The Courtyard overflowed with the Lords and Ladies of Westeros.
Off the cuff, Melara recognized maybe about half of them, certainly most of those of the West. She had been the spoiled girl of an indulgent man, but her Mother Rosalind had been strict on her education, an avid woman of class, distinction, and grace that many claimed had married down when she had run off with Knightly House Lord Tybalt Hetherspoon, even if she had been a girl from a branch family of Marbrand. She misses her, Melara, misses the sweetness of her smile and the smell of her Jasmine oil perfume. Jeyne the Maid had stolen the bottle Melara had brought with her to the Rock and then thrown it to the hearth fire when she had claimed the scent ghastly. She misses the smile on her father's face, the way his face moved when he laughed, the sound of his booming laughter, the strength in the set of his brow, or how he always looked so comically big and lumbering next to her delicate mother, but had such a delicate hand at sketching. Her father had loved to draw, and it had been that had endeared him to her Lady Mother, a delicate sketch given to the Marbrand Lady after seeing her at Tourney at the Driftmark. The only thing she had left of her parents at the Rock before today had been her father's latest sketchbook, thankfully hidden from Jeyne the Maid's cruel claws by a loose hearthstone in her bedroom.
Melara misses it all as she stares at the flags and banners being hosted in a show of ceremony for the execution of Micheal and Jeyne Hetherspoon.
All for Melara Hetherspoon… Or well, for Melara backed by the Lannisters.
Melara wondered, briefly, why the execution was not waiting for the King if it was such a ceremony, such a moment of importance. Nearly all of the big names of Westeros' great Houses were present, as per Tywin's request/demand. But with her other memories, she figures on an educated guess that it had something to do with the fact that he was bat-shit insane . Her memories of Westeros did not paint him completely illy- he was the King that understood that Tywin Lannister was brilliant and could shore up his lack of talent, intelligence, and so on.
Until he suddenly wasn't , dismissed as he had been by the King, and now the man was coming to the West to show off a child that wouldn't even be present for the Tourney.
And though he wasn't as bloodthirst as her memories of Earth said he would be, he had cruelly executed his last Mistress two years ago, and her entire family, even though most evidence pointed to the fact that Jaehaerys Targaryen had probably died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Her last Septa at Hether Keep had brought it up in a discussion of 'purity' of both men and women in regard to marriage, praising the King for his walk of atonement and his treatment of the woman and her kin. Tybalt Hetherspoon had been a kind, well-mooded man, and that had been the only moment that Melara had seen her father furious and spitting because she hadn't known of the incident beforehand.
But it did paint to her a clear picture of the King. The King was paranoid already if his jealousy of Tywin had already made him fire the best Hand of the King in years, and capable of the great violence of innocence for that paranoia, would probably fuck up this execution in some way. Tywin had made this a matter of the West, witnessed by the Realm. Melara wondered with some grime amusement if this would put her into the crosshairs of the King for being the central character in the whole shit show.
"I DEMAND A TRIAL! A TRAIL!" Shrieked her Uncle as he was dragged forward.
Jeyne the maid was silent, eyes far away.
She felt her lips curl. It was his right to ask for this. She stood smoothly, even as Tywin Lannister stood as well. She didn't jump when he placed a hand on her shoulder, but it was near fucking thing. He guided her forward, mindful of her bandages. She felt eyes on her, all of the West, and most of the important lords and ladies of the Realm. She did not shy away, could not shy away. She made sure to stand straight and proud, as her Lady Mother had shown her to do. And she did not look away as Micheal looked at her with such hate as her Lord Father had taught her.
" Never look away from disdain or hate, little Mellie, for hate will always look at you in the eyes to spit in them. Look back, and spit in them first if you can, " Father said softly, "... But I supposed you won't have a problem with that, considering the fact that you just saw fit to beat the snot out of your elder cousins."
