Blooming Rose

Things seem to be slipping more and more out of control and now Dorne’s cost them three dragonriders instead of one and Aenyx cannot wait to get the fuck out of this place. It feels like his father errs hardest when the eyes of the entire kingdom are on him, and he is sick of having to publicly justify rulings he doesn’t agree with. That Maegor wasn’t sentenced to death wasn’t much of a surprise, but even so Aegon showed exceeding leniency, choosing his sister’s peace of mind over his own. As if leaving Viserra behind when tempers boil as badly as their sun wouldn’t make her an even bigger target in a land that despised dragons and their ilk even before this latest cockup.

He opens the doors to the Tyrell apartments after a perfunctory knock, only to find them deserted. The entrances to other chambers further in are cracked open, dark and entirely empty. Aenyx swears under his breath, resolving to try his father next to find out when he can finally leave this place, but as he turns around he realize the way out is now blocked. His eyes meet Rosalyn’s and without the pretense of being in public silence stretches between them for a beat. Two beats.

By the third, Aenyx loses his patience. She hasn’t moved from the door. “Rose,” he nods his head in a dismissive greeting, her name casually falling from his lips. “When will you be leaving?” he hasn’t realized he started moving towards her and he stops, the distance between them now halved.

“I do not know.” The answer came immediately.

She wished she could have offered something different, something prettier. Pettier, perhaps. Good evening to you as well, my prince, you look good. Some carefully measured greeting. Some attempt to maintain the illusion that things between them remained simple. Some trivial way to remind him, to punish him. Today she found she lacked the energy for it.

“I need to speak with my brother before making any decision.” She leaned back against the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame. It was not quite a graceful pose. She was too tired for grace. A faint breath escaped her. “Though that has become rather difficult, considering no one seems to know where he is.” The words were delivered almost flatly. Not because she did not care, but because she had exhausted herself caring already.

Her gaze drifted briefly through the room before returning to him. For a moment she simply looked at him. Standing there. In her family's chambers. Alone with her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked quietly. “I was under the impression you had decided this would not happen again.”

She breathed out. “Though I admit your solution was considerably faster.”

"Innocent, of course Lady Reyne" Eleana nodded her head to emphasize the point before appearing scandalized "I would never go against whatever my mother told me" Her lies were unconvincing and a part of Eleana knew that.

She fluttered her eyelashes. "If there was to be paperwork I am sure someone else would take care of it" Maybe that was too much. Eleana seemed overly suspicious now.

At Eleana’s slip, her smile deepened by the slightest degree.

“Princess, what could you possibly be doing at the bazaar that would require paperwork?” She paused. “No, do not answer that. I suspect I would be happier not knowing.” A slight tilt of her head followed. “Though I assure you, whoever would be responsible for it would be considerably less pleased than I. And, sooner or later, all paperwork finds its way to me.” Her smile remained pleasantly unchanged. “So I do hope your trip to the bazaar remains as innocent as advertised.”

“But I am glad you found one another.” A faint smile touched her lips. “There is something rather comforting about that, isn’t there? The idea that when life is unkind, sometimes it still places the right companion in your path.”

Her hand lingered against the mare’s neck. “I think she was very fortunate to find you. And from what I have seen, you were fortunate to find her as well.”

She shifted back and forth on her heels, tucking her hands behind her back. "I am the youngest Princess. The attention is on my older siblings for this wedding, not me" A part of Eleana was lying when she said this. She'd prefer all the attention on her but not for a wedding. A celebration of being the best horsewoman, maybe. Or even the most just princess.

Eleana shrugged. "I was only going to the, um, the bazaar" The princess made an excuse quickly, hiding her future chaotic endeavors against the Crown Prince.

“Well, I shall not keep you from your undoubtedly innocent trip to the bazaar, Princess.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Though I would advise against getting caught, whatever it is you are not doing.”

She tilted her head slightly. “It tends to create paperwork, and I dislike paperwork that is not my own.”

"Now that I could understand. I would hate to have this idea for something only then to realize that it is not what I thought it would be." Lucifer said as he looked over to the young Arryn girl.

“If a group of Northerners arrived in the Vale and immediately began gasping for air while climbing the mountain road, I imagine I would be terribly sympathetic.” She paused. “And then laugh about it later.”

As Rosalyn lingered, Gwin stared back meeting her eyes with a strange grin. "We have all witnessed our own horrors recently, haven't we Rosalyn?" There were too many events for the Harlaw to keep track of. Too many tragedies. It was not difficult for Gwin to piece together who Rosalyn was, as she bared resemblance to Gyles Bolton.

