for the hope of it all.

through the illuminated stained glass, hues of red and green seemed to seep through the scene of what appeared to be a windswept bedchamber of a king - who, through the tumbled bedsheets and silks, who could be seen through unkept chestnut coloured curls remaining on his pillow. the night before had stretched long, far longer than he had expected into the early hours and how his head hated him for it now - there was a constant sway between feeling far sharper than he had before, and feeling as though he had leaned his head down in the starry sept for the high septon to swing some statue over his head time and time again.

he may as well. it was not as though he were entirely awake, but he was also not entirely asleep; only in some groggy half state, when he heard a sharp knocking from the open door.

a part of him swore if it was tirius rowan again, he would fling him from the very window that seemed to allow far too much sunlight onto his face than he would like and ensure he landed in a pile of pig shit. there was no council meeting, he had made sure to send word it had been delayed for the next day and if there were any emergency matters, to forward them to the hand of the king. he slowly sat up, letting out a loud groan from his mouth as he stretched - before he realised the sound of the woman that was within his chambers. he had told laena he would meet her to break fast earlier than the hour he had risen, and whilst it were usual for him to have to run late from time to time, he did always send forward word.

of course she came herself, knowing her knack for worrying. worrying too much, and worrying quietly most of the time. no matter how much he tried to tell her to worry less, a part of him knew it was a futile attempt - some's minds were wired to think that way. there were so many in his life he could think of that were the same. "in here!" he called out, finding himself suddenly out of bed and splashing his face with some water to try and make himself feel more awake.

there was no point, she would know he had slept n far longer than expected - it was only when he rose to his feet did he realise how badly his head was pounding. as she crossed into the threshold of his bedchamber, the colours illuminated his own torso and back muscles as he leaned downward to slip a shirt on. as he did so, he took in her visage before taking rose water in his own mouth before sitting it back into the bowl, knowing he was not entirely dry as some of his curls remained wet by the water that trickled to his forehead.

"uh, yeah. wasn't expecting to, but ended up catching up with aemon velaryon later than i expected." cedric replied, his tone sounding shorter than he expected; he indicated toward the state of his bed as though it were the scene of a crime. "you know how it is once we start talking." it was less the talking, and more the hours long chess games that became more blurred with the more substance they put in their systems.

to her, it probably was. when she apologised he only waved a hand, as though to dismiss the idea of her needing to apologise for such a thing. whilst their time in holywell had been interrupted by something he did not think he would hear, she had found herself back at court. when the shirt he had slipped on was over him, he crossed the room to make his way over to laena, his hands moving to the lower part of her hips to pull her closer to him. "you already eaten?" he asked, ensuring she knew that his orbs visually moved over her figure and her visage; there was something about her in pale blue that always seemed to speak to him, and it was only further evidenced by the fact he leaned down to plant a slow kiss on her collarbone and up on her neck again.

his kiss at her collarbone, slow and familiar, drew a warmth from her that nearly dissolved the tension coiled in her chest. a soft sigh slipped from her, almost unconscious, and she tilted her head slightly to grant him easier access, lashes lowering for just a second as though surrendering to the ease of it. it had always been easy, with him, to let what words could not quite form manifest itself in such a way. staying in here. she knew that tone well enough. and for a brief, fragile heartbeat, she considered allowing the morning to drift in that direction, to let herself forget the unease that had led her to his door at all. though surely, it were but a simple mistake, wasn’t it?

but as her hands moved to smooth the front of his shirt, an old habit, unconscious and affectionate, her fingers stilled. the collar was wrong. not merely rumpled from sleep or from the shirt being hastily pulled upon his shoulders, but torn, the stitching was pulled apart in a way no restless night could hold blame for. blonde brows knit faintly as she traced the frayed edge, thumb brushing along where the fabric had given way, finger gently grazing his neck with the action. she drew back from him just enough to look at it properly, and then up at him. lilac hues searched his face now, almost seeking an answer to an unspoken question, before she forced her gaze back down to the fabric beneath her fingers.

“cedric,” she said softly, though there was a new steadiness beneath the word, a light of caution illuminating the edges of what she spoke and what she held back. “your shirt.” her hand lingered at his collar, lifting the torn edge between two careful fingers. “i can mend this, of course. you know i can.” a faint, almost automatic smile touched her lips, but it did not quite reach her eyes this time. she swallowed, her gaze rising again to study him with a quiet deliberation. the worry had returned now in a slow flood she could not fully hide: in the faint flush warming her cheeks, the slight tightening at the corners of her eyes, the way her attention could not quite settle in one place, shifting between his face, the tear in the fabric, and the scattered spaces of the room that suddenly felt much smaller than it truly was.

“how did this happen?” the question was light in tone, but there was no mistaking the thread of suspicion woven through it now. her earlier composure had sharpened slightly, though in truth she were and always had been every bit a rose without thorns. her lavender gaze flicked briefly, not accusingly but almost knowingly, before returning to him. there was a strained effort in her calm now, her demeanor subtly altered as her thoughts turned restlessly over what might have taken place in this room only hours before. “i didn’t think an evening chatting with aemon velaryon could be so… violent.” her fingers lingered at the torn collar, rubbing the frayed seam between them as if studying the damage might somehow explain it.

The Hightower lord thought about Laena's next words for a moment. She had made that keen observation about his work and the underlying weight it carried. He did write about what pained him, what unsettled him, and about the many questions that swarmed in his head before going to sleep. Putting that on paper was the way he had of attempting to understand the world. There was plenty he hadn't yet written about, though. Or rather, that he hadn't publicly written about. So the lord's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “I should keep some things to myself,” he said with a hint of dry humor. “If I reveal it all too soon, who would still care to read my work afterward?”

at his wry remark, she let out a small breath of a laugh, warm and light. “mystery does have its uses,” she agreed, “especially for a writer, i imagine. some things need to be carried privately before they can be offered to others, if ever.” her fingers stilled against her sleeve, as though the thought had settled there. “and perhaps what’s held back gives the rest room to breathe. too much laid bare all at once can be… overwhelming.” she could only guess at what gael had lived through, and how much remained unsaid, even when filtered through another voice or story.

"it... looks enough like me," she admitted, the words bitter on her tongue. enough that she could see herself in it. elia was not normally insecure about the way that she looked, could even be vain about her appearance, but there were days when she looked in the mirror and all she saw were her flaws. the painting seemed to capture, magnify and emphasise every one of them, and that had been why the reaction had been so visceral. she lowered the painting, enough that the woman could look, if she wanted to.

