Petals & Thorns

starter: closed for @star-scry @sword-born @bloomingrcse

“After all the effort His Grace has invested in bringing this alliance to fruition, I should think it would take rather more than one unfortunate quarrel to undo it.” The corner of her mouth lifted. “I should be terribly disappointed to learn the future of the realm proved quite so fragile.”

Her smile softened. “Bruises heal,” she said gently. “Embarrassment usually does as well.” Her eyes searched Aemma’s face with quiet concern. “But you were caught in the middle of it all.” She paused. “How are you faring?”

"I feel much differently about my sister" Eleana had thought up creative ways to stop the wedding, but many were plainly out of reach for the situation the young Princess found herself in. "I cannot imagine she will be received in gentle hands as your sibling will be"

“If this marriage is to mean anything at all, it must begin with how we receive one another.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Your people have already set a gracious example. I should like to believe mine will prove equally wise.”

It was praise freely given and honestly meant.

Lady Rosalyn was, perhaps, one of the best he knew in the delicate and diplomatic art of always saying the right thing. It had been too long since they had last spoken — not since he had departed Oldtown for the Aegonfort, abandoning the quiet certainty of the Citadel for the restless courts of the Crownlands.

Though he had been there to forge links for his acolyte's chain and stood prepared to take the vows that would have stripped him of crown, name, and any inheritance alike — Daerion had still been a Targaryen prince and treated as such by the Reach. Lords and Ladies bowed to him, their Houses courted his favor, and doors that remained closed to other acolytes opened readily enough for him.

No house had shown him greater courtesy than the Hightowers, whose ancient city had been home to the Citadel for thousands of years. Nor had the Tyrells been sparse with their hospitality, often keeping his social calendar full. They had every reason to nurture the friendship of House Targaryen for it was his father who had raised them from the station of stewards to Lords Paramount of the Reach, giving them Highgarden and wardenship of the south.

Many among the kingdom still whispered that the Tyrells were upstarts, that Highgarden belonged by older rights to nobler blood. Perhaps, it was because he understood too well what it was to have one's house called usurper that he had always felt a particular kinship to House Tyrell and why he had always found such talk tiresome. His own father had crossed the Narrow Sea with dragons and with their fire had reduced kingdoms older than memory to ash. If only birth alone made a lord worthy, half the realm sat in seats they had never earned. Just as his father, King Aegon, and his aunts, the Princesses Rhaenys and Visenya, Daerion did not believe blood and birth order alone were enough to rule. 

The Tyrells, for all the talk against them, had proved themselves again and again. They were practical where others were proud, patient where others were rash, and clever and shrewd enough to make all those ancient names seem like dusty old boasts. They had earned their place more thoroughly than many who claimed a lineage stretching back to the Age of Heroes.

But Rosalyn was not merely clever. Cleverness was common enough at court, wisdom was rarer. As she had said, it was easier to judge when you were not inside these moments. 

His thoughts turned, as they so often did these days, to his father and to the dreams that had haunted the King since before Daerion's birth, to the same strange burden carried by his own twin sister. Dreams that had driven his father from Dragonstone to conquer seven warring kingdoms, not for the glory alone nor even for the right of conquest, but for fear of a darkness and cold he believed was to come.

Daerion wondered what Rosalyn and the realm would make of such truths if they were spoken aloud. Would they understand?

Would they see a king who had forged one realm from seven because he hungered for power or a man who wished to save them all from certain doom, desperate to bind a divided people together before the Winter came?

“I hope it is remembered in a kinder way than people seem to speak of it now,” He echoed in answer to her question, a sardonic twist to his lips as he offered it, “I hope people will recognize it for the moment of great change and unity it is.”

“It is a great change,” she admitted after a moment. “Perhaps that is precisely why so many seem determined to resist it. The realm has always preferred familiar quarrels to unfamiliar peace.”

If the objective was to bring union, it seemed to have already succeeded before the marriage had been officiated. As most people from the south end of Hellgate Hall till Moat Cailin people seemed united in despising it.

She knew rather little of the North’s disposition. Still, she could not imagine its people embracing the change with any greater warmth than they did the southern sun.

She tilted her head slightly.

