starfall

Peace did not seem to last long where you were concerned.

It started as a small, niggling sort of feeling; a distinct feeling of wrongness that sat stubbornly in your chest.

The children — whom you'd spent almost a fortnight entertaining in secret, across cyvasse boards and naturalist tomes and (terribly poor) embroidery — slowly, surely, began to withdraw. You wondered whether it was somehow a fault of yours, but all you'd truly done was send for sweets and listened as they spoke themselves into a stupor… Admittedly, you still stumbled over certain interactions, acclimating slowly to the motherly role you would soon take; and thus, your table was soon empty, the gardens home only to the tweeting birds, the library as quiet as death.

It wasn't a worry you could bring to Maekar, for obvious reason; as Daeron had said, he was very particular about these things, and you had no desire to get the children in trouble with their father. Not only would it shatter the trust that you'd built with them, but besides that, Maekar had grown to be a problem of his own.

In truth, he'd done nothing of grand offence.

Of course, there was the matter of the missing proposal, which you gave some grace — it was to be, perhaps, the most politically pertinent alliance between Westeros and Essos of a generation, and thus there was much to prepare: correspondence to send across the Narrow Sea, dowries and settlements and resources to partition. It was not the proposal (or lack thereof) which vexed you most — it grated on you incessantly, but this you could forgive — no, it was the distinct feeling of distance which had descended on each and every interaction with him.

Slowly, surely, his mind had closed itself to you. The progress you'd made over many moons — prying his thoughts from him with a gentle hand and open ear and, yes, more than a little insubordination — seemed to be lost, fading with an imperceptible gradualness. There was no physical evasion, and for that you were glad at least: you could find him easily in his solar, or his apartments, or in the training grounds, and he had no qualms with spending time with you — but his mind had carried itself to a place you could not follow, and you were ignorant of how to bring it back. How to bring him back.

But no matter. It was clear there was some problem which you weren't privy to, but nonetheless you were determined to remain positive — when this odd period of retreat passed, you would be waiting. In the meantime, you did all those things a lady should do; read the appropriate books, wore the appropriate dresses, danced the appropriate dances to the appropriate music. You'd even begun hosting some of the courtiers in your apartments, having mixed properly with some at the tourney. There, of course, sprouted new problems.

Syrah was officially betrothed to Lord Yronwood. It was a development worth celebrating; you gifted her a fine spool of Braavosi silk with which to make her wedding dress, and took great pleasure in listening to her gush over her husband-to-be. The fact that Syrah was so quickly engaged, though, had become a point of some conversation in court — namely, in comparison to your own status of scandal and sin. It was no secret that you and Syrah were fond of each other; you imagined there was some spiteful humour in the fact that one of you — the less inflammatory one — was to be married without delay, while the other had nothing to show, apparently, for entertaining royalty.

(Though you allowed a litany of snide comments to roll off your back, you were able to concede that you were near green with envy. You'd waited a year. Never before had you exhibited such patience.)

Then, of course, there was the matter of—

"He wishes to marry me," Thoma said, hands wringing together. "Tyel, I mean."

The news sat between you for a moment.

Thoma had, apparently, struck up a romance with one of your guards.

This came as a great surprise to you — a great surprise, and a fair amount of hurt, no matter how much you pretended otherwise. It seemed you were missing more and more these days. Your sharp eyes and sharper tongue evaded you completely — it was all you could do to realise your mouth was agape, and close it.

Tyel and Thoma. You tried to imagine it. Thoma, who had never once insinuated her desire to marry, or anything more than a passing fancy; who turned her nose up at any who came close, and complained as easily as she breathed. Tyel, with his dark, curling hair, and bright green eyes, and mischievous smile. Thoma had, of course, spent more time with him than you ever would, and had obviously found something desirable; you knew very little about him, apart from his fighting prowess and talent with a flute. Sometimes you'd hear him on sunny days, playing when he was supposed to be guarding.

It was not an… unfavourable match. You were sure they'd be happy. It was only that there was a time where you would be the first to know such things. A time where Thoma trusted you to know. How much longer before you were a stranger to the woman you'd been a girl with? Before she disappeared into the ether to keep his home and have his babies, never to see or speak to you again?

"Only," Thoma said quietly, "he cannot afford to buy out my contract."

"Oh," you said smartly. "I… see."

Would she have told you about it, you wondered, if she had no need of your coin? It was a terrible thought, and you perished it.

"Well, of course it shall be dealt with — that should go without saying," you said. "I… congratulations, Thoma. Truly. Anything you might need, of course, I'll—"

Her mouth lengthened with a smile, a beaming thing, and she surged forward to take you in her arms. You had only just remembered to return the embrace — still shocked, really, at the news — when she pulled away, turning on her heel. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you!"

The door shut behind her. You blinked.

It seemed everything was intent on changing, and you were powerless to stop it. The thought infuriated you as much as it saddened you. You were to be married! You should be rosy with the light of love, glowing with youth, elated to begin a new chapter — instead, you were plagued by courtiers, hounded by your own loneliness, and grappling with your ineptitude.

Yes. Peace was an elusive mistress, it seemed. She did not come to you at breakfast, nor luncheon, nor in the gardens, or in dreams; you sat and waited for her to join you at your dinner table, idly prodding at your meal with a fork.

Maekar. Rhae, Daella, and Aegon. Syrah. The court. Thoma. A weary sigh left you — and as if called to action, a throat cleared.

"My lady," Zelma began, shuffling to stand before you. "If I may…"

"Yes?"

"I — well. I wonder if I might show you something. To raise your spirits."

"Oh?" It was comical in a way. Your spirits were not terribly low, but then you supposed they weren't at all high either. Clearly, your staff could tell. You wondered if it unsettled them, your uncharacteristic silence. The past few weeks had been spent in ignorant elation, after all, anticipating a proposal that hadn't yet come; then, a high-strung sort of annoyance as you realised the fickleness of the world around you. "Yes, of course."

