Jeyne Westerling, who, in a time of crisis, quite forgot herself.
(for answer the call, an asoiaf wwi au.)
Besides, her mother would have made far too much of her, she knew, would have tried to make that she and the Starks were social equals. Jeyne had heard a few mentions of the name ‘Stark’ in the papers and once, she thought, across from Kevan Lannister’s table and she certainly had no wish to humiliate herself by pretending to be of their station.
She was sorry to be leaving the city, in some way—she had nearly gone mad, so long, in Crag Manor, miles stretching between it and anything at all (she had read Jane Eyre in school and imagined herself as Bertha, the mad Creole woman shut up in the attic—even with her name, even with her profession she could not quite shake the association). She wondered if Winter Hall would be like that, buried inside land. It did not matter, she supposed. She could not afford to be choosy. She was not a lady anymore—she never had been, really.
She dressed plainly—her hat inexpensive, sitting badly on her head, her clothing a touch too loose. She had lost weight in the last year, since school and Martyn and the new position—she thought less to eat, she supposed. She had surveyed herself in the mirror before she left, the unbalanced hat, the sharp chin. She had put a trace of red on her lips but quickly wiped it off—better to look plain than too modern. Jeyne the plain, she thought—but that wasn’t true, she was pretty enough, she could admit that, hardly a beauty but pretty enough.
They’ll think terribly of me, of course. They’ll think I took advantage of you and the war—that I found a broken boy and decided to make a lady of myself.
But they never last, the golden days. And it can be sad, the sun in the afternoon, can’t it? Yes, it can be sad, the afternoon sun, sad and frightening.
oh my god, take two
(there needs to be a loras/marg one
DARLING, WE’RE FABULOUS
I’m sleeping with your husband.)
Make ALL the stupid paint graphics. ALL OF THEM.