“History will decide whether this was wisdom or folly, though by then none of us will be in a position to object to its conclusions.” A warmer smile returned to her lips. “In the meantime, I hope the wedding itself proves every bit as memorable as the journey here. If nothing else, Dorne has exceeded every expectation I brought with me.” Her eyes wandered briefly toward the distant ruins. “Every day seems to offer something I did not know to look for.” She glanced back at him. “I imagine that must be a rare pleasure for someone who has devoted so much of his life to learning. There cannot be many places left capable of surprising you.”

Her time in Dorne would eventually come to an end. His would not. The thought had been following her ever since they arrived, surfacing at the oddest moments. There was still time – the royal celebrations had yet to conclude, and Gyles’ own wedding still lay ahead – but thoughtful gifts were rarely found at the last moment. They required patience. Care. And, every so often, a fortunate accident. Perhaps she ought to have begun her search sooner.

She turned the feather once more before returning it carefully to its velvet cushion. “The gentleman I have in mind has rather particular tastes,” she said. “I imagine he would appreciate something… unusual. Preferably something with a story attached to it.” Her smile warmed. “Though I suspect he would ask far too many questions if I claimed it had belonged to a griffin.”

With an apologetic smile, she inclined her head to the merchant before turning back to Lady Alyssia. “I suppose I shall have to continue my search.”

All the relief Rosalyn had felt upon learning they were not under attack vanished the moment she discovered her brother had been involved in the fighting.

The rest of the night passed without sleep.

The lanterns had long since been extinguished, the music replaced by distant murmurs and hurried footsteps beyond the pavilion, yet every time she closed her eyes another version of the story found her. Lord Arryn. Gyles. Blood. Steel. Politics. Every possibility seemed worse than the last.

By dawn, she had accepted that sleep would not come. Because she knew that by sunrise, the story would become The Lord of Highgarden came to blows with the heir to the Vale during the wedding festivities.

And, knowing Gyles, she had little difficulty believing he had given the realm something to gossip about. Whether he had been right or wrong scarcely mattered now. The story would not wait for explanations.

So she dressed before it had the chance to spread through Sunspear.

If nothing else, she hoped to reach House Arryn before resentment had the opportunity to harden into something more permanent.

She set about preparing a basket herself.

Fresh bread still warm from the ovens. Preserved fruits. Honey. A small assortment of pastries from the previous evening. Herbs said to soothe bruising. Flowers borrowed from the arrangements in her own pavilion. A bottle of one of Highgarden’s lighter wines.

Thoughtful. Deliberate. Impossible to mistake for anything but sincere.

“Lord Arryn.” Rosalyn’s voice was gentle as she knocked upon the pavilion’s entrance, the basket balanced carefully in one arm. “I hope I have not come at an inconvenient hour.” A brief pause. “I wished to apologize for the distress my brother has caused you and Lady Aemma.”

for luceryn, the evening had the ended in a blur; a flurry of hands, and torn silks. it had happened swiftly, first a jape then a jest on his honor earning the first swing. his aim, frayed at the edges by dornish red, failed to take into account the other man’s height. his fist collided with lord tyrell’s head, and then the sharp sting of teeth sent him reeling backwards. only for them to tumble together into the ropes, the pavilion collapsing around them.

he had sent the maester away to tend to others, insisting there were better things for them to do. iron/copper filled his mouth, but the wounds were surface, nothing more. he was fine.

and now, as the wine’s fog lifted and the last of the milk of the poppy left his system, the weight of his actions hung heavy across his shoulders.

he would need to apologize to lord tyrell for his behavior, warranted or not, and his hosts for the disruption to their festivities. unsettled as he was by his time in dorne, he had not wanted his own actions to cast a shadow across his uncle’s alliance.

moreover, he needed to inform his father of the dispute before the repercussions reached the eyrie, but first he chose the most pressing task: penning an apology to his sister.

her face would haunt him. when the canopy collapsed, beyond the burn of the rope as it wrapped around his forearm, she had been standing there. caught in the middle of a fight that he’d never intended. luc had done it for their mother, for her, for the vale. and yet, in the light of morning, it carried less of the honor duty demanded he protect.

the note was short yet managed to hold three variations of ‘i’m sorry’, and was to be delivered to aemma’s chambers just after she woke with a dish of candied ginger. wine had been the least of their troubles, though it was at least one he could solve from his pavilion.

he had just sent the letter when a knock drew him back to the door.

thinking it to be the maesters returned for their morning exam, he reached for his robe, wincing as he cinched the fabric across his bruised ribs. lady rosalyn was the last person he expected to find on the other side of the door.

