rhaegar targaryen;

she tilted her head slightly, her eyes meeting his. “but hearing you speak of it... i can’t help but think you’ve taken something from it, even if it wasn’t joy. the way you describe the canals and the people—it feels as if you saw beyond the surface, even if you say you learned to see nothing.” a faint smile tugged at her lips. “maybe that’s its lesson, in a way. to sharpen you, just as they sharpen their blades.”

her expression softened further as her voice dropped slightly. “but it sounds lonely, rhaegar. i’m sorry it wasn’t a place where you could grow the way you deserved to.” she paused, brushing a strand of hair from her face as the evening light glimmered over them. “still, i’m glad you’ve come back. whatever braavos gave you—or took from you—you’re here now.”

her gaze drifted toward the horizon briefly, where the sky was deepening with the last rays of sunlight. “it’s funny,” she mused. “you said their sunsets couldn’t match the ones we used to watch in king’s landing. i wonder if it’s because of the place itself, or if it’s the company that makes the difference.” she glanced back at him, a gentle smile playing at her lips. “for me, it’s always been the company.”

laena tilted her head slightly, her gaze soft as she regarded rhaegar. “you’ve seen so much,” she said gently. “and it sounds like east gave you plenty to think about, even if it didn’t give you much to enjoy. but now that you’re back, where do you hope to begin again? what do you see for yourself here, in westeros?”

Her voice had been steady, and her encouragement sincere, but Rhaegar felt the edges of hesitation within himself. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, as though sharing something fragile. “I’ve thought about that - about what this second chance means. For so long, I didn’t believe I had one. I thought the years I spent away had severed me from what I was… who I was. But now?” He hesitated, the faintest flicker of vulnerability in his expression. “Now, I wonder if I might find a way to get there again.”

He turned his gaze back to her, a small, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know where to begin, Lae. Westeros has changed, and so have I. But perhaps that’s the point. I think… I think I want to belong. Not just as a prince or as a name, but as someone who matters - to my family, to this land.”

Alicent's voice forced its way into his mind, his grandmother as much authority in death as she had been when he had last seen her. Remember, Rhaegar, it is not enough to burn brightly. You must leave something behind. Otherwise, what is your fire for?

cedric tyrell’s gaze did not falter as the prince spoke, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his irritation. the man’s words were like smoke, impossible to grasp, curling and coiling without form. cedric had dealt with enough ambitious men in his time to recognise obfuscation when he saw it, and yet this was different. rhaegar targaryen did not play a game of veiled threats or overt manoeuvres. no, his ambiguity was deliberate, calculated—a puzzle presented without any promise of a solution.

cedric turned away from the window, the breeze lifting the edge of his embroidered cloak, sunlight glinting off the golden rose clasp at his shoulder. he studied rhaegar carefully, weighing the man’s every movement, every pause. “a seeker of truths,” he echoed, letting the words roll off his tongue as though tasting their meaning. “a noble pursuit, no doubt. though in my experience, truth is often a slippery thing, prone to bending under the weight of one’s purpose.” and then there was a golden chuckle which slipped from the lips of cedric tyrell as he looked upon the targaryen prince; he genuinely thought the man odd. beyond odd; his vivid ocean hues glanced over at the man as they walked in step.

"i won't be introducing you as seeker of truth to my council, though. ambassador will do." there was a large old way population within the court of the reach; h

his tone was mild, even congenial, but his eyes betrayed his scepticism. “you speak of ripples and tides, prince rhaegar. to be honest, if i am less inclined to philosophical musings. my burdens, as you call them, demand clarity. action. not riddles.” he stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor, his posture easy but charged with quiet authority. “you say we serve in the ways we are best suited, and perhaps you are right. but i wonder—what truth do you seek here, in my hall, amidst my people? is it one that serves your king, your cousin, or yourself?” cedric’s voice softened, the steel beneath his charm momentarily exposed.

“because the reach has no patience for secrets or shadows, not after all we’ve endured. you would do well to remember that, prince.”

“Ah, clarity,” he echoed softly, his gaze briefly drifting toward the fields below. “It is a thing that often escapes those who spend too long searching for it in the open. But I understand. You are a man of action, Your Grace. I’ve heard that the Reach is no stranger to it.” He turned slightly toward Cedric, his eyes glinting in the sunlight. “I’ve heard, too, that your people do not take kindly to those who linger in shadows.”

