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Donyse whispered a quick prayer to the Seven, wiped her sweaty hands on her habit and forced them steady before she rapped lightly on the bedchamber door.
House Stark begrudged the wedding of their younger daughter to the heir of Casterly Rock and it showed not just in their sour faces at the wedding feast but the meagreness of their bride gifts. Donyse had never seen a lady’s wedding chest so bare - it was half empty and the linens inside were clumsy work with crooked stitches, barely fit for a distant minor cousin, let alone a daughter of a Great House marrying into another.
A new bride should also have been fussed over the morning after her wedding by all her female relations, vassal’s wives and daughters, maids and septas too. There should be lively teasing laughter, delicious snacks and admiring the expensive gifts from her new husband. It shouldn’t be just a single septa of her new House, hastily found and pressed into service.
Though Donyse thought some of that might have Lord Tywin’s shrewdness, rather than House Stark’s reluctance. The bride was too young for wedding and bedding - an unflowered girl of ten. But great lords and their games wouldn’t wait so they pressed ahead all the same and girl was married. It was the same reason the bridal bedchamber chosen was tucked far away on some lonely hallway in Casterly Rock - no one wanted to hear the girl’s screams as she was bedded by a man old enough to be her father.
And the reason they sent a septa skilled in stitching to tend the girl the next morning.
Donyse steeled herself with a deep breath as she entered at the called invitation.
She’d imagined the horrors she’d see inside - the girl weeping, the girl torn and damaged and bleeding badly. Seven save her, she’d even imagined the girl dead - mayhaps by Ser Jaime’s hand in a rage, mayhaps by the girl’s own hand in despair.
She never imagined the sight that greeted her eyes.
Jaime Lannister sat on the end of the bed, a bedsheet pulled over his groin. Arya Stark knelt behind him, his shirt so large on her that it was as long as a gown. Her hands were tangled in his golden curls as she made a clumsy braid, like he was her doll or one of her girlish playmates.
“My lord? My lady?” said Donyse hesitantly.
“Septa Donyse,” said Ser Jaime politely. “Arya, this is Septa Donyse - she’s served House Lannister for many years.”
The new Lannister lady eyed Donyse warily before remembering her courtesies.
“A pleasure to meet you, septa,” said the Stark girl obediently, though her eyes stayed watchful.
“I’ll leave you to the septa,” said Ser Jaime, deftly wrapping the sheet around his hips as he rose. He ruffled his child bride’s hair with his remaining hand, like she was a favourite dog or daughter. His golden curls remained half-braided as he left the room.
He’d left the mattress bared with his leaving and it was clear that, for all Ser Jaime’s protests to Lord Tywin about bedding an unflowered girl, he’d followed his lord father’s orders. The wet stain of blood and seed, red as Lannister crimson, on the bed made that clear.
Donyse forced herself to smile gently as she placed the basin of warm water and the soft bathing cloths beside the bed.
“It can be uncomfortable for a new lady after her wedding night,” Donyse said. “If it please you, my lady, lie down and I can give you a wash. Warm water and soft smallclothes help with the soreness.”
She thought the Stark girl might refuse but instead the girl shrugged, flopped backwards and yanked up the shirt to bare herself.
Donyse checked between the girl’s legs carefully. Her parts looked reddened and tender, smeared with her maiden’s blood, but she lay still and tranquil and unflinching as Donyse carefully wiped her clean with soft cotton cloths.
Lord Tywin was certain to want a report - he wouldn’t risk this alliance with House Stark to an unconsummated marriage - so Donyse forced herself to ask.
“The bedding went well, my lady?”
The Stark girl propped herself up on her elbows to look at Donyse as she answered. “Yes? I think so?”
“Not too painful?” Donyse hardly knew why she asked. Lord Tywin wouldn’t care - even if the girl complained to her mother, House Stark could do nothing now she was a lady of House Lannister.
“A bit. Like riding all day.”
It would’ve helped if the girl’s maidenhead had been lost riding, as it was for many highborn girls. And Northern riders were known to be skilled and formidable.
“Except for the end,” the Stark girl continued. Roses flushed in her cheeks then. “I haven’t had that before riding horses.”
“I-I’ve heard riding husbands is different, my lady,” Donyse stammered, her own face burning. She’d been raised in a motherhouse and made her vows to the Seven when she came of age - the closest she’d come to a man’s touch was admiring statues of the Warrior when she was meant to be listening to the septon’s sermons.
The Stark girl laughed. “I bet ladies would like riding more if horses were like husbands.”
“Most like,” Donyse agreed faintly.
“Jaime-” Interesting, that the Stark girl called him by name already, without any honorific. “-said we wouldn’t bed together again until I’m flowered.”
That was worth noting too. Jaime Lannister was perverse enough to bed his own sister - and breed with her, if Donyse’s suspicions were true - but not perverse enough to bed an unflowered girl, wife or not, unless Lord Tywin ordered. Donyse supposed worn, thin scraps of honour were better than none.
“That’s quite usual, my lady,” said Donyse.
The silken smallclothes - bride gifts from House Lannister, not House Stark - were still too large for the Stark girl’s narrow hips and needed jewelled pins to hold them in place. The gown fit but it was cut for a woman grown and the girl looked even younger wearing it. She looked like a girl playing a game by dressing up in her mother’s castoffs.
The tea was still hot enough that it was almost too hot to drink. The girl drained the cup though, even the dregs near the bottom, where the wormwood tended to settle.
“Not too bitter, my lady?” Donyse asked.
“A bit.”
“I’ll sweeten it with honey next time,” Donyse promised. That would hide the taste of the tansy and wormwood better, and soften the taste of the pennyroyal too.
Donyse kept her smile steady as she dipped a curtsey to the new Lannister lady and opened the door to let the maids in - her hands didn’t start shaking until after the door behind them. She touched the small, rustling pocket of tea leaves and reminded herself that all was well enough. The Stark girl was alive. Ser Jaime had treated her gently and now he’d turn his appetites back to his twin. His girl bride would have peace for awhile - if only because Lord Tywin wouldn’t order her bedded again while she was unflowered and there was little chance of an heir.
A bad bedding was nothing to a bad birth - women died often enough in childbed, girls even more often. The Stark girl - Donyse should remember to call her a Lannister lady now - would quicken eventually and make an heir for House Lannister.
But not when she was still a child.
Donyse would see to that.