"i look like a chameleon," she was speaking to herself, but the words were spoken out loud. "all boggle-eyed and weird." even the gold of the gown she was wearing, the way the painter had made her complexion sallower than it was in life, took on a greenish hue.

she must have seemed foolish, childish even, to be sulking over a painting like this. it did not matter how much she told herself in the back of her mind that she didn't care what this woman thought of her, she did, because elia always cared what people thought of her. "and the worst part is i thanked him for it," she let out a hollow laugh. "i was too embarrassed to say anything else. the more i look at it the more i think he must have been trying to mock me on purpose, and i thanked him."

“there’s no need to say ‘i,’” laena said gently, lilac eyes meeting hers. “it looks nothing like you, really.” she leaned slightly closer, careful not to crowd. “artists can be bold, yes… and sometimes far too...clever... for their own good.” her gaze wandered to the other stalls and easels around them, noting the myriad interpretations and styles that flourished here, some delicate, others garish, all capturing something of life in their own way. it reminded her that likeness was rarely about the truth of someone, only the truth the artist chose to see.

a soft laugh escaped her at elia’s confession about thanking the painter despite herself. “well, he likely appreciated that, though perhaps less than he deserved,” laena said, shrugging lightly. “unfortunately, it does mean he might offer his… creative interpretations to another, someday. hopefully someone who enjoys such a style.” she stepped forward, a quiet invitation in her movement. “come, follow me.” her stride was measured, guiding, as she led the way toward the secluded wing she knew, where the hearth awaited, a space wide and private enough for what elia intended.

Ser Cato Hill, above all else that described the young man, was a lover at heart. A man who looked upon women and wished to share some sort of love with them. And perhaps before going to the Holy Lands he would have spent his time speaking to the daughters of landed knights, serving girls, and the like but this day he was trying to prove himself a man worthy of trust. His uncle believed in him or he hoped even if he didn't know why he hoped for such a thing. His uncle was an asshole but, he was family and Cato wanted to make his mother proud of him. He was a bastard and he was her shame but he wanted to offer her some pride.

Still, he was a lover and while he didn't take every woman he met to his bed he some times had his heart in their hands and he held on to hers. Cato Hill loved women. And as he walked through the garden he tried to distract himself, his head falling back as looked over the wall of flowers. He wondered how many people worked in these gardens and he wondered if they ever grew sick of flowers.

"I knew that was you." Cato walked over to Laena, taking a drink from cup in his hand. "I've not seen you in quite some time, aye? Glasses up for you." It was always good for a bastard when someone took notice of you, especially if it were someone of great wealth. Cato always dreamed of some Queen or Lady taking him as her lover or ... what was a male mistress?

Lord Commander. Ha ha.

"To the Reach to make your fortune and," he leaned in, "and I bet you've got the funds for your dresses and such. I might buy a shirt if I do gamble away my wee purse." Cato smiled as he took another drink, he'd been drinking a lot but he liked the Reach. And he liked when the realms united. There were so many women around, it was the ultimate test that he hoped he didn't fail.

“it has been some time,” she agreed, stepping forward and gesturing for him to walk with her through the blooming pathways. there was nostalgia in the motion, but it did not cling to her like it once would have. “walk with me,” she added, and though the words were light, there was a thread of truth beneath them, time had pulled them apart, as it had always meant to. once, they had been a pair of dreamers in the westerlands, building futures out of want instead of certainty. but want alone rarely shielded anyone, and bastards, least of all.

she let out a low breath of laughter, glancing down at the fine fabric draped along her frame. “i still sew when i can. it keeps my hands steady,” she said, a subtle nod to the girl she had been. “but yes, i suppose i do allow myself to indulge now if i find something i like.” she gave a small shrug. her voice held no boasting, just the calm acceptance of someone who had dealt with enough to stop apologizing for her comforts. she still wore her newfound wealth quietly, in fine stitching and small rings rather than jewels meant to blind.

cedric stood there, shoulders squared but not stiff, the light breaking through the canopy above them and spilling across laena’s bowed frame like some painter’s brush had chosen her alone. for a long moment, he only watched her, saw the way her fingers laced and unlaced against themselves, the way her breath seemed heavier than it should, as though the simple act of sitting upright cost her something. he felt the weight of what she said settle against his chest—not sharp, not jagged, but heavy, like wet cloth, clinging and undeniable.

"yeah. we can understand eachother and let it go." he regretted that it had taken their voices raised, that it had taken her tears, for her to finally hear what he meant, and still, the way she said she would “let it go” hollowed him out rather than relieved him. it felt unlike them, even unlike her; or perhaps, he had not yet come across her when she genuinely was fixed on wanting something. she would want something entirely for herself in the end, considering she had never owned anything herself for the entirety of her life. obviously it made sense; it was human nature, nothing more and nothing less, regardless of what emotions clouded it. "and we can let it go, but i just need to say something clearly first, whilst we're getting it all out there."

he thought of what she said about it being romantic in her head, and for the briefest instant he almost envied her for that—envied her ability to paint hope into something that, to him, only spelled out dread. “i understand what you wanted, and why you wanted it,” he admitted, forcing himself to hold her gaze even as his instinct begged him to look away. “i know how badly you wanted to imagine some world of ours, a private thing, just us. a family. and i swear to you, it isn’t because i can’t picture it. it’s because i can. too clearly. and i know what you’d want of me if it ever came to pass. you’d want me present. you’d want me there, more than just a name in the child’s mouth. and i know myself well enough to say i would fail you there. i’d fail them too. because i am not ready for it.”

“you never needed to promise me that,” he said at last, his voice quieter than it had been all evening, drained of that edge that had lingered so persistently before. “not letting go. not silence. not even thanks. none of it. everything you’ve got—that’s yours, laena. never once did i want you to feel you owed me your gratitude, or your shrinking. never once did i want you to think you had to prove your joy to me. and gods, if that’s what you thought, then it's about time we sat and talked about this no?” he exhaled, rubbing at the corner of his jaw as though the simple action might hold back the tide of guilt pressing harder against him now.

the words came slower now, careful, as though he feared their weight more than her reaction. “this isn’t just about refusing you. it’s about duty. i can’t step into that role with you before i’ve done it where i must—before i’ve a wife, before i’ve heirs to secure the line. my cousin louis? gods, he’s got a mind for herbs and scrolls, aye, but he couldn’t rule if the throne were given him with the crown already set on his head. that is my burden. my blood’s charge. i can’t, and wouldn't, set it aside for… for this. even if i wanted to. and that’s the truth of it. not cruel. just truth.” he shifted then, his stance softening though his words still carried their weight. he could see how small she’d curled into herself again, and it twisted something in him, sharp and guilty, though he kept his tone measured. “don’t think this makes me see you any differently,” he said firmly, almost to the point of command.

