"HANDS TURNING LOOM...
SPOOL OF GREEN, SPOOL OF BLACK...
DRAGONS OF FLESH WEAVING DRAGONS OF THREAD..."
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Roselyn Tully-Hightower, is stuck in the middle of the Dance of the Dragon's. The sickening blow of losing her husband and newborn son...
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"ALL I ASK IS, BE MY FRIEND.."
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ELEVEN YEARS LATER, 129 AC.
Sitting in the tombs underneath the Starry Sept of Oldtown, Roselyn blinks back the tears in her eyes, bottom lip softly trembling. A girl her age, merely twenty-one, should not have to bury two people so soon. Taking a stuttered breath in, she places her hand on the two stone coffins, the two carved faces into the granite. Both young and youthful, only make her gut churn even more.
Her sweet son Benjen, only days old, barely even beginning his life was dead. Her husband, Ettore Hightower, taken ill by a fever was now dead. Both of them dead. All within days of each other. She did not get a chance to mourn one of them before the other was cruelly taken from her. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair.
"What of our son? What did you name him?" Ettore wheezes, his voice barely above a croak.
"Benjen. I want to call him Ben, but I do think that Benjen sounded better." She whispers, her bottom lip trembling.
"Benjen Hightower, I like it, a different name for a Hightower. What is his condition?"
"They do not think he will live long. They say he is too small, too fragile. But, I pray the Seven will show him mercy. The same for you." She whispers back, the lump in her throat thickening.
"I do have a feeling that the Stranger will not come for either of us until years from now. Do not worry, sweet Rose." Ettore argues, making her crack the tiniest of smiles.
Chewing on her bottom lip to stop the trembling, she faintly hears someone join her side, her eyes still focused on the two stone coffins. Whilst she never truly loved Ettore, at least not in a romantic sense, she did love him greatly. He was kind, patient, gentle, and funny. He was a good husband, and would have been a good Father, better than more men were.
Shutting her eyes softly, she takes a deep breath in, the familiar scent of Hobert's spiced cologne fills her nose. Hobert Hightower, her husband's father, the only person who seemed to understand her pain. Whimpering softly at the feeling of his presence, she struggles to maintain control of her emotions, to not sob ugly into his chest.
"I am sorry for your loss."
"I should be saying that to you, Roselyn. You lost your son and your husband so soon. I am sorry for your loss." Hobert whispers, his tone apologetic.
"I feel like I should apologize though. I..." She pauses, her voice cracking. "I was the one who told Ettore to go that night. I distracted him from grabbing his cloak. He got sick because he listened to my advice."
"No, no, no, don't do that. Do not blame yourself for this. This is not your fault." Hobert argues, his voice stern. "It was a fever that took my son, not you."
