SEQUEL TO POPPY
❝ The strongest trees are rooted in the dark places of Earth. Darkness will be your cloak. Your shield. Your mother's milk. Darkness will make you strong. ❞
GAME OF THRONES - SEASON 4-7
THE POPPY SAGA - 3
THE MOR...
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you were, my dear, but is the saddest sentence left to say.
The gown Lady Clara had chosen for Hermione was as blue as the pale morning sky over the frost-kissed fields of the North, a soft, delicate fabric that belied the cold truth of the day ahead. As she smoothed her hands over the silken folds, her fingers trembling slightly, she took a steadying breath. The formalities, the rituals of court—these were the games played by the matrons of etiquette, women who had honed the art of making an entrance until it became an artifice as sharp as Valyrian steel. Hermione detested it, the performative grace that was expected of her, but there was no escaping it now.
"You look beautiful," Mary said, her hands deftly adjusting a few stray curls at the crown of Hermione's head. Her words were soft, but there was a glint of concern in her eyes, a shared unease between them that went unspoken.
Hermione offered a small, tight-lipped smile, her reflection staring back at her from the polished surface of the mirror. The girl in the glass seemed a stranger—elegant, poised, and yet hollow.
"The entire castle has been searching for you, but I should have known you'd be here," came a soft, lilting voice, as familiar as it was gentle. Hermione looked down to see Lady Clara standing in the threshold of the library, her golden hair tumbling in loose waves about her shoulders. The blue of her eyes held a soft gleam, a mother's warmth and quiet amusement. Her feet glided across the tiled floor, so light it seemed as if she moved on air.
Hermione smiled faintly. The Camelot library had been her sanctuary for as long as she could remember. One of the largest chambers in the castle, rivaling even the Great Hall and the crypts below. The scent of old parchment and worn leather hung in the air, and high, arched windows allowed the light to pour in, illuminating the rows upon rows of books that stretched across two floors. From those windows, one could see the Forest of Ascetir, where the bones of Balerion, Prince Viserys Targaryen's ancient dragon, lay bleached by time. The maesters often marveled at Camelot's library, where knowledge collected from Essos to Dorne lay within reach. Seven hundred thousand volumes, perhaps more. Even the scholars of the Citadel journeyed north to study texts they had never seen elsewhere.
Shrugging, Hermione began her descent from the upper level, moving gracefully down the stone steps. "You know I'm not fond of these things," she said with a resigned tone, nodding to the finery and festivities her mother so loved.
Lady Clara smiled thinly, the hint of exasperation only deepening the love in her gaze. "It's always these silly things one hopes for when all is taken away," she said as Hermione reached the floor then stood, frozen in time. Watching as her mother disappeared momentarily, before slowly regaining herself and moved toward the large oak desk, stacked high with ancient tomes. "So," Clara continued, a glimmer of curiosity returning to her voice, "when do I get to hear all your stories from Dorne? Your letters were sufficient, but they only told part of the tale. I know you left much unsaid."
