𝖌𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖙𝖑𝖞 .

          seven hells, it’s cold. this is her first thought, before consciousness has fully returned to her. even within the castle’s warmed walls, half-crushed beneath layers of furs, a chill has wormed its way into her bones with no intention of leaving. ( it has nothing to do with the cold emptiness beside her ; never mind that she slept warmly enough. ) her second thought is, shit, he’s awake. 

          she’s sought to wake before her husband since their arrival, to be dressed in the cold half-lit hours and gone before he’s roused himself. now, she realizes with regret, she’s slept too long ; eyes still shut against the light, she can hear footfalls and the shuffling of fabric that tells her he’s still here. a moment, as she gathers her strength, squeezing her eyes shut before she sits up languidly and opens them. she spares him no greeting, sleepy or sweet or otherwise, simply assesses, shrewd and with a sharp eye most frequently cultivated by cruel and pretty girls.

            once  footsteps  bring  him  closer,  he  begins  to  recognize  the  woman  he  now  shares  the  sept  with.  a  kind  woman,  certainly  a  character,  but  he  doesn’t  mind  her  company  one  bit.  as  a  past  guest  of  harrenhal,  the  lady  whent  had  been  enthusiastic  to  his  stay  and  filling  his  curiosity  to  the  brim.  though  someone  not  likely  to  delve  into  rumors,  cedrik  had  always  been  intrigued  by  stories  of  harrenhal’s  curse  and  decided  he  did  not  wish  house  whent  to  meet  it’s  demise.  whether  that’s  for  him  to  change  history,  or  as  some  would  see  as  the  inevitable,  he  doubts  very  much  so.  cedrik  stands  next  to  her  for  a  moment  before  lowering  himself  and  clasping  his  hands  together.

            ❝    in  truth,  i’m  surprised  this  sept  still  stands.  a  bit  of  an  insult  to  those  who  would  use  it  to  worship  with  the  shape  it  is  in  …  but  shocking  they  chose  to  keep  it  at  all,    ❞    he  muses,  shrugging  as  they  make  eye  contact.  cedrik  grins  at  her  words,  more  so  to  humor  her  than  anything  else.  his  gaze  drifts  to  the  seven  pointed  star  so  poorly  crafted  above  them.  could  praying  in  a  northern  sept  for  the  seven  be  seen  as  a  sin  ?  the  thought  nearly  makes  him  laugh.    ❝    what  do  you  pray  for,  my  lady  ?  i  suppose  peace  seems  a  good  topic  of  prayer  …  perhaps  for  a  kind  leadership  with  the  king  in  the  north.    ❞ 

          upon his visit to harrenhal, jeyned had discerned in the lord baratheon something of a kindred spirit. his piety is gilded, as comfortable as a well-worn doublet and just as easily divested ; more invested in the image of himself kneeling at the altar than in the content of his prayers. or at least, she’s convinced herself of such ; though more than anything it betrays her faint desperation for kinship. “ oh, it could be worse, ” she says lightly, clearly not meaning it in the slightest, as she follows his gaze around the sept. “ the king could outlaw the faith, and burn the septs like the andals burnt their trees. we should count ourselves lucky, and not complain, ” she says, all jokes ; all traces of venom drowned out in grim amusement. 

                at  her  comment  he  cannot  help  but  laugh ,        a  gentle  thing  that  still  manages  to  echo  about  the  closed  space  quietly .   ‘   i  think  the  septa  in  the  eyrie  would  disagree  with  that  line  of  thought ,   ’   he  explains .   the  stern  faced  woman  always  preferred  his  older  brother  and  younger  sister  to  the  bookish  middle  child  with  too  many  questions  that  he  had  been .  she  wanted  him to  have        faith  ,       while  he  wanted  answers .  personal  pain  and  an  acute  interest  in  histories ,  which  were  so  often  bloody  and  merciless  things ,  meant  one  came  more  readily  than  the  other .  as  an  adult  he  was  not  much  different ,  albeit  he  was  marginally  better  at  keeping  his  prying  questions  back .        only  just  though .

