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SPOILER:

The Great Hall was as it sounded. Her father’s seat was atop a rounded dais; a simple throne of smoothed and polished wood. Beside it was an equally noble seat for Gwendolyn’s mother. Normally, Gwen would also have a seat out for her, but this time she needed to hold her baby sister in her arms. It was so strange to see Janette as a little baby once more. She was so small.

Of course, it wasn’t as nice to relive her screaming from earlier. She could have done without that. It gave her a better appreciation for the adult Janette, despite how cute this one was.

The Reverend Mother had just departed with her large contingent of servants and guards. Afterward there was a good bit of discussion from the nobles in the hall until they, too, departed. Janette had screamed throughout most of it, but she had finally fallen asleep, which Gwendolyn appreciated. Still, that didn’t mean that everything was peaceful now. Her parents made sure of that with their yelling.

Now it was just her, her sister and her parents remaining in the hall. The guards had been instructed to give them privacy and ensure that no one entered through the Great Hall’s doors.

Her mother’s natural state was one of disciplined anger. She wore a scowl like a crown. Red hair spilled down her shoulders like a blanket of flame, similar to the common depiction of Lady Morro. Gwen never knew if it was intentional or if her mother felt especially attached to Lady Morro due to such a resemblance. It was braided in the back and tied immaculately, with not a single loose strand free from its many bindings. Then there were those steel-gray eyes that Gwen had inherited. On her mother, those eyes were as sharp as a blade. They were ice cold; They would better fit as the eyes of a wight.

Though this woman gave birth to Gwen, and though she was called her mother, Gwendolyn hardly knew her. That doesn't mean she did not love her—quite the opposite—she rarely got to see her. She was always busy hosting guests, traveling, handling Lannercost business, trades, and lately even leading a congregation of Morro worshipers. She had been relearning the Twin Cross—the sword style formed by the Valkyries—since she had fallen behind during the late stages of her pregnancy. Even then, she was hardly ever around. This woman was a stranger.

It was her stepfather, Rhothomir, that raised her—he and Nina, anyway—but right now, father and mother were in a screaming match. Mother always won these. Morro was the goddess of conflict after all.

“This is a permanent choice,” Rhothomir insisted, tweezing the tip of his pointed ear. He was anxious. He always did that when he was anxious. It had been so long since Gwen had seen him do that. When had he become so confident? “You have a child. You have children,” Rhothomir added, “You would abandon them to this castle. You know that. You would leave us—me—alone; You would abandon us.”

“I do,” mother replied, “And all three of you together are not as important as my sacred duty. As Her vision.” She’d been given the ring of a Valkyrie, a thick silver signet ring with Morro’s symbol upon its crown. It looked heavy, just like the weight of a Valkyrie’s responsibilities. It looked strong, just like the might of a Valkyrie’s faith.

Mother had to win these things or she would shame her Lady. At least, that's what she felt her mother thought. She would not back down until she was victorious. It was like an emotional battle. Whoever gave up first was the loser and their points became invalid. It wouldn’t be many years later that Gwen would realize this was such a twist of Lady Morro’s words. She knew this now, but as a child, she wouldn’t have. Morro's tenets involved choosing your battles, not... this stubbornness. 

“You serve Her right here. You maintain one of Her strongholds. You host Her sermons. You train Her sword style,” Rhothomir replied, bringing a hand down and gesturing toward Gwen and Janette, “You owe something to your family. Too long have they been cast aside for your ambitions!”

Lady Victoria Sedmy—The Reverend Mother—came to Lannercost to offer her mother a station in Holy Valka as a Valkyrie. It was an honor among not just Morro’s worshipers, but the Empire as a whole. The Valkyries were the Empire’s finest. The most disciplined. The most lauded. Not everyone that is worthy accepts this honor, though. To become a Valkyrie means incredible sacrifice. You must cast aside all titles and property, donate any excess wealth to the church, serve wherever you are sent across all of the Empire and—worst of all—disown your family. A Valkyrie must have no attachments of any kind, save Morro’s will. Beyond Morro’s Chosen, this was a little known fact. The Valkyries were seen as heroes, not as one-minded zealots. The truth was a blur of both.

When Lady Sedmy made the offer in front of a full court, her father thanked her for the honor she granted his wife. It was when Gwendolyn’s mother immediately accepted the invitation that the color in Rhothomir’s face drained. As cold and distant as her mother was, he hadn’t thought she would drop them entirely. Very few nobles agree to abandon their wealth and comfort to become a Valkyrie. Most Valkyries were soldiers already.

Gwen’s eyes flicked back and forth from father to mother as they debated one another. Her father was on the backfoot though. Mother wouldn’t give any ground.

“You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” Rhothomir realized.

Her mother was quiet.

He looked like he’d been stabbed in the chest, “She didn’t visit to honor us. She visited at your beck and call, didn’t she?”

“The Reverend Mother does not visit castles just for pleasure’s sake,” her mother replied.

