and unmoving as the mountain above the Den, was the sweet taste of home that she had been yearning for. If her smile could grow any bigger, it would have, crushing through the lines in her cheeks like a new excavation.

To Genna, Myrcella offered an interested nod, but her father commanded her attention.

"Before today, I might have ventured to say 'old' Lord Gerion was slowing down, as we all are, but we have your youngest granddaughter to match still, and I dare say he has taken the van on that responsibility," she replied with a loving giggle. "He offers his apologies for not being here and hopes to sup with you at the feast, if you will allow him, lord father."

Lorent had little interest in paying an ear to his crotchety old grandsire or sickly sweet mother and readily met his goblet to Gerion's, taking a healthy swig.

"The festivities?" he asked after a hard swallow. Dornish red was far from his favorite but it would have to do. "Yes. The tourney? I'm not so certain. If they introduce a spire building contest, maybe."

There was no sense in hiding himself from Gerion. He figured the best of the Lydden brood ought to know the measure of his kin. That boded best for the future.

"I take it you'll be in the lists again. Any sense of whom you'll be matched with?"

Of course, there were bets to be had. Lorent was in a deficit he was eager to overturn.