RED LIONESS

it were a spectacle, to see the differing masks and the sweeping gowns; one that she saw in quite a blurry vision considering she had multiple cups of whiskey this night and she was truly engulfed in all the merriment. not once had any responsibility crossed her mind, nothing about whether the attending maids and nan had managed to settle down marjorie at a good time, or whether any member of jaehaerys targaryen's kingsguard had stumbled across a peake rotting in the sewers, or whether tion peake was on any of their radars. instead, all she seemed to focus on was the feeling of heat on the highs of her cheeks, and the feeling that her heels were beginning to slightly cause her feet to ache at the soles and ensuring she did not tread on her skirts of her dress so it ended up ripping before half of the courtiers in attendance.

there was multiple blurs she caught in the corners of her eye, and laughter where when she turned her raven head of hair to try and work out who was laughing and why it sounded so familiar, it ended up being an empty corner beside a window with nobody there in sight. when the masquerade performance came to an end, brianna bracken was swift to put down her goblet which had already stained her lips a shade of red, and clapped with such enthusiasm it were as though she had a sister who was performing up there.

it was not until the red haired woman unmasked herself did her mouth open a little into a slight o, as though she had suddenly been hit by a realisation of just who she had been watching dance for the last few minutes - it were only the lady calla lefford of golden tooth, who too had nearly been victim to her inadequate aim when playing a game of bowls. if there was one thing brianna bracken should not be trusted with, no doubt it would be a bat that could do an ample amount of damage by the swing of her own arm or by sending some projectile after someone with it. "oh gods, how didn't i realise t'were you?" brianna gasped with a laugh slipping merrily from her lips, her voice carrying over the sounds of drumming and her arms reaching forward to take the extra goblet from calla's hand as she walked forward to meet the woman halfway.

"aye, it met the standard and more. you're a far better dancer than that one." and she indicated carelessly towards the youngest mallister sister, almost flippantly, not caring for anyone in the world and letting out another merry giggle, letting out a slight noise at the flavour of the drink in the goblet. "what this? it's hitting just right." and she pulled her hand towards calla lefford again, almost for a moment copying the woman's dance moves and using her free hand to lift the bottom of her skirts, doing a little kick up as if to finish with a flare before succumbing into a velvet double couch that was filled with some pillows.

she tossed one backwards, unaware if it had hit anyone. who cared, for the lady calla needed to sit.

The Lefford lady was pleased to get the approval of the Lady of Stone Hedge. It was Calla's first time participating in a performance like this, with acting and improvisation going hand in hand, with dancing and portraying a character based on an archetypal mask. Everyone selected to perform did their part, and overall, the piece they collectively created there on the stage was quite fun and memorable. “Oh please, she did great,” Calla countered, “Or what? You have something against the poor Lady Mallister?”. Gods knew there was a fair share of rivalries in the Riverlands. Brackens also quarrelled with the Mallisters? she asked herself.

Brianna appeared positively tipsy, and Calla chuckled. The redhead was already in such high spirits tonight, yet seeing the other woman embody the perfect blend of carefree and content made her want to feel just like that. She'd earned the pleasure of feeling that way for the rest of the night. So she briefly looked around for a servant, and beckoned one to come. She asked him to bring her what had been served to the Bracken lady. Then, she happily plopped down on the couch next to the dark-haired lady.

It was a good thing she didn't have a drink just yet, for she would have spat it upon hearing Brianna's story. “Seven hells,” she murmured, her words laced with a chuckle. The tale sounded both amusing and mortifying. Good thing the dress hadn't ripped with a crowd around, as she initially thought. That made her feel a little less distressed for little Bri. “Please tell me you later discovered who ruined the dress for you and got your proper vengeance,” she added with a mischievous smirk, only half-joking.

her steps slowed as they approached the garden doors, and matilda took a moment to breathe in the cool evening air, the scent of lavender and wet earth washing over her like a balm. she tilted her head toward calla, eyes brightening despite the earlier embarrassment. “they didn’t… mean to be cruel, i think,” she admitted softly, a faint blush still on her cheeks. “i just… i sometimes forget that saying what i notice, what i like, isn’t always clever enough for them. i try, though. always try to join in, and then, well… i get a bit tongue-tied, or worse, i say something ridiculous.” she gave a small, self-deprecating shrug, the corners of her mouth quirking into a meek grin.