There was a slight pause, and Rhaegar allowed his words to settle. “You ask whose truth I seek. My king’s? Or my own? A fair question.” He turned slightly, his silver hair catching the light like a veil of silk. “Perhaps all. Perhaps none. Truth, as you said, bends under the weight of purpose. But I would argue that it is in that bending that the true shape of things reveals itself.”

Rhaegar’s expression remained unchanged, though a quiet amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. “I’ve seen the way you measure each word, Your Grace. The way you weigh each moment. I respect that. But there are truths hidden in the spaces between, in the things we choose not to speak aloud.” He looked at Cedric directly now, his gaze piercing. “It is not my aim to make myself a puzzle, nor to confuse you. But there are… patterns, Your Grace. Patterns that are not always as clear as they first seem.”

He lingered on his spot by the window, even when Cedric had stepped closer, his figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the golden light. “And as for secrets,” he continued, voice almost conspiratorial, “I am certain that every man - every kingdom, even - has them. The question is whether they are ever revealed. And how, if they are.”

"You were trained to be no one," he repeated, his voice edged with searching. "And yet, you seek to play a role in everything. A blade in the shadows, Rhaegar? I have no need for shadows. I have Silverwing at my command, and if the stormlords are to rise against the Dornish, I will lead them on the front lines."

Jaehaerys’s eyes narrowed slightly, his tone shifting as he leaned forward, hands pressed on the armrests of his throne. The weight of the crown settled heavier on him. “Your power, cousin, is all in your silence, but there is no silence in a war with the Dornish."

His voice softened, as though weighing his words carefully, though the searching had not left his tone. "But," he continued, a reluctant agreement forming in his mind, "if you truly believe you can do this, then prove it. If you want to play this part, you will. Show me how well you can strike unseen, Rhaegar. And then—" Jaehaerys pause briefly, something his grandfather Otto said about no one. "—you’ll see if your shadows can do what dragons cannot."

"No one..." He squinted at the other, was he saying what Jaehaerys thought he was saying?

He knew Jaehaerys well enough to understand the weight of that command: Say it plainly. The very words themselves felt like a demand to expose the raw truth, to strip away the shadows Rhaegar had become so accustomed to hiding behind.

And yet, he found himself struggling with the simplicity of it. Say it plainly.

The art of silence had served him for so long. The countless faces he had worn, the men and women whose lives he had inhabited, each one a carefully crafted lie. To undo it now,to let Jaehaerys in, felt like a betrayal of everything Rhaegar had become.

But this was his cousin, and the war demanded it. The need for trust outweighed the weight of secrecy.

Finally, Rhaegar met Jaehaerys’s gaze, his voice low but steady. “I was trained by the Faceless Men, cousin. I became no one. A weapon. The shadows are where I thrive. I can walk in places you cannot, reach people who will never see me coming. And when the time is right…” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I can make them disappear. That is my power.”

The words fell from his lips, raw and real, with no artifice. Now, there was nothing left but truth.

"Name your target. I will prove it."

the flickering light of the lanterns danced across the courtyard, illuminating the gathered nobles in a hazy gold that softened every sharp edge. laughter echoed, buoyed by the heady scent of spiced wine and freshly picked roses. myriam sat perched on a curved stone bench, her sari of deep wine shimmering with every subtle movement. the air clung warm and close, though it did little to dampen her mood. her attention had been half-captured by the swirling conversation around her, but then her gaze landed on her.

seated with languid ease, a woman whose presence demanded attention without uttering a word.

she was unlike anyone myriam had encountered: sharp, angular beauty softened by a veil of eccentricity. her hair was cropped short but gilded with streaks of shimmering silver, her lips painted a deep obsidian, and her attire—braavosi without question—was a mosaic of intricate patterns and asymmetry, bold and theatrical. “you are...different,” myriam said, her words slipping out before she could fully measure them. no doubt the sweetness of the wine tongue only added to how casually her words tumbled from her lips. her dark eyes lingered on the stranger, a curiosity she couldn’t shake.

