Feb 26 2017, 03:30 PM
<h2>17 years old. crow's whore. the reach. cintia dicker.</h2>
<h3>neekuh. 23. est. owl post.</h3>
<div class="maincontents scroll">
<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'><span style='font-family: times new roman'><i>“you little <b>whore</b>.”</i></span></span>
The beautiful blonde woman looked much less so when anger and hatred twisted her features. To you, she never appeared to be a beauty. She'd always been a harpy. But she kept that simpering smile plastered to her face in public. She graced her own daughters with a gentle touch, a mother’s kiss. For you? The public evidence of her husband’s shame, his dishonor, his betrayal,
you got nothing. A sneer. A hissed curse. Your mother was a ladies’ maid. She
demanded that she was demoted to scullery maid; to atone for her crimes of allowing a man to touch her, she was condemned to scrubbing pots in the deepest recesses of the kitchens. There was never any love between your parents; he was a Lord, she was a maid. She was cursed with beauty. He took what he wanted. But she loved you. Falia
she called you, fah-lee-ah
, the name rolled off her tongue like water in a babbling stream. If it had any meaning, you never knew, nor did it ever matter. With your mother, you were happy; perhaps those were the only times you were happy.
never called you ‘Falia’.
To her, you were always ‘Flowers’.
You never understood how she hissed such a beautiful word with such venom. You didn’t understand what ‘Flowers’
meant. To you, it meant the varicolored blooms that enlivened the Shield Islands and the Reach. There was no shame to being a flower. Flowers were beautiful. Your mother called you her ‘little rose’,
for your red hair.
And for your thorns.
Even back then, you refused to be pruned. You lashed out against authority, screaming and crying. You were a wild child, a weed in a patch of daisies, and you would not be ignored. You were too young to understand though you were a ‘flower’,
you were not worthy of the petals the other girls received. You were not worthy of the bright silks, sparkling gems, the attention of your father. He too scorned you; but he simply ignored you. Only your mother called you beautiful, saw the rose beneath the thorns. She brushed your copper curls, kissed your forehead, and tucked you to sleep. You thrived in those days, vibrant, and energetic, and loud.
When your mother passed from illness, you were seven.
And you wilted.
<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'><span style='font-family: times new roman'><i>“don't you <b>lie</b> to me.”</i></span></span>
The maid was short, fat, and black-haired with frowning lips and a perpetual scowl. That scowl was affixed to you in this moment, and you met her blue-eyed stare head on, challenging her with every line of your body, every ounce of courage you possessed was laid bare in your hazel-eyed glare. You were
lying, but that mattered not. It was the principal of the thing. Nobody else was there to stand up for you; you had to do it for yourself. You had to be your own defender. You were eleven now, and had been working since the day after your mother’s death, under the stern, sharp eye of the laundress. Your ‘sisters’ were your daily tormentors, and the other maids shunned you. It was ill luck to befriend a ‘bastard’
. A ‘Flowers’.
You remember when you first learned the meaning of flowers.
You weren’t a bloom to be cultivated.
You were a weed. And by the Seven, you would be a nuisance. Your ‘father’
wouldn’t send you away, that much was clear. It was clear by the scorn in her
eyes when she gazed upon your red-haired, long-limbed, freckled form. She had lost that battle with him, and so, she brought the war to you. She denied you any comfort you might have found, in companions, in rest, in life. You worked from the time that dawn’s pale tendrils brushed the parapets of Oakenshield until the last hearth was banked in the kitchens come evening. You were the physical evidence of her husband’s shame. You deserved no rest, no respite, no gentle touch. Your very presence was punishment to her, so your entire existence became her punishment to you.
Your retaliations were small, petty things. Like now, the maid’s blue eyes flashed as she stared you down, accusation in every line of her form. She claimed you had tightened the stitches on her lady’s dresses, making them impossible to fit in for the trueborn Hewett daughters. Of course, you claimed you did no such thing. Lady Hewett had clearly overindulged in the lemon cakes one too many nights. Perhaps she ought to go riding?
But of course, you had. It had been a gradual thing. One week, the stitches on one gown you tightened, and you’d leave it be for a little while, watching your ‘sisters’ squirm. The next, you’d tighten them further, so that your ‘sisters’ garments could be confused for sausage casings. And you’d start again, with other gowns. Slowly. Methodically. Only this maid had caught onto it, and only because she’d discovered a gown you hadn’t yet gotten to. But your wide hazel eyes were the portrait of innocence, your nervous stance the picture of a timid girl receiving an undeserved tongue-lashing.
You always were a talented liar.
<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'><span style='font-family: times new roman'><i>“you scheming <b>bitch</b>.”</i></span></span>
Your ‘sister’ had many suitors who called her beautiful, and sweet, and kind. Privately, you questioned this. Her nose was a little too large, her ears stuck out far too much, her chin a bit too pointy, her blonde hair too dull, too dark. Her mother’s beauty had skipped her. Even your father’s penchant towards long limbs and roiling copper curls had skipped your oldest sister. Her smiles appeared forced; they weren’t the lazy, easy grins you and your father shared. She couldn’t even manage the frigid simpers her mother kept plastered to her face.