Amused, you watched as she scampered from your solar and disappeared. She returned within a minute, something bundled in her arms — without realising it, you'd held out your hands, and she placed the item gently down.

It was a mask.

Made to cover the entire face, constructed entirely of cloth-of-gold; beaded from top to bottom in a swirl of cascading flowers, with loops of golden embroidery framing it, and tassels hanging from the sides as if to mimic earrings. It was familiar — and you'd never held it before, never seen this particular mask, but it was familiar in that way that certain things are, like the sea or sky.

Your throat suddenly tightened, and you cursed yourself.

In your hands was a piece of home, and it was small, and you knew the warp and weft of it as if it were the surface of your own skin.

The Unmasking of Uthero was a yearly celebration commemorating the revelation of Braavos to the world — a ten day masked soiree of revelry and food and dance. For those ten days, the city was awash with excitement; all petty squabbles and grudges could be set aside to drink and make merry. On the final day, at midnight, the Titan would sound his fearsome roar, and all masks would be removed. It was a unity you hadn't experienced since you'd left home.

Swallowing, you attempted a smile, though a pang of sadness soured your stomach. "You thought to bring masks? I… I didn't even realise what time it was."

"You've been otherwise preoccupied," said Zelma, not unkindly. "I thought, when we left, that it might make us feel more at home — though the first day came and passed, and I thought better of it. These westerners already think us strange."

Your mask last year had been a dark, bloody red, bejewelled with emeralds and sapphires. You wondered if it was still where you left it, in the trunk at the end of your childhood bed, beneath cloaks and dresses you'd long outgrown.

"It used to be my favourite festival." Your sisters had tried to trick you once by wearing identical masks, but you'd always been able to tell them apart, no matter how similar they looked or spoke. How long has it been since you'd received a letter from them? A few moons, no doubt. They were young girls steadily coming into their own, too busy to think of you. And you, in turn — disgracefully — had done the very same. Their eldest sister. "And I did not remember."

You seized your bottom lip between your teeth to keep it from trembling.

"'Tis no fault of your own, my lady," Zelma rushed to say. "Though, er… it is the eighth day, today — we shan't have the full ten, but surely we could celebrate?"

You hesitated. She was right. It would unnerve the court to see you walking around, face shrouded, and so you'd have to sequester yourself away — but it would be nice to partake, even if the celebration would be short-lived and poorly-planned and not at all like it should be.

'Tis only two days, a part of you said. You can afford to disappear for two single, measly days, can you not?

You looked up at Zelma — eyes hopeful, hands clasped before her. She was waiting for your permission, and your guilt only worsened. Admittedly, you tended to forget that your staff had left their homes much like you had — that you weren't the only one yearning for a time and place that had surely changed in your absence.

"I… suppose so," you said finally. "But Zelma, we must stay between our quarters—"

"Oh, you shan't regret it!" she exclaimed. "I'll run to the kitchens and ask them to prepare a feast, my lady, and we'll have dancing—!"

Her excitement was infectious, and she began clearing away your plates with great zeal. You found yourself laughing, blinking away the beginnings of tears. "Was I the only one who didn't prepare?"

"Yes," she admitted. "But you've had more than enough to worry about, my lady. Sit tight! I shall be back, and with sweets and music and company."

Your smile lasted even when she left. You held the mask up, watching it shimmer even in the low, dreary light.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

To say it was the first day that you felt most yourself would be false. You had felt very much yourself in Maekar's champion's tent, hands upon his armour; in his solar, drinking tea and reading aloud; playing cyvasse and listening to his hissed curses when you stole a particularly important piece. Or walking with Syrah through the gardens. Looking after Rhae's birds, and following Daella's deft movements as she embroidered. Watching Aegon's brow furrow as he regarded his pieces upon the cyvasse board.

It wasn't that you had never felt yourself in the Red Keep — rather, it was that you'd left a certain version of yourself in Braavos, and hadn't worn her in many moons. She was even more carefree than you; she danced in circles with her handmaidens until fatigue forced her to stop; woke late the next day, and ate sweets for breakfast, and danced again. Beneath her mask, she smiled and pouted and grimaced and didn't bother to dim them. She danced herself into a tizzy and collapsed into a chair on her balcony, soaking up the sun.

The mask removed most of your periphery. It could be suffocating, at times — the hotness of your breath, and the incessant press of it against your skin, and the obstruction of your vision. But it also seemed to make everything brighter, too; you had a much greater appreciation for that which you could see, and the sun that heated your arms, and the freshness of wind through your hair.

The King held court as he always did, and you did not rush to join. Instead you opened all the windows and doors to your apartments and listened to the sounds of the city from your balcony. The rain had stopped through the night, a passed sadness, and the sky was clear and crystalline once more. You could hear everything: yelling from the harbour, smallfolk calling to each other in the street. Music from somewhere, light and lilting in the gentle breeze, carried in from a little street you'd likely never visit. A world far outside your purview.

You were reminded of Braavos in such a sudden jolt that a sickness twisted your stomach. You wished you could walk from this place like you would back home, traipse through the lanes and over the canals. You'd buy sweets from the first vendor you saw and sit with your handmaidens, eating with mannerless fervour. You'd pull Thoma into a dance with the performers on the street, and watch the young bravos peacock about with their swords with Zelma. For a few hours, you would be completely and utterly free — until you returned home, of course, and faced the tongue lashings of your mother. It was often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

You perked up suddenly.

"Zelma," you called. "Where is Neema?"

Zelma snickered, stretching her hands out like a cat. "Tucked away with a bottle of summer wine, I reckon."

"Hm."

"A curious hm if I've ever heard one."

"Yes. Say, if we were to go into town—"

She sat up suddenly. "Was it not by your own decree that we should stay inside?"