Escaping the heat had been rough for everyone present in Dorne who did not live there. Gwin picked this place as she thought there would be less of a chance of encountering stuck-up nobles rather than the water gardens. Gwin glared at Rosalyn "Then chose the sun" She said as she gave the Tyrell a slight push.

Apparently she would not.

The second push was hardly enough to move her, though it did earn a blink. Rosalyn looked down briefly at the hand that had shoved her, then back at Gwin. “No, I do not think I will.” The answer came pleasantly enough, as she folded her hands before her. “If your intention is to drive me away, I should warn you that I have endured far worse company than yours, as difficult as that may be to believe.”

“And, as you seem to have recognized me, I trust you are also aware that laying hands on a lady of the Reach in broad daylight is the sort of decision people tend to regret once they have had time to think about it.” Her smile returned then, faint and entirely too polite. “Though, to be fair, perhaps thinking is not part of the strategy.”

Someone had said the sister he hadn’t seen in months had gone into the desert alone far too long ago. It felt useless to search for Rosalyn, but the thought of her being lost to the sand and knowing he did nothing would eat him alive. For once, their roles were reversed with Gyles knowing where she would be and Rosalyn was avoiding him.

The sun bore down on them, and even though it was starting to set, it was still brightly hot on the dunes. He was too far away to make her out, but the second he heard her voice, he started running to her. No matter that she was threatening him - these threats meant nothing to Gyles. How many did they throw at each other during all of these years? His face was filled with hope, his form hidden by supplies that he carried on his back.

“Of course it is you.” If someone could ever find, even when she had very deliberately not wished to be found., it would be Gyles. The words came softer than she intended. Her gaze lingered on him, taking in the flushed skin, the supplies slung across his shoulders, the evidence of how far he had come looking for her. Something inside her twisted. “You should not have come this far,” not searched, not worried, not cared. “Gods, your skin is all burnt.”

Sighing, he grabbed a pan and walked up behind the masked figure, slamming it into the back of their head. "Since no one was doing anything I thought I'd join the party"

“What– Lord Redfort, have you just assaulted a stranger with cookware?” The absurdity of the situation settled over her. Then, a laugh escaped. Soft at first, then stronger, half relief, half disbelief. “I do not know whether to thank you or apologize on your behalf.”

To be honest, he hadn't realized it was Rosalyn either at first. From behind, the figure had look slightly familiar but as he walked closer, he had been taken aback when the woman suddenly whirled around and waved a small, slightly long and sharp pin at him.

"Woah...woah, " he lifted his hands up in sincere peace as he stumbled backwards.

"My lady I truly mean no harm-- I...wait, Rosalyn, is that you?" his eyes finally widened in recognition as her name clicked into place to that very familiar face. She had looked slightly different with a different make-up, Dornish clothes instead of her Reach fashion and slightly different styled hair. He yanked off his face covering. "It's me, Desmond," he cried with a wide grin as he moved forward again towards her.

“Gods, I nearly stabbed you.” The realization seemed to genuinely horrify her. “Well, no.” She paused. “Probably not. The likelihood of me successfully stabbing anyone with a hairpin is quite low. Though I suppose the fact that I considered it is not particularly reassuring.”

The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. “You are dressed like a highwayman, Desmond.” She gestured towards the face covering. “A very well-dressed highwayman, admittedly, but a highwayman nonetheless.”

Rosalyn’s expression tightened at the sound of laughter, not quite offended, though perhaps mildly wounded by the indignity of it all. She was aware of the absurdity of it all. A lady of the Reach, standing alone in the Dornish desert, armed with nothing but a hairpin and her own stubborn refusal to appear afraid. Yet, she thought it better to look foolish than helpless.

“It is sharp enough for someone foolish enough to test it.” Her grip on the pin remained firm as her gaze flicked through the other, settling briefly at the dagger on the ground. Then, slowly, she lowered the hairpin.

She glanced back toward Piperette, her expression warming slightly at the confession.

“You were afraid of them?” she asked, not mocking, only curious. “That makes your love for her seem all the more important, I think.” Her gaze flicked briefly back to Tuls. “To choose affection despite fear must mean she earned it very thoroughly.”