And yet, she blamed you
for the looks the young knights gave you, their eyes lingering upon your lithe, long-limbed form as you bent about your tasks, wearing ill-fitting gowns. You knew you were beautiful, even then, before him.
You could recognize the looks in those young knights’ eyes as their gaze followed you from room to room, and it wasn’t polite interest. No, it was that hazy-eyed stare that young men never favored the marriageable ladies with; no, they saved it for the tavern wenches, the maids, the whores, and the bastards.
This was what they meant by ‘Flowers’.
You were a bloom, attracting the buzzing insects. And they swarmed you like flies to honey, like bees to a rose. You basked in their attention, fanning their affections with every coquettish laugh, every simpering smile, each bat of your eyelashes. They didn’t touch you, however. You just toyed with them, drawing them in, catching their interest, before batting them away, like a child who’d lost interest in a new toy, or a cat who’d lost interest in a fresh kill. None of them held your attention for long; you merely liked them for the way they looked at you; not with hatred, like your step-mother, or your half-sisters, but with lust. With longing.
Your sisters took exception to this. You were damaged goods, bad blood. You weren’t meant to outshine the trueborn Hewetts. She
took exception to this. They took away the gowns you’d sewn for yourself from discarded cloth and their forgotten gowns, and stuck you in ill-fitting shifts to dampen your light. But you would not be denied. Your copper curls still caught the light, the easy grace with which you moved still turned heads, your easy smiles still brightened rooms. You would not be denied.
They never were able to prune you, and even a ‘little rose’
had its thorns, and you simply became more of a nuisance in your ill-fitting shifts. Now, you didn’t merely tease the knights and squires that passed through Oakenshield, you pulled them by the arm and they tumbled willingly after you to pillows and to hay, whispering meaningless things to you, and you to them. You dreamed that, one day, one of them would scoop you up and take you far away, riding a white horse.
You dreamed of your very own knight in shining armor.
<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'><span style='font-family: times new roman'><i>“you should be wearing the finest <b>gowns</b>.”</i></span></span>
His ‘smiling eye’
glinted at you when he said those words, the bright blue the precise shade the ocean had been that day. That day.
The day that red-painted hull had crested the waves that ringed Oakenshield, the day that men cursed, children cried, and women prayed. But not you. You alone, of all the women in the household, walked the parapets that day. You were utterly fearless.
After all, these sort of men had little care for baseborn daughters; all eyes would be upon your sisters, your step-mother. There was nothing they could take from you that had not already been taken. You had neither silks nor jewels. Your dignity? You lost that long ago.
Perhaps that was what caught his eye. And perhaps you were not meant for a knight in shining armor.
You were a wildflower, a rose cultivated by wind and rain, not by the shears and delicate touch of a gardener. You faced the pirates standing, chin up, hazel eyes unwavering. Strong. Your sisters cowered, your step-mother wept, your father prayed. You alone had the courage to meet your fate, whatever it may be. And he
saw that. From across the hall, his ‘smiling eye’
found you. That night, you wore your sister’s gown, your step-mother’s gems. The pirates feasted; though it was an eerily silent affair.
Only Euron retained his tongue. His ship was crewed by mutes.
You and Euron alone spoke; your step-mother and sisters wore your
ill-fitting shifts, and served the gathered mongrels and pirates in their own hall. Your father? Oh, he was trussed up like a suckling pig beside Euron, a turnip shoved between his fat jowls.
But that wasn’t enough.
From the time you could speak, the time you could walk
, your step-mother and sisters had been tormenting you. They took any joy you may have had, and turned it to ash in your mouth. You whispered in his
ear. For the first time, he laughed, and your step-mothers and sisters were no longer wearing your ill-fitting dresses. They wore only what the Seven had given them. The pirates ogled and grasped at their bare skin, clawing, ripping at milky-white flesh. Your youngest sister was crying. Your step-mother merely glowered at you with eyes ringed red by tears, but she had run dry. Instead, the depth of her hatred was on full view for the rest of the world. She no longer pretended in front of the world with those vapid simpers, those false smiles. Now the world had seen her true form.
She wasn’t quite so beautiful now.
You laughed with him
, the peals of laughter the only sound aside from your sister’s sobbing that filled the hall. His ‘smiling eye’
was so bright, so full of life when he leveled his gaze upon you. It was the light you’d been starved of; like a bloom, you angled yourself towards him, soaking him up. You were a rose.
Best not forget your thorns.
<img src="https://s20.postimg.org/as0ez2yfh/tumblr_inline_mxummpl74h1r4o23a.gif" class="appimage">