“and not just because no one here seems to breathe quite as you do, braavosi,” she teased lightly, her smile curving like a scimitar's golden edge.

she leaned forward, letting her bangles clink softly against her bare arm. “tell me,” myriam continued, her voice lowering just enough to be conspiratorial. “is this your first time in casterly rock? because i’d wager, with your... flair,” she gestured delicately, “this isn’t your usual choice of party.” there was something in the woman’s posture, in the way she tilted her head and allowed a beat of silence before speaking, that tickled myriam’s suspicions. she was too poised, too precise. yet, if there was danger here, it didn’t reveal itself. not yet.

“You think me… different?” Aelyn’s voice was soft, but its undertone held an unsettling clarity, as though she could see through the layers Myriam so carefully constructed. Her posture remained unyielding, like a statue carved from ice and moonlight, but there was an air of subtle amusement behind her perfect features. “It is not surprising. How can one remain the same, in a world so ever-changing?”

A tiny smile curled at the corner of her lips, as if she were amused by a private jest, one that Myriam would never be privy to. She tilted her head, her silver hair catching the light as she did, and her gaze swept over the courtyard, lingering on the flickering lanterns and the distant sound of murmurs.

“I suppose I do not often grace such gatherings,” she said with a languid sigh, her voice light and melodic, yet carrying a thread of something more. “Perhaps it is the… unpredictability of the winds that call me here.” She let the silence hang again, punctuating her words with an airy indifference.

“And yet,” she continued, glancing back at Myriam, “there is always something intriguing about a place like this. Its wealth, its power. It is a curious thing to watch, isn’t it? The game of politics. To see how those who think they hold the reins, always find themselves caught in the currents of something they cannot control.”

Her eyes flicked briefly towards the distant courtiers, as though the scene were a play she was watching with mild disinterest. Her lips curled, amused, but the darkness in her gaze betrayed something deeper. Something more dangerous.

“Not quite the same, I suspect,” he replied, his tone light, though his mind wandered back to the shadows of Braavos. He could feel the weight of her question, the care in her words, but he didn’t know how to answer without revealing too much. “Braavos was… different. Strange. It wasn’t a place where one could be easily found, but it was a place where I had to hide in ways I never thought I would.”

Rhaegar’s gaze softened as he turned toward Viserra, a genuine concern creeping into his voice. “The dungeons of Dragonstone…” His words trailed off, his brow furrowing as he studied her. The thought of her being locked away, enduring something so isolating, unsettled him more than he cared to admit. “I can imagine how that must have been for you.”

He stepped a little closer, the old protective instincts kicking in. “I’m glad you’re here now, truly. But those years… I wish there was some way to regain them.” He fell silent for a moment, his eyes darkening with unspoken regret. He couldn’t help but wonder how much they had both suffered in silence, and how much of it would have been avoidable, had circumstances been different.

the ball was a labyrinth of light and shadow, laughter and whispers swirling together under the vaulted ceiling of the red keep. naelys velaryon sat at one of the long, polished tables, its surface gleaming like dark water beneath the flicker of candlelight. the hall was stiflingly warm, though she felt a strange chill along the back of her neck as her gaze wandered over the faces she did not know. so many strangers, so many secrets cloaked in silk and wine. her own gown, pale violet edged with silver, brushed against her ankles as she shifted in her seat.

her hands rested lightly in her lap, fingers curling and uncurling with restless energy. her dark hair fell loose about her shoulders, the strands often spilling into her eyes. she would sweep them back absently, only for them to tumble forward again.

she had not meant to look at him. not at first. but something about the man sitting across the table—a few seats down—drew her attention. the stark white of his hair, the sharp lines of his profile, the faint gleam of violet in his gaze when the candlelight caught it. he was unmistakably targaryen, yet unfamiliar. that alone was strange. her brow furrowed slightly as she glanced away, uncertain why she felt unsettled. she sipped her wine, letting its warmth spread through her chest, but the unease lingered.

his presence gnawed at the edge of her mind like a half-forgotten dream, elusive and insistent. they must have run into one another as children.