        ‘   no ,  not       just       olyvar .  my  apologies  again ,  i  do  not  think  my  mind  is  fully  with  me  this  morning …   ’   he  offers  the  explanation  somewhat  sheepishly .  in  truth ,  olyvar  had  not  ventured  from  the  eyrie  until  this  journey  to  winterfell ,  and  there  seemed  a  redundancy  of  introducing  himself  as  an        arryn       when  he  was  home .  thus  he  was  unused  to  including  a  nod  to  his  family  name  when  introducing  himself ,  but  he  corrects  his  mistake .  '   olyvar  arryn .  and  i’m  glad  you  find  that  so .   ’

          “ oh, i don't doubt it, ” she agrees, lips twisted to a wry smile. it is a practiced courtesy, and one of many: i don't doubt it, you must be right, oh, of course, i'd never thought of it that way. though visibly amused, there is something about it that doesn’t sit right with her ; might have to do with the youthful years spent dutifully at her septa’s knee, or the faces of the seven on the walls of the sept, their eyes watchful from every angle.

            by  no  means  is  cedrik  baratheon  a  religious  man.  his  relationship  with  the  faith  of  the  seven  is  …  complicated,  and  he  is  unsure  how  others  view  his  religious  stance.  most  days,  he  finds  himself  skeptical  of  those  with  the  realm  in  their  grasp  and  the  idea  of  how  truthful  that  could  be.  for  everything  is  simply  of  chance  and  misfortune,  is  it  not  ?  it  doesn’t  seem  reasonable  for  anyone  to  oversee  that.  still,  he  retains  a  public  image  of  himself  in  a  good  light,  or  he  attempts  to  anyhow  …  and  besides,  collecting  his  thoughts  with  a  moment  alone  is  always  welcomed.  however,  approaching  the  makeshift  sept  that  winterfell  has  …  and  by  the  looks  of  it,  is  not  maintained  well  enough,  the  giddiness  of  a  quiet  peace  is  lost  as  cedrik  spots  another.  his  expression  falls,  regardless  of  wishing  he  could  put  on  a  smile,  and  he  clears  his  throat.

            ❝    morning,  my  lady.  oh,  i’ve  come  here  for  prayer,    ❞    words  a  bit  too  sarcastic  as  cedrik  clicks  his  tongue,  he  drops  whatever  masquerade  he  had  planned.  his  shoulders  drop  and  he  lets  out  a  sigh,  not  yet  moved  from  his  spot  in  the  doorway.    ❝    i  could  have  slept…  alas,  here  i  am.  do  you  mind  my  company  ?    ❞

          he makes no attempt to hide his displeasure, and jeyne can’t decide if that’s admirable or rather devastating ; she registers, at least, the sinking feeling of having disappointed someone, somehow. but it’s not an altogether unfamiliar feeling, and is genuine displeasure not better than falsified delight ? if nothing else it relieves her of the need to maintain an equally polite and enthusiastic disposition ; the gaze she fixes upon him may reveal a rare sharpness in its inquiry, which must so often be disguised. she says nothing --- would not doubt his piety aloud, if only to spare herself the same questions --- but the faintest quirk of her eyebrow betrays a skepticism at his devotion. 

the journey from pyke to winterfell had left sabella tired and irritable. for all her efforts to adapt to the lifestyle of the ironborn, she had little love for travelling the rough waters between the iron islands and the mainland, particularly when it seemed half the people aboard the ship saw her as little more than a joke. although she was further from riverrun than she had been in years, sabella had a sense of comfort, familiarity with winterfell, and she wanted to feel some connection to her home. 

she couldn’t bear to think of the nasty words that would be aimed at her by some of her husband’s people if they found her in a sept of the seven and so she slipped away from her rooms before the sun had even begun to rise. although she’d officially renounced the seven, sabella still remembered the words to the songs she used to sing with her mother and her sisters when she was a child and, without thinking about it, had begun to hum them, huddled before the mother’s altar. panic shone in sabella’s eyes when she realised someone else had entered the sept, fearing discovery or judgement for her treachery. “something like that.” bella mumbled. she cleared her throat, trying to think of a way to justify her presence here. so used to being on the defensive, bella didn’t even stop to consider whether the other woman would even care. “force of habit, i suppose. i used to visit the sept whenever i was feeling anxious about something. it’s so peaceful, there’s something calming about the place.”