As they walked, she followed Tilly’s glance toward the group of lords. She couldn't hide the annoyance all over her expression, disdain clear in her eyes. “Oh, you’re so right. And truly, what’s the point of talking about art if they’ve already decided what is important to hear and what isn’t? If they’re only going to repeat technical jargon for the sake of their own self-importance, we might as well read the same dusty book they plucked it from,” she mentioned, turning her gaze back to her friend. “And also, what’s the bloody point of having that conversation if they won’t speak about what the piece makes them feel? It's not all about elevated thoughts and pretending to be the cleverest person in the room,” she concluded, her mouth twisted with irritation.

The cool air of the gardens diminished the flare in her temper, and she felt Tilly’s demeanor also shift somewhat beside her. She could see some of the tension easing, her friend's smile softening into something less practiced and more her own. But when Tilly confessed that what she noticed in those art pieces, what she liked, did not seem clever enough for the men around her, something sharp flared again inside the redhead again. “Oh, fuck them”. There was no hesitation or apology in her tone. “That isn't about art, Tilly. It’s about them deciding who is allowed to sound intelligent in the first place”. It was truly infuriating to see her friend feeling small or unimportant because a group of people thought themselves the authority on intellect. “Not everything needs to be dressed up in pompous nonsense to be worth saying”. What a tragedy it would be stop hearing voices like Tilly's because of that fear of being judged or ridiculed by wilted, insipid men whose last original thought probably blossomed before either of them was even born. “Besides, you're an artist too,” she added, recalling with fondness the drawings that she'd often see her friend sketch when they spent time together in Highgarden and Golden Tooth. “How you view art matters. Your opinions matter,” Calla stated plainly, because gods knew when was the last time someone reminded Tilly of that.

Thank the gods you were here, the Tyrell lady said. Calla grinned then. “Thank the gods you were here,” she echoed, squeezing her friend's hand. Matilda was the first person she'd run into this evening that she actually wished to spend time with. Then, at the suggestion that she could scold others on Tully's behalf, the redhead released her arm just long enough to give a playful little bow. “Please, it is an honor to do that for you, my dear,” she added with a bright laugh. Straightening again, she gave her friend a meaningful look. Her expression was less playful then, a little more earnest. “You don’t have to pretend to be clever, Tilly. You are clever. If they don’t see it, then they’re too wilted in the brain already, and it’s best to say goodbye and find a better circle”.

she’d been standing with a cluster of lords and ladies, all speaking so confidently about a painted panel, one she genuinely liked. she’d tried to join in, pointed out something small she’d noticed, a detail she thought was rather sweet. they laughed. not kindly. at first she thought perhaps she’d made a clever joke without meaning to, but the sideways glances told her otherwise. there had been a comment too, cutting, delivered in jest, but still sharp enough to draw a flush to her cheeks. now it were clear the laughs were at her expense, and not her charm.

she hadn’t said anything after that. just smiled, as if she didn’t mind, and slipped away from the group the first chance she got. her wine had gone warm in her hand. the corner wasn’t quiet exactly, but it was quieter. and no one was watching her there, no one expecting her to sound smarter than she was.