The memory of his mission, of the cold resolve that had driven him to her in the first place, pressed down on him. His task had been clear: kill her. Send a message to her brother, Lord Deimos Velaryon. It had been simple, clean, and necessary, or so he had convinced himself. But during those weeks, when he had watched her without revealing himself, pretending to be Luco, the son of a swordsmith, had been… different. They had spoken of inconsequential things. Laughed together. He had felt something. A strange connection, a warmth that had no place in the cold assignment that had brought him here.

The night she had confronted him, the night after she had been to the swordsmith’s shop, demanding the truth, it had shattered the careful mask he had worn. She had caught him, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he had hesitated. She had pushed him away in anger, but there was something in her voice, in the way she had spoken, that made him want to tell her the truth, even if it meant revealing everything. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t betray his goal, even as the weight of his affection for her grew too heavy to bear.

And then came the night after: Luco was dead, his body found where he had fallen, with no trace of the man he had once been. The lie had been complete. He had left Braavos that night, disappearing as swiftly as he had arrived.

And now here they were, two strangers in a room full of onlookers, each bearing scars from a past neither had fully shared.

When their hands brushed briefly over the platter of almonds, Rhaegar could almost taste the tension between them, the unspoken history that clung to the air. She did not know. She could never know the truth of what had happened in Braavos.

Rhaegar offered her a polite smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “Apologies, my lady,” he said, his voice low, almost distant. He gave her space, but his gaze lingered, studying her as if searching for the faintest clue as to what she had remembered, or what she might still believe. If anything at all.

He glanced around the room, taking in the dancers twirling under the shimmering chandeliers, the subtle hum of conversation, the laughter echoing against the walls. It was a world that felt so far removed from the one he had once inhabited. He gave a small, almost wistful smile. “It’s curious, these grand events. So much focus on appearances, on masks, and yet… the faces behind them are rarely known. Do you find them… tiresome, Lady Naelys? These endless gatherings?”

king cedric tyrell observed prince rhaegar targaryen with careful scrutiny as they walked through the reach’s council chambers, the late afternoon sun streaming through the arched windows. the golden light cast an almost ethereal glow around rhaegar, though his calm, enigmatic demeanor unsettled cedric more than he cared to admit. rhaegar’s silence was not the kind cedric was accustomed to—it wasn’t borne of caution or defiance but something deeper, almost impenetrable.

cedric could usually read men like a well-thumbed book, but rhaegar was a tome written in a foreign tongue, and that frustrated him.

cedric clasped his hands behind his back as they moved through the room, pausing before an open window to take in the breeze. “you’ve been quiet, prince rhaegar. i wonder if that’s a habit of yours or a strategy.” his tone was a light taunt, words that carried weight as he glanced sidelong at the targaryen, hoping for a reaction, some tell that would give him insight into the man sent to oversee his plans. rhaegar’s expression remained unreadable, his lilac eyes fixed on the horizon. cedric pressed on, unwilling to let the silence linger too long.

“jaehaerys is wise to send someone with your... unique history,” he said, choosing his words deliberately. directly. was this targaryen mad? he knew jaehaerys was, and he needed to work out what he was dealing with when it came to this one.

“you’ve been to places most of us only hear about in stories. you’ve seen the worst of men, i’d wager, and perhaps the best too, if such a thing exists. that perspective must serve your king well.” he turned back to face rhaegar fully, the faintest hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. this was all becoming quite typical of the targaryens now; new family members rearing their heads, claiming they were never dead. “i admit, though, i find it curious. your return to prominence after so many years, your role now...what is it exactly? ambassador?"

He inclined his head slightly, a gesture that could have been interpreted as respect, or mere acknowledgment. “Yes, yes, indeed, my cousin is wise." There was a pause before he continued, a chuckle painting his lips. "Though I would not presume to speak for his intentions in sending me. As for my role…” Rhaegar let the sentence hang, shrugging with a casualness that belied the tension he sensed behind Cedric’s polished demeanor. “Ambassador is as fine a word as any. A seeker of truths, perhaps. We all serve in the ways we are best suited, don't you think?”

Rhaegar stepped closer to the window, standing alongside the Tyrell king, though he kept a careful distance. The breeze ruffled his dark hair, and for a moment, he appeared almost serene. “I imagine it must be a great burden, carrying the Reach upon your shoulders,” he mused. “Yet you bear it well.”

