you win or you die.

The guard opened the door for her, then quickly turned his head side-ways as if scared to even get a glimpse into what was awaiting her. Cerelle gave a small curtsy, then stepped over the threshold.

This had supposed to be quick - get in, speak to Lucas Blacktyde for a minute, agree with her father he would not make a good husband, and leave. Despite how much she loathed letting him win, the storm-plagued crossing from Seaguard to the Iron Isles had forced her to admit that the Lord of the Golden Tooth might have been right in this one regard: She did not belong here.

And yet…

Her mouth had fallen open the very moment she had stepped inside Lord Blacktyde's personal study. It was laden, top to bottom, with books of every possible size and colour, with plants of every shape and bloom, with glasses and tankards whose insides seemed to have almost developed a life of their own. Every surface was in use, every shelf stuffed, even simply moving along the floor was difficult. It was…

Beautiful.

Her lord father always insisted on tidiness and cleanliness. It seemed that, to him, a sign of life in a room was a sign of weakness. Her chambers in the Golden Tooth had been barren besides the absolute essentials.

(Ryam was allowed more, of course. Ryam was allowed whatever he wanted.)

So she stumbled about the room, eyes scurrying from this to that, high and low, trying to take in as much as possible in the little time she had here. The wet clothes sticking to her skin were forgotten, the rivulets of water dripping into her eyes no longer a problem, the mess the wind had made out of her hair irrelevant.

She did not dare touch a thing - she had been taught better than that - but oh, did she wish to. Some of the plants looked as soft as satin, some as coarse as a tree's bark; the books promised tales of rebirth, of magic, of communicating with those long passed; the tinctures and tonics smelled of sweet summer rain and the flowers of her secret garden. If she could just-

"If you drink that, your hair will fall out."

The sudden voice made her jump up so suddenly, she hit her head on one of the low-hanging chandeliers. Suppressing a wince and fighting against the urge to rub against the bump that was certainly already growing, she turned in search of the speaker.

"I apologise," Cerelle said, still not spotting anyone. "I did not mean to spy."

"Then why did you?"

"I was overwhelmed by everything. It is very beautiful in here."

"Everyone else says it's messy. One of you is lying."

Her first urge was to say the others are, for how could anyone not stand in complete awe of such a collection. Yet her father had ensured she knew her manners, and therefore disparaging someone she did not even know was out of the question.

"Everyone has different ways to view at things. None are inherently good or bad, they are just… different."

"I cannot decide what to put into a poison based on feelings. There must be rules, and they must be obeyed, otherwise everything will fall apart."

That was when Cerelle finally found him. Hidden behind a plant larger than even her, a man with hair as black as midnight sat at a table, back towards her, bent over something seemingly endlessly more interesting than her. His clothing was… thin, and hanging heavily off his spindly frame, so unlike every other Ironborn she had met thus far.

"Lord Lucas?"

"Yes. Were you under the assumption you were talking to someone else until now?" Still, he did not turn.

"No, I-" She quickly fell into a curtsy, just as her mother had taught her. "My deepest apologies for not introducing myself sooner. I am Cerelle Lefford, your betrothed."

That at least earned her a short glance, but the light must have surely deceived her. No one's skin could be this pale.

"You were my brother's betrothed."

"And now I am yours. The laws of the Faith state-"

"Your gods hold no power here. This is the Drowned God's domain, and no laws but his shall ever dictate my life."

Cerelle supposed she understood that. If someone were to force a foreign faith onto her, she would not respond kindly either. And… his opposition to the betrothal would wrap this ordeal up quite nicely - no one wanted her to become Lady Blacktyde. Not her father who would have needed to give away his priced daughter to a heathen, not the other lords of Westeros who would now gain another chance at controlling the Flower of the Golden Tooth, not Lord Lucas who found no interest in even looking at her, and not her who dreaded spending even a single additional moment in this barren wasteland.

Everyone would be happy.

Then why wasn't she?

Perhaps she was angry she had taken this long trip for nothing. An arduous journey through storms and rain and waves to answer a question that had never even mattered, all while running away from home and disobeying her father.

Oh, he would be so angry.

Cerelle sank down on the nearest pile of books, letting out a far too loud and un-ladylike sigh as she buried her face in her hands, only feeling slightly terrible for getting water all over Lord Lucas' things.

"What are you doing?" He sounded genuinely confused.

She chuckled. "Despairing."

"Did you wish to marry me?"

