Prince's Angel

Winds of Westeros

The next few weeks followed a tremendous amount of activity.

The Veltaris estate was closed to all visitors since Lord Steffon had left, and under Lady Saera's orders, the finest silks from Yi Ti, linen from Qarth and lace from Myr as well as velvets, lambswool and furs were brought from all over Essos (and Westeros). The finest seamstresses came as well, from Myr, Braavos and Lys and diplomats who had seen the Seven Kingdoms themselves and the ladies of the court were invited (very discreetly and with a great amount of hush money) to describe the fashions and styles of King's Landing, Lannisport, Oldtown and Highgarden. Not that they would be relying slavishly upon them, Lady Saera explained. Seraena would have to do the trend-setting herself.

Either way, she almost disallowed Seraena when it came to making her own clothes. But Gabrielle Delacour's mother Apolline had been extremely skilled. Not just with beautification potions and spells but with fashion and style.

Of course everything had to be medieval, but Apolline had passed on her talents and excellent taste to Gabrielle and she never lost it, even though she was Seraena. It was a good thing she had the double excuse of having to study Westerosi religions, history, geography, court etiquette and cultures. Especially from someone who had seen a modern world, Seraena could see the many gaps and flaws. It wasn't without reason that the Blackfyres- or any noble house for that matter- would find it easy to rebel against the crown. Whether they would win or lose, but the only troops the Iron Throne itself could muster were the ones that came from the Crownlands, including King's Landing.

Westeros had no army.

She looked up. The door was sealed with magic, and a pair of scissors were snipping gracefully away, whilst a needle and thread hovered in midair, weaving in a piece of delicate gossamer silk, stitching tiny crystals onto the fabric.

Her wedding gown would have to meet her mother's standards.

Just this morning, Seraena had met her mother, and Saera had delightedly presented her with a bolt of cloth. The silk was so smooth it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She had never felt anything so soft.

"Are you sure you will be able to handle everything?" Her mother asked, worriedly. "What with your father insisting the studies you must undertake-"

Seraena forced a smile. "Mother, I'm fine." She stated, but her smile was wan. Saera looked worried and frowned.

"I-" she bit her lip. "I've always dreamed of something like this for you. But now that we're facing this..." She trailed off. "I'm... I'm not sure..."

Seraena stared at her mother with wide eyes.

I'm not sure I can let you go, the words went unspoken. It was a mother's duty to scheme and seek out the best match for her daughter, so she would be high, respected and adored, never wanting for anything. But now Seraena would have to sail across the Narrow Sea, and into a foreign court which was not likely to welcome her. And she would be alone.

Saera sighed. "Someday, you will understand, when you are a mother. But even so..." She shrugged worriedly. "You do realise your primary task once you are married, will be to produce an heir? More than one, as a matter of fact, the Targaryens- and the Seven Kingdoms, will expect this of you- as soon as possible, Seraena. You cannot dally once you are married. The longer you remain without child, the more reasons people will place against you. They will ask whether it would be wise for you- a foreigner- to wed the son of their king, yet without giving them any new princes and princesses."

Somehow Seraena expected this. She nodded. "You have always been wise with healing herbs." Her mother stated. She placed the silk aside and took both her daughter's hands, gazing desperately, no fearfully, into her eyes. Do you know of anything which will enable you to conceive?"