Lyarra Whitehill is the youngest child of Lord Brandon Whitehill and his wife Bethany. She is sickly.
Lyarra is not beautiful. She might be considered pretty on a good day, though in truth that has less to do with her actual looks rather than how old she looks. Youthful, with soft light lips and sullen grey eyes, she looks every bit as sickly as she is. She has a small nose, furrowed thin eyebrows, and long straight black hair. She is slender, without a hint of hips or breasts despite her age.
At the center of the House is Lyarra Whitehill, the last surviving child of Ser Brandon Whitehill and the Lady Bethany, who was a White Harbor Merchant’s daughter. Born the last of six children, and born early, she was small, ugly, and quiet. She wasn’t like her other siblings. She was small, and did not breath often enough. Her father thought she was a child accursed, but Maester Edwyle had been the one to tell him true. She was a sickly child. It extended beyond just that, though. Her heart was weak, her breathing shallow, her skin as pale as ivory itself. She would be small when she grew up, or so the Maester said, but she was not accursed.
Thankfully for her, Lyarra was not so dim-witted growing up. Despite her youth, and despite her fragile self, she was a quick learner, and always sought out means to better herself. Where her sisters ate and drank and laughed, she was sitting and reading, and when she was old enough to understand what all the words meant, she asked of her father a boon: To be taught the arts of healing. [Autodactic]
It was one of the most noble of goals, her father had said, but not one worthy of a Whitehill. Thankfully for her, her mother Bethany convinced him. If she could not be healed, why but stop her from trying to heal others? Maester Edwyle was then made to teach her some of the skills she needed. Her time with the injured and deceased taught her how to be a wonderful medic, and his teachings aided her in that. From the Citadel he had commissioned some books to be sent to Highpoint – some that featured topics that interested her. She sought the deep and forgotten histories of men who wielded power that could put them into the body of wolves. Of the Gods, and the passages of Old Valyria. Oddly enough, what benefited most from that was her skill in healing. She was able to refine herself to within a precise margin of error. [Mystic/Medic]
From her mother she learned a great deal of things as well. Given her mother’s humble starts, she had learned many a thing that hadn’t been taught to any Whitehill woman for generations. The skill at painting came first, then her manners and dancing. Playing instruments was not lost on her, but she yearned for something more. She also learned how to make the greatest roasts. [Courtly]
Something changed one day. She didn’t know what had happened. Seventeen years old at the time, her father and mother began shouting at one another. It escalated far beyond anything she could’ve ever hoped to never see again. Months later, perhaps years, Lyarra was taking dinner with her father. Mother barged in, with someone at her side. The details were hazy. In the end, mother lay dead, and her lover too. Father sung to her as he carried her out of the room, weeping.
Father was scorned. He got angrier and angrier. He never raised a hand to Lyarra. Never. He did make her watch as he took his anger out on the servants, though. He got hated. He was hated. He is hated. It was two years since that event, and still the ramifications hadn’t gone away. No one liked Lord Whitehill.
That was a fact that would never change.
361 AC Forth Month – Lyarra was born.
367 AC – Her education begins.
378 AC – Bethany’s mother is allegedly slain by her Father, though he fervently denies having killed her.