green eyes lifted and caught a flash of red, fiery and familiar, and tilly’s smile came, not quite as sunlit as usual, but there all the same. she took calla’s hand without hesitation, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t mind those idiots,” Calla said with a scoff, careless that her words could be heard by others. She even looked in the direction of the group of lords Tilly had abandoned with a clear look of disdain across her face. “They’re a bunch of puffed-up morons who only memorized a handful of technical terms so they can regurgitate them in these circles and pretend to sound oh so clever. Those peacocks wouldn’t recognize an original thought if it struck them between the eyes”. There was that usual spark of fire in her tone. Even more so, there was also a protective edge that also flourished in the red lioness when someone dared to slight those she loved. Her gaze returned to Tilly then, a softer gleam in her eyes. “But what happened, truly? Did those half-wits make you uncomfortable?”

guinevere tilted her head ever so slightly, studying her cousin as she spoke, listening as though each and every word was the most important sound in the whole entirety of their existence - there was no difference from this moment to the quiet conversation they had uttered within a hallway in the north so many years ago, where guinevere had turned away and pretended as though she felt nothing stirring. calla had always been fire, the passion of movement and life in her very essence, her energy something entirely palpable, something that once might have stirred guinevere to envy.

yet now, as she spoke of second chances, of hope reborn, the princess felt nothing but a quiet, distant sort of emptiness.

perhaps because it quietly caused her stomach to twist at the bottom of her gut, to hear her speak of second chances and how greatly she appreciated them. what exactly did she need a second chance for? her emerald hues resisted the urge to look around at the people who surrounded them; all as empty as conniving as the other. "then that is most fortunate, cousin." she murmured, her voice soft as silk, yet cool in its cadence. she resisted the urge to ask calla what it was exactly she needed a second chance for, what jury had found her guilty of what charge, but she knew that would do nothing. and so guinevere lannister said nothing.

calla glowed as she had found her newfound place, her reclaimed prestige with the divergence of another's life - she had never met zialla antaryon, but all had heard of what eventually had happened in the hightower. guinevere listened, but she did not feel it. the court moved around them in a golden haze, the music swelling, laughter bubbling like honeyed wine. her kin returned to their rightful places, the rock thriving, basking in its power, its wealth, its glory. "second chances," she repeated, tasting the words upon her tongue. her fingers grazed the golden goblet before her, tracing its rim. "they are rare, yes. and yet, i find myself wondering if i have ever truly sought one."

she had run, once. she had fought for love, for freedom, only to find herself here once more. what had she truly done? had she made a choice at all, or had she only followed the inevitable path set before her? her gaze flitted back to calla, catching the light in her eyes, the warmth in her features. there was something in it that stirred unease within her, something that pricked at the edges of her mind.

"perhaps the gods intended for you to always find your way back to her," guinevere mused, though there was a knowing glint beneath the veil of her serenity. "friendship, after all, can be a peculiar thing. some ties refuse to sever, no matter how sharp the blade." she did not speak of the tyrells. she did not voice the quiet disdain that curled in her belly, the knowledge that they, once mere stewards, now walked amongst lords and queens as though it were their birthright. "whatever did you apologise for?" she asked, her tone as soft as ever, yet the question was a direct one. she did not say that if calla wished to tether herself to such company once more, guinevere would watch with detached amusement, but no fondness.

It pained her to see someone she loved so dearly so out of reach despite being right before her. It was inevitable to wonder if anyone else noticed. Did anyone else care?

Calla almost did something foolish, almost reached for her cousin’s hand right there at the dais, as though touch alone might anchor her back. But Guinevere had never been one for such displays, even less in a public space. Would she even want to be reached for? The thought curled uncomfortably in her chest. This was not the time or place to ask that, so instead, the redheaded lady focused on what they were speaking about. “I suppose the gods must have their intricate plans in place,” she said instead, a half-smile ghosting across her lips as her gaze dropped to the wine in her own cup. She'd discussed her questions about faith with Gwen once, and it never felt like a good idea to touch that particular topic with her. Calla Lefford lacked the devotion her cousin carried in near martyrdom. “They take, and sometimes they're merciful enough to give back”. But she did not truly believe the words, despite speaking them.