He carefully whipped at the blood dripping from her nose. Melara pouted. The black eyes on her cousins were well worth the bleeding nose.
"They called me a hedge knight welp. They called me and our House upstart, only good for the fire opals bellow our keep and black pearls from our lagoon," she replied, pushing back tears.
Her father hummed.
"Our history is short," he replied, unbothered.
"We are a proper House, father, we are. Those wretched boys don't get to say otherwise!"
He laughed.
"Of that Mellie, I have no doubt. But our history is short, it was but a handful of generations ago we were commoners."
She frowned.
"Our history is longer than the House that rules the Seven Kingdoms! The Targeryons have but three centuries. We have five!"
"Yet, our history is still called short. Never forget that Melara, never forget it, my little Knight-girl, the world will take your shortcomings and use that to spit it in your face."
"But I will spit in them first! ' We Find Strength !' "
Her father smiled. Pressed a kiss on her brow.
"' We Find Strength .' "
She breathed, found the strength of her mother and father, and looked into the eyes of the man that hated her.
"The woman has already confessed your deeds," Lord Tywin told him cooly.
She was not surprised when he went apeshit and tried to go for Jeyne for the 'betrayal and the slander and the filthy lies'. She let him have his moment writhing is his privileged bullshit. She breathed deeply before she looked at Lord Lannister in silent question.
He lifted a brow.
She lifted her chin. He nodded. Permission given! Thank you Genocide Lannister Man. She stepped away from his hold. She spate in the eye of the man who hated her, well, not literally, because Tywin was an etiquette fucking strickler for all his murder mania.
"A trail by combat," she said simply, voice carrying easily, "To disapprove your abuse and theft of my inheritance. You have already attempted to harm me before witnesses, Micheal Hetherspoon, but you will have your right of a trial. Let it be known that Lord Tywin Lannister is a fair man."
She smiled as his hateful gaze and moved to glare wrenchingly at his stump hand.
"Your champion, Lady Melara?" asked Lord Tywin.
She was not surprised, but desperately pleased when it was Tygett Lannister that stepped forward. And then kneeled before her on the dais.
"I volunteer, Lady Melara. If you will have me?"
Her heart lifted. She deliberately removed Oakspoon from its scabbard. The metal sang as she gently placed it on each of the knight's shoulders in quick acceptance.
"The honor is mine, Ser Tygett. And you will honor me further by the use of Oak Spoon, " she said simply.
With a quick glance at his back, Melara realized that Ser Tygett too favored a sword of similar length and weight as the valerian one in her hands. It would be fitting if he used the sword to fight her Uncle.
Micheal Hetherspoon screamed.
" THAT SWORD IS MINE BY RIGHT! "
"I am the heiress of House Hetherspoon. I will be defended by its sword," She replied, cold, "Eldest male or not, you will not desecrate the sword of my House in your pitiful attempt at wiggling out of the consequences of your actions. You have lost the right to this sword the moment you lifted the first hand to beat me. Chose your champion and fight before the wills of the gods, Old and New."
Micheal's chest heaved.
He looked desperately around.
"Ser Broom," he pleaded.
The older man looked down his nose.
"I will not fight for you. I dare not for a man that saw fit to beat a little girl. You disgust me."
He asked. All of his friends and companions- And not a single one stepped up for him. Melara visceral enjoyed the despair on his face. It was the very same face she had made in the mirror, so many times.
"You must be your own champion," said Lord Lannister, eyes cold.
"That is not fair! I was maimed, injured grievously-"
"Those are your terms, Micheal. You will your trial now, or you shall take the block as your whore will. Decided."
Melara smirked.
" 'We Find Strength', Uncle."
He yelled in witless fury.
Melara thought it like music.
"Ser Tygett?" She asked, mockingly gentle.
"My lady?"
She smiled.
With everyone one of her teeth.
"Pay a debt my Uncle has standing with me."
Ser Tygett's eyes gleamed.
"With interest, Lady Melara."