          the sparse candles, flickering faintly in the chilly morning air, illuminate the lady greyjoy. by candlelight her glossy copper curls look like they’ve been set alight, a shock of color in the pale, washed out northern dawn. jeyne has long learned to make the sept a place of power, her piety both her sword and her armor --- and yet she feels like she’s intruding on something rather secret. it’s a strange sensation, being on the back foot, and she keeps a respectful distance.

          what is sabella greyjoy looking for in a sept ? a fool or a man might think she’d wholeheartedly adopted the drowned god of the ironborn, but jeyne is neither. the tullys, like the lannisters, name their children in the light of the seven, and such a bond is not so easily broken. she wonders, though, if this little sept means more to lady sabella than it does to most, built as it was for a tully bride --- ever faithful to her gods, even in a foreign land. 

     she  understands  the  surprise  well  enough,  for  the  princess  herself  is  certainly  not  who  most  people  expect  to  find  around  unseen  corners  or  in  the  dark  shadows  of  morning  light.  it  almost  makes  her  laugh,  it  really  does,  even  if  this  is  hardly  the  atmosphere  or  the  proper  occasion  to  do  so.  so  much  so  that  the  lady’s  next  words  manage  to  draw  one  more  genuine  than’s  been  seen  in  weeks.     ❝  a  snorer  ?  oh,  you  have  my  most  sincere  apologies,  my  lady.  i  can  only  hope  i  do  not  bear  the  same  fate  with  my  future  lord  husband.  ❞     and  it’s  the  first  time  she’s  really  spoke  it  aloud.  a  husband  on  the  horizon.

     it’s  the  question  she  dreads,  one  she  hasn’t  figured  out  how  to  answer  quite  yet.  but  she  knows  the  answer  that  is  expected,  and  it  is  the  one  she  gives.     ❝  as  well  as  to  be  expected,  lady  whent,  thank  you  for  asking.  ❞     julienna  paused,  finding  it  hard  to  disagree  with  her  words.  it  was  straining;  downright  exhausting.  but  it  was  her  duty  to  suggest  otherwise.     ❝  it  has  not  been  easy,  i  must  admit,  but  we  starks  have  endured  far  harder  winters.  ❞     the  princess  waved  her  hand  absently,  as  if  it  was  truly  nothing.     ❝  enough  of  me.  how  were  your  travels  ?  have  your  accommodations  been  to  your  liking  ?  ❞

          the princess’s laugh catches jeyne rather off guard, an unexpectedly open response she finds herself mirroring. “ oh, then i shall pray to my gods, and you to yours, that you do not, ” she chimes in jovially, with a conspiratorial little wink like she knows something julienna does not. it’s an air jeyne has picked up from her mother, from countless other married ladies, and it says --- all grace and maternal magnanimity --- there are things in your future you cannot know until you know them. “ and if i may be so bold, if the lord baratheon’s worst quality is his snoring, then you will be the luckiest wife in the seven kingdoms. ” there isn’t a trace of bite in those words ; and what a skill it is, to be able to disguise her resentments under layers of pristine gossamer and lighthearted amusement. 

                 he  nods ,        agreeing  with  her  sentiment .   ‘   i’m  certain  it  is .   ’    the  first  time  he  had  met  theon  stark  it  had  been  a  similar  situation ,  though  with  the  players  switched  and  with  less  grandeur .  they  were  to  celebrate  his  brother’s  life  in  the  same  moment  they  were  expected  to  mourn  their  father’s  death ,  and  with  a  king  and  prince  present  none  the  less .  he  can  only  imagine  the  pressure  that  the  title  and  the  sheer  number  of  guests  must  add  to  that  feeling .   ‘   having  us  all  here  in  their  home …   ’

         ‘   not  that  old ,   ’   he  offers ,   ‘   given  how  long  they  have  held  this  place .   ’   he  pauses  again ,  looking  around  the  building ,   ‘   thousands  of  years  of  standing  by  their  old  gods  and  then  they  finally  build  a  sept  for  a  woman .  i  don’t  mean  to  contradict  your  septa ,  but  i  believe  that  says  something  more  about  her  or  perhaps  her  husband  than  it  does  about  the  seven .   ’   this  place  had  not  been  build  for  the  gods ,  even  if  they  lived  here  now ;  it  was  built  for  someone  who  lived  and  died .