No, he doesn’t think that is what she wants, but it’s what he can offer in the absence of what she’s really after — legitimacy, respectability, to know that when people gossip of her their words won’t touch her because there won’t be anything in her behavior to invite remonstration — she’s always been too concerned with public scrutiny to admit, even to herself, that those in her position (so recently obtained, at the hands of the dragons so many of them still despise) tempt it whether she does something worthy of enquiry or not. To be completely fair, tongues do tend to lull their wagging in the absence of scandal, though they could never be entirely silenced, and plenty have a vested interest in seeing her family’s downfall, whether based on truth or not. He knows this, because he is, essentially, in the same position and he doubts any amount of correctness would save him from an eruption of resentment — all either of them can do is delay the inevitable, buy themselves more time to prepare for the worst. He doesn’t think she’s realized this for herself, though, not with the way she’s talking, avoiding the decision.

It would be a relief if in the moment it didn’t feel so unbearable. He wonders if there is anything he could tell her that she would accept, he wonders if she’s stalling in the hopes he’d go back on his word and put an end to this for both of them. A muscle twitches in his jaw at the thought, at the sense of futility he feels about her accepting any plain suggestion he might make — Viserra would never hold her to her service if she asks for leave, he has another sister who’d stay here, his mother might take her under her wing if she asked, for fuck’s sake, even his future wife would need ladies from the Six Kingdoms around her, though he’s certainly not foolish enough to advise that outright. Given enough time, she could even join the council, which would circumvent whatever marriage is brokered for her, just as he is trying to sidestep his.

Maybe she thinks she can still give him up, as if one night hasn’t shattered years of separation and threw a wrench in both of their composure. And the thought that it might have been the last is frankly agonizing. It’s difficult to think clearly under the suffocating sense of panic that engulfs him, made all the heavier at the mention of the king, reminding him he should hate him for the mold he’s forced him into, for the constant supervision he’s made him live under, and most of all, for the lack of trust he’s shown his heir apparent, speaking to him of duty when he asks of politics.

Because their marriage to Dorne makes no sense, brings them no obvious benefits, loses them a dragonrider and gives Aenyx a future queen whose lineage is despised by most of the realm  — as if he wasn’t unpopular enough on his own — all for a region of sand and heat who has failed, or refused to make any allies outside their borders in thousands of years. He understands Deria’s reasoning better than his father’s and the blind obedience that is expected of him is downright infuriating when he’s spent most of his life biting his tongue and softening his edges in an abundance of caution over offending those he’s meant to rule over, only for his father to destroy it all by binding him to a Martell, of all people. They had half the realm staunchly by their side, bound by blood to their house, and instead of choosing a bride from the other half, Aegon has decided to insult two of their strongest allies by extending an olive branch and giving his two dragonrider children to the Dornish.

At least a Northern wife would have been merely useless, rather than downright poison. The Riverlands would have been a halfway decent choice, perhaps. The Reach though — that would have been best, the richest region, the largest army, the stronghold of a Faith the Targaryens barely adopted, the center of knowledge that produces the maesters every family notable enough to have one employed. He’s spent years assuming his father would announce he’d have to marry a Hightower, Florent, or a Rowan, maybe even a Redwyne — he hadn’t dared hope he would pick the Tyrells, especially not after Loras became Hand, it would have opened them up to the criticism of allowing one house too much influence over the crown — instead his father chose a belligerent enemy who refused to bend the knee, their obstinacy so strong it even survived dragonfire. In hindsight, Aenyx should have troubled himself with less, he’d have made a better choice than his father, anyway.

“Would you welcome her in my bed?” he latches onto Rose’s insistence on bringing Arianne up, because he still cannot bring himself to speak in anything but the warmest sentiments of Aegon, even to her. It’s easier to focus on what hurts less. “She’s already made it clear she’d rather keep her freedom,” she’s still trying to hide from him, invoke some type of feminine comradery, because even now, she refuses to admit she’s the one with the problem, though they both should know that at this point, Arianne could hardly have developed any sort of investment in him.  

He can’t help but agree with her, this is foolish, though his thoughts don’t quite run as fatalistic as hers, but however unkind Aenyx is (and he knows he is) he’s always made sure that the suffering he caused her was, at least, necessary. This — whatever it is anymore — barely qualifies and her hopelessness cuts at the hidden part of him — he cannot have her if she’s miserable, he couldn’t bear it.