“because it doesn’t. i expect us to disagree, its the norm. i expect there to be moments where you want more than i can give, and moments where you want your space. but don't mistake that for a change in what i think of you, or what this is between us. something like this isn’t enough to undo it.”

for a beat, the air between them felt too still, her hair stirring faintly in the soft breeze, his shirt still rumpled from their earlier quarrel, his doublet still draped over his arm. the sun rose further, spilling gold across her shoulders, painting her silver-blonde hair in shades almost holy. cedric stepped closer then, not hurried, not hesitant, but with the surety of a man who had decided to stop letting distance do all the speaking. when he reached her, he let the silence hang just long enough before extending his hand toward her.

“i don’t think you’re cruel,” she said after a long pause, voice low, a thread just strong enough not to break. “not for speaking truth. not for saying what you can and cannot give. it isn’t a wound you’ve made. it’s more like… a line drawn in earth. it’s only me who kept mistaking it for something i could cross.” her breath caught faintly there, but she didn’t falter. “i hear you, cedric. i do.”

her gaze flicked toward him, searching, though there was no demand in it, no plea for him to take back anything he’d said. just the searching look of someone trying to keep all the pieces aligned in her mind, to fix them in their rightful place before she could let them go. “i never thought gratitude was something i owed,” she admitted, her voice faint, careful. “but i held onto it anyway. maybe because saying it out loud made me feel steadier. like if i kept reminding you, reminding myself, of what we already had, this might feel less fragile, less reckless.” a small laugh slipped from her, barely there. “but it doesn’t work like that, does it.”

her shoulders shifted, loosening the curl she’d tucked herself into, though she still looked small sitting there in the dappled light. “you’ve said before what your duty asks of you. i’ve no illusions about what path you walk, or what place i hold along it. i never thought i could change that. i just...” her hands tightened again, a flicker of strain across her features, “...i wanted to believe there might be something outside of all that duty. some corner of the world that was only ours. not stolen or secret. just…ours.” she exhaled, slow, steady. “but if that isn’t yours to give, i won’t press it anymore.”

when he stepped closer, the shift of his shadow falling against her skirts, she lifted her head fully to meet him. her eyes were still rimmed red, still fragile in their openness, but they carried something steadier now, acceptance: even if it stung. despite the ache still lodged deep in her chest, she knew, had always known, that she would reach for him anyway. even in the hurt, she longed for the steadiness of his nearness, for the comfort only he could give. she would always choose him, no matter how heavy it sometimes felt. when his hand found hers, her body remembered before her mind did, loosening ever so slightly as if drawn into the quiet safety of him. her grip wasn’t tight, not eager, but it was sure enough to say she had chosen it.

“not in circles,” she agreed softly, echoing him. her free hand smoothed over her skirts, a grounding motion that steadied her breath. “when we speak of it again, it will be different. clearer. i’ll be ready for that.” another quiet exhale left her, sounding more like release than surrender. “for now, resting it sounds enough.”

There was something about Laena’s quiet composure that reminded him, very distantly, of when he’d first heard about Florence's existence. Gael had been younger and so eager to meet someone else of his blood, to know what sort of relationship he could build with his half-sister. Laena was not like Florence in a way. She did not seem to guard herself as much and speak in half-truths. The young lady before him had a way of being steady and sharp even in her kindness. And she appeared to be a sincere listener. Gael found that the more he conversed with Laena, that he wished to keep speaking with her. Perhaps a good relationship could be formed for the distant cousins. “It isn’t foolish, by the way,” he said in a gentler tone, referring to her sewing. “To create something with your own hands is no small feat. That’s art as well”.

The lady took a seat, and the Master of the Arts walked towards the bench as well, but he didn't sit down. He remained standing before her, a few paces away. His posture was more relaxed than when she found him, moving his arms to leisurely rest behind his back. Understanding what silence could hold. He was still thinking about her words, about what she spoke of her grandmother, and the reflections that came with the diligent work of creating something. “I suppose some of us observe and listen more than we speak,” the writer added after a moment. “But I do believe much of what we don’t say ends up coming out in some way in the end”. In the emotions between a line of verse. In the patterns that a needle and thread could create. “Especially if there isn't someone close to us to lend an ear,”. He didn't have that in his brothers growing up, and only began to open up his mind to friends like Conall or Omer later in life. But by then, Gael Hightower had long started to wield his pen.

she let the quiet linger, as though testing the shape of her own thoughts, before she went on, voice lower, more tentative. “i imagine the rest of your work carries the same sort of weight. the kind that isn’t always easy to look at, but harder still to turn away from once you do.” her gaze flicked down, catching the pale thread at the edge of her sleeve, worrying it between her fingers. “i wonder what you’ve chosen not to show yet. whether it is silence or simply not ready to be said.”

she looked down at her hands in her lap, pale against the silk, turning them slightly as if to examine the faint lines etched there. “i think you’re right,” she said at length, her voice quiet but steady. “the unsaid doesn’t stay buried. it finds its way out, in fabric or in ink, in songs or in silences. sometimes it feels safer that way, when what we mean doesn’t have to pass through our mouths first.” her eyes lifted back to him, softer now, touched with something like relief at having spoken the thought aloud. “there’s a kind of truth in what the hands make that the tongue might stumble over.”

"oh, no no no. i wouldn't dream of asking you to sit on the ground. in a dress like that? never." she cast a wistful eye over laena's gown. some women, she thought, were made for beautiful clothes and silk skirts, but fiadh wasn't one of them. she had left the vance's apartments this morning looking pristine, and yet though the day was still young, and she had done little more than browse the market stalls, she already looked positively dishevelled, half of her hair escaping it's ribbon, and the rest hanging on by a thread. she paused for a moment to located the merchant who had loaned her the cushion, so as to return it to where she had borrowed from. she jogged over, and a few seconds later, had returned to laena's side. "let's walk for a little bit. we might find a bench."

she linked arms with laena as they walked, and within a few steps, the thought of finding somewhere to sit had already been driven from her mind, prone to distraction as she was. for the moment, she was just walking, aimlessly, more focused on the conversation than anything else. "honestly, a lot of the stuff here goes over my head a little bit," she admitted with a sheepish grin. "i've spent most of my time here in the markets, but the only thing i've bought is these lute strings." with her spare arm, she lifted up the instrument, showing the strings to laena. "they're thinner than my old ones - it should make the sound a little higher and sweeter, but i haven't tuned it yet, so it just sounds like a yowling cat," she explained, dropping the instrument again so it hung at her side.