He turned his gaze to Cedric, his voice softening but losing none of its precision. “I, too, do what is required for those I serve. It seems we have that much in common, Your Grace. Though perhaps we differ on the matter of how closely we watch. You see…” Rhaegar’s faint smile returned, almost wistful. “The most dangerous movements are rarely in the open. The smallest ripples can stir the largest tides.”

He stepped closer, his imposing presence casting a long shadow over her. “I left Braavos, not my skill. If you think I am so easily cornered, you underestimate me.” His words were sharp, clipped, but there was a hint of something deeper in his tone - a warning, a thread of danger woven beneath his control.

Rhaegar’s lips curved into a cold semblance of a smile, though his eyes remained steely. “Very well,” he said, his voice dropping. “Name your price, my Lady, and pray it’s worth the risk of holding this over me. But remember, favors work both ways.”

she set her goblet down on the balcony's edge, the delicate chime of metal meeting stone punctuating the air. chin rested lightly on her hand, her lilac eyes narrowing as she considered him. her intrigue had deepened, curling into something sharper, more focused. rhaegar targaryen, a prince long thought lost to the grave, standing not in the halls of power but among her gladiators, unannounced and unacknowledged. It was a puzzle, and saella qoherys loved puzzles.

her voice broke the stillness, smooth and deliberate. "you’ve made an interesting choice, hiding yourself among my men. not in a lord’s hall, not under your cousin’s roof, but here—on my sands." she tilted her head, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at her lips, though her eyes remained calculating. "you’ve taken great care to keep your presence quiet, even now. no formal announcements, no banners unfurled to declare your return. why is that, I wonder?"

“The grit of the sands has its appeal,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though his tone carried a weight that suggested more than jest. “Survival has a way of sharpening a man. Of teaching him what he’s truly made of.” His gaze flickered toward the fighters, recalling their movements having been deliberate, precise. “Besides, the company here is honest. No titles, no veils of decorum. Just skill, grit, and the will to endure.”

Her question lingered between them, cutting through the ease of his words. What was he hiding from? Who? He met her lilac eyes, the challenge in them mirrored in his own. “I’ve learned that banners and announcements only make for larger targets,” he said, his voice steady but evasive. “Perhaps I wanted to see who would notice me without the fanfare. And, as it seems, you did.”

she stepped back, smoothing the folds of her dress, glancing down for a moment as if collecting her thoughts. “after the war, this most recent one in the reach, i went to help in longtable. you might remember, my cousin seffora. there was so much to rebuild, so many lives to help piece back together. it was nice, to give widows skills to manage on their own. i wish i could've done more."

her eyes darted up to his, gauging his reaction before continuing. “I still sew, you know. it’s something that feels... grounding. creating something whole with my own hands, after seeing so much brokenness.” she smiled again, though there was a flicker of nervousness in her gaze. "not doing it for work so much, these days."

“there’s more, of course, but...” she trailed off, her fingers brushing the edge of her dress again. “some stories are better shared another time.” her tone was light, almost playful, but she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. instead, she reached out, touching his arm briefly. “but enough about me. you’ve been to braavos—tell me everything about it. i can only imagine the sights you must have seen. despite everything, i hope you got to enjoy your time there.”

“You’ve always been one to create something whole from broken pieces,” he said gently, a small smile touching his lips. “I can see why you’d find solace in Longtable. And in sewing.” His tone held a note of admiration, tinged with a wistfulness that was difficult to place. “It suits you, Lae. Building, mending, finding purpose in what others might overlook.”

When she asked about Braavos, his smile tightened, his shoulders shifting slightly as though under an invisible weight. “Braavos…” he began, his voice trailing off as he chose his words carefully. “It’s a city of contrasts. Beauty and shadows, wealth and desperation. You see everything there, and yet, you learn to see nothing at all.” His hand brushed through his silver hair, the gesture almost absent. “The canals are like veins running through its heart. And the people… they’re as sharp and unyielding as the blades they wield.”

He hesitated, his voice softening. “I saw much, Laena, but enjoyed little. It wasn’t a place for boys to grow into men.” There was a fleeting vulnerability in his words, but he quickly masked it. “Still, I’m here now.”

