Nitherys followed her mother into the equally beautiful, but warmer, living area of the castle. It was arranged neatly, and a fire sang its song merrily in the hearth. Sighing, her mother kneeled beside it, dress the color of spring trailing behind her. Standing uncomfortably close to her brother, Nitherys, straight-spined as a mast, exchanged glances with the floor as if it was a friend to confide in. Something's going on. It whispered, cool and sweet as the wind on a hot day in the snow-melt season. "Come. Children." Nitherys edged closer, but still a comfortable distance away. However, Cyren kneeled beside Daris, wrapping a protective, almost desperate arm around her. Daris shrugged it away.
"Not that close." Ha. Cyren withdrew his arm, a glint of anger in his stone-cold eyes.
"There have been...arrangements." Daris Felisae said cautiously, testing the words like they were ice on a lake.
"What kind?" Nitherys queried, fists clenching behind her back.
"Take off your outer wear, and have a seat." The queen said without taking her eyes off the fire. Nitherys complied, but slowly, slipping off her gloves first and laying them gently on one of the deep, swirling velvet couches, while Cyren shrugged his fur coat off hastily. Daris made no sound, her eyes transfixed by the flames licking at her face, highlighting and defining the old tattoo she had gotten years earlier, of the sigil of House Tyrell-another one of her foolish attempts to keep her past alive. Over the years, it had warped into a pale scar, but in the firelight, it looked as if it was solid and glowing, flowing over her face like drops of rain on a glass window.
"Are you ready?" Daris finally turned her eyes away from the fire, the tattoo fading back to a dark, long scar.
"Yes-"
"Yes, Mother." Cyren interrupted.
"You know House Greyjoy?" Nitherys inclined her head.
"There has been a marriage arrangement.... Nitherys." Nitherys opened her mouth, shocked.
"You will be wed to Samorr Greyjoy... the heir to Pyke."