"i saw a trader from essos, though, and he had loads of interesting things that i had no idea how to use. he had this one brass contraption - not sure what it's for, but it just kept folding in on itself, over and over. think i spent about ten minutes trying to get it to its limit before i gave up." she was talking animatedly, one hand moving a mile a minute. "imagine trapping lightning in a jar, though! i bet that would be beautiful." she could imagine it crackling around inside the glass, perhaps accompanied by little storm clouds and tiny raindrops.

her gaze flicked to the lute when fiadh lifted it, the arch of her lips softening. “i should like to hear how it sounds, yowling cat or not. sometimes i think the imperfect notes carry the truest feeling.” she gave a slight shrug, silk sleeve shifting at the movement. “perhaps it’s only because my own craft is full of flaws, as you might imagine. snagged threads, uneven seams, colors that bleed when i wish they wouldn’t, but even those mistakes feel so...real, timeless.” her eyes glimmered faintly with amusement as she looked sidelong at fiadh. “music is much the same, i think. it doesn’t need to be perfect to linger.”

at the mention of the folding contraption, laena’s brow furrowed, curiosity brightening her expression. “i think i saw the same one,” she said softly, almost conspiratorial. “it reminded me of a flower that refused to bloom, turning back in on itself again and again. strange, and a little sad, though i couldn’t stop watching either.” she tilted her head, the silver strands of her hair catching the light. “maybe we'll have to ask what it's truly for if we come across it again." she noted. "the lightning in a jar was indeed beautiful, i wonder if i might prefer to admire if from afar, though.”

elia had drifted away from the main crowd of the verdant concord, her face that merely ten minutes ago wearing a bright smile that indicated that she was in her element now dour. she was supposed to be enjoying herself, and she had been. until the portrait.

when the painter had caught her attention, she had sat for him willingly, eagerly, even. she had liked the idea of it. she knew she looked pretty today, the jewels she adorned herself with glinting in the sun, all gold and glitter. it would only stand to reason that the painting would be just as glorious. something to take back to dorne with pride.

but as she looked at the canvas on her lap, sitting on a stone bench far enough away that she did not need try to hide her displeasure, elia didn't like the face looking back at her. it was undeniably her - but that was the issue. the artist seemed to have taken it upon himself to exaggerate her features. the eyes of the painting were almost comically large, her cupid's bow too sharp, the mark beneath her eyebrow larger than it was in life. she hated it, she decided, hated the way it made her feel when she looked at it. she flung it into the grass. she didn't want it anywhere near her.

she felt stupid. stupid for wanting it, stupid for not telling the artist she hated it, and stupid for caring so much. she needed a moment to gather herself before returning to the fray, but fortune wasn't on her side. she heard it before she saw it, the quiet sound of footsteps and the faint rustle of fingers on canvas. "don't look at that," she snapped, whipping around with her eyes narrowed.

it was too late, though. before her stood a woman, her pale hair and violet features that marked her as valyrian. that made her the worst possible person who could have found elia here. but of course it would be. her expression turned colder, and she reached out to grab the canvas, yanking it from the woman's grip and holding it to her chest so nobody else could see it. "it's mine. you shouldn't have looked at it."

she only meant to lift it, to protect it from the dew, from the trampling of passersby. she hadn’t expected to be caught, and certainly not by the very girl whose image it bore. but when the voice snapped toward her, sharp as a thorn, laena stilled where she stood. her eyes, slightly wide and quiet, met the girl’s and did not flinch even when the painting was snatched away. she only responded, softly, “i apologize, i wasn't trying to pry.” her voice was low, the kind that asked to be trusted even if it didn’t ask to be heard. “only trying to keep it from being stepped on.”

her hands lowered to her sides. she did not reach again. “it’s yours. of course. i’m sorry if it felt like i was trespassing.” there was no trace of irony or mockery in her tone, only something gently regretful. not the kind of regret born of embarrassment, but the kind that came from knowing how it felt to have something thrown away because you couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. "for what it's worth, you don't look like it, not even a little."

and she meant it, it were clearly an imitation that didn't know it's subject, even if it may have been what the artist had intended as their sort of style. it were clear that the woman before her had not expected it.

cedric exhaled, slow through the nose, arms folding across his chest as though to hold himself still. the orchard behind her swayed under the early evening breeze, dappled sunlight catching the edges of her hair, her profile fixed forward like something carved. he didn’t move. didn’t step toward her. didn’t speak until the silence had swelled enough to let his thoughts settle into shape, jagged as they were.

“i never said you were ungrateful, and i wouldn't have thought that of you either. fucking hells.” he said at last, quietly, though not gently, irritation still wired across in his tone as she saw her figure go and a his voice lacked temper but held weight, and there was a faint frown pulling at the edge of his brow, the kind that came less from anger and more from bewilderment.

“that’s not what any of this was about. gods, laena—do you really think i need you to fall over yourself in thanks just for... being with me?” he gave a short breath of a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. he looked away, just for a moment, toward the brook. the water moved with careless rhythm, untouched by their conversation, unbothered by the tension strung between them. “when you thank me like that, when you speak like you’ve been given something you didn’t deserve, it makes everything between us feel—” he paused, jaw flexing slightly the way it always did when he was irritated but trying to maintain it. snappy.

“it makes it feel weird, yeah? transactional, even sleazy. and maybe that’s not your intent, but that’s what it does when you consistently express your gratitude. you say it’s for you, that saying it helps. fine. but do you realise what it does to me? it lays the whole imbalance bare. makes me feel like a man who’s done you some rare courtesy by simply being honest with you. and i don’t want to feel like that, laena. shit feels dirty.” his gaze snapped back to her then, the weariness plain in his eyes now, drawn not from cruelty, but from the sheer effort of being misunderstood.