"Yes," you said smartly. "Inside my apartments. But if we go out — out there, where not a soul knows us—"

A snort. "Yes, and you can be stolen away for ransom."

"We shall take guards, of course. And masked and cloaked, who will recognise us?"

"I… suppose. Whatever's so important that it must be now?"

You thought of the night prior, blurred and muddled by wine and laughter. Now that you knew the nature of Thoma and Tyel's relationship, you couldn't miss it. Tyel had played his flute, and watched closely as she twirled and danced. He took every one of her requests with no complaint — The Fall of Racallio Ryndoon, which he'd played twice; The Maid Who Bathed in the Rhoyne; A Thousand Brides for the Father of Waters… And they had been playing dice together that morning, huddled together over two cups of tea.

You'd gifted them a necklace of rubies and garnets the size of your fist. It was enough to buy out their contracts, book passage across the sea, even build a house wherever they so desired. You hadn't asked what they planned to do. You supposed it really was none of your business, no matter how much the need to know niggled at you.

You shrugged, then. What could you say, really? Perhaps it was to satisfy a curiosity, or to experience life fully outside the court for the first time in moons — or to feel, for one moment, that you weren't being predated upon by an endless slew of treacherous families. Perhaps you wanted to experience something new, something novel, something that would take your mind off of Maekar and his brood and Thoma leaving and—

"King's Landing must have more to offer," you said eventually. A flock of gulls convened overhead, cawing as they descended towards the harbour, and you followed them until they disappeared from sight. "And when I marry, I will be carted away to Summerhall, only to return here upon matters of great importance. When will I have another chance to be as free here as I am now?"

If I marry, you thought dourly.

Your companion gave a hum of agreement, albeit a hesitant one, and within the hour you were bundled into a wheelhouse. Dressed in your mask and your most unassuming cloak, you painted a timid picture; Thoma and Zelma looked almost identical, chattering excitedly between themselves opposite you. The topic of conversation was, of course, Thoma's betrothal.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring out the window. It was a horrid thing, you knew; you should share in her excitement, but all their talks of marriage only turned your mind to Maekar. You wondered whether he missed you any, if he wondered where you were. It had only been two days since you'd last seen him, but your mood still worsened at the fact that he hadn't called on you since.

Sighing, you shook away such thoughts. Instead, you elected to focus on the land around you — this was why you were here, wasn't it? You'd traversed King's Landing twice before, and neither had satisfied.

The first came after almost a moon at sea, and you'd been in dire need of a solid bed to sleep on, conscious only through sheer power of will and nervousness. You remembered it the way one remembers bad dreams: in strange, blurred flashes. You'd entered through the River Gate, its opening like the maw of a great beast; beyond it was the never-ending clamour of King's Landing, beginning with Fishmonger's Square — and oh, you remembered that well. The stench of decaying, rotting fish. The incessant din of yelling and heckling. The streets had been chock-full; for at least an hour, your wheelhouse remained stagnant as Gold Cloaks attempted to clear the way of smallfolk and horses and carts and mules. It all seemed a bizarre apparition, a figment of your imagination.

Then there had been your short trip to the tourney. For the King's name-day a special route had been prepared, cleared of all any and all obstructions; the streets had been lined with pennons of black and red, muck shovelled from the road. A neat and pretty performance.

This time, you made a great effort to take notice of the city. The coachman took the wheelhouse down Shadowblack Lane. It was a quieter passage out of the Keep, twisting and steep, and soon left you at the foot of Aegon's High Hill; from there, the wheelhouse trundled onto a narrow street, pushing its way through little lanes and tight passages, splitting the sea of smallfolk like a hot knife through butter.

Even as your nose wrinkled, offended by the mud and dirt and ever-present stench, you found your excitement slowly mounting. How had you been here nigh on a year, and never thought to explore further than the Keep?

Well, it wasn't as if the thought had never struck you — it had, more than once, but you were easily dissuaded by the smell, and the danger, and a grimace from a certain pockmarked man with opinions that simply must be heard. Then there'd been the tourney, of course, and your curiosity had been momentarily sated — but this was a world away from the tourney grounds, the stalls and crates erected in the field. The streets were less manicured, the buildings tall and teetering; it seemed, in its vastness, a sprawling beast not even the King could hope to contain.

Eventually, as the shadow of the Keep grew more distant, the congestion worsened. The wheelhouse slowed and slowed until it stopped altogether, and there was a sharp knock on the door.

"Apologies, m'lady," said a Gold Cloak, peeking his head in. "The streets prove difficult to clear."

"That's alright," you said. "We can continue on foot from here, can we not?"

"On foot, m'lady?" he echoed.

You blinked. "Well, how close are we to our destination, good sir?"

"Er—" He cast a doubtful look at your handmaidens— "No more than ten minutes, I reckon, but—"

"Ten minutes by wheelhouse," Thoma interjected. "By foot, we'll be almost half an hour — it's dangerous."

"If it please you, m'lady," said the guard, "between your own guard and those of the City Watch, we number five. Two can stay to keep the wheelhouse, three can accompany you."

"Then it is settled." You glanced over at Thoma and Zelma — you could sense their hesitance, even behind their masks. "Oh, come now. We were to peruse the markets anyways. What difference does it make if we walk a little longer?"

"At least we're away from Flea Bottom," Zelma said. "And… not too far from the market, I suppose."

With a victorious grin, you took the Gold Cloak's proffered hand and ducked beneath the doorway — instantly, you're thrown into streams of smallfolk, moved back and forth as if pulled by the tide. Your shoulder was jostled, and you're pressed uncomfortably forward, side jutting into the sharp edge of his couter — but you reached out and seized Thoma's hand in yours, and she Zelma's, and the guards closed ranks around you.