“lady tyrell, not at all.” he stepped back to allow her entry, gaze falling across the basket. “you owe me no apology, my lady. your thoughtfulness humbles me, particularly given the cirumstances. it’s i who owe an apology to you and your good house.”

news traveled quickly; he would have to write faster. “my actions last night do not reflect the conduct becoming of a lord, much less of an ally.”

his hands clasped behind his back, and he hid his grimace behind a bowed head. “it was never my wish to sow discord between our houses, and i hope you will accept my sincere apology.”

“The maesters assure me my brother will make a full recovery soon enough.” Gyles had accumulated his fair share of bruises and quarrels over the years. Compared to some of the scrapes he had managed to survive, this was hardly the worst of them.

She allowed herself the smallest sigh. “He remains entirely himself, which I am told ought to be reassuring.” The headaches, the dizziness, and the physician’s insistence that he avoid bright light for a few days seemed details better kept to herself. “He will be perfectly well.”

Her brown orbs lingered on Luceryn a moment longer, quietly noting the careful way he carried himself, the stiffness hidden beneath his robe that no amount of composure could quite disguise.

“And you, my lord?” The question was gentle. “Will you be able to enjoy what remains of the festivities?” Her eyes met his. “And I would ask that you answer honestly. I promise the truth, whatever it may be, will offend me far less than courteous lies.”

he spotted lady rosalyn beneath the lantern-lit branches, a cup of wine in her hands. he might have passed her by, but his boots on the stone gave him away before he could. at her apology, his expression barely shifted.

"i've yet to meet anyone who suffers from thinking too much," he said, remaining where he was instead of stepping closer. "most don't think enough." his gaze flicked to the goblet, then back to her.

"so it's the wine, then?" he asked, a faint edge of humor in his tone. "i'd have thought the cakes were the real danger. easier to blame something that tastes sweet."

Her gaze drifted back to the goblet resting between her hands, as though she had only just remembered it was there. Turning it slowly by the stem, she watched the amber wine catch the lanternlight, the surface trembling ever so slightly with the movement.

“I would argue the wine is rather sweet as well,” she mused, narrowing her eyes at it with almost theatrical suspicion. “That is precisely what makes it so untrustworthy.” For a brief moment, she simply observed it in silence before giving the cup the smallest tilt. “One rarely thinks to be cautious around pleasant things.”

And even though Rosalyn wouldn’t stoop as low as to openly gloat about the quandary he now finds himself in, she also doesn’t need to for him to understand she’s pleased as punch that something he’s so assertively withheld from her has so spectacularly backfired. Since he’s considered the Tyrells too controversial for a royal match, now he had to contend with tying his future to the one family on the entire continent who might challenge his for unpopularity. He knows he’s in no position to request even a crumb of grace from her — not that he would, even if he’d considered his stance stronger.

“Such a scandalous thing to be in a position to hear about,” he tuts, mock scandalized. “Well, in my experience, exhausting bedmates are preferable, Lady Rosalyn,” he leans in slightly, playing at camaraderie, an amused smirk dancing on his lips. “Shall pray?” he questions the future tense. “I suppose the gods must favor me without your help then, as me and my betrothed have already reached an understanding.” understanding, but no attempt at familiarity yet, though he cannot blame that on the Martell alone, the hesitation comes from both.

His gaze washes over her attire again, mostly not listening to her rationalizations, if only because he doesn’t deem them interesting…or necessary. Whoever keeps her good sister now, he's confident she no longer holds any interest in the actions of the living, at least.

He tries to keep them in the shade as they leisurely walk, though there’s precious little of that to be found with the sun now so high in the sky. The advantage to this is that most people have sought succor from the unforgiving brightness indoors, and the pathways are all but deserted. The heat never really bothered him, anyway. “Why shouldn’t it?” he hums, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Nothing changed between us since last we spoke,” a bit of a strain on the truth — she’d refused his offer, but Aenyx considers himself magnanimous enough to forget about it. Or at least pretend to.

Her comment provoked a chuckle out of him and his grip around her arm tightens slightly as he pulls her imperceptibly closer. “No, I suppose it won’t. A wedding might, though,” luckily for the six kingdoms, it would first be put to the test in Dorne. Give the rest of them more time, and more knowledge to improve things for the second. “So how are you finding Dorne, so far? Are your quarters to your liking?” Aenyx finds himself wanting to gloss over his previous remark. Too much of a sensitive subject and he is sure talking to her about it would only make it worse.