        ‘   i’m  sorry ,   ’   his  brow  furrows  for  a  moment ,  as  if  he’s  finally  remembered  a  few  of  his  manners ,   ‘   i  should  have  introduced  myself .  my  name  is  olyvar ,  and  it’s  lovely  to  make  your  acquaintance .   ’

          a cold breeze runs through the open doorway and into the sept, and for a moment jeyne cannot help but imagine it a ghost. old dead starks rising from the hallowed crypts, summoned by their very mention . . . but another moment and later all she feels is terribly stupid. a shiver runs down her spine that she'd gladly attribute to the cold. “ i’m sure you have the right of it, ” she agrees brightly, shrugging off the chill ; she’s spent so long in haunted places she could imagine ghosts anywhere. “ and i think more septas could stand to be contradicted about such things --- by rights they know nothing of the old gods. ” 

          𝒊𝒇  𝒉𝒆𝒓  𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓  𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅  𝒔𝒆𝒆  her  now  ,  she’d  press  her  tongue  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth  ,  disapproval  heavy  in  her  stare  at  the  state  of  the  tully  girl  ,  it  hadn’t  even  come  morn  &  yet  ,  her  skirts  were  muddied  &  her  cheeks  flushed  .  eloise  had  never  been  a  sleeper  ,  not  even  as  a  babe  ,  often  up  before  the  sun  &  asleep  shortly  beforehand  ,  though  energy  never  seemed  to  stall  ,  not  as  she  ran  the  corridors  of  riverrun  ,  happy  to  wake  the  household  before  necessary  .  winterfell  ,  though  ,  has  her  too  curious  ,  unable  to  do  anything  but  toss  &  turn  for  hours  before  she’s  up  ,  winding  her  way  through  all  she  can  ,  finding  all  she  can  in  the  small  moments  she  has  .  the  bitter  breeze  tasted  fresh  on  her  tongue  as  it  peaked  out  to  wet  even  colder  lips  ,  staring  into  the  sept  ,  it  was  still  dark  ,  the  sept  becoming  even  darker  despite  the  torches  that  lined  the  doorway  ,  the  icy  catacombs  .     ❝                    nothing  to  forgive  ,  good  morning  .  ❞     it’s  sweet  like  berries  ,  as  she  greets  the  blonde  over  her  shoulder  .  she  cares  not  for  how  the  question  is  posed  .     ❝   something  like  that  ,  too  much  too  see  ,  i  believe  !  ❞     her  sweet  tone  laced  with  unbridled  excitement  that  not  even  she  could  hide  .

     despite he and eryn being  betrothed to each other, their relationship and meeting is still very new. back at karhold they don’t share a room simply because eryn is not comfortable with it. even though it seemed odd, elyas obliged and chooses to give her the space she needs to hopefully learn to go comfortable with him and the north. in winterfell, though, a separate room was not acquired and so he gathered up as many blankets and pillows as he could and found a spot on the floor in the room to lay. not truly uncomfortable for him, but he had trouble sleeping and this found his way out of the room and walking down the halls of the castle.

     he came to a room and his eyes went to glance in it, pausing for a moment to look inside and then be on his way. blue eyes move to a woman who is not looking where she’s going and he stops in his tracks, deciding to let her go into the room before he continues on his way. she’s slightly startled by him and he raises his eyebrows some at her reaction.  ❛  good morning.  ❜  he gives a small smile.  ❛  there is nothing to forgive. i didn’t mean to startle you.  ❜  he said and was ready to be on his way from their small interaction when her question hits his ears and the smile turns into a grin as he nods.  ❛  i assume you can’t either?  ❜

          at this hour, most lords and ladies are still abed. the sun is only just barely threatening to rise ; this is the hour of the servants, always first to rise and last to bed, and jeyne feels a faint sense of sympathy for them. it's also why she's rather surprised at the lord that greets her ; his voice is northern, but unmistakably highborn. “ lord karstark, ” she greets him with a small dip of her head, grateful for the identifiable starburst pin that holds his cloak shut. “ no, indeed --- i can’t really understand how anyone is sleeping well. all things considered. ” 

          she makes the rounds of the castle with relative ease and an appraising eye, making effort to appear impressed, rather than discerning. winterfell is duller than lannisport and smaller than harrenhal, and at first glance she’s inclined to think it rather boring. but even jeyne cannot deny the history carved into each stone, pressed into each pane of glass. by the time she finds herself by the stables her dark mood has nearly cleared, and she might even almost enjoy the brisk chill in the air and the cold, hard strangeness of the far north. a familiar figure stands near, and jeyne draws up to her side with a delicate, polite little cough to announce her presence and not startle her. 

