It was a misty autumn morning, and two days from the twins' seventh name day.
The quirky young septa who now took care of them had already broken her fast, in the company of all three Lannister children, in the Great Hall, on lemon-cakes and other assorted dainties. Now they had gone out for a walk on the ramparts of Casterly Rock, and they stood on the westernmost wall, which seemed to plunge into the Sunset Seas, the vast expanse of which was still shrouded in a dense morning mist that extended as far as to the horizon.
During their breakfast, Maester Creylen had brought in a new message sent by homing raven: the Lannister children's widowed father was coming home from King's Landing, the capital of the realm, to spend the name day of his favourite children with them in their common birthplace, and he had brought gifts for both Cersei and Jaime, though he had not clearly said whether Tyrion would have anything good to read.
And thus, to prepare for Lord Tywin's homecoming, which was expected for the name day of his eldest children, every servant and soldier at Casterly Rock was hurrying and scurrying hither and thither, ensuring that nothing was out of place for the expected return of His Lordship.
It was for this reason that both of the name-day children were showing the blue septa around the fortress. To introduce her to the whole staff and garrison of Casterly Rock, from Maester Creylen to the boy soldiers and the scullery maids.
The imp would rather have not thrown in his lot with the twins, feeling left out as he had, but Jaime and Cersei had come across him sitting by a table and reading in the library, as he usually did, when they showed the septa how carefully a troop of maids were dusting every book on the ceiling-high shelves, something that Tyrion, reading history of the Age of Heroes, didn't even notice the slightest.
"And there you have our resident household sprite," Jaime had said with a smile and a wistful look in his emerald eyes. "The Odd-Eyed Library Imp of Casterly Rock!" Cersei had snickered and Tyrion had shut his book as quickly as he could, and soon he was running towards his older brothers, who, taller and quicker, ran away into the corridor, both of them. It had taken a funny-looking frown from Septa Poppine and the promise of one of her legendary stories to restore the peace among all three Lannister siblings.
And this is why the youngest and smallest of them, who would rather have stayed behind reading his books in peace, was now in the company of the older two and their unlikely governess, on the westernmost rampart of Casterly Rock, which seemed to plunge into the Sunset Seas, the vast expanse of which was still shrouded in a dense morning mist that extended as far as to the horizon.
"Looks like a gloomy morning today," Jaime said with a sigh.
"Looks more like a morning of excitement," Tyrion replied. "Looks like the fog would make a nice cover for the longships of ironmen. In those days when this land was a free kingdom, and though Casterly Rock has never been taken, looking westward into the tides and seeing their kraken prows was enough to fill even the boldest warrior's stoutest heart with awe and dread."
"Looks like a gloomy morning today," Jaime said with a sigh.
"Looks more like a morning of excitement," Tyrion replied. "Looks like the fog would make a nice cover for the longships of ironmen. In those days when this land was a free kingdom, and though Casterly Rock has never been taken, looking westward into the tides and seeing their kraken prows was enough to fill even the boldest warrior's stoutest heart with awe and dread."
"Awww!" Cersei sighed. "They were wicked indeed, the Ironborn in yesterday's story! They orphaned children and they forced girls to make love to them!"
The septa could have chided the little lady for such a remark, but she was not angry at all. Rather, she burst into a giggle and stroked Cersei's bright golden hair.
"Well," she said. "There happened to be an Ironborn who was completely unlike the others. He knew what war brought to the lands, and left, not afraid at all of the price he had to pay."
"Oh, really!?" said all three siblings, standing in awe, and this feeling would increase even more with the septa's next remark, which struck them like lightning:
"And this ironborn lad's mother was a Lannister, born and raised within these very walls!"
Now the story of the day sounded even more interesting than ever before.
Tucking her unruly auburn lock back into her veil, Septa Poppine sat herself on the bastion while the waves lashed against its foundations just above the surface. The children came closer.
Then, all four formed a circle, or rather a square, with Tyrion opposite Septa Poppine, Jaime and Cersei on either side, listening to the clash of the waves.
The young septa cleared her throat, and, by the pale mist-veiled light of the rising sun, she began to tell the children a tale...
The Marvels of Uncharted Tides: A Tale of the Iron Islands
This is a tale of the Iron Islands, yet it begins far away eastward, on Casterly Rock. The seas have always been great roads to leave one land for another, for better or for worse. The fortress towering on its tall golden cliff, thrice the height of the Wall and two leagues long, a redoubt that never has fallen, rising above the waves as if to pierce the skies and defy the gods. The shimmering tides lap westwards against the rocks, while harsh yet green hills huddle below east of the redoubtable keep.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The springtime of hope, the winter of despair. It was the days when each land of Westeros was a free kingdom, centuries before the dragons' landing, and when the ones who landed were the dreaded ironborn, whose kraken-headed longships, along the whole Sunset Shore, told the coastlanders who saw them that there would be no mercy and no quarter, their holdfasts or huts would be levelled with the grounds, their children would be orphaned and taken captive, and the fairest of the little girls and young maidens that had been taken as thralls, for thus are the captives of war still known on the Iron Islands, would be chosen as salt wives, something between wife and mistress (like the paramours in Dorne, the salt wives of the ironmen are a concept very few outsiders can grasp) for the leaders of these ruthless men with a religion harder than their scarred hearts and than their iron breastplates.