"I don't believe your beloved will be very happy," somebody muttered behind you. You didn't deign to give them a response.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

The markets served their purpose. Of course, you garnered a fair number of stares (masked as you were), but between your guards' formidable stature and the relentless movement between stalls and shopfronts, the smallfolk left you alone. They had better things to do, it seemed, than ogle your strange group; hauling baskets, carts, and sacks, the world bustled past you in a blur of noise and colour.

It was refreshingly loud. You enjoyed the gentle sounds of the Keep, the music played in the ladies' solar, and water trickling from fountains, and the distant clang of sword-fight, but there was great liberty in knowing you could speak as loud as you wanted, and nobody would blink an eye. You wouldn't be heard over the woman crowing an unmissable deal on her Dornish lemons, which you believed were actually yellow-painted apples, or the man announcing the sale of his odds and ends.

Of course, it was dirtier than you were accustomed to. You were used to brick and tile and pavement, and canal-boats; mud and filth had soaked through the hem of your cloak and dress, and you knew it would have to be scrubbed in boiling water to save it. The streets did not smell of gold or roses, but the mask obscured enough to make it bearable, and if you ducked into a shoppe or two, you'd avoid it completely.

It was in one such shoppe that Thoma suddenly confronted you, standing between two bolts of velvet. Zelma was using her time to flirt with the Gold Cloak that had accompanied you — you could see her through the window, grinning and staring like the cat who got the cream.

"Are you very upset with me?"

You glanced over at her, brows furrowed. "Upset?"

She was quiet for a moment.

"I know my… involvement with Tyel came as a surprise... This colour dulls your complexion, my lady. This one will suit better."

She brought you instead to a bolt of fabric the colour of dark, red wine, and you regarded it curiously.

"Yes, it did," you said, sniffing. "In fact, I… was quite upset."

Thoma shot you a look. "No longer?"

"… Perhaps, in a way. I admit, I… I couldn't imagine a time where you might've fallen in love and not told me. It was this that came most as a shock."

"I am sorry," she said quietly. "I only wanted something for myself for a while. My life is yours, my lady — it has always been yours, since I joined your staff. It can wear, at times."

The fabric was as smooth as silk; when you lifted it towards the light, its sheen was a bright, burned orange, almost unnatural in its brilliance. You waved a hand, and the attendant scurried over; at your request, he carried the fabric away to cut a length from it, and you were left alone. You pretended to not be hurt by her words — in truth, there was nothing hurtful in them. She had every right to act as she had. It was you who craved more than most could give — you who expected full, unyielding loyalty, you whose gluttony could be surpassed by none.

"Should you wish to leave," you said, "I shan't stop you."

"I know." Whether it was pity or joy in her voice, you did not know; you imagined a sad sort of smile upon her pretty face, and dug in your cloak for your coin pouch. From this, you obtained a single silver stag.

"I would never force you to stay by my side."

"Yes, my lady. I know."

The stag sat upon the table. You could feel her eyes boring into the side of your face, and sighed.

"I've lived more than ten years by your side," you said quietly. "I have not learned, yet, how to be without you."

You did not imagine the shake in her voice, then; the tremble in her hand as she reached out and clasped it around your wrist. "You will learn, my lady."

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

Upon waking that morning, you had felt that things were coming to a head.

'Twas not a particular sense of doom that sat heavy on your chest; it was something different, a sick sort of anticipation, a foreboding that had you burrowing deeper into your blankets. Your head ached, but it was not the familiar dullness of wine-sickness.

The world had swollen with rainwater. You woke to the sound of it pitter-pattering through your open window, roaring and rushing with such power that you believed, for a moment, you were right beside the sea. Yes — you could see it. Rolling, navy waves crested by foaming white; a sky like blackened charcoal as far as the eye could see.

You opened your eyes and found your quarters dark, as if the sun hadn't bothered to rise. The curtains were drawn open, as you'd left them the night before after drinking yourself to sleep, and through the window you saw your imagination hadn't been too distant: the world was grey. The heavens had split open, and their fruits obscured all of King's Landing — the bright roofs, and the shadow of the Blackwater, and the spires and towers. It was all grey. All blurred. Yesterday, the sun had been scorching.

Yes, you thought, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Something is amiss. Unsettled.

They said the Bloodstone Emperor ushered in the Long Night upon usurping his sister. A terrible darkness fell across the earth, bathing everything in blackness; his betrayal laid waste to entire generations, spreading famine and war and terror across the known world. You looked to your ceiling and wondered if you were being punished for something.

The door to your inner chambers creaked as it opened.

"Good morning," came Neema's familiar husk. A lit match in hand, she rounded the room, setting each sconce afire and casting the room in warmth. Her mask was missing. "Your breakfast has been set out, my lady. Up you come, now."

You sat up — pushed away the lethargy that desperately clung to you, wiping at your eyes. She had extinguished the match, but made no move to gather your garments for the day; instead, she stood at the foot of your bed, looking for all the world as if she had more to say.

Your stomach turned. Something was afoot.

"What is it?" you asked. You thought the worst. Had there been word from your father, displeased with the fourth prince's offer of marriage? Or was it Maekar? He'd discovered your clandestine meetings with his brood, and the disrespect was too much for him to accept— "Why… why are you looking at me like that? Where is your mask?"

Neema shuffled, the action so at odds with her usual confidence that you felt your throat tighten. "I… thought it important you know," she said carefully, "that this day is a sombre one. The anniversary of Lady Dyanna Dane — the day of her passing, that is."

Oh.

Your back was suddenly straight as a blade, the sheets clutched tight between your fingers. The weight of the Keep itself had pinned you to your bed, tossing you abruptly into awareness. You saw yourself, for a moment, as if peering down from the ceiling; sitting in the large expanse of your bed, wide-eyed and undone, hair still pulled back for sleeping. Ignorant that the man she would marry — that she expected to marry — was saddled with such mourning. Sleeping late on a day where she should be showing the courtiers that she, too, was mourning a woman she'd never known.