"I dance when I hear music." Arron always moved when it was time to do so, but there was the catch. He had to hear this music, music that was not accompanied by the tantrums of "boy" kings. Too small for their throne, too large for their crown. Dragons were always a handful, it was never quiet when dragons were afoot.

The Lannisters would seek to capitalize on his return, of course. They always sought advantage, no matter how it came. Rhaegar had no illusions about that. But he was not some helpless boy to be toyed with, nor was he the same man who had vanished so many years ago. He had changed, perhaps in ways they would never understand. They may have aided in the searches for him, but they had come up empty nonetheless. No one, it seemed, had thought to look across the Narrow Sea.

“I hear the music, Prince Arron,” he continued. “But I wonder if you hear it as clearly as I do.” His words were an invitation to challenge, perhaps, or merely a harmless quip.

"life has a way of carving out the shape of our choices. taking away our opportunities, or granting them anew." his words were chosen carefully, the threads of thought coming together. rhaegar seemed tired, downtrodden in a strange sort of way. tion would not pry on that. it was enough to simply recognise it. "marriage and duty is easy to put aside when running from one shadow to the next." he paused, as though giving rhaegar the opportunity to correct him. "but you are young, and now you are back where you belong. perhaps now, time and place will matter less than the choices you'll make."

Tion’s words about life carving one’s path struck a chord. “I’ve learned that much, my lord,” Rhaegar said quietly, his tone even but carrying a weight of something unspoken. “Fate shapes us, yes, but we often shape ourselves in the process.”

He noted Tion’s careful words, recognizing the concern behind them. “Marriage, love, duty… they’re not always so easily cast aside,” he continued, his voice distant, betraying the depth of what he’d been through. “But I’ve learned that sometimes survival is the only thing that matters.”

When Tion spoke of Braavos, a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of emotion crossed Rhaegar’s face. “I was fortunate, in a way,” he said softly, almost to himself. “But it’s a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

The King stared at the Prince and furrowed his brow. He didn't like riddles. It wasn't something that he flourished in as a boy and now it only irked him. And then he continued speaking and Jae, stood, listening trying to understand. Perhaps it was something he learned in the East? Jaehaerys knew little of the East.

He allowed himself a smile, a quiet flicker of the man he had been before the endless training and unending years of silence. No one was who he had been, but the man standing before Jaehaerys now was someone different. Someone useful.

“I was trained to be no one, Jaehaerys. But there is power in that. No name, no bloodlines, no ties, except those I choose to make. I walk unseen, unheard, and that is what will serve you best in this war.”

He paused, his eyes meeting his cousin’s, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity. “Dragons may soar, but the dragon on the ground… he can strike unseen. I will be your blade in the shadows. Let me show you.”

"don't know if it was pride, or if my ancestors were just as annoying as i am," she laughed, and though the words poked subtle mockery at herself, there was no sense of self deprecation in them, as though devani was proud herself to serve as a source of irritation.

“Ah, my lady, so eager to uncover secrets, yet some mysteries are better left unsolved,” he replied, his voice light, though there was an undeniable glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Assassin? A bit too messy for my taste. A thief in the night? Perhaps, but only if you consider the art of subtlety thievery.”

He chuckled softly, stepping closer as if to add to the enigma. “As for a prince... Well, you’ve never been one to shy away from flattery, have you?” His tone was teasing, but there was something in the way he spoke that was meant to keep her guessing, a challenge hidden behind the words.

it was not what he had said. if she had looked close enough, she might have even found a compliment in the words. unfortunately, minthara was in the type of mood only a verbal sparring could cure.

"nah, can't have been faulty produce. they'd have just given the grapes a good squeeze and been on their merry way if it was, and we wouldn't be standing here talking about it." she paused for a second, then shrugged. "though again - men. i've seen them get worked up over stupider things."

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said, the smile widening as he gave a small shrug. “Men do have a talent for blaming everything, from bad weather to bad wine, on something other than themselves.” He raised an eyebrow, his tone teasing but not cruel. “If we could, I’m certain we’d blame a storm on a woman’s dress before admitting it was simply a shift in the winds.”

He paused, then smirked slightly, leaning in a little as if sharing a secret. “But I’m with you there. Men can be quite ridiculous, especially when it comes to things they can’t understand. Faulty produce included.”