“you ask me to be gentle, but how much gentler did i need to be? i told you it wasn’t too much to ask. i told you there was no crime in wanting. i told you not to make yourself smaller. i even told you it’s not about some wound or trauma or tale you can soothe. i told you i simply don’t want it.” he tilted his head slightly, voice losing some of its edge, though it didn’t soften completely. “and somehow, even that—especially that—seems to hurt you.”

at her mention of gentleness, there came a surge of defensiveness that came over him, an audible exasperated sigh slipping from his mouth as he merely looked at her with a gaze that was incredibly tired. as though this conversation was tiring. “you asked me to meet you with gentleness—but you didn’t exactly arrive with a warning, either, did you? we’ve never spoken of it. not once. and suddenly you tell me you want children. not eventually, not perhaps—you want them. one, maybe two. from me.” he stepped forward then, just once, as if to anchor his words more firmly in the space between them.

she gave a few soft nods as he spoke, the shape of her mouth tight, like she’d bitten back another apology but chose not to voice it this time. and then, slowly, she sat up straighter, both hands folding neatly in her lap now as she met his gaze, really met it, no longer trying to pull some hidden meaning out of what he was saying, no longer trying to fix it or reinterpret it. just…hearing him.

"i didn’t mean it like that," she said softly, not defensive, not even regretful anymore, just steady. the words came slowly, paced by the need to say them properly, not perfectly. "of course, i don’t think of us like that. i never have. but i... i see now how it must sound, when i keep trying to say how thankful i am. to have all this. to have you," she added quickly, shaking her head, "i’ve never had this much before. not in a way that felt like it was really mine to keep."

she reached up, gently pushing some hair away from her face, her fingers catching in the tangles. her lips parted like she might cry again, but she didn’t. "and i got in my own head," she admitted, quiet and faintly self-conscious. "i thought it might be a sweet thing, to say. about wanting that kind of future, with you. and i didn’t think… i didn’t think what that would feel like on your end. i wasn’t fair about that part." she let out a small, breathless laugh. not bitter. just exhausted. "it did sound romantic in my head. like something you say when the sun’s warm and the berries are sweet and you’re both barefoot in the grass. i didn’t think about what happens after."

her brows furrowed faintly, and she looked down at her lap again. "it hurts, yeah. not because you were cruel, but because i think i hoped there was something else underneath. some reason i could make sense of. some story i could comfort. even just for myself i guess i thought if i could name the reason, it’d make the no easier." her voice tightened just slightly at the end, breath trembling.

"but there's no story. it’s just the truth. and i have to accept that." she lifted her chin again to look at him. lilac hues now puffy and red. her voice was quiet, almost timid now. "and i will. i promise. i’ll let it go."

cedric didn't speak at first, and that silence wasn’t kindness. it was study. something about the way she laced her fingers with his—it undid something in him he didn’t have a name for. not tenderness, not guilt. something older. something tired. her touch was soft, reverent even, like he was made of something worth preserving, and it made his skin itch. her voice had always had this way of softening at the wrong moments, curling around apology like it was a prayer. but now, it just made him feel... small. smaller than he ever wanted to be.

he looked at her, really looked, and all he could think about was how quickly she'd folded. his mouth twisted, something close to a smile but with none of the pleasure. “and now you’re looking at me like i said something tragic.” he turned his eyes to hers again, sharp and dry - there was a scoff that slipped from his mouth as he looked at her. what did she look so struck for? why did she appear so regretful? “i don’t need to be held like a wounded thing, laena. i don’t need endless i’m sorrys for a choice i made of my own accord. it starts to feel...wrong.” how fast she'd shrunk herself down the moment she'd thought she'd hurt him. her lip trembling, her eyes glossed—he’d seen that kind of sorrow before, but not in her.

and gods, it repulsed him, not because she meant it any less, but because it felt like she'd mistaken him for a man who needed saving. or worse, pity.

“you didn’t ask for too much,” he said finally, but the words came without warmth. they were measured, pared down, like stone worn smooth by water. “you asked for something you want, once. there’s no crime in that. we've never spoken about it before.” he pulled his hand away—not harshly, not to punish—but because it suddenly felt wrong to be held like that. like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go. like he was something precious. it didn't feel right, for some reason he did not want her hand laced with his own.

“why do you sound like you’ve resigned yourself to scraps and need to reassure me that you’re happy with it. i don’t want to be with someone who flinches every time i’m honest. who makes herself smaller so i feel larger. it doesn’t feel like..." he trailed off, as he realised he did not even have the word for what there was between them. familiarity? comfort? "it feels like debt.” he let the silence hang there for a moment, cool and measured - his words were emphasised, his momentary irritation slipping through.

“what does get under my skin,” he went on, voice growing quieter, colder, trying to explain how it were feeling from where he was stood without getting overly irritated and aiming it at her direction. “isn’t what you said. it’s what you became the moment i said what i did. like i’d kicked something out of you. like i’d confided some great wound and you needed to tend it.” his gaze flicked to the basket by her feet, to the berries bleeding slowly into the grass.

"you react as though i've confessed something heartwrenching to you - and that's not it. not everything is as deep as you make it in your head."

she took a small step back and crossed her arms over her chest, more for stability than defense, her hands curling against the fabric of her sleeves like they might anchor her. she shifted from foot to foot, uncertain, fidgety, like her body couldn’t decide whether to run or fall apart where she stood.

“i didn’t want you to think i was ungrateful, cedric,” she said, voice thin. “but saying it aloud, that this is enough, it’s not for you. it’s for me. i need to say it. i believe it, but saying it. it helps me.”

her gaze lifted to meet his, and though her expression was weary, there was something firmer underneath, something that had begun to root itself. “what would you have me do?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, a bitter smile flickering. “drop to my knees and weep for the parts of you you’ll never give me? would that feel more honest to you? would that make this easier?” she gave a quiet, humorless laugh, the kind that didn’t touch her eyes.