spring. forget inspiring metaphors of rebirth and renewal ; forget crowns of wildflowers and gratitude to the gods for bringing an end to the winter. jeyne is neither so optimistic, nor delicate, no little snowbell pushing its way through snows, a bright white symbol of hope.

spring is the sea change ; the layer of ice across the gods eye cracks, and watery sunlight gives way to torrential rains that flood the rivers and lakes. it is a tempest, changeable and violent, a bright and frozen veneer slipping to give way to a mess of life. undecided between winter and summer, it swings like a pendulum back and forth ; freezing rains and blistering sunshine coinciding and combatting for dominance over the heavens. jeyne, too, fails most days to balance harshness with warmth --- there is a bright heart beating strong in her ribcage, but cold and frozen things are not nearly as easily broken. there’s a sense of flowing over ; that one more drop might be the last, and a flood will wash the plains bare of all traces.

golden, busy, bright. the memories of childhood are a hazy recollection of vitality ; swirls of bright skirts in vibrant hues, sitting on the steps of the sept sharing strawberries, quiet moments at her maester’s elbow as she painstakingly learns her histories, chasing after her brothers on legs too short to keep up. her earliest years are shrouded in winter and scarcity, but spring brings joy and she rather blossoms. jeyne’s childhood is full and fulfilling, but all too short ; by age ten she is no longer a little girl, but a little lady, and must learn to play the part. 

                he  feels  no  resentment ,  his  intent  not  to  find  peace  here ,        if  anything  he  was  the  intrusion  on  her  faith .   ‘   i  understand  the  feeling ,   ’   he  offers  with  a  slight  nod  of  his  head ,  and  it  was  the  truth ;  both  being  restless  and  whatever  it  was  that  made  sleep  in  a  new  bed  difficult .  his  eyes  follow  hers ,  and  once  again  scans  the  inside  of  the  small  sept .  it  was  not  much  without  its  story ,  but  with  it  the  place  was  elevated  in  his  mind .      the  old  story  starts  to  spin  in  his  head  again .        he’s  brought  back  to  the  present  by  her  .

         ‘   that  as  well …    this  is  far  more  people  than  i’m  used  to  if  i’m  being  honest .   ’   large  crowds  were  foreign  things  to  the  boy  who  had  spent  his  whole  life  in  the  eyrie ,  without  much  experience  in  travel  to  speak  of .  certainly  the  gatherings  he  had  been  to  were  nothing  like  this .        the  coronation  of  a  king ,         what  a  thing  to  witness ,  history  in  real  time .

        he  glances  inside  the  sept  again ,  then  looks  back  to  her .   ‘   you  know  the  story   ?   ’   he  asks ,  unable  to  help  himself ,  and  than  matches  her  confession .   ‘   i’m  not  much  of  one  for  prayer ,  but  i  wanted  to  see  it  for  myself .   ’

          she nods, understanding, the image of polite attention. there’s something like reverence in the way he looks about the sept, and a weight to each of his words ; jeyne has to wonder what, if not prayer, he has come here to seek. “ i imagine it’s overwhelming for our hosts as well, ” she observes placidly, an empty little remark, though the notion has occupied her for some time. death and joy, ascension and mourning ; the juxtaposition of all this in the coronation fascinates her.

     she  has  grown  restless,  with  all  of  the  added  company  within  winterfell’s  walls.  of  foreign  faces  wandering  through  her  childhood  home  in  celebration  of  her  brother.  a  celebration,  surely,  but  it  was  the  reason  they  were  celebrating  at  all  that  had  her  fighting  sleep.  julienna  had  found  solace  in  prayer  and  for  while  the  sept  was  not  usually  where  she  sought  it,  it  was  often  a  part  of  her  rounds  on  her  way  to  the  godswood.  if  nothing  else,  it  tended  to  serve  as  a  quiet  reprieve  for  a  short  while,  until  ladies  or  guards  came  looking  for  her.  hood  shields  her  from  prying  gaze,  tucked  into  the  shadows;  a  moment  to  catch  her  breath.  surprised  though  she  is  at  the  company  of  another,  it  is  hidden  well  as  a  polite  shake  of  her  head  is  offered.     