In the back of your mind, you'd known the day would inevitably come — that it existed — but it had always presented itself as a distant, intangible thing. The death of his wife. It happened, and it had happened before you, and it was brushed over in that way that one brushes over uncomfortable things, like bruised and tender skin.

Maekar hadn't said anything, you thought with a strange and sudden sense of shame. Neither had Rhae, nor Daella, nor Aegon.

It dawned on you, then, that this was the source of their strange behaviour, their withdrawal. You couldn't imagine what they might feel approaching the day they lost their mother, and preparing for a new one all the while — they were young, yes, and did not remember her as well as Daeron or Aerion or even Aemon, but they had known her enough to love her. Why would you expect them to have told you? To speak the words, as if they would not tear the throat from them?

But Maekar? Were you so untrustworthy? Too shallow or callous? Perhaps he thought you wouldn't care — or perhaps, worst of all, the idea simply hadn't struck him: you weren't significant enough to tell such things. Who were you? A young woman not yet betrothed. A foreigner in a foreign land. A conveniently ignorant confidant.

You released the sheets. Your palms were sore, your knuckles aching from the force with which you'd tensed them. You suddenly felt very tired, though you'd slept through the night like a milk-warmed babe.

No. No, don't be a fool. You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, screwing your eyes shut.

Their mother was dead. His wife was dead, and you couldn't be so selfish as to overstate your importance in it all, as much as it pained you. You'd forgotten his reservation in the privilege of his company; it had taken many moons before he'd divulged more than surface-level pleasantries and indignation — memories of his mother, and Dyanna, and his fondness for his brothers, especially Rhaegel. The Blackfyre Rebellion and its bloody battlefield. Scars that marred his skin, pockmarks on his cheeks.

You'd forgotten, in the midst of your knowing him, how difficult it was for him to allow it. It was often — when faced with matters of particular sentimentality — that his tongue and countenance stilled, froze themselves into impenetrable barricades; he would rather swing a sword than speak to vulnerability, and of this you held no illusions.

Still. You thought you allowed him the space for it. You thought…

The shame deepened. You pressed your palms to your eyes, and sighed wearily. You'd expected Syrah would tell you, at least, but then she was all aflutter over Lord Yronwood. It wasn't her fault.

"Breakfast," you mumbled. "Breakfast, and then… we should pray."

"At the alter?" A note of surprise lifted her voice.

"No," you said. "Or, yes. I… I must be in the royal sept, with the rest of them, where they can see me. But later… later, I shall light candles..."

It was ironic in an infuriating sort of way. The courtiers held no love for their Dornish peers, and you can't imagine much was changed when Lady Dane was alive; but she was dead, and so they venerated her while scorning her compatriots all the while. Were she still living, they'd be the same vipers they were now, and nothing would change.

But if you dared to hide away today, to seek privacy and meditation, your reputation — which was already sullied, for obvious reasons — would be completely and utterly beyond repair.

"Modest clothing," you said finally. "Modest, and humble."

Your mask was left upon your nightstand.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

After breaking your fast, you dressed in a gown of dark, green silk. The collar fastened where your shoulders began, and it covered almost every inch of skin except your hands, face, and a sliver of neck. There was no grand ornamentation or jewellery, nothing that could be misconstrued as haughty or boastful. Even your hair was tied back simply.

You had been to the royal sept only thrice before — each time accompanied by Syrah, who was not particularly devout, but took the sept to be yet another meeting place where one could engage in courtly politics. This was, of course, her favourite pastime.

It was not as large as the Great Sept of Baelor, the grand domes and spires of which you could spy from a great distance, but it could quite comfortably seat hundreds in its rows of benches if needed; the ceiling was impossibly tall and pointed, and the walls impregnated by high crystalline windows. Had it been sunny today, they would cast rays of rainbow through the space, illuminating the pale marble in colour — but it was decidedly not, and the interior remained colourless, save for candlelight. It seemed fitting.

It was a pleasant place, familiar in that way that places of worship tended to be. A comforting stillness blanketed the interior, and the air was fragrant with incense and candle-wax. The only sounds to be heard were quiet, whispered prayers from the clusters of courtiers who came and went, and the constant hum of rain. You were glad for it. You were in no mood to talk, though you often felt the press of eyes against your spine.

Remembering what little you knew of the Seven, you lit candles before the Stranger and the Maiden, praying for Dyanna and yourself alike. You took a seat on a bench, and hoped your own gods wouldn't be too offended by your offerings.

In truth, you hadn't planned to stay long; you would light the candles, be seen with your head bowed in supplication, and leave to mull over your thoughts in your quarters. But your mind had been at war with itself since that morning, and the sept offered a certain breed of silence that tempered it.

You had wondered — from the very moment you'd discovered the importance of the day, really — whether you should seek to comfort Maekar. You were no stranger to his usual haunts, and could most likely find him with ease; whether he would appreciate it, though, was another conversation entirely. Maekar's feelings around Dyanna's death were not a topic you commonly stumbled into; he had shared some memories of her, you remembered, but both of you tended to give the reality of your relationship a wide berth, in that way one avoids uncomfortable truths.

(But was it not your right to offer such solace?

Had he need of it, he would have told you, said a distinctly petulant part of you. Instead, he left you to realise the importance of the day from your servants.)

He was most likely spending the day with his children. It wouldn't do to intervene where you weren't wanted. You were already praying for the woman he loved — praying to gods you didn't believe in for a woman who'd had everything you wanted. That terrible, no-good, jealous part of you shuddered at the thought of seeing him bereft over another woman. It was a terrible thought — it made you sick to your stomach. And yet, it was you.

Hunger, greed, spoiled as curdled milk. The worst of you. You wanted in a way that was unsavoury — and quite frankly, you'd been reminded of it far too many times in the past moons. You'd never given it deep thought before, but every time your limits were tested — by Lenila Lannister, by Thoma, by the ghost of a dead woman, or by Maekar himself— it presented itself, maw bared and bloody. Selfish.