Much like whatever understanding seemed to exist between the two of them at the moment. One she was still trying to acquaint herself with. One she was rather certain he was dangerously close to breaking.

Nothing changed. His words lingered longer than they should have. 

How strange. She had been left with an entirely different impression. Either she was the only one paying attention to their last conversation, or his memory was far kinder than she had ever given it credit for. She knew neither was true.

So he truly intended to pretend nothing had happened. Even now, when there was no audience to deceive but her, he decided to throw unscrupulous lies at her face…

The thought almost made her laugh. So this was how he usually felt.

She swallowed the bitter taste of her own medicine with as much grace as she could manage, though the slight tightening at the corners of her mouth betrayed more than she would have liked.

His grip tightening around her arm did not escape her notice. Neither did the subtle attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. Convenient. She allowed it. Rosalyn had no desire to discover how little restraint either of them still possessed.

“Beautiful,” she admitted. “Though I confess I had imagined it would be harsher. Perhaps the rest of the realm has done Dorne a disservice.” Her gaze drifted briefly toward the palace beyond them. “My chambers are lovely,” she continued pleasantly. “A generous bed, a view over the gardens, attentive servants…” Her eyes found his again. “Princess Deria has been an exceedingly generous hostess, I have wanted for absolutely nothing." A small smile returned. “In fact, I am beginning to suspect the Dornish intend to make it rather difficult for me to leave.”

Gyles’ lips formed a tight line at her coy questions. She throws away his questions like one would toss away a current project they were frustrated with. Would he be just as cruel to do the same to hers?

Yet he took in her hunched frame. It didn’t seem to be a lie, but perhaps a half-truth to her younger twin. He believed everyone spoke in riddles. Did it mean she wished to be free of him, to be alone? She had been alone all but fifteen minutes of her life of him, and he refused to cut the ties that glued them together. Not when she was acting like this.

While her frame relaxed, Gyles’ grew tense. “If you have been thinking, either I have been gone for a few moments or all night.” This was a non-answer.

“I am certain you have,” she replied. Sarcasm dripped from the words as sweetly as honey. Her gaze wandered back toward the banquet. “Everything begins as idle chatter.” She spoke almost absently. “And more rumors have a habit of becoming true than people are ever willing to admit.”

Her eyes returned to him. “You know it will happen eventually, don’t you? If not with him, then with someone else.” A small shrug. “You may as well begin gathering a little goodwill now. One conversation is enough.” She looked away again. “Preferably with someone other than me,” she murmured.

She wanted to tell him she wished he did not waste the evening on her. She wanted to tell him she would be perfectly all right. Neither would have been true. Perhaps that was why the words never came. Soon enough, an entire mountain would lie between them. She could not help but wonder how many conversations like this they had left.

“It is one of my favorite places in the Six Kingdoms,” she admitted. “Lively without ever feeling overwhelming, and beautiful in a way entirely its own. There is always something happening, someone arriving, someone departing. Scholars from the Citadel, merchants from across the Narrow Sea, pilgrims making their way to the Starry Sept…” A small smile softened her features. “And the Hightower. No matter how many times I visit, I still find myself looking up.”

For the briefest of moments, memory betrayed her. Funeral bells. Black silks. Puffy eyes reflected in polished mirrors. She did not allow the thought to linger. It would have been unfair to the city, and to Lady Casella alike.

“House Hightower has every reason to be proud of it,” she said instead. “And I have every confidence you shall come to love it in time.”

Gyles had wandered away from the banquet long ago, being one of the first to excuse themselves after morsels of food eaten. Yet, he always came back to his starting point whenever he disappeared. The fields were fragrant, and the tents were too full of laughter and eyes. When he returned, he expected none to be there, but there was his other half, as if she had never moved a breath. It was like the banquet was still going on. Even when they were opposites, they were mentally glued to one another.

He couldn’t say how many goblets he had drank. Very few, as he frankly couldn’t drink the Dornish wine, raised too proudly in the Reach to find the taste beguiling. He couldn’t remember the last time he was hungry, despite taking few bites. He ate like a bird, consuming a few morsels frequently through the day, so this feast was wasted on him.

