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You knew a way to wipe the smirk off her face.
"I love you too, dear sister," you said, then did something to truly shock her. Placed a peck on her cheek. "I'm glad I'm in your thoughts."
The stunned look on her face, the fingers that went to her cheek. It made you grin, more so when the shock passed amd her pale face flooded red with fury. It was worth the stinging slap she put on your own cheek, which only made your grin grow wider. It was hard to take her snarl seriously, the fury of a twelve year old girl, that the grin turned into a dark chuckle.
"Bastard," she spat, the word ever ready in her scabbard but with more venom than usual, and when she grabbed her long braid and fled you gave a tough little grin, happy to have sent her running.
But when you went back to packing, buckling your travel bag, your pleasure turned into an angry kind of sullness as you glared at the buckle of the bag. There had been wetness in her eyes as she had fled which had spoiled the fun.
Fuck the brat, you thought. She had delighted enough in your misery you could take some delight in hers. How many times had she egged some mason's son or baker's boy into picking a fight with you, and watched the brawls in glee, spying from safe vantage, delighting whether you won or lost? How many times had she found you recovering and taken delight in pressing on your bruises just to make them sting?
She could hurt you, you would hurt her, and hurt her worse if needs be. And maybe you could learn to love the bitter aftertaste it left in your mouth.
When the next day came and the household was ready for departing, you found yourself alone with your horse. You'd been given the gelding Chestnut to ride. Gareth was on Jester, a young horse. Your father rode his destrier, Bullroarer, Jester's sire. For the girls, a gilded wagon had been readied. Ser Hobb rode his own horse, the ill-treated Fennel, and Ser Lincoln had his own steed.
Ser Hobb was armoured, astride his horse and in command of a body of footmen, ten men-at-arms in the colours of House Clover the family crest upon their cloaks. Your father hardly kept a martial household, but his soldiers had good stout spears and shields with tall conical helms and coats of mail. Ser Hobb wore a jack of plates and his helm was a match for the footmen. With the wagon behind Lady Clover's carriage were the servants who would care for the family on the short trip up to the Mander Crossing to Highgarden beyond, and behind them were the remounts, spare horses.
It was no great journey up the roseroad but still you were excited. You had on a coat of mail and a helmet like the men-at-arms, but your horse marked you as separate, even if Chestnut was no warhorse. The sun was high. Ser Normund stood with Maester Wilard and Septon Tomas, the twins in front of them.
When a whipcrack started the carriage forward, and Lady Marisa waved farewell to her young twins with tears in her eyes, Bael shot forward from his great uncle's grip, wailing.
