Unbroken

[OOC: Written with the extraordinarily talented Myg]

“And here,” explained Maester Arrik, gesturing airily toward an imposing row of books with a wrinkled and liverspotted hand, “is our Ravenry collection. Some of these selections were written by Archmaester Walgrave himself, though my personal favorite, The Intricacies of White Raven Mating Practices, was penned by Archmaester Agrivane...”

Taking advantage of yet another lengthy disquisition, Robert furtively peeled his gaze away from his teacher to take in the reaction of their guest. Flecks of dust danced in the bars of golden sunlight that streamed in through the library’s window, rays that matched the embroidery on her steel colored dress, and, of course, her hair.

Eyes, as bright and sharp as a well-oiled sword, suddenly shifted his way and Robert felt his pulse quicken as he diverted his stare back to the elder man. The Maester had told them the previous day about the Lady Paramount’s impending visit to the library -- as was tradition for any new ruler of the Reach -- and had requested a cupbearer to accompany him the following afternoon. He had hinted that it would be a good opportunity to learn how to act in front of a Lord or Lady, an important lesson for any who hoped to become full apprentices.

Naturally every hand in the classroom had shot up but it was Robert who had been chosen. He had been beyond pleased to have been selected, although that it had less to do with serendipity and more in the Maester’s interest in him. Hastily given a silver pitcher full of cold water to carry around, he was to fill Lady Ashara’s cup whenever she needed. Though his arms ached from holding the platter level for the past few hours, he showed no discomfort. It would embarrass him to have the most beautiful woman he’d ever lain eyes on to see him hurt from a pitcher of all things.

Though their tour was nearing its second hour, there was not a moment where Lady Ashara wasn’t standing tall and at full attention, nodding politely when warranted, chiming in with pleasantries when necessary, asking all the right questions at all the right times, as one would expect from a Lady of the Rock. Even Maester Arrik seemed captivated by her presence; Robert had been on many tours of the library but never one where the old man seemed doggedly determined to lecture on each and every tome gathering dust on the shelves.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to our horticulture collections,” Maester Arrik announced, hobbling excitedly past the cobwebbed stacks. Robert followed in step behind the two, watching as Lady Hightower took yet another extension of her precious time in stride, and with a dignity that belied the complaint Robert felt within himself.

“With respect, Maester Arrik, I’m afraid we will have to save that for my next visit to the Citadel; young Loras seems to be suffering from a bout of hay fever and while Maester Willifer assures me that it is under control, well, there are just some things that require a mother’s touch.” She smiled -- genuinely Robert thought, as her face had softened considerably.

“I beg your pardon, my Lady. We will be happy to accommodate you whenever you should wish; perhaps Lords Loras and Gerold would like to come along as well.”

“Perhaps,” she said softly, and Robert was sorry to see her expression abruptly return to its impregnable disposition.

But tell me, Archmaester,” she began brightly, breaching a new topic of conversation, “Is it true that consuming honey is the best remedy for such seasonal afflictions? I am curious to hear your thoughts on the apiaries of the Citadel versus those of Honeyholt…”

And with that small nudge the Maester was off, extolling the superiority of the Citadel’s capabilities and promising to send her off with enough honey to rid the South of hay fever for years to come.

Robert trailed duo wordlessly, his cut lip irritating his face. It was bloody painful, and had been inflicted upon him by those jealous to have been passed over for the coveted spot with Lady Hightower. It had not taken long. They had cornered Robert in his room, holding him down whilst they beat his chest and face. His ribs were still sore and his swollen lip made talking difficult, but he strained himself to enunciate properly, lest he be misheard or thought a simpleton by Lady Ashara.

So lost was he in his thoughts, that he’d almost missed mention of his name.

“Robert.” Maester Arrik said to him, evidently not the first time given his impatient tone. When Robert met his eye, he continued. “As I was saying, my old knees need rest, and Lady Ashara has very graciously given you the privilege of escorting her back to her retinue” he said with raised brows, as if to further impress the honor that was being bestowed upon him. And so it was that a bastard of the Reach found himself personally escorting the King’s sister through the Citadel.

The sun was a brilliant orb hanging over them, baking the stones of the courtyard so that their warmth could be felt even through leathered soles. Robert plunged his fists into the pockets of his robes, not knowing what else to do with them now that he was relieved of the platter and pitcher. Unsure of how to carry himself, he elected to march forth in silence -- a silence that was broken by the music of a woman’s voice.

“Robert, was it?”

The boy blinked several times. He looked around to make sure she wasn’t addressing someone else. The only other souls in the courtyard were out of earshot, following each step he took from the shade of the balconies above. Robert swallowed hard, recognizing several of the boys who had accosted him the day before.

“Y-yes, my Lady?,” he answered questioningly, his voice cracking.

She proceeded to engage him in pleasant conversation, asking him where he was from, how old he was, and whether he enjoyed his studies. He answered each question in turn though still incredulous that she, the ruler of their kingdom, would care to ask him of such details.

“And did Maester Arrik personally select you to accompany us today?”

“Yes, my Lady.” Robert, having relaxed somewhat, gave her a small smile over his shoulder. “It’s an honor bestowed upon promising pupils, I believe.”

“So he is meticulous with things besides ravenry,” she said, taking in the expanse of open yards which gave him a window to steal another look at her. From this close up he could see that her eyes were the same shade as the first leaves of spring speckled with a dotting touch of autumn’s gold near the center. A Lannister through and through…

“Was he the one who dealt you that blow?”

He whipped back around, his posture going rigid.

“I assure you it’s quite all right. You can tell me if--”

“N-no!” he interrupted, then sheepishly backtracked remembering his place.

“Pardons my Lady, it’s just -- it wasn’t him.”

Nothing more was said as they finally approached her party -- a wain with the sigil of House Hightower surrounded by a handful of guards on horseback, a rather subdued showing considering the passenger. The only sound between them was the train of her gown dragging over the cobblestones and the door of the carriage swinging open.

Gathering her skirts with practiced efficiency and poise, she stepped onto the stairs of the carriage with a servant’s aid as Robert slunk off to the side, his eyes glued to the ground, his cheeks flushed with both the embarrassment of their interaction and with fear for what was to come once she was gone. His stomach dropped when the gilded doors of the carriage were closed shut.

“Robert.”

The wickered shutter of the stagecoach had fluttered open and he felt his spirits lift when Ashara’s comely face was in view once more.

“Some words of advice…”

She was leaning forward in her seat to see him better; with her hair swept up into a traditional Southron style and the blazing sun above her, it was almost as if she were wearing a crown.

“Remember: one cannot break what refuses to be broken, and a thing remains unbroken when one does not see the cracks...”

She lingered in the carriage’s cutout for a moment more before withdrawing back into her cushions. The coachman then tugged at his reins, setting the horses to a brisk pace along the dirt road and leaving the boy behind in a cloud of dust with only her words to brood over.

Source by oldtownstudent
Mens Hair Styles 2015