“When did you make this choice?” Rhothomir asked with a firm tone, “When did you choose to abandon us?”

Her mother looked at Gwen and Janette with uncaring eyes, “It was never a choice.” She looked back at Rhothomir and said, “I always knew I would answer the call when it came time to serve.”

Somehow, Gwen couldn’t help but love her mother—this stranger—and felt no bitterness toward her neglect. She had purpose and duty. She was honorable and strong. While being a paragon of Her Lady of Conflict, she never suffered inner discord. She was certain in all things. She knew what she wanted and would sacrifice whatever she needed to in order to get it. Gwen adored that strength. She had long been trying to attain her mother’s strength.

Rhothomir grabbed fistfuls of his hair in frustration, “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re doing this to us.”

There was some unease at how she was treating Rhothomir, though. She tried to remember how she felt during this moment in time, when she was actually a child and not just looking like one. She remembered Lady Sedmy and her mother leaving in order to serve. She didn’t remember this fight, though.

Her father looked panicked. He looked afraid and crushed. He looked lonely, even when surrounded by his family. Gwen’s heart ached for him. He was such a different man than the one she remembered.

“Mother,” Gwen said softly.

They didn’t hear her. “I am not doing anything to you. You are throwing a tantrum, Rhothomir.”

Gwen tried again, a little louder, “Mother.”

Her mother shot her a glare that chilled Gwendolyn to the bone. She snapped, “Quiet, Gwendolyn. Do not speak again. Mind your place.”

Her throat tightened. Gwen didn’t remember that part. Did it happen that way, last time?

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Rhothomir said, coming to Gwen’s defense, “She did nothing wrong. You’re hurting her as much as me, if not more. She has every right to be upset with you.”

Gwen wasn’t sure if she was upset or not. Would it have been nice to have her mother with her growing up? Certainly. Additionally, if mother had refused Lady Sedmy’s invitation, then Gwen wouldn’t have that strength to look up to. She was doing the right thing. Wasn't she?

“You have coddled her just like her father had,” her mother stated, “I heard she was running around the halls earlier today, causing chaos.”

“She wasn’t ‘causing chaos,’ she was just running about,” Rhothomir replied with a sigh, “It was nothing of note.”

Her mother looked at Gwen with some disgust. For the first time since the act of freedom and defiance, Gwendolyn felt mortified by her actions. “I’m sorry mother,” Gwen said, hanging her head in shame.

“Look at me,” her mother demanded.

Gwendolyn lifted her head to see her mother’s stabbing glare.

“Speak again and you will be disciplined.”

With a nod, Gwendolyn shuffled her feet, looking abashed. She wanted to apologize again. She wanted to make her mother proud, to be like her, to be strong. She wished she could show her how she’d grown up. How strong she was now. As of this moment, though? As of this moment she was just a dumb child, small and weak, disobedient and discordant.

“So you’ve already decided,” Rhothomir said, pulling her attention away from Gwen.

Her mother simply nodded, “Like I said, it was not a choice.”

“She asked. You could have said yes or no,” her father hissed, “That’s what a choice is.”

“Don’t be as foolish as Gwendolyn,” her mother sighed, “Rhothomir, you are being a nuisance. Enjoy your lordship. Your comforts. The roof over your head and the servants you possess,” mother explained with a dismissive wave of her hand. She pointed to Gwendolyn and Janette, “Take care of these, if you are so attached. Or don’t. They can remain in the castle under the care of their nanny and milkmaid until they are of age to leave.”

That stung Gwendolyn a bit. She knew her mother was cold, but that hurt. “These,” Gwendolyn thought, “Like we aren’t people. We’re things.”

“Why have children?” Rhothomir asked, “I’ve always wondered why you had them. You treat them terribly.”

Gwendolyn didn’t remember this conversation. Did it happen this way or was the Trial disturbing the truth? Had she just forgotten? How could they talk about them as though they weren’t here.

“I thought they would be…” her mother’s voice slipped away as she inspected Gwendolyn and Janette. With a look of immense disappointment toward her children, she sighed, “...more like me and less like their father. I thought they would be more.”

Gwendolyn felt sick. Her arms and knees were weak, so she hugged Janette tightly to her chest.

“I’ll do better,” Gwen insisted, trying to remain in the proper future tense, “I’ll become a great swordswoman.” She added with an intensity in her voice, “I’ll worship Lady Morro, I’ll lead her sermons, I’ll study her art. I’ll become great and join you as a Valkyrie, mother! I swear it.”

Rhothomir looked devastated as Gwendolyn continued to state her love for this woman. He must have felt like Gwen plunged a knife in his back.

Her mother approached, looking down at Gwen with a callus expression. She nodded, "Will you?"

“I swear it,” Gwendolyn said with a determined smile, “I’m going to do better. I will. I’m going to make you proud of m-...”

Gwen hadn’t expected the back of her mother’s hand—that heavy ring with the symbol of Morro—to strike her across the side of the head. All she remembered before blacking out was her head hitting the floor.