The Lefford lady tilted her head slightly as her cousin asked what Matilda Tyrell and she had spoken about. “I apologized for letting my pride and stubborn shortsightedness ruin something good. For resenting her concern when I should’ve seen it for the love that it was,” her voice quieter now, meant only for Gwen.

her hands curled around the warmth of her own teacup, fingers tracing the delicate rim as she considered the other's words. maybe that’s for the best. she supposed there was truth in that. they had both changed—time and distance had seen to that—but not all change was a loss. some things endured, and some things were worth the effort of rebuilding.

tilly laughed, light and easy, as she set her cup down. “to us,” she agreed, though her nose wrinkled playfully. “but truly, tea? we can do better than this. over dinner tonight, we’ll toast properly—with something that doesn’t taste like regret and boiled leaves.”

she leaned forward slightly, her smile warm. “and, since we have a great deal of time to make up for, i fully expect a thorough recounting of everything i’ve missed. every last detail, calla. spare me nothing.” her eyes twinkled with amusement as she added, “unless, of course, it’s dreadfully dull. then i grant you full permission to embellish.”

There was a lightness in her chest now, the kind she hadn’t felt in some time, as if a thread long frayed had finally been mended. She reached across the table, holding Tilly’s hand for a moment. “You know, I do have plenty to tell,” she added with a smirk, as if holding scandalous secrets she'd not shared with others yet. She'd not had her confidante for a time, and although she did share matters of her heart and mind with her sisters, it wasn't the same. Cerissa and Clementine were hers to protect, in a way, not to burden with her own troubles.

the golden light of late afternoon stretched long over the stone walls of lannisport, gilding the air with that hazy warmth only the westerlands seemed to possess. amir manderly rode at an easy pace, the steady rhythm of his horse’s hooves lost beneath the clamour of the city’s gates—merchants barking prices, the clash of metal from distant drills, and the constant hum of the gathering swelling like the tide.

he sat tall in the saddle, the stark direwolf stitched silver over his dark cloak, though he wore the badge of his office—the merman of white harbour—at his breast as he talked to younes corbray to his left.

the sea was close. he could smell it in the breeze, that sharp tang of salt threading through the dust. but then came the sharp, panicked scream of a horse. amir’s head snapped toward the commotion near the gates, where a mare bucked violently, nostrils flared, hooves striking the air. her rider—a flash of sunlit hair, curls torn loose from their braid—struggled against the fraying reins. the horse twisted, dangerously near the stone edge where the cobbles dipped steep toward the ditch. one wrong step and—

amir didn’t think. heels to his horse’s flanks, he surged forward, the crowd scattering as his mount cut through with practiced ease. the mare was all wild muscle and terror, eyes rolled white, until amir’s hand caught the bridle in one hard pull, anchoring her mid-buck. “easy now—woah, girl—steady!” his arm strained with the force of it—the raw strength of the beast nearly tore free—but his grip held. what had he gotten himself into?

the mare’s chest heaved, lathered with sweat, hooves skidding against the stone before she stilled, trembling beneath his hold. the mare fought it, snorting thick and wild, but the pressure broke through her panic.

she staggered sideways, hooves scrabbling against the stone before her weight sank heavy beneath amir’s hold, breath coming in great, shuddering bursts. “seven hells,” he muttered, running a palm over her slick neck before glancing up at the rider. and there she was. the same fiery red hair, the same narrow emerald catlike gaze that widened in a face of panic. the memory hit quick—a storm in dorne, sand swirling so thick you couldn’t see your own hand. she’d been half-buried by it, her curls crusted with sand, skin raw from the grit, when he’d pulled her out, coughing and cursing the gods. he hadn’t thought of her since.