You wished you'd been born twenty years earlier, been given the opportunity to meet him before he'd been given to anyone else, before he'd even laid his eyes upon another woman — that you could have stolen him away in his youth and seized his heart as Dyanna had, and claimed the same unfaltering ownership that she had. You wished he had never known any woman as wife, for the very thought of it soured something rotten in your stomach. You wished he only thought of you, that his mind was plagued by it, that it sickened and satiated him in the same breath — you screwed your eyes shut and imagined scrubbing his mind of all traces of her, of her touch, so that he only knew you and your skin and your scent and your voice and—

Your breath came trembling. Your disgust was a palpable thing, curling and churning in your stomach; it was the same sickening twist of shame that had grasped you early that morning, only you couldn't blame your weariness any longer. You were awake, wide-eyed and watchful; terrible in your jealousy, and your selfishness, and your envy. You didn't think it would ever leave you — it was sewn into your very being, entwined with your very sense of self.

In truth, you'd never given much weight to goodness or badness — on account, mostly, of never truly having to. But you remembered the storybooks of your youth, the tales of heroes and princesses, the black and white of it all. You had wanted to be those princesses, once. Your father had told you it'd never happen if you kept being so mean, the terror of a child that you were, and you had ignored him as you often did. Whether you or he was right remained to be seen — your aforementioned meanness had never left you penniless, only lonely.

The blank, knowing visage of the Maiden stared back at you. These gods could hear your thoughts sullying their land, their place of worship, spilling like brackish water across their pristine tile and marble. Perhaps it was they who sought to punish you.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

It was a strange mood that you found yourself in: somehow, despite yourself, you left the sept both lighter and heavier than you were when you first arrived. The rain had not eased — in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse — but it did not carry the same trepidation; you regarded it not as an omen of ill-will, but a simple, dreary day. Water for the crops.

You had missed luncheon and hardly noticed it, and the time for dinner was soon upon you. It had been a long time that you'd sat in the sept, silent, suspended in an odd sort of trance. There was some comfort in confronting that which plagued you, and that which you held great shame for; you sat in the malaise of it, stewed in your shortcomings, and the sky had not shattered upon you. The gods did not strike you down. You were covetous and invidious, and the world had not ended in darkness or flame or ice; apparently, your personal complications were to be the height of your penalty. You almost preferred the sky-shattering.

Upon returning to your quarters, you donned your mask again, hoping, absurdly, to salvage the last day of celebration; you ate a paltry meal, and then resigned yourself to your alter. It was a tiny thing shoved into a mostly-forgotten nook in a corner of your apartments. You never were very devout; the alter was mostly for your staff, who'd added their own pendants and figures.

It was cluttered. Your father and mother worshipped two different gods of the same pantheon, and thus you'd grown up somewhere betwixt the two. There was the Maiden-Made-of-Light, carved from pale, pearlescent stone — your mother's patron, who, upon witnessing the cruelty of man, turned her back upon the world; there was the Lion of Night in dark obsidian, then, favoured by your father. He who came forth to punish man's wickedness during the Long Night. Whether you favoured either more, you did not know.

You sat before that alter and stared. At the statues, the incense, and the offerings — jewels and precious things, from you; food and scraps of pretty fabric from your staff. It was a pity that you'd never been more pious; perhaps it could have made you a more graceful girl. But even with your gracelessness, you lit a candle for Dyanna Dane, and shut your eyes and prayed for her, even though your jealousy burned something fierce.

She had been his first wife. The mother of his children. A woman with hopes and likes and dislikes, much like you, and a stranger in King's Landing. You wondered whether she felt the Keep's walls tightening around her at times, as you did. Whether the sense of alienation ever fully went away.

You hated her. And yet you were her, in many ways.

A throat cleared. You looked up from the Maiden-Made-of-Light, and met Neema's gaze. How long had you spent on your knees? Your ankles ached, and from the window you could see the sky had become inky. Deeper in your apartments, you could hear the distant sound of music and merrymaking, cheers as rounds of dice were thrown.

"Oh. Hello."

"It has been a long time since I've seen you pray," she said, kneeling at your side. She bowed her head for a moment, and you imagined her lips moving beneath the mask in silent prayer. "It reminds me of when you were a girl."

"I did say I would."

"Saying and doing are often two very different things."

You hummed. You could feel the heat of her beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and you thought of a time before — before, when your mother would send you to pray after you'd been particularly horrid. You'd huff and puff the whole way, but sometimes, when Neema took pity on you, she'd sit by your side, silent and reverent as she completed her own worship. Back then, you were smaller. Kneeling together, the top of your head would barely reach her shoulders.

"To think," Neema mused, "there was once a time where you could only be dragged here."

A snort-like laugh left you. "It seems I've grown in more than height."

"So you have," she agreed. You felt her eyes upon your cheek, then, and turned your gaze to meet them. "I know there was some difficulty in today. And that Thoma's betrothal was… unanticipated."

"Yes, that goes without saying."

"I imagine you have a lot in that mind of yours," Neema said. "Speak, and I will listen."

She gently nudged her shoulder against yours, and you shook your head.

"I have made peace with Thoma. I was saddened, at first, of course, but there is more to life than I.

"The prince… at first, I didn't know what was worse," you admitted. "That he hadn't thought to inform me of the day, or that he had planned to, and thought better of it. Both ideas infuriate me."

You worried your skirt between your fingers. But there was nothing to fear, not from Neema. She knew you the way a mother knew her child.

"You know, I pitied myself this morning. Told myself that I wouldn't be wanted by his side. And then there was the thought of it, of seeing such sadness upon his face, pining for a woman long passed — I know myself. I know I couldn't handle it." You swallowed. "Even so, I… I wanted him to call on me, to seek comfort in me. And he hasn't, and so he has proven me right."