It was a time of valour and of struggle for the sunset kingdoms. A time of war and of hope, in which not any realm was safe if it stood on its own. Homing ravens cruised the skies and messengers rode at lightning speed to bring news of princesses and of widowed queens, whose marriages would bind ties across kingdoms for the common cause.
From the towering battlements of Casterly Rock, King Tyland I Lannister, an orphan aged sixteen, watched the shoreline and the evening sun sink into the misty seas, dying fog and water the colour of blood. He was young, and he was pale, and in his short life he had never set a host on the battlefield, but stayed in the library or on the courtyard of the vast fortress day and night with his closest advisor, the regent of his childhood, the fortyish Maester Kevan, learning the arts of war and the history of the realm. Soon the moment of truth would arrive, the still soft hand meant to swing the ancestral sword Brightroar would flash with Valyrian steel, the ironmen would retreat and sail back to their craggy isles for good... or not? The battle-scarred bannermen whispered that such a stripling could hardly lead an army, and, while he heartily laughed at their taunts, he bled within and kept his sorrow to himself. Would he really live through the new life he was to lead? Clasping his hands, Tyland uttered a prayer to the Warrior, the usual prayer for self-confidence.
Thus, ere he left the safety of his walls for the unruly and glorious battlefield, he had to wed and bed his Reach bride, the one his parents had accorded with the royals of Highgarden when they were still alive, so far back in time that he could not remember. The dashing Garth VIII was the middle child of three, having both an older and a younger sister. The older one, Audrey, aged eighteen, was a true Reach beauty, with the dark eyes of her Redwyne mother. The younger one, an adorable maid of sixteen springtimes like the King of the Rock himself, had been named Rowan, after Garth Greenhand's youngest daughter, and she had been fostered with her kinsfolk on the Arbour until the island was stormed and she came as a fugitive to her brother's court, where she soon became the crown jewel of every tournament and every love song.
It was the latter, the youngest of the three Gardener siblings, that had been chosen by decree to become the next Queen of Casterly Rock. What would she be like? Would she grow to love him, or rather yearn back to the dashing gallants and minstrels of her own lands?
Maester Kevan's voice roused his ward from his reverie. There had come ravens from the south, he said, and the King of the Reach sent his best wishes to his brother-in-law. Rowan Gardener was already on her way up north in a carriage inlaid with gilt flowers, accompanied by her bevy of four handmaidens and a well-armed escort to keep her from harm. At the seashore, the wedding ship, with the Maiden herself for a figurehead and for a name, commanded by a skilful Lysene captain, was waiting for the precious cargo it would bring to the Kingdom of the Rock.
"Then, I will have to leave soon as well!" A voice like the tinkling of a silver bell rang not far from the spot where both men stood. Turning around, Tyland beheld a maiden of eighteen, with her golden hair as bright as the sun and twinkles in her mint-green eyes. The young ruler rushed towards her and clasped her slender waist.
"They say King Garth is twentyish, a dashing gallant, and already inured in war. But they say, as well, that he is fickle, and he finds himself a new lady love for each week. Shall I find within me the strength to love such a husband? There is less of the Reacher than of the Dornishman in him," she said, finishing with a deep sigh.
"Ildara... Ildara, my dear, please do not worry at all. Where was your dream to live in Highgarden, to ride across the meadows and hills of the Reach, flowering and fresh unlike our own harsh lands? It is true, I will miss you, who have been more of a mother than of a sister to me. The times have changed, Ildara. We are no longer children, and we can no longer spend our days in learning and play while our bannermen and our smallfolk live in fear and in distress, constantly ready to shield what they love, beyond these steady walls." As he embraced her, both of them dried up their tears on Ildara's gown of scarlet brocade, thickly embroidered with Lannister lions and vines in gold thread.
"Our crowned mother came from the Reach as well. She was a born Tyrell, shining with wit and with charm, and her name was Irelia. I still remember the songs she sung, even on her deathbed, where her life and health faded away little by little like the waning moon. 'The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun and her kisses were warmer than spring...' She was longing for her birth-place. Our father's untimely death at Kayce broke her heart and took her joy away. They died half a year apart, our parents, Tybalt and Irelia, and they're buried in the same vault deep beneath our feet. Thus, I was left to take care of you, the loveliest golden-haired little princeling ever to roam these halls... We are one, Tyland. We have always been one, the older sister and the younger brother. What if the death or the constant betrayal of my husband should make me waste away, pining for your golden hair and peridot eyes, or for our games of hide-and-seek across the many halls and passageways of Casterly Rock? And, 'my brave warrior,' tears are for striplings. You may also pine for me, but you are no longer a boy or a crown prince. Soon you will lose a sister, but win a bride instead. You will sire children, fight enemies, win battles. Oh, I wish I had been born a boy, or I had been born in Dorne, for thus I would able to learn the arts of war instead of needlework, and to rule as well as any king could have done!" The Lannister princess ruffled her brother's golden hair and whispered soft words in his ear, drying up the last of Tyland's tears with a flowered handkerchief, a betrothal gift from the Reach.
Looking into one another's green eyes, both brother and sister returned hand in hand to their bedchamber, where they slept together yet in separate beds.
Within a cavern facing westward below them, the entrance to Casterly Rock, their wedding ship was ready, with the Lannister lion inlaid in gold for a figurehead and the name of the bride, the good ship Ildara, its captain a veteran bannerman who had spent decades at the Lannisters' service.