"No." That had come out too hastily. "I mean- I don't know." She braced her elbows against her knees and rested her chin against her open palms. "I suppose I… Forget that, I have no idea what I want here."

"Then why are you here?"

Cerelle studied his hair - the only part of him he deigned to show to her. The dark strands hid much of its texture, yet she sat closely enough to be able to determine he likely did not care much for it. Split ends, glossy as if it had soaked up too much sea water, half-haphazardly pushed behind his ears to keep it out of his face.

"I…" she said hesitantly. "I think I wanted my father to feel bad, just for one time in his life. If I proved to him that you would make for a fine groom, he might regret what he said. I do not even need to marry you, I merely want him to admit I could have."

"That sounds sad."

She chuckled. "You have no idea." A shaky breath. "I wish I could be more like my sister Quinn. She would know what to do now."

"That sounds even sadder."

"What?" Why was he like this?

"You shape your life based on the people around you instead of deciding yourself what to do with it. Who cares about your father's opinions or your sister's hypothetical actions? All that matters are your own decisions."

Cerelle just sat there, trying to figure out his words.

She did not- Her life had always been her own to live, he was- She had had her own ideas, they were simply-

Well. Maybe there was some truth to it. But how could she have ever lived a different life? She was a lady of a great house, a rich and powerful one to boot, and even if she was merely the second daughter, there had always been duty and expectation and obligations to fulfil. She had merely done what everyone else would have in her position.

It had not been a bad life, just not a very interesting or fulfilling one. Did she rue that she had never stepped out of line? Done something self-serving? Not particu-

Well. She had come here. She had asked herself a question, and broken every rule in the book to find an answer to it.

Cerelle was here because she had wanted to know if Lucas Blacktyde would be a man she could marry. Not one that her father would want an alliance with, not one that made her mother happy, not one that Quinn and Ethan would agree was good for her. But one that she herself was happy with.

(The results were… inconclusive, but that did not matter.)

She stood up from her seat on the pile of books, raised her chin, and asked, "What are you working on?"

"What?"

"You want me to think of myself. And I want to know what you are doing."

He laughed; lowly, full of spite and condescension, and in a way that should have scared her and yet… didn't. "You have seen this chamber, and all its contents." His back slowly straightened, body moving into the blue and silver light breaking through the glass above. "You noticed how I never met your gaze. You seem like a smart woman, Lady Cerelle, so what do these two things tell you about me?"

That you are a horribly mutated monster, desperate to find a cure for his ailment. You hide away from the world because you fear the judgement they will cast upon you. No one will ever accept you as you are, so you push people away in an attempt to protect yourself.

This was what she would have told him, had she the manners of her twin brother. Instead, she took a breath and said, "Turn around, and we shall both have the answers we seek." He hesitated, so she added, "If you are truly as hideous as you pretend to be, this will be the way to rid yourself of me, no?"

Lord Lucas rose from his stool as slowly as he spoke. Every muscle in his body moved on its own, always one after the other, never as a united front, as if he had to individually command each of them what to do within every single moment. He pushed his chair beneath the table and stepped before it, rightened some of the things before him yet shielding it all with his body. His thin, gaunt, weakly body that, even at its full height, only barely reached past her shoulders. Then, he finally turned.

His skin was the first thing she noticed - and how could it not be? It was so pale, so devoid of any colour, she would have said he was a being of pure snow had she not known better. It almost reflected the light of their surroundings, almost mirrored it in a way as well, and could have almost said to lay bare the flesh and bone beneath as well. Mostly bone, for there did not seem to be a lot of flesh left clinging to the being before her. Every corner of his face was sharp, his shoulders wide and square, and were he to take off his tunica, she was certain she could count his rips from a mile away. And then…

Gods, his eyes.

All colour had dissipated from them, all lines, all borders that would have retained a semblance of structure. Instead, his pupils seeped out, intermixed with the white around them. The gradient that stayed behind reminded her of a drop of blood soaking into fabric, the paint left behind by a brush in water, and the bright light of a full moon against the harsh darkness of the sky, and the way it burned itself into your eyes were you to stare for too long.

Lord Lucas waited. Cerelle let her gaze drift over his thin lips, his immaculate posture, his hair that suddenly did not look too dishevelled anymore.

She met his eyes. "So, what are you working on?"

For a singular moment, he looked confused. It was a glorious feeling, to make another experience such an emotion without regret or remorse taking over her body. Then Lucas smiled.