“i’m trying,” she said, breath catching, “to process this. with you. not away from you. not in some distant field days from now. here.” she rubbed her palm against her temple, blinking back the sting. her eyes stung, and still she tried not to fall apart in front of him.

then he said it. with you. not in general. not ever. but with you.

laena stopped pacing. her whole body paused, like someone had just cut the strings that kept her moving. she looked at him, and for a moment her face was unreadable. then she slowly turned, crossed the soft moss and low grass, and sank onto the stone bench, her elbows resting on her knees as she pressed her face into her hands. she didn’t cry, not fully. not yet. but the effort it took to hold herself together showed in the tremble of her shoulders, in the way she dragged her hands slowly down her cheeks like she were trying to wipe away something permanent.

she sat back, laced her fingers in her lap. stared out toward the brook, watching the light dance on the water. her voice, when it came, was quiet. careful. “the truth isn’t dull, cedric,” she said, eyes fixed forward. “it’s just cruel.”

she looked back at him now, the pale lilac of her gaze rimmed in pink. “and i’m not—” she swallowed, fingers twitching slightly in her lap. “i’m not fragile. or maybe i am. i don’t know anymore. but i chose this. i chose you. and i knew what choosing you meant. i’ve known since the start.”

she paused, drawing a slow breath. tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear even though it kept falling forward again. “i don’t want to change you,” she murmured. “i don’t want to make you something you’re not. i don’t want anyone else. and i never will.”

he didn’t answer her right away. instead, cedric remained there, sleeves still rolled and arms crossed, but the tension in his shoulders shifted, not loosening, just realigning—like a blade set gently on its edge rather than sheathed. the orchard was far too quiet now, too thick with thought, as if the trees themselves had turned their leaves inward to listen. and gods, he regretted it already. not what he said—he stood by every word—but the way he said it, the firmness of it. the look on her face now, the tilt of her head, that gentle resolve—he’d seen women bargain with kings before, but this wasn’t that. she wasn’t bargaining.

she wasn't begging, or pleading. she was retreating, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like a coward.

“don’t say that,” he muttered, jaw tight as his eyes flicked to the basket in her hands, then to her face again. “don’t start thanking me like i’ve done something noble.” his voice was quieter now, less sharp-edged, though it held the same weight, his hand flexing as it moved to sit across from his knee, looking over at her with a lazy sort of relaxation - it were as though he belonged in the midst of these orchards, as though he were some mythical dryad that walked the paths the winds dictated for him. “i didn’t give you anything out of generosity, laena. i gave you what i did because i wanted you to have it." he stepped closer then, not touching her, not daring to, but near enough that she could see the regret settle behind the usual flicker in his gaze.

“of course it doesn’t bother me,” he said, voice low and tight as though the words fought to stay inside him, as though he felt offended that she had even asked such a thing. never once had her blood come to his mind when determining her place in his life, apart from the obvious; they could not wed. they would never wed. and yet, in no other space or capacity did her legitimacy ever come to his mind - it were clear in his face that he was shocked she would ever even think otherwise.

“gods, woman, do you think i give a damn about the blood in your veins? what your mad father didn’t claim or what septas whispered about your mother? i know exactly what you are. i’ve always known. i don't care.” his lip curled faintly, not in cruelty, but in disbelief that she’d even asked.

his hand flexed again, and this time he let it fall, fingers brushing against his leg as though trying to shake the weight from them. “it isn’t about you being a bastard. it’s about me.” his voice flattened there, bitter around the edges, as though it were deflated. a sense of nonchalant matter of fact, that was a world away from the dreamlike world she had set up in the thickest of orchards. “you think i want children? i don’t. i never did, i never will. but i’ll have them—because the path needs to be obvious.” and even in that regard, he did not consider himself to be a man that would be involved with his children; the thought did not bring warmth to his heart, if anything it filled him with the opposite. fatherhood would be a necessity, and nothing more than that.

"but i don't feel the urge to be a father. i don't feel the urge to witness milestones, or just be there. and you..." there was a slight laugh that came from him here, his hand indicating toward her as he looked in her direction. "you'll want a family as a collective, a presence. it'll change too much."

he turned away then, just briefly, but long enough to inhale—deep, measured, as though his lungs might calm what his heart could not, before he said something that would truly bring her grief or upset. “if i were a different man,” he began, then stopped, shaking his head, the notion too far removed from reality. “no, never mind. i’m not.” still, he looked back at her, more weary now than hard. “i’m sorry,” he said at last, and the words came flat, but true. “not for the truth. but for how it came out. you didn’t deserve the way i said it.” he paused, then added, quieter still, “but i know why you asked. i know what it cost you to be here with me, and what you’ve lost in place of it. it’s natural to want to build something new. something yours. i just…” he trailed off, raking a hand through his hair. “i’m not the man to give it to you. i think we both know that.”

guilt pulled heavy in her gut now, for speaking it aloud. she hadn’t meant to make something sacred feel like a demand. hadn’t meant to make him feel caged by the future she didn’t even know how to name. of course he would have children. it was his duty. it just wouldn’t be her. and no matter how gently she tried to hold that truth in her hands, it still cut.

she stood there in silence, the weight of everything pressing in on her ribs. she watched two butterflies flit by between the branches, careless and untouched by what had just broken open here. they moved like the world hadn’t shifted—like something hadn’t just changed in her. something permanent. she didn’t speak right away. the orchard was still holding its breath around them, and she let herself listen to it, listen to him. the low rustle of branches, the gentle shift of his stance. he wasn’t angry. not really. just honest. and somehow that hurt more.

“my father was mad, yes,” she said quietly, voice thin. “but my mother was more than a rumor. more than the shame they made her carry.” her throat tightened, and she looked down, not trusting herself to meet his gaze. “i just never thought… i don’t know. i suppose i hoped it wouldn’t ever matter here, ever be spoken like that between us.”

the basket, now more a burden than a comfort, slipped from her arm with more force than she meant, landing with a soft thud against the moss. a few berries tumbled out, rolling into the grass, and she didn’t look at them. instead, she crossed her arms over her chest like a shield. “it bothers me,” she said finally. “it always has. it’s mine to carry, i know that. but it’s there.”

when he spoke again, when he said it wasn’t about her, something shifted. something deeper than embarrassment or hurt. because she could see how it hollowed him too, this idea of fatherhood, not as joy, but obligation. not as warmth, but strategy. and gods, didn’t that burn in a different way? she wanted to reach for him, to pull him close, to cradle the ache in him as much as the one in herself, but the divide between them felt sacred now. she didn’t want to make it worse by pretending there wasn’t one.