     ❝  there  is  no  need  to  apologize,  you  are  free  to  your  prayers  at  any  time  of  the  day.  ❞     julienna  paused,  though  the  answer  to  her  question  was  very  clear.     ❝  i’m  afraid  i’ve  found  there’s  just  too  much  excitement  going  on  for  me  to  get  much  rest.  and  you,  my  lady  ?  ❞

          of all the people jeyne might expect to see at the sept at the break of dawn, the stark princess is not one of them. still sleepy, she fails to disguise the surprise that appears clear as day on her features, brows drawn as she fights the urge to make a little jest on the matter. it seems impolite to laugh when princess julienna is still in mourning. “ much the same, your highness. that, and i had to escape my lord husband’s snores. ” a layer of mirth, thick and saccharine, masks the edges of her words.

                  olyvar  arryn  was  not  a  religious  man .         if  there  was  any  god  it  was  not  one  that  had  shown  any  mercy  to  him ,  and  he  found  more  comfort  in  the  belief  that  this  world  was  unplanned  chaos  than  that  it  was  subject  to  the  whims  of  a  being  as  sadistic  as  it  was  omnipotent .  the  draw  to  the  sept  was  the  draw  of  history ,  of  seeing  something  still  standing  even  though  those  who  had  built  it  were  gone ;  he  wanted  to  stand  in  that  moment ,  in  the  building  that  was  the  peace  between  wars .  besides ,  travel  never  suited  him  well ,  there’s  a  certain  pain  that  comes  with  the  road  and  the  chill ,  and  sleep  had  not  come ;  it  was  as  fine  a  time  as  any  to  seek  it  out ,  maybe  better  as  he  would  be  alone .  his  eyes  are  scanning  every  detail  from  the  doorway ,  when  he  hears  a  voice  behind  him .  he  turns ,  leaning  on  his  can  as  he  looks  back  to  see  who  it  is .

        ‘   morning ,   ’    he  answers  to  the  unfamiliar  woman ,  his  own  courtesies  rusty  due  to  lack  of  use .   ‘  no ,  i  don’t  think  i’ve  adjusted  to  this  place  just  yet .   ’    a  moment  of  silence ,  and  then  he  thinks  of  her  probable  intent  in  coming  here .   ‘  sorry ,  i  can  leave  if  you  meant  to  pray .   ’   at  the  very  least ,  he  moves  out  of  the  doorway  to  let  her  pass .

          her cheeks, red and raw from the cold, flush darker as she realizes she’s disturbed not just any southron knight or lady’s maid, but a lord, one who may rightfully resent her presence. his offer to leave her to her prayer, though, spoken with an unmistakable earnestness, calms her, and she answers him with a shake of her head. “ that’s very kind, but not necessary. i’m not ---. . . i was just restless, ” she admits, with the slightest of weary sighs, as though she meant to pray but did not wish to inconvenience him. a good show of regret. despite the cold, she lingers in the doorway, her gaze floating discerningly over what little of the sept she can see. whatever she sought there --- comfort, familiarity, solitude or faith --- she does not think she will find it among the rough-hewn faces and candles melted to the quick. 

when it comes to companionship, jeyne can be quite fickle. as a young girl, she is almost desperately social, seeking to emulate her mother’s social graces by gathering around her a collection of little ‘friends.’ whether these can be called companions is debatable ; it is more as if jeyne is a little queen with her little court, play-acting at her future responsibilities as some lord’s lady wife. even with all her little ladies --- distant lannett and lantell cousins, daughters of the city watchmen, even kitchen girls --- jeyne is always trying to join in with her brothers and their friends. irwyn indulges her on occasion, but davon dismisses her incessantly ; she’s too weak to swing even a practice sword, and too stupid to understand their games. 

these patterns persist ; jeyne cultivates an ability to seem enamored, to trade on the suggestion of sisterhood to move gracefully, though guardedly, in feminine social circles, all the while harboring an intense desire for a seat at the lords’ table. although she retains some true friends from her youth, most of her childhood playmates remain at some distance. she enjoys vibrant social gatherings and having people around her, but true companionship comes quite slowly to her, as she is quite withholding and insecure.