He had no idea that a certain someone would interrupt his own revelry fueled with hate just as he did to her later on in the night. Perhaps it was better to not know. He’d certainly have sabotaged it.

All he says as he takes her in, tossing her courtesies aside, is one question. It carries no concern on the surface, but if anyone would know the truth, it would be Rosalyn. At least he started rolling his sleeves up, just in case.

A quiet sigh escaped her as, for the first time that evening, the tension she had carried all day began to leave her shoulders. “I am merely… thinking.” She smoothed an errant strand of hair back into place before looking at him again, her head tilted slightly. “And are you not meant to be introducing yourself to all the people who will soon become terribly important to you? Charming your future countrymen?”

He tells himself he lingers close to the hall because it’s just as good a place as any, or perhaps he might decide to go back once he gets a few minutes’ peace — it certainly isn’t because of her, not after how they left things last time, when their usual vague snipes turned into an all-out argument. The most honest they’ve been with each other in a long time, and mainly spoken with the intent to wound. Even so, that sincerity had limits. It was easier to pretend her tears had only been for Gwayne and his anger all about the slight to the dragons, after all.

Yet he cannot feign surprise when he picks up the familiar cadence of the approaching footsteps. “My lady,” the greeting is uttered blithely, with the meaninglessness of words said so often they lost all import. His smile matches hers — polished, pleasant, not an ounce of earnestness beneath it. Aenyx chuckles indulgently at the hollow praise, taking half a step back to flaunt the colorful, flowing garments he’s chosen to don while here. The movement helps settle the spike of disquiet as she points out his lack of Vandal. He truly believes there is a difference between being incapable of being without his dragon, and simply not wanting to — Aenyx hopes that by the end of this charade, he’ll have proven himself to be firmly the latter.

“I agree with Dorne just fine, Lady Rosalyn, it’s the Dornish I find harder to deal with,” he laughs without humor. “And you — I suppose mourning your good sister in this heat proved too heavy a challenge,” his examination of her is just as blatant, and he lightly reaches for her arm to entwine with his as they resume strolling. “The festivities have just begun, perhaps fortune will see fit to correct her oversight. Or better yet, we won’t leave something as dear to me as satisfying you to chance and you’ll save me a dance at my sister’s wedding.” his grin is all teeth.

She bit her tongue. Black mourning silks had seemed ill-suited to a wedding celebration, though she had not been ignorant of how the choice might be perceived. There had been prayers each morning with the Tyrell septa. If anyone cared to notice, they would have. “Grieving is always a challenge, Your Grace.” A quieter smile followed. “My late good-sister – may the Mother keep her gently – was far kinder than the Dornish sun. I have every confidence she would forgive the omission.” She adjusted her arm lightly within his. “I should be rather more concerned if she did not.”

A humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Does my satisfaction still concern you, Your Grace?” She did not know why they continued to do this.

Every conversation had become a careful exercise in deciding which truths to conceal and which half-truths to offer in their place. Because whenever one of them slipped, even for a moment, the rest followed, until words became weapons and every sentence was thrown with the intention of drawing blood.

Just as they had done the last time.

She had promised herself she would not allow herself to be drawn into it again. She would not seek him out. She would not meet his eyes.

And yet, there she was.

Again.

Somehow, she always found her way back to him.

“I suppose one dance will not bring the realm to ruin.” It could, perhaps, ruin them. But neither of them had ever been strangers to fire or blood. The realm would survive another day, just as it always had, and watch them make precisely the same mistakes.

The Princess decided to treat her bruised ego with a copious amount of lemon cakes, barely acknowledging Rosalyn's presence. Wasn't this the twin sister of the Lord marrying her former guard?

She decided engaging in conversation was better than looking too idle, just in case another Targaryen wanted to engage in another argument.

"We have some of the best citruses around!" Eleana, for once happy to compliment her region, beamed with her mouth still stuffed. Swallowing, she continued. "Your brother will be very comfortable here"

“I imagine Dorne may do him some good…” She could only hope it would. Whether she dreaded more the thought of leaving him to his own devices in a foreign land or the silence his absence would leave behind, she could not have said.

A quiet laugh escaped her. “It is rather strange to imagine a future in which an entire kingdom will stand between us.” Her gaze drifted briefly through the orchard before returning to Eleana. “I imagine you feel much the same about your sister.”