[center] [h2] Prologue [/h2] [/center]
[center] [h3] JEYNE [/h3] [/center]

[b]As High As Honour[/b] read the engraving in the gold filigree'd falcon shield Ser Steffon Redfort had presented her in his latest bid to secure Lady Jeyne Arryn's hand in marriage. The maiden of the vale smiled wanly at the gesture and set the shield to one side to regard Ser Steffon with her typical courtesy. 

"Truly, Ser Steffon, this is the work of a master-craftsman. I shall set it on the wall behind my seat in the High Hall."
"You honour me, my Lady, I was rather hoping..." Redfort began.
"You were, no doubt, hoping I'd finally accept your marriage proposal after a decade of procrastination... weren't you? Her mouth curled ever so delicately in one corner to hint at the mischief in her tone.
"My Lady, I..." the Knight blustered in surprise at Lady Jeyne's brusque riposte. He evidently was used to these advances being more like a game of cyvasse but Jeyne was in ebullient mood and decided to speak plainly so that her position was clear this time.
"Ser Steffon, you have spent ten years courting this notion that I should take you for my Lord and husband. I approach my thirty-fourth nameday before the end of the year and whilst ‘maiden of the vale’ I may be, mayhaps it’s time to be blunt…”

“My lady I only…”
“I thank you for your shield. Though the truth of it is, it’s all I expect of you, Ser.” She raised an eyebrow but he still looked befuddled and confused, he was in his fifties and widowed these past fifteen years. His small eyes withdrawn beneath huge, wiry iron-grey brows, he wore a dull chainmail jerkin and his tunic was emblazoned by the bright scarlet fort of his House. ‘As Strong as Stone’ went the Redfort words; a near complete bastardisation of the Arryn legend. “House Redfort is indeed Strong as Stone and I am grateful that your family has been our shield for centuries. I would not have you here when you do me such great service at Redfort…” Her tone was as warm as she could feign but any fool could sense his freshly-stung pride. [i] Why does he keep coming back to hear the same sorry offer declined?[/i] She mused anew.

Ser Steffon wrung his great ham-like hands and chewed upon the inside of his cheek. For a seasoned commander on the battlefield, Jeyne mused for the dozenth time, he was appallingly nervous in her presence. 

“As you will, m, my Lady… though I am heartily disappointed, I, I will continue in your noble service for the love I bear you and in honour of the bond between our great houses…” 

Her ‘advisors’ would doubtless speak of the folly in this once more. The greybeards and staff that populated the huge mountain stronghold were largely her late father’s retainers and all, she knew, would be keen to remind her of her duty to marry and produce an heir.  ‘Not him, though’. Thought Jeyne. In truth, she’d thought ‘not him’ of every noble Knight, honourable Lord or Eastern Prince that had stood before her in proposal over the past two decades. She’d [i]liked[/i] plenty of them; Hugo Hardying was charming and had a trustworthy face; Darryn Upcliff was quick-witted and told fascinating tales and Prince Quorath of Lorath had wealth beyond measure, despite his ridiculous title. They’d all come and gone empty handed from her courtroom no doubt cursing her maidenhood throughout half the Vale. [i]They’d been nice, but they’d been men.[/i] Came the unspoken truth of it unbidden to her forethoughts. 

She could no more wed a woman than she could wed an aurochs, though and there were times in which Jeyne panicked that her womb would petrify from abandon at last and she would be the cause of her lineage shrivelling up once and for all. No doubt her ‘advisors’ feared as much these past twenty years. 

After Ser Steffon had eaten and she had bid him a cool and courteous farewell once more, she had his shield hung in one of the guest chambers somewhere in the Maiden’s Tower (fittingly) and made her way to her solar.
 [url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/9a/ce/52/9ace52b6a02bbd09de098be90112a249--blonde-curly-hair-brunette-hair.jpg]Aya[/url] sat in her accustomed position in the windowseat of the room halfway up the Moon Tower, from there one could see far out across the mountains and over the Fingers to the Narrow Sea. On a clear day, one fancied it was even possible to make out the grey line of the Essos shoreline upon the horizon. Not today. The skies were the same heavy white/grey they had been all week and fat flakes of snow cascaded past the window where Aya reclined languidly. 

“So when’s the wedding m’lady?” the Lyseni purred mischievously as Jeyne had already guessed she would. The frustrations of House Arryn’s increasingly fragile legacy were ever a source of mirth for the former whore-turned-handmaid. Jeyne saw the glitter of it in Aya’s cat-like eyes.
“Tomorrow!” She declared as boldly as she could without laughing. “But it’s ill-news for you my girl! He hates Lysenese and you’re to be thrown through the Moon Door as part of the ceremony. An offering to the Seven!” She spoke matter-of-factly but her lips curled at the edges and Aya just replied expressionlessly, “Oh! Well you must thank your Lord Husband for me because I’ve been meaning to take more of the mountain air of late…” Her lithe light-brown arms encircled Jeyne’s waist as she smirked.