“change,” she echoed softly, blinking a few times before lifting her gaze. “that’s the thing, isn’t it? change will come whether you want it or not. you’ll have to marry. you’ll have to have children. the path will shape itself around you whether you walk it or not. in highgarden.” she swallowed, her voice barely holding. “but you want here, me, this place to remain the same. is that it?”

she understood that, in a way. the orchard, hollywell, was her safe haven too. a place she could shape with her hands, where things grew if you nurtured them. perhaps it would have to be enough—for both of them.

laena stepped forward, slowly, and this time, she didn’t stop herself. her fingers found his, light and tentative at first, then firmer as they laced with his. “you are what i want,” she said, barely above a whisper. “and i’ll take what you can give me. this place. your time. your sharp eyes and steady hands.” there was a breathy laugh, but the humor didn't quite reach her eyes.

she gave a small squeeze of his hand, her thumb brushing lightly against his skin as though she might offer comfort through touch alone. her lip trembled, eyes stinging, and it took a quiet, careful breath for her to find her voice again. "i'm sorry, too, cedric," she said softly, a breath catching in her throat. "i won’t ask you to explain why you feel the way you do. maybe i don't need to understand it. i just..i shouldn't have pushed. i asked for too much."

he didn’t speak at first. didn’t move, either, save for the faint flex of the fingers resting beside him on the bench, his palm grazing the weathered stone as though grounding himself against the words she had just uttered. there was a shift—not loud, not visible to the untrained eye, but quiet and sure, like a breeze gone still. his gaze didn’t snap to her, didn’t narrow or darken in some theatrical turn, but it held. it held. and his sleeves, already loose from the warmth of the orchard, he rolled up with deliberate slowness, as though preparing for something more manual than mere conversation.

“you don’t think you’re building all this for just yourself,” he repeated, not a question, but a mirror of her words—dry as flint, eyes fixed now on the brook rather than her. “and you thought to say it like that. here. beneath the trees. fig-stained lips and all. mm.” the sound left him more breath than voice, and he rubbed his jaw with a short laugh, one entirely humourless. “a child.” he stood, briefly, just to pace a few steps, like the motion would shed the tension gathering in his limbs, but it didn’t. nothing did. he glanced at her then—not as her lover, not as the man who touched her wrist in the orchard’s hush—but as something older, sharper.

“laena.” her name came clipped, tight. “i don’t know what idea has taken root in your head, but this—this fantasy of berry-picking little things running underfoot and giving you purpose? it's not happening.”

he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated not with her, but with the absolute audacity of the moment. “do you know what that is? what that means? i’ve no legitimate heirs yet. not one. you think i would start sowing my legacy with—” he cut himself off, jaw tight, and yet the implication of his words was there and vivid as his striking blue orbs looked upon her own. it were as though he had wandered into this dreamlike world she had created for herself, and in a few short words and movements, had managed to uproot every tree, flip every rock, and set it all ablaze.

“you’ve more than any other in your position, in history. more land. more station. your own crest, your own rooms. a place at court and a seat beside me when half of the council still think you're some charming little enchantment that wandered in from the woods.” he gestured broadly to the orchard, to the quiet paradise she’d shaped like a painter layering oils, his tone clearly incredulous. was this what she had called him out here for? “and still it isn’t enough?” he turned away, briefly, collecting himself in the hush. a few heartbeats passed before he continued, and when he did, it was not rage that coloured his tone, but something worse—certainty. a firmness, that was unmoving, impenetrable.

“you don’t raise a child in the shadow of broken homes and families hoping it’ll fix them.” she had always desperately imagined a world in which her family were not the way they were, a stark contrast to the fact he never thought of his own in such a way. but something about this felt as tough she clearly wished for a babe for her own sake, rather than for attempting to progress with the next stage of her life. to fulfill some emotional need.

for a long moment she said nothing at all, letting the hush stretch out between them. even the orchard felt still now, the air too thick with meaning, the leaves too still. the scent of lemon balm, once comforting, warm on her fingertips, barely touched her now. she stared down at the moss, willing it to anchor her, but it offered no wisdom. no comfort. only green. only quiet. when she finally did speak, her voice was gentle, the words strangely soft.

“with a bastard,” she echoed, “right.”

her gaze dropped, not in shame, but in acceptance, and she gave a slow nod, one after the other, as if they might help push the heat back from her cheeks, might stop the sting behind her eyes. her thumb brushed the weave of the basket, back and forth, back and forth. “i didn’t think about it that way,” she admitted, softly. “i didn’t think at all. not properly.” it had been a dream, a soft one, stitched like a lining inside all the others. but still just that, a dream. “it wouldn’t be fair. not to them. not to you.”

she lifted her hand to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, damp with a tear she hadn’t meant to let fall. she smiled, faint but earnest, as if to cover the crack in her voice before it could widen. “you didn’t ruin anything, cedric. i asked, and you told me the truth. that’s more than most would bother with.” the smile flickered, weary. the words did not hold as much weight going out as they did in her mind, but she spoke them anyways as if they did.

“and i am grateful. for everything. for all you have given me. it's more than i could ever truly deserve." those, at least, held their truth.

laena adjusted the basket against her hip, its weight seeming to double all at once. the sun-warmed fruit no longer looked quite so bright, their color dimmed by the sudden ache settling in her chest. she looked at him, really looked, and saw not just the man she'd shared quiet laughter and long, intimate evenings with, but the weight of his crown between them. not her cedric, her king. and she'd spoken too freely.

cedric tyrell did not often walk slowly—not when things waited on his word, not when the gears of state moved only when he willed them to—but here, beneath the heavy hush of orchard shade, his stride matched hers with a rare, unhurried ease. the moss softened his footfall and the scent of lemon balm still clung to her fingers, now entwined with his in a quiet claim. the touch surprised him not because she reached for him, but because of the steadiness in it—the sort that asked for nothing and yet expected a reply. and so, in the low rustle of leaves above them, he gave her one.

“nearly perfect, is it?” he murmured, his tone of voice cocky whilst turning her words over as if tasting them against his tongue. “something’s still missing?” his gaze drifted to where she’d stood only a moment ago, her silhouette etched in sunlight and moss, and there was the briefest quirk at the corner of his mouth, too sly to be soft. "mistresses these days. greedy things."

“does it need to sing when you breathe too woman?” his thumb brushed once across her wrist before he dropped her hand, and moved to pluck a single fig from a low-hanging bough. it was ripe, near bursting, and he bit into it absently, sweet juice running slightly down his thumb as he chewed. he didn’t offer her a taste—he never did things so obviously—but he held it between his fingers long enough for her to take the hint if she wished. instead, his gaze followed hers upward, toward the broken canopy and light that played across the orchard like gold flung by careless hands.

