to be undone.

a  deft  finger  catches  one  of  her  dark  curls,  holding  her  with  the  opposite  hand  still.  "pretty  dress,  sweet  girl."  her  mood  was  well,  offering  compliments  as  a  serving  girl  did  wine.  how  could  it  not  be  well  —  knowing  what  lay  ahead  for  her  this  evening.  "i  was  looking  for  you,"  not  hard  enough,  clearly,  preoccupied  with  her  own  plans,  "but  i  had  no  doubt  you  avoid  the  hunt."

Has she forgotten Lannisport? Floris had not, the memories causing her to tighten her grip along Alysanne's hand before she pulls her to sitting next to her, eyes never leaving her face. Her blue eyes shimmer under the chandelier flames lighting the Great Hall, mirroring the dark blue of her own gown. Floris has not forgotten Lannisport, but she has forgiven Alysanne. Moons spent thinking of when she would ever see her again forced her into rationalizing every word she had said to her, She was scared. She was unwell from the war. She was worried about her, perhaps. She had imagined a million and one things to tell her sister when she was reunited with her, but all of them melt away under the heat of her oddities. Why does she compliment me so?

"You sound well." Too well. Her head tilts to the side, eyes studying her face, how different it looked from her own. "What has you in such a good mood, sister?" Her hand refuses to let go of Alysanne's, as if even loosening her grip would lead to her drifting away along the seas that separate them. "Why were you looking for me?" The flicker of a smile curves her lips.

He hums in approval at her reply, choosing to indifferently, as well as politely, ignore the mention of her late mother.

Though, her question gives him pause. He is almost finished with his breakfast, and with the way she seems to be playing with her food (As has been her wont, he has noticed, since the late Lady Lysa's funeral), he had been of the assumption she is simply waiting for his departure. He....supposes it is only courteous, to ask after her husband, though there is no audience to their conversation for her to perform to. "I will be careful, yes, though I am hardly the one most likely to find themselves in trouble within the coming entourage." Her brothers, for one, will be in attendance. And, King Aerion himself, while skilled, worries him in just how exposed he will be during the hunt. House Tully, perhaps, have settled...But has everyone else?

"You owe me a new pair of shoes after all of this....Orion. For your sake pray that no other foul substances from this city you know and love so much do not end up on my person."

I suppose I haven't been here in quite some time...He cannot fault himself for trusting the words of a lord who was well into his cups when speaking to him, and especially not when the man spoke of an apparent...kerfuffle his brother had gotten into with Orion moons prior. But, he had missed King's Landing dearly, and a week spend in the Kingswood was not enough to burn out the high energy that strummed through his bones....

the morning light in king’s landing was bright enough to hurt, all gold and clamor and promise, and myriah sat beneath it like a woman being carved for display. her ladies worked dutiful fingers through her curls, weaving blossoms into the dark coils, pinning jewels where sunlight would catch. the room hummed with soft chatter, silk rustling, bracelets chiming, the scrape of a chest being opened for final adornments. a wedding day’s energy: bright-eyed, trembling, sparkling with some collective breath held between excitement and dread.

she loved it. gods forgive her, she loved weddings. she loved the pageantry, the vows, the silk and ceremony and hopeful foolishness of it all. but she kept her face composed, her smile small, because floris sat only an arm’s length away. floris, who should not have had a lady to braid her hair today but did, because myriah had insisted. floris, who wore one of the many gowns myriah had gifted her, and jewels bought by the princess herself simply because it matched her eyes. floris, whose hair was threaded with tiny white blossoms, delicate as breath. floris, who glowed despite herself. floris, who could not bear the thought of a dondarrion wedding.

mariah swallowed her excitement with a trained grace. she let it dissolve behind her ribs. “the needlepoint circle was lovely,” one of her ladies was saying as she smoothed the fall of myriah’s sleeve. “princess, your embroidery was the finest among them.” mariah laughed lightly. “hardly the finest. the dowager queen praises everyone as if we were all master seamstresses.” still, warmth flared in her chest. she had stitched apricot petals all afternoon and thought of love the entire time. “but the bride’s cloak… it turned out beautiful.” she felt floris tense. only a breath, a tremor, but myriah felt it.

so she softened her voice. “the cloak was heavy with work from every corner of the realm. it felt… sacred, in a way.” she looked toward floris then, unable to help herself. “i suppose every bride deserves to wear something made with such care.” and gods help her, the thought came uninvited, sharp and sweet as citrus peel: floris would be a beautiful bride. white blossoms pinned into storm-dark hair. silk falling like obedience, like rebellion. floris’s mouth trembling not with anger, but vows. floris standing beside her before the gods and men. but maron’s no was still echoing in her bones, cold as the stone of nymos’ tomb.