"Your pride has been wounded."

"'Tis not a matter of pride, but of… of…" You shook your head. You didn't know. Perhaps it was pride — but you knew pride, had walked alongside her your entire life. You'd felt her thorns and needles those weeks after you'd promenaded with Valarr, and had overcome it. This feeling, now, was edged with melancholy. Doubt. "And then I thought — how selfish of me! A woman has passed, and I pity myself. I covet her husband, and her children, and her life. I was disgusted by my own cruelty."

"Cruelty," Neema mused. "Is that what you call it?"

"What would you?"

"Fear, I think."

For a moment you stared at your hands in your lap, bunched up together and clutching each other; then you eyed the flickering flames of Dyanna's candle, the long shadows it cast over the cluttered table. The rain had eased to a gentle trickle, the night humid and muggy, tempered only by a light breeze. It stirred the curtains, and you listened to the whisper of wool against the ground. The music continued; Tyel was at the flute again, but somebody had brought a lute, and together they played a jaunty tune.

Neema groaned as she pushed herself to her feet, rubbing at her hips as she did. "I am not as young as I once was, my lady, and neither are you."

The soft scuff of her slippers against the floor neared the doorway, but—

"I do not know how to be unafraid," you blurted. "Not yet."

(I have not learned, yet, how to be without you.)

There was a pause, and she returned to you. A hand planted itself upon your head. You were seven again, pouting at the alter, refusing to pray out of spite. "It comes with time, and time alone."

(You will learn, my lady.)

Somehow, despite the ambiguity of it, you felt a sense of relief. As if, with those simple words and simple gesture, she'd given you permission: live, and you will learn along the way, and it is neither a shame nor a hindrance.

"Now, do hurry," she said warmly. "It won't be long until the unmasking, and wine to go with it."

You couldn't help the smile that overcame you. "Yes, of course. I shall."

With a final smile of her own, she left you to your devices, and you were alone once more.

For the first time that day, you felt oddly at ease. The tension you'd been holding simply seeped from you; you found yourself slumping, resting your weight upon a single arm. Your eyes fell shut, and you listened to the pleasant sounds of living around you.

It had been a long day. A heavy one. You'd be glad to put it behind you; you'd be glad to see your bed, in fact, but it wouldn't do to miss the celebrations. Yes, once you'd drank and danced yourself to sleep — and fastened your head correctly upon your shoulders — you would go to Maekar, and you would tell him quite plainly how much you appreciated being left in the dark.

You wondered how often Dyanna had to wrangle him into sense, like diverting a charging boar. It seemed a never-ending task, separating the man from the warrior. It wasn't that he was totally unpractised in the ways of sociability, either — only that, more often than not, he simply didn't care to engage in them. Who cared for niceties on the battlefield?

His was a blunt sort of love, fitting a blunt sort of man. You'd never trade it for anything, as unhappy as you presently were with him.

The door creaked behind you.

"Yes, yes," you called. "I'll be there in a moment. Surely you haven't drank all the wine already?"

"…That explains the behaviour of your staff, then," came a familiarly miffed voice.

Your head snapped to the doorway.

There, in his regular ebony-and-red, stood the very man of whom you'd been thinking. Maekar's hands were clasped behind his back, and he regarded you with his usual frown — one not borne of any particular grievance, but simple habit. There was darkness beneath his eyes, though; a certain limpness to his hair, and a pallid sort of colour to his already pale cheeks.

He was standing there, as if it were a day as customary as any.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

The girl stared at him — he could see those eyes of hers, even beneath the mask, even in the candlelit room. He could find them in a crowd, he thought. She often had the habit of widening them — batting her eyelashes and rounding her gaze into something innocent and girlish, but now they were narrowed, like those of a cat. Fixed upon him with a similar sort of intensity.

Clasped in his hands was a letter. It had arrived that morning — miraculously dry, for the weather, baring a seal of emerald green. It had come at breakfast, and the arrival of it had pierced the tension at the table like a hot knife through butter. There was no mistaking the emblem: a golden key and coin. Daella's sharp eyes had followed its path through the room to Maekar's hands.

The courier had ridden and sailed non-stop through the rain, and was sopping with water, completely ragged. Maekar would have felt some modicum of pity for the man if he hadn't been awaiting him the past fortnight.

Of course, he thought, it would come to me today, of all days.

He did not look forward to Dyanna's anniversary. Sun or rain, wind or humidity — he dreaded the day like he dreaded the point of a sword, and the apprehension of it begun long before the day itself.

He disliked remembering her loss; he disliked the sullenness that overcame his children, the sadness that seeped all joy from living. He disliked the constant, unremitting introspection the day forced him into, the kind that would have his mind wandering without his permission. He disliked saying the words aloud — the my wife is dead words — and he disliked, especially, the idea of saying them to you.

Dyanna was no longer his wife. She hadn't been for a long time, and his heart had bloomed anew, softened into something he didn't think possible. But habit was habit was habit, and Maekar was a decidedly old dog. He hadn't said the words to you.

It was a selfish decision. An easier decision. Courting you had been maddening, yes — infuriating, rife with little squabbles and tiffs punctuated by the sharpness of your smile. Every disagreement could be ended by a simple wave of your pretty hand and a murmur of his name — damn him, it was true. But no matter how vexing, nothing yet had cut as deeply as this.

It was easier to not look you in your eyes — narrowed, widened, batting eyelashes or not — and tell you that Dyanna was dead, and the day was approaching, and there was no stopping it. And there would be no stopping it. For as long as he lived, the day would cut, and he didn't love you any less.

You would be angry with him. He anticipated this.

"The winds," the courier had wheezed, holding the letter out, "they were most unfavourable, my lord."

Fuck the winds. He knew you to be as impatient as he was, and his own tolerance was wearing thin. He'd rolled his neck to dislodge some of his tension.