“you want the land to be gentle,” he said after a moment, “and i’m here, leaving boot prints in your moss. poetic.” his tone was dry, amused, but not unkind. he stepped closer again, not quite touching, but enough for her to feel his presence at her side, the warmth of him pressed into the air between them. “but come then. if something’s missing, you'll fill it in. like one of your mosaic panels.” he turned to look at her then, properly. “or let me do it. show you how it’s done.” the tease lingered at the edges of his voice, half-arrogant, half-inviting. “i’ve sharper eyes than you. steadier hands, too.”

he touched a loose tendril of her hair, brushing it lightly behind her ear before stepping past her down the path, leaving his words to pull her after him. “if you’re trying to draw me out here more often, you’ll need something more tempting than mosaics. or mystery.” he cast a glance back over his shoulder, expression unreadable beneath the filtered light. “i’ve already given you the land. and half the court still thinks you’ve bewitched me.” a pause, then he added, deliberately careless, as though it would not matter in the slightest. "if you ask me to start hauling stones or painting doves, i’ll need assurances that you’re not just toying with me.”

he slowed again near the brook, where the light spilled brighter across the grass and the water whispered secrets to the roots. the orchard opened up, and his posture relaxed just slightly, as though the stretch of open air eased something inside him. he could feel her still behind him—he always could, even when he pretended otherwise. “maybe you’ve got it all, and the only thing missing is a flaw. something sharp. a crack in the paint.” his gaze flicked toward her again, lingering now, but never quite soft. “don’t look at me like that. i’m not about to wax sentimental. it’s just… well.” he reached down to skip a small stone across the water. “not everything’s meant to be whole, and when it is, we wait for the other shoe to drop.”

and what bloomed from that wondering was dangerous. because it wasn’t just dreams of wildflowers or stone mosaics anymore. it was footprints in the moss. smaller ones. rounder ones. it was laughter in the trees and sticky berry-stained fingers. maybe she was greedy. her lips quirked as she looked over at him. “greedy?” she echoed lightly, her voice laced with amusement. “when have i ever been called greedy?”

his teasing never bothered her. it was the language they spoke most easily, and she let him keep the edge to it, even as she leaned in and took a bite of the fig, despite him not offering it directly. her lips brushed the spot where his had been moments before, but she didn’t make a show of it. the sweetness lingered on her tongue, and she licked a drop of juice from the corner of her mouth, glancing up at him. “i’ve been stung by a bee out here, you know. the land’s gentle, not harmless.” a small laugh escaped her. “am i alone not tempting enough? or rather, you seem enchanted by the figs and berries.”

they reached the brook, and she let him go on ahead, watching the way his shoulders loosened beneath the canopy’s dappled gold. she saw the weight he carried when perhaps he thought no one noticed. a beat passed, the quiet stretching comfortably between them before she added, tone lilting with dry amusement, “you can crack one of the vases inside, if you like. something modest. i’ll pretend not to notice — just to balance the scales.” her smile curved, teasing. “it’s only fair. you’re letting me borrow all this space in your head, after all.”

she stayed where she was, leaning lightly against the old oak, one hand toying with the slim rings on her fingers as she heard him finally ask the lingering, pressing question, taking a seat on the stone bench across from her.

“a child,” she said at last, quietly. “or two. or one.” she didn’t look at him right away, instead letting her eyes follow the winding path they had taken through the trees. “i don't know, but gods, every time i walk out here, i see it. them. someone running between the hedgerows, laughing. helping me pick berries. filling in the empty spaces with something whole and new.” her voice was steady, though her heart beat louder for it.

the verdant concord was in full swing, but fiadh was sitting outside of it, cross-legged on a cushion she had scavenged, back against a tree that provided shade from the afternoon sun. it wasn't that there wasn't plenty to see and do out here, too, with tents full of merchants selling their wares lining the path to the festival. she had simply chosen a spot where she was not in the way for the task at hand. lute on her lap, tongue between her teeth, her deft fingers worked to replace the strings with new ones she had just purchased, thinner and finer than the chords that were on there before, all the better to create a higher, sweeter melody.

it was no small task. once each string had been successfully attached, it needed to be tuned. she finally had all fifteen of them on their pegs, but getting the right notes was proving tricky. from her little corner, each plucked string could be heard, some notes harsher to the ear than others - once particularly off-key string made her wince, leaning back slightly as though putting distance between her ears and the string would make a difference.

it was then she caught sight of a face that she recognised. last she had seen it, it had been haloed in the candlelight of the litha festival, rather than the reach's golden sunlight, but still, there was no mistaking the silvery hair and lilac eyes of the woman she had spoken to that night. a bright smile crossed fiadh's lips, her frustration forgotten, and she raised a hand to wave her over. "laena!" she called out, just in case she had not seen fiadh, or heard the screeching note her lute had produced.

there was a strap attached to her lute, a brightly coloured leather woven together that allowed fiadh to sling it over her back. she did that carefully - though the instrument was a little battered, it was clearly well-loved, hand-painted with flowers and vines that creeped across the wood by fiadh herself. the corners of her eyes crinkled with delight as though she was greeting an old friend and not a woman she had met but once.

"it is you! i thought it was, but it wouldn't be the first time i've been wrong and frightened some poor soul by shouting the wrong name at them," she was talking a mile a minute, as she was prone to do. "come sit with me! i won't hold you hostage for long, i promise... oh, wait, you probably don't want to sit on the floor." she scrambled to her feet, scooping her cushion up as she rose so she could return it.

"hello, by the way."

it was a poorly tuned string that led her off the main path, just slightly sour, enough to wrinkle the air, and then a familiar voice, unmistakably bright. she looked up in time to see fiadh’s hand waving and her wide smile following shortly after. laena’s answering grin was already there as she crossed the short distance, silk skirts trailing behind her like soft smoke.

“i should like to be shouted at by name more often, if this is the welcome it earns me,” laena said lightly, stopping just before the vance girl. there was an easy warmth to her presence, not the sort that asked anything in return, but made one instinctively soften. her gaze swept fondly over the lute now slung across fiadh’s back, eyes lingering on the painted vines curling over its worn frame. “and i don’t mind the floor at all, truly,” she added with a gentle smile, a tilt of her head catching the sunlight in her silver-blonde tresses.

laena let her gaze drift past the trees toward the stretch of tents and curious shapes beyond, her voice soft with amusement. “have you seen anything remarkable out there? something strange or clever or utterly useless, but beautiful all the same?”