she tried to push it away. she failed. her gaze lingered too long on floris’s profile as the girl tilted her head for another pin to be placed. something inside myriah pulled taut. yearning, hope, fear, a thread ready to snap. can she wait? can floris? she did not know anymore. love had made her reckless and patient in equal measure, a contradiction she had to live with. “you look beautiful,” she murmured to floris, soft enough that it did not travel past the ladies bustling around them. “perfect, really.” her smile trembled into existence, private, blooming. “you will make the sept itself look dull.”

myriah felt her heart bruise with wanting. she will make a beautiful bride, whispered the foolish, hopeful thing inside her. if only she could be mine. the princess lifted her chin for another pin, hiding her expression in the movement. two hours until the ceremony. two hours until vows that were not hers. two hours of pretending her heart was not running ahead of her, back toward sunspear, toward gardens and heat and the impossible dream of floris baratheon in a bridal gown. “shall we be ready soon?” she asked the room, her voice warm enough to hide the ache beneath it. only floris, if she looked closely, would see the truth flicker in her eyes.

But of course. Only the finest for the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. For the soon to be queen consort. For Ysabel Dondarrion, rising out of the ashes of her grief to claim the flame of Westeros. Floris's own loss offers no such privileges, though she forces herself to ignore the twinge of envy, the thread of loathing lacing through her spine, as she listens to Myriah's sweet voice.

"I suppose every bride deserves to wear something made with such care."

Orys Baratheon looms over the back of her chair, a most fearsome sight between the delicate ladies that have deigned to weave her curls into something more presentable than she could manage on her lonesome. It has become a skill, one she had slowly and surely mastered, ignoring the titters and jibes of Myriah's ladies, spoken where their princess had no ears. She is the only one who means anything in this keep. She would think to herself, and it remains so, here within the cursed Red keep, as she is decorated like a doll for a wedding she would rather swallow glass than attend. Orys' hands clamp onto her shoulders, and Floris pretends to not feel them through the midnight blue of her gown, another one of the princess's precious gifts. The color of his eyes. Much more bearable than what could be mistaken for Targaryen black.

His fingers are where a cloak would be. A Baratheon cloak, a stag of sable woven into gleaming gold.

She imagines it being lifted, replaced by one of sunset orange, and his fingers tighten upon her shoulders, his distaste palpable.

She pays it no mind, though he is harder to ignore than the the princess's ladies, always in the back of her mind, in the corners of her eyes, nestled deep in her heart, his fury inherited years too late. Not wanting to be seen as rude, she responds, "Yes, my princess." Though something slithers down her throat, anticipation for something unknown.

Her praise is not novel; words fall out of the princess's lips like dripping honey. The feeling in her throat will not abate. "It is your eyes, my princess, that are beautiful and thus see beauty in all." The flattery does not require any form of thought; she is a lady through and through. Perhaps, had they been afforded some privacy, she would have allowed the blood to rush to her cheeks, a genuine smile to graze her lips. For now, all she can muster is a tight upturn of her mouth.

"Shall we be ready soon?"

One of the princess's ladies tsks as Floris's head turns sharply in the direction of the princess, ears hearing something wholly absent. "My princess, you must be quite tired from sitting so still. If I may suggest, may we take a few moments of reprieve? Perhaps I can fetch us some drinks to have together, so that we may be able to remain alert during the ceremony?" The together has a clear inflection. She asks for privacy. Something is wrong, has been wrong since the day had started, and it is not merely the lizard's wedding. Her heart is hammering like a war drum, her father a storm cloud above her head.

Raela stared grimly in front of her stuck in her own thoughts. Now that the wedding was done and over with, the feast was in full swing. Unfortunately the people Raela was avoiding by working on the needlepoint were now sitting close to her. She picked up a fork shakily and guided some venison into her mouth. Lysa's death was months ago. The riots were months ago. And yet she could not shake the guilt that hung over her like a storm cloud.

She noticed Rickard Celtigar's approach to the seat nearby. After being pestered by Alida earlier that day she would have preferred to not talk to another Crab. Especially one that had married a Tully. Maybe if she kept her mouth shut and stayed perfectly silent then he would find conversation else where. Of course, Raela was not known for being silent when she ought to be. "Lord Celtigar, how is your wife?" She stopped herself from saying anymore and sat awkwardly in silence while wondering why in the seven hells she lead with that question? The question that immedietly had to do with her friend's death by one of Raela's schemes gone wrong.