“You can tell him yourself!” Jeyne rolled her eyes in pretend apathy though she already felt her heart beginning to race. “He awaits me, naked, in my bedchambers!” She breathed airily.
“Naked and abed and the wedding not ‘til the ‘morrow?” Aya planted a soft kiss on Jeyne’s neck. “M’lady, you shock me…” Subsequent kisses trailed up Jeyne’s jawline, porcelain cheeks until finally, without another breath they kissed, urgently, desperately.

Afterwards, Jeyne was writing at her lacquered brown-enamel varnished bureau, the Arryn Falcon embossed in sky-blue upon the front. She was relieved to hear word when Ser Redfort reached Stone, meaning the most treacherous legs of his descent were passed and, the Seven be good, the danger over. She didn’t want him for husband but she still valued him and hoped he’d live a long life free of toppling down a snowswept mountain. 

The knock at the door ended her reverie. It was Maester Cowley, a handsome man of an age with Jeyne, with a short red beard patched with grey in each corner of his chin. His older brother served as kennelmaster at Ninestars for House Templeton but the maester had aimed higher and earned an apprenticeship at the Citadel despite being lowborn. He was honest and seemed utterly without agenda and though he’d been in her service only four years now, she trusted him and always heeded his counsel. 

“A Raven m’lady” He still had the accent that betrayed his less prestigious heritage.
“Maester Cowley, please tell me it’s not a white one so I can hope to feel the sun's glow again before Spring!” She smiled. “I’m past my patience with these blasted snows already.”
“Would that it were so m’Lady. These tidings are from King’s Landing.” His demeanour was dark and his usual blithe warmth had frozen cold as the Giant’s Lance. 

She stopped writing and bid him sit. “Tell me”
He handed her the scroll…

[indent][i]King Viserys of House Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, is dead. 
His Grace passed peaceably abed with his good wife, Queen Alicent and his first trueborn son at his side. In accordance with the decree of the Great Council of 101AC and the laws of Gods and Men, his crown has passed to Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen, the Second of his name, Rightful King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.
Crowned in the Dragonpit, annointed in the oils of the Seven alongside his good wife Queen Helaena. May their reign be long and peaceful.

Grandmaester Orwyle[/i][/indent]

It was only when Jeyne dropped the parchment to the desk in disgust that she noted the seal; the three-headed dragon of Targaryen to be sure but gilded in gold rather than red. Aegon clearly seeing himself as special or significant in some measure. 

“Dark wings, dark words…” she muttered.
“Princess Rhaenyra…” Cowley began.
“Princess Rhaenyra is heavy with child and confined upon Dragonstone as Aegon and his mother well know!” Jeyne spat. “He’s stolen her birthright before her father’s corpse is cold I’ll warrant!” Despite herself, her opinion of the message behind the letter was clear; she and Princess Rhaenyra were lifelong friends, cousins and she could recall how they’d played together as children in King’s Landing, her already Lady Arryn and how jealous the Princess had been that Jeyne had a castle to herself. 

“One day I’m going to be Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms and you’ll have to call me ‘Your Grace’ and curtsey and bake me lemoncakes!” At that moment, Syrax- her dragon- had leaned over her shoulder and eaten the lemoncake clean from the Princess’ hand! They’d both collapsed in fits of giggles…

“Would you I write to Dragonstone?” Cowley probed uncertainly.
“No.” Jeyne hadn’t kept the peace so long (save that business at Runestone) by making quick decisions of the heart. “This outrage doesn’t yet concern us.” She rose, pacing slowly as though to add patience to her deliberation; the maester’s eyes never left her. “Rhaenyra is my friend and she knows that, yet she also knows my displeasure at her latest marriage. Aegon and Queen… Queen mother now, Alicent will need support lest Syrax, Caraxes and the rest descend upon them and end this nonsense swiftly.” She nodded, as though making her mind up. “No. We will not bestir ourselves. Not yet. Winter is almost here and we must needs gather the last of the harvests. If they want our aid, let them come. Let them ask!” 

Maester Cowley just smiled. “The Ravens will be grateful of the rest m’Lady!” He raised his eyebrows jovially.
“Before you were Maester…” Jeyne reflected “I had a Falcon. Swiftwing I named him. The fastest creature the Seven Kingdoms e’er saw.” She resumed her seat. “I had him trained to deliver all my letters, quicker than any raven could dream.” 

Cowley seemed surprised, he thought he knew everything about his Lady mistress by now. “I hadn’t heard, m’Lady. Pray, what became of Swiftwing?” He asked with a genuine enough interest.

“I sent him to Dragonstone upon the news of Rhaenyra and Daemon’s marriage” she reflected sadly. “I expressed my dismay at the union and cautioned her to note the tale of poor Rhea; Daemon’s first wife, sister to my Late Lady mother. He never came back.” She fed Grandmaester Orwyle’s parchment to the flames warming the solar. Maester Cowley didn’t react.
“Will that be all m’Lady?”
“For now, maester. That will be all for now.”