Flowers in the Snow- GoT Bastards

Chapter One

Flowers Growing Strong
Rhyanne Flowers did not wear the latest dresses. Nor did she go to court with her half sister, Margaery. Oh no, while the true sons and daughter of Mace Tyrell strutted the halls, their golden roses displayed proudly, the bastard girl picked flowers from the fields surrounding the castle, as fitted her name.
Highgarden was full of them. They lined open, arching passage ways, filled the courtyards and covered the sloping hills surrounding the southern castle. And Rhyanne picked them all. Roses, mostly, to the disgust of Lady Olenna, (who thought that the rose was a stupid sigil), but daisies, lillies, poppies, peonies, lavender, marigolds, foxgloves and primroses also found their way into the palace, filling the place with the smell of spring, although the summer must approaching its end.
Almost as a jest, her father had summoned her to his chambers when she was just ten-and-two, and instructed her to pick all the flowers she could carry, arrange them nicely, and fill the ladies rooms with them while they were out. And now, eight years later, and she was still doing that duty. At first she resented Mace Tyrell for ordering his daughter to do something that was meant for servants. But now, she loved it. The tense, confusing inner workings of court were not for her. The gardens, animals, flowers and fresh air were. Her siblings were so different.
Margaery had been bouncing between courts for months now. Willas and Garlan were not all that interesting; they preferred not to engage with their half sister. Loras... well the Knight of Flowers knew what he was doing, pledging himself and his sword to one lord or another; Rhyanne never could remember.
Rhyanne scoffed at her own joke. "... his sword...," she giggled behind a bunch of pansies as she past one of Lady Alerie's ladies in waiting. Loras was kind to her, never loving, but kind, and she looked up to him. Although he had his duties, he would take time to help her in the gardens, when he had time off from bedding stable boys, and becoming the next Jaime Lannister.
Now, Robert Baratheon had betrothed his son and heir to Sansa Stark, much to the Tyrell's dismay, as it meant they would have to settle for a lesser marriage arrangement for the only daughter of the Reach.
Not that any of the intricate details of court mattered to Rhyanne. She was more interested in reading about where she came from, helping her mother in the kitchens and chomping through the library at a vicious rate, than understanding the difference between Your Grace and Your Majesty.
Rhyanne gasped! Her mother! She dumped the pansies into a nearby vase, gathered her skirts and sprinted through the halls. Cobblestones and grey brick walls flew past, interrupted occasionally by thick wooden doors, before she burst into the servants courtyard, which was filled with vegetables and blossoming fruit trees. Down the narrow stairs suitable only for servants she ran, her trim, forget-me-not blue gown not stopping her speed. She wore beautifully coloured and tailored clothes, but never corsets, never hats, or intricate embroidery; that would be too noble. Lady Alerie would never approve. (And they were dreadfully uncomfortable, but she would dress up for a wedding, should there be one.)
Her mother was in the kitchen, her brown hair hidden under a cap, as she kneaded dough in a bowl, flour splashing over her worn apron and home spun clothes. Her eye crinkled at the sight of Rhyanne, and without brushing her hands, she briefly hugged her daughter, before returning to her dough.
"Mother! You got flour all over my nice dress!" Rhyanne didn't really mind; the smile she earned was a better reward. Her mother's hollow cheeks were smiling, without opening her mouth, of course. It turned out that Alerie Hightower, Mace's wife, was not as forgiving as she let on. Alia of the Palace, she was called by the Lady of Highgarden. She had worked in the kitchens since she was a babe, and so Alerie though the name was fitting. She also thought it was fitting to take out Alia's tongue, for sleeping with her husband. So here Rhyanne was, at twenty years of age, having never heard her mother speak to her.
Side by side, mother and daughter made pastries and bread for the castle's occupants. Rhyanne hummed an old tune under her breathe as she worked, and her mother joined in, still able to hum without a tongue. The Raines of Castemere echoed through the kitchen as scullery maids, cooks and pages joined in. The woeful song swelled up through the base of the castle, a small act of defiance from the people who were expected to remain unseen and unheard.
Rhyanne was the cause of many such outbursts; she was the bridge between nobility and the servants, being half and half herself. The bastard's lord father would never reprimand her, and she defended the servants, so they were never punished for their singing and laughter.
When the sorrowful tune drew to a close, Rhyanne whisked herself from the kitchens and to the stables, where her mare Leah was stabled. The buckskin mare whinnied at the sight of her rider. Rhyanne brought an apple from her skirts and the horse munched happily away.
Although Rhyanne would never have a mother to talk to, or a family who all treated her equally, she was sometimes glad she was born a bastard. She didn't need to worry about being a good little lady, didn't have to worry about keeping herself pure (or she would have failed many years ago), but she had a father who was a lord, so she had a horse of her own, and a respectable section of the palace to herself.
As Rhyanne Flowers brushed down her horse, the boy who ruined her chances at marrying a lord appeared behind her.
"Well, if it isn't the little lady," Florent said slyly.
"Shut it, Florent."
"Someone's touchy. What got your frock in a knot?" He touched her shoulder, briefly, so Rhyanne brushed her horse more vigorously to distract herself.
"Not now," she hissed, unable to keep a small smile from her face.
"Ahhhh, there she is," Florent whispered back, his breath tickling her ear.
Turning to face him, she said, "What do you actually want. I presume you've been sent to tell me something of importance and you're not just here to infuriate me. You know i got cut your hand off, i would just need to tell Father."
"I'm afraid he's a bit preoccupied." Florent said, stepping back, though ignoring her threat. "Margaery is home, and with her, the news of the king's death."