He raises an eyebrow at the inquiry, revealing his curiosity. "My lady wife is well, thank you. And yourself?" To start her conversation asking after her before himself even...Had something occurred during the sewing circle? Something neither Lady Lynora nor Lady Rohanne had thought to inform him of? Seven, she had three entire women who would have gladly removed her from troublesome situations. He cannot think of any particular gripe with or grudge against House Tully either House Velaryon or House Targaryen would have, except for, perhaps, that which is most obvious. "May I ask after the nature of your inquiry, princess?"

pinpoint    the feast, after the hatching of the egg .

jon  hoped  that  assuming  the  role  of  husband  would  mellow  the  king  some,  but  even  the  hopes  of  an  age  wisened  man  were  rarely  realistic.  his  majesty  was  indisposed  currently,  trapped  beneath  the  slight  weight  of  his  bride  and  drowning  in  spirits  distilled  across  the  narrow.  there  would  be  no  discussion  of  princess  caerella's  dragon  tonight  —  at  least  that  which  included  the  king.  the  implications  of  the  dragon's  presence,  of  the  comet  that  had  passed  overhead  —  jon  had  difficulty  believing  that  the  two  were  not  correlated.  he  wishes  to  discuss  it  with  the  grand  maester,  with  any  of  his  fellow  council  members,  with  his  wife  —  but  instead  he  paces  the  great  hall  slowly,  observing  the  feastgoers.  when  he  knocks  his  peg  into  something  — someone,  he  discovers  with  despondency,  his  travels  are  interrupted.  "  my  sincerest  apologies,  "  he  begs  their  forgiveness,  placing  a  gentle  hand  on  their  shoulder.  "  i  hope  i've  caused  no  pain. it would not do, on a joyous day such as this.  "

before  she  has  time  to  beat  herself  over  the  clunkiness  of  her  speaking,  vera's  mouth  falls  open  into  a  neat  circle,  impressed  by  the  introduction  far  too  easily.  the  lady  had  never  laid  eyes  on  the  targaryen  without  pressing  herself  to  the  tips  of  her  toes,  only  glimpsing  his  golden  crown  from  across  the  great  hall  when  he  showed  his  face  in  westerlands  society.  truly,  orion  could  have  told  her  that  he  had  once  polished  the  king's  boots  and  she  would  have  likened  that  to  hanging  the  stars  in  the  sky.  "you  squired  for  the  king?"  vera  echoes  reverently,  never  having  personally  known  anyone  to  have  reached  such  levels  of  success  at  such  a  young  age!  the  hightower  hardly  looked  any  older  than  her.  her  voice  is  soft  as  she  marvels,  "you  must  have  been  well  trusted."  vera  envied  the  thought,  wishing  to  run  towards  the  vision  of  she  and  viserra  becoming  the  best  of  friends.

...Her previous handlers matter not; it is her new master that interests him. "Right, of course." He politely ignores that she has already provided this information once before, though he does not believe Princess Viserra will take too kindly to the bumbling. It is only for a moment that he quirks a brow; even to his own years, his previous occupation is nothing worth true admiration. She is a bit simple, no? "Well trusted, yes. And I assume you will come to be as well, in due time." The flattery is barely thought of before it leaves his lips, and is not thought of at all a moment after.

"I wish you a most wonderful time here, Lady Vera." He bows to her in farewell. "If you will excuse me. Urgent business I must tend to." The princess...He turns upon his heel and leaves the lady in waiting, making his way back to the main gate of the Red Keep. Very urgent business.

Floris has? Had? Has? Had? a friend like that once. She knows not if Lady Selyse will forgive her, and, if she does, what form of friendship they would be able to retain. Lady Selyse will return to the Stormlands, and marry someone from within the region, perhaps, now that that filthy Mooton is gone...And Floris will return to Dorne. How can such a close friendship survive conditions such as these? The string that ties girls together has never been strong. She thinks to herself, It frays and frays when they become women, and then it breaks. Though, it seems the same can not be said for the princess and Lady Evanie. Tch.

(Whether she is jealous of Princess Myriah for having such a loving friend so close to her, or whether she is jealous of Lady Evanie for having Myriah, she does not wish to know.)

"But you must not think I look at everyone the way I look at you."

Her breath hitches in her throat, at the touch upon her clammy skin, at the words leaving the princess's lips. Can she feel it? She asks herself, The way my heart beats under her fingers? Her previous desire for a fight melts away. I am so easy. Like a dog lured by the smell of food. Like a girl chasing after the promise of love.