He'd tore the letter from the man's hand and sliced the seal away with a bread knife — pretending quite well to not feel the weight of his children's eyes on him. His eyes traced the lines of Lord Manwoody's hand, and not for the first time, he was glad of the man's presence in Braavos; your father was incredibly vigilant where you were concerned — you, and his coffers. Had Lord Manwoody not returned to Braavos to mediate your betrothal, Maekar feared it would've taken thrice as long as it already did.

He read the words. Agreeable. More to discuss followed, but it mattered not. He'd seen all he needed to see. He held a future in his hands — a future he'd coveted, and wished for, and desired for the better part of a year.

The letter was placed down, and he leaned back in his chair, abandoning the plate he'd been idly picking from. It felt as if a great weight had been taken from him — and yet he couldn't move, couldn't make use of the nervous energy gathering in his legs. He had to remember what day it was — what was expected of him, and what was deserved.

He visited the sept — not the royal sept, but the Sept of Baelor, which he only found himself in once every decade, it seemed. It was where he had gotten married, and now it was where he mourned. Aegon couldn't stop squirming in his seat during prayer, and Rhae barely prayed at all — just stared at the candles and dipped her fingers into the wax when she thought he wasn't looking.

He dined with his father and brothers, then; a quiet affair, mostly, though Rhaegel had insisted on a song to brighten spirits. Maekar hadn't the energy nor heart to stop him. He stared into his wine and thought about the letter in his pocket.

He sent away the septas and maids and put the children to bed; extinguished the candles, read a story (Ten Thousand Ships, an account of Queen Nymeria's battles during the Rhoynish Wars — Aegon's favourite, it seemed) and tucked them in amongst their furs and blankets.

It felt like an apology of sorts; he wondered if they knew where he'd go, now that they were sleeping. If they had felt the warmth of the letter burning a hole in his pocket as they prayed and ate. If it felt as much a betrayal as it had to Aerion.

Unconsciously he took the letter from his doublet held it in his hands as he made his way to your quarters. His thumb traced the folds in the parchment, the wax of the seal. He could see the words in his mind's eye. Agreeable. Finally. He'd sent the first letter just after the tourney — that same night he made his choice clear to his father — and two more had followed since, each more pedantic than the last.

(Annoyance aside, he supposed he could admire your father's solicitude. He often felt the same.)

He held that letter in his hands now, clutched behind his back. Your stare had not abated.

"The Unmasking of Uthero," you said finally. "A celebration from home."

"That explains the masks," he said, on account of not knowing how to broach the obvious. Your frown deepened. "Your lady-servant said you've had them on since yesterday."

"They are to be removed at midnight," you said.

"You went to the markets," he added. He couldn't help the note of disapproval that made itself known. "King's Landing is dangerous."

There was a pause -- a scoff, and you shook your head. "You have no right to indignation, my lord."

Unconsciously, a scowl pulled at his face. My lord. You turned from him, then, lifting a matchstick to a candle. "How fare the children?"

"They... it is a difficult day."

A slow inhale. "Yes. I… thought it best to give you space today. I had no desire to intrude."

"You've never cared much for intrusion before. And I have always welcomed it."

"This is different." Your voice had sharpened. He despised it, he realised, not being able to see your face. Your eyes were most expressive, but there was much to know in the curve of your mouth, the tension of your brow. "You know it to be."

Silence reigned. Neither moved.

Then: "I am displeased, Maekar."

His jaw set. He deserved it, he knew, but it didn't make accepting it any easier. "Yes, I… know."

"Many times I have been angry with you, in fact, and I have held my tongue."

At this, he took pause — shifted in place, and replied with a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Today, he could admit. But others? He was not prepared for others. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Do tell."

Your glare was piercing. "I recall your punishment for my entertaining other men, though it was by your own suggestion—" He winced— "Or when you took Lenila Lannister's favour; or, perhaps, when you became distant and impenetrable over the past few weeks—!"

"Excuse me—" he tried.

"—but no anger I have felt thus far has matched that of today," you said. You had bunched up your skirt in your hands — grabbed the wool between your fingers as if to ground yourself. "To wake up and be informed of the day by my lady servant. To be completely and utterly clueless in the savagery of the court, as if they haven't enough reason to hate me already!"

His mouth snapped shut. A great well of pity rose within him.

He had assumed, admittedly, that you were much like him — open in your dislike of the court and its politics, its two-faced fellows and its cut-throat diplomacy, but willing to ignore it in the end. You often complained to him of ladies' luncheons and snide comments, and he, in turn, made clear his strained relationship with almost everyone; it was one of those inescapable things, the reason why he missed Summerhall more than anything.

He was not Baelor, who excelled in such places despite his own hatred for it; Maekar was not learned in the art of communication, and had never had to be. He had no need for charm or soft words on the battlefield, in the lists.

"I have been in this place for nigh on a year. You have known of my hatred for it, and you still — you still leave me to fend for myself at every turn."

Something like guilt sat in his stomach. He was not accustomed to the feeling. It was greatly uncomfortable — stuck his feet to the floor, and his frown to his face, and his hands tight around the letter.

"I have never given thought to what the court says or thinks. They're cunts," he said. He didn't know whether these words were the right ones — wincing, he continued: "And I — apologise, for that. For all I've angered you."

The discomfort remained, but he moved around it regardless; left the doorway and neared you with, perhaps, less caution than he should. He paused a moment at your side — waited for you to swipe out and push him away, forbid him from your quarters — but there was nothing to fear. You only watched, quiet. Maekar eased into the space beside you, huffing as he dropped. His old bones creaked.

He was face to face now with what he realised was an alter. He had paid little attention to it — his focus had gone straight to you. The table was awash with figurines and statues, bundles of colourful cloth, strings of jewels and beads. He imagined your head bowed in deference and felt inclined to raise it. He couldn't imagine