Only then did she finally lift her chin, emerald eyes narrowing with a flash of recognition. Of course it was him. Again. She offered him a slow, wry smile, one corner of her mouth curling with more exasperation than gratitude. “We really must stop meeting like this, Lord Manderly,” she said, tone dry as the Dornish air they’d last shared. “You’ll give people the impression I can’t so much as walk five paces without a Northern lord on standby. I assure you, it’s not the way things usually go for me”. It wasn't an entirely negative thought. It could depend on the Northern lord, of course. Calla's thoughts already begun wandering from time to time to the man she'd met at the masquerade.

With the practiced grace of someone who was no stranger to horse riding, she swung herself down from the saddle, boots clicking against the cobblestones. She held the mare's reigns and caressed the creature's head with a mix of tenderness and assurance. The lady then then faced the Lord of White Harbor and straightened, brushing wind-swept curls back. “Well, still, I suppose I owe you. Twice now”. She did not appreciate the image of a damsel in distress he'd surely created about her so far, but she was grateful for his aid. “Thank you, Lord Manderly”.

"you know," Tilly began with a slight tilt of her head, her smile touching her eyes, "i’ve always liked to think we could pick up where we left off. i don’t think time has ever really changed what we meant to each other."

her fingers lightly tapped the edge of her goblet, her mind drifting back to those days when things had been simpler. when they’d been carefree and full of laughter, before the strain of men and misunderstandings had begun to twist their bond. the lady of highgarden exhaled softly, knowing that there were things they couldn’t undo, but feeling grateful, nonetheless, for this moment of honesty between them.

“i must say, it was never about doubting you, calla," she said quietly, her voice softening. "i just wanted better for you—more than what I saw with him, more than what you deserved." she squeezed her hand, offering a small reassuring smile.

She took a moment to study her friend’s face, comforted by the familiarity of Tilly's expression. The laughter and the whispers they used to share felt suddenly within reach again, no longer buried beneath hurt and pride. “We may not be the same as we were,” Calla said, her tone tender yet steady, “but maybe that’s for the best”. The Lefford lady liked to think she was not the same person who would repeat the kind of mistakes she'd made back then. And so her smile warmed, chasing away the faint shadows of guilt that lingered still.

Tilly also appeared to think something deeper, stronger could bloom from their relationship. “I like the sound of that. A new start,” Calla said, her voice brighter, her smile wider. The Lefford lady reached for her cup of tea then and raised it, as she were during a toast. “To us,” she grinned, thinking of the ways she did not wish to let her pride or misunderstandings creep between them again. She'd had enough of losing what truly mattered. “I would usually toast with wine, not tea. But alas, it is what we have at hand,” the redhead added with some amusement.

The redhead tilted her head ever so slightly, as if weighing his invitation with great consideration, though the answer had already formed on her lips. “I would love to, my lord”. She glanced toward the feast tent where the sound of some revelry was beginning to spill out, mingling with the crisp mountain air.

the singing of westerland hymns and songs filled the air amongst the sound of a stringing lute, and it seemed as though for the first time in what she could recall of recent history, the land of lions had truly entered the golden age. their leader had secured the realm of the succession, a queen had completed her duty and was basking in being the most powerful and beloved she had ever been…the prince of fair isle had returned to take the place at the table he was also supposed to.

more courtiers seemed to flock back to the rock as though it were the pinnacle of their society, the centre of their being; and all the while, guinevere lannister was watching them all simply go by her. as though she were on the other side of golden stained class, but hers was stained with something else, a hand upon it. forever unable to break through, or were she simply unwilling to push open the window?

there was little reaction to the sound of glorious music, nor the extravagant opulence as she remained upon her seat on the dias, her gaze falling upon the new features of a lord at court whom she did not recognise. she paused momentarily on his expression, ignoring the slight feeling in her gut that seemed to creep up her neck; a stranger, by all accounts, had hooked her nonchalant interest. and how uninterested and dull she seemed outwardly, at least. inwardly, her mind were always thinking. it was then she heard the sound of a familiar laugh, and recognised it to be that of the cousin whose locks were as fiery as her heart before ever needing to turn her gaze.

and she only looked upon calla, noting a familiar life back in her eyes and rose back in her cheeks. she were dancing, adorned in ruby jewels around her neck; no doubt one of the shining ladies in queen katherine's court. the sight of it caused the corner of her lips to turn upward as she briefly caught her gaze; and whilst her face remained as still as ever, her eyes became all the warmer for it. until something whispered in the back of her mind; whispered that she recognised such thrill. such life, the sparks that returned to the eyes. and she ignored it, for she did not wish to think about it. she did not wish to know.