Love?

"And you never asked whether I might want more than titles like that allow."

Her heart beats staccato. What can that mean? What can that mean but one thing? She is a worthless woman, a lady of nothing. What can that mean but marriage, and how can it mean even that?

"I mean to court you, Floris, not win a horse race."

She jests, but Floris is in no humorous mood. Her hand reaches to one of those that cradle her face, slips her fingers into the princess's own, allowing them to intermingle, to feel each other out, finger over finger over finger. "You mean to court me?" She had never considered being properly courted, not since she was a little girl, one who believed in the chivalry of knights and the romance storied in songs. "Me?" The last word comes out a whisper, and is that not so so so horrid? She is Floris Baratheon! Though she had not expected to be courted, why ever would she be surprised at someone wishing to put such thought into her? Such dedication? When had she stopped seeing herself as everything one could covet, and started seeing herself as an undesirable burden?

"I do not want this to go at its own pace. Not yet." Her words remain soft, and if not for their closeness, Myriah would not be able to hear them. "My princess..." She pauses, and her hand squeezes the princess's tightly, "Myriah. You would have me for a wife?" She must know. Lady Aelora Baratheon had not raised her daughter to be a common whore, to warm the beds of those with brighter futures and higher prospects. If one covets her, they were to ask for her, in front of the gods and men.

She speaks of jealousy as if Lady Evanie were not a sight to behold, beauty and grace and a bleeding heart. Floris's heart only weeps for itself.

"I will stay the night, only if you promise me that is your intention. I am..." Worthless. Discarded. Nothing. "I like you, my princess," The title slices her lips as it comes out, "And I appreciate our closeness. You are kind and jovial and patient," And I wish we had met at a different time, years ago. I wish our fates had been entwined in a way that is nothing like this; warden and ward. "But I will not be tossed aside, when something," Someone. "Better comes along. I refuse to dig my own grave." Though her heart has already picked up its shovel, mucking up soil at every glance, every touch, every kindness, creating a hole the size of her fist, perfect to rest within.

And the prince. How can she forget the prince? Her princess has suffered, Floris knows, but she is ever so naive. She turns her head, presses a singular kiss to the princess's palm, light as a feather, more than she would ever have given someone else seeking her favor. The prince will never allow it. She ignores the voice in her head, looks forward, instead, to the light pushing away her darkness.

(Still. Still. Still.

She sees, out of the corner of her eye, a hulking figure. Blue eyes. Dark hair. A beard. Gold upon black and black upon gold.

floris baratheon, titleless, landless, bristling as a cornered fox, looked at her as though the world had suddenly tilted. myriah did not let her look away. her free hand rose, cupping floris’s jaw as though handling a holy relic. “i mean to court you properly,” she said, voice low but steady, “with patience and ceremony and the sweetness you deserve. with flowers, and song, and every tenderness i can coax from this world.” her thumb brushed floris’s cheekbone. “i do not chase whims, my sweet,” a faint smile ghosted across her lips. “and i do not waste my heart.”

you would have me for a wife? those words struck myriah like a blow made of light, bending her inward, exposing something new and unbearably gentle. she touched their joined hands to her own chest, right over her heartbeat. “if the gods are kind,” she breathed, “yes. i would have you for a wife.” the admission trembled through her like gold poured into a mold. “you are not ‘nothing,’ floris. not discarded. not forgotten. not replaceable.” her voice thickened, full of too much feeling to fit cleanly into words. “there is no ‘better’ coming along. i choose you.”

she accepted the kiss to her palm like a vow. her eyes fluttered shut for one heartbeat, then opened, darker and surer but myriah was no fool; love had not made her blind. she knew the dragons’ shadow stretched long, that her brother's disapproval was just one rumour away from reaching his ears-- if she didn't tell him the news first. she leaned closer, her forehead brushing floris’s, a gesture so intimate it felt like a tether being tied. “there are battles ahead,” she admitted softly. “my brother is steel. my father is stone. the court is cruel. but i…” her hand tightened in floris’s. “i am the sand that outlasts them all.”

her lips brushed floris’s knuckles, mirroring the reverence she’d been given. “i intend you, floris baratheon. wholly.” she drew back just enough to search floris’s stormy eyes. “the gods have been most gracious to return you safe and sound to my arms. for sparing you from becoming a shroud of torn silk in a mob’s hands,” she added, voice gone breath-soft, “so i'm not letting your run through my hands like water. not if i can help it.”