Her final question startles him, and he takes a step forward, closing the distance between them once more. “Yes,” the word is uttered in a low rush, something of the animal panic beneath it breaking through to the surface as he reaches out for her hand. “Let’s leave this place,” his father can pick another heir, he’s sick of it, he’s been sick of it for a long time, the future Aegon’s built for him feels too much like a cage of late, and he worries that by the time he gets the crown, he would have irredeemably destroyed everything that's left. “Vandal will have us across the Narrow Sea by morning, he’s not so big that he'd be difficult to hide, we can easily ensure they never find us,” even as he is propelled by his own intentions, the clarity that hits his mind feels ice cold. Even as plans form, he already knows she will refuse him.

She’ll find a way to blame that on him, too.

She could see it so vividly it almost frightened her. The horizon stretching endlessly ahead, the world reduced to something simple, something theirs. It felt close enough to touch. As real as the warmth of his hand around hers. And yet– It wasn’t.

There had been a part of her that had hoped he would ruin it. That he would say something cruel, something arrogant or dismissive, something unmistakably him that would remind her exactly why this could never work. Something that would turn him back into someone she could leave behind without hesitation. It would have been cleaner. Easier.

Or perhaps she had simply read too many stories, filled her head with impossible endings, the sort that did not belong to people like them. The sort where the world shifted just enough to make room for something that was never meant to survive within it. But the world did not bend. And he did not make it easy.

The silence stretched between them, fragile beneath the weight of what he had offered and what she could not bear to answer.

Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? There was no ending here that did not demand the destruction of something. He had given her something. Not what she had asked for, not what she could safely accept, but something real enough to undo her all the same.

What then?

The question settled heavily inside her, pulling her back from that shimmering illusion. What would become of them once the distance lost its novelty? Once the silence between them grew too loud? Once there was nothing left to outrun? More frightening still, what would become of her?

Her family needs her. The thought came immediately, grounding and suffocating all at once. But even that was not the heart of it. The terrible truth was that she did not know who she would be without it all.

Without the court. Without the endless dance of whispers and glances and careful smiles. Without the music, the feasts, the politics disguised as affection. Without the delicate, exhausting performance of being a Tyrell.

She liked it. Gods forgive her, she liked it.

She liked being admired. She liked being listened to. She liked the quiet influence hidden beneath silk and courtesy, the way rooms shifted around her when she entered them. She liked belonging to something larger than herself, even when it threatened to consume her whole.

And perhaps that made her weak. Or shallow. Or exactly what her mother had shaped her into. But it made her herself.

Her gaze lifted to his again, unbearably steady despite the ache beneath it.

“I do not know if you truly mean it,” she admitted softly. Her fingers loosened from his at last, though slowly, reluctantly. “But I will not make a promise I do not know how to keep.” The warmth of his hand disappeared, and suddenly the night felt colder than it should have.

“I am leaving,” she said then, quieter now. “My brother is to be wed in the North. I will be expected there. And afterward… Princess Viserra will require me in Dorne.”

“When that time comes, I hope we will see one another again.” The faintest curve touched her mouth then, fragile enough to disappear if either of them breathed too sharply. 

For a moment longer she lingered there, caught between staying and going, between wanting and knowing better. Then she inclined her head, graceful and devastatingly formal once more.

“My prince.”

And that was all she allowed herself.

No answer. No refusal.

Only distance.

Eleana had yet to concoct a plan to scare the Targaryens away from her home and away from her siblings. Aenyx was not phased by her antics, and Viserra seemed more annoyed than angry at Eleana hiding her left earring.

Sure, the last plan went terribly wrong but that was overshadowed by the murder anyway. This time she would be successful.

She started down the twists and turns that made her home Sunspear. Maybe she'd mislead one of them to be hopelessly lost in the dessert. But no, that may bring the King's eye too close to her.

The Princess passed by a noble on the way back to her chambers. Quickly, she turned around slightly panicked. "I was not doing anything" Eleana said with a slight wine to her voice.

“You know,” Elinor added lightly, “In my experience, people rarely rush to defend themselves unless they believe themselves guilty of something.” There was no accusation in her tone, only calm observation, which somehow made it worse. “Though I suppose there is always the possibility you simply startled easily.”

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the nearby tables, where the scent of unfamiliar spices lingered heavily in the warm air.

“Everyone speaks of Dornish food as though it were some trial one has to survive,” she continued lightly. “I have been warned about the spice no fewer than five times since arriving. One would think they were preparing me for battle rather than supper.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth then “Though I suspect the Dornish enjoy watching the rest of us attempt to endure it politely.”