"lady lefford." she called from her chair, a graceful smile crossing porcelain features as she leaned forward, as though to indicate for the woman to come closer to her.

And so, in the lively, golden-hued atmosphere of the feast, Calla moved about with her characteristic grace and fire, a laugh escaping her lips like a song amidst the lute's strings in the company of her sisters. Her emerald eyes, always sharp and searching, found faces both familiar and strange. It was the distinct figure of her cousin that caught her attention. A serene statue perched on her dais. Seeing a smile on Gwen's lips was a rare thing these days, and Calla felt a quiet warmth within just by the sight.

She made her way toward the princess with an effortless confidence, the crowd parting slightly at her approach. “Your grace,” she greeted, her tone as respectful as it was meant to be in an event like this. When Guinevere leaned in to speak, Calla’s curiosity piqued. At the mention of Lady Matilda Tyrell, Calla’s brows arched subtly for a moment and a soft smile appeared on her lips then. “Yes, we have talked, dear cousin. I offered the apology I ought to have given long ago,” the Lefford lady admitted. Her cousin had been privy to the fallout between the friends, and the reason —deemed incredibly idiotic by Calla now— for the faltering of their relationship. “I do think that is the case, yes. We have agreed on a new start,” she added, her expression turning warmer.

Ever since their last encounter after a tourney fight in the Riverlands, Aleksander would see a flash of red whenever he closed his eyes.

Her touch lingered, fingers light against his cheek, a thumb trailing over a split lip. He had thought Calla Lefford made entirely of fire and the temper of a lion, witty and sharp and unattainable whenever they had danced while donning their masks. And yet, the gentleness she had shown him taking care of his, admittedly trivial, wounds had him staying still, leaning into the softness like a wounded animal. A starved sunflower turning towards the light.

The feeling terrified him. However, at the same time, he could not help coming back for more. Aleks had never been good at self preservation, and there was nothing about the Lady that made him want to run. Perhaps for her sake. Perhaps to spare her some heartache.

He twirled a wildflower between his thumb and index finger as he approached, comically hesitant. Aleksander hid it at his side as he stepped around her horse, watching as she stepped off her saddle. "My Lady," he called, a smirk building on his lips. "I have been dying to find a private moment to tell you..." Performatively, he trailed off, making a show of looking unsure. He took another step closer and raised his free hand, brushing a stray lock of her from her face. "There's something on your face..." In a sneaky moment, his other hand lifted to tuck the picked wildflower behind her ear. "There. Better."

Upon arrival, the redhead had inevitably noticed the Karstark lord among the guests as well. A glance here and there had been exchanged between the two during the journey up the mountain, even as the first dinner was shared in the luxurious, large tent that had been set up.

The expedition began for the men, with most of the ladies staying behind to socialize amongst themselves or take the time to ride close to the camp. Calla rarely let pass an opportunity to go for a ride, and once she returned she found the hunters had already begun coming back as well. One hunter in particular was back. The Lefford lady hopped off her horse and handed the reins to an attendant when Aleksander Karstark called to her.

“Lord Karstark,” she greeted the man. It was odd to be so formal, after their past encounters involved the anonymous dancing of a Western masquerade, the playfulness of the improvised performance for the Litha festival, and the unspoken intimacy of tending to the small wounds he sustained in the tourney in Riverrun.

His own faltering and the lingering gaze he sent the Lady seemed to capture the attention of those watching in the halls of Riverrun even further. A hush fell over the room, the air thickening. Aleksander caught himself again, regained his composure. "I shall not let you down, oh gallant lady." His voice boomed with overdone bravery. The mischievous twinkle in his eyes was for Calla alone.

Calla clapped then, cheering on the valiant warrior that was to face the crow-like creature of dark magic. Her companions on the stage followed suit, clapping and even turning to encourage the audience to applaud the hero on the stage. It was all a mixture of heroics, laughter, and dramatics. In the end, it was the brave Ogma who fell in battle, accompanied by gasps and shouts from the crowd around them.

“Oh no, brave hero,” the lady rushed to his side after he was defeated, laying down and acting his agonizing death.

The acting troupe of the Coiméide na masc had given them all their masks, their roles to play, and special plot elements they could choose to bring to the story. Áine, her character, could either kill or save someone in the story, playing with that as Calla chose. And so this was the perfect moment for the melodrama of a fallen hero, a distressed damsel, and a magical return.

Calla was quick to evoke sadness, playacting a sentiment she was too well acquainted with. Grief. She threw herself on the agonizing, cradling him, rocking as she pleaded to the gods and the mystical magical forces of the world to save the warrior's life. Playing along with her, Mug Ruith, the magical sage within the performance, then told her to shed some tears to save Ogma's life. And so Calla managed to make herself cry on the stage and held Aleksander's body close.

It was a most magical end to the play. With Ogma's magical return to life, the rest of the characters were both inspired and emboldened to face and defeat Badb together.

When the play ended, all the actors —both members of the troupe and the nobles invited to participate— stood together to get the applause of their audience. Calla stood next to the Karstark lord, holding hands as they received the cheers for their performance. Inevitably, she smiled as they removed their masks and looked at each other in the eyes.

grin spread across her cheeks, beaming in happiness for the other. after all that had occurred with her in the reach, it seemed little opportunity was offered calla to recover her reputation, to take a gift and make the most of it. "that is amazing, calla, truly." part of her felt sad as she did not think calla would care much for the court of the west, for she always thought it to be haughty, uptight, compared to the reach, but it certainly must be better than sitting at home in goldentooth. "oh, you know." she dismissed slightly, though she realized that it had been quite a while since they really had glimpses into the others lives. "i've been promised to the hand of the dragon king, lord wylliam. he is very kind."

Her apology, as delayed as it was, was no less sincere for it. If anything, having had so long to sit on the matter and think of it had only made her see clearer how much Tilly had always cared for her. “No. No, you were justly harsh,” Calla told her as she raised her hand, holding any further apology from her friend. If only the Tyrell lady knew everything about the Hightower lord, there would have been much more to criticize and point out as glaring, scarlet warning signs.“You were right,” she said again. “All that you saw and I did not, it was there”. It was a relief to hold her friend's hand in hers again. “It wasn't right how I handled things. I was impulsive, I was bitter, and I was unfair to you. I truly am sorry. And I hate that I let the matter get between us... I truly do. Your friendship had been such a constant in my life and it was wretched of me to doubt it, to question you, for a man. And for that man, of all men,” she said with such impetus to roll her eyes, that Calla ended up simply closing them for a second.

When she opened them again she held Matilda's hand a bit tighter. “Do you think we can try to rebuild that friendship?”. Calla smiled a little then, “I would like to have you in my life as I used to, if you'll have me”.

As she pretended to hide behind him, Aleks drew his wooden sword, pointing it at Badb. "Fear not, m'Lady, for any threat to our grand city shall be felled." His voice boomed from the stage, sweeping over the gathered crowd, watching the performance, enraptured by the story progressing. Aleksander made a sweeping gesture, his cloak slipping over his arm as he extended it in an overly exaggerated manner to protect the lady behind him with his own frame. "The wicked witch shall be slain, even if it comes at the cost of my own life. For giving my life in exchange for the safety of the city would be the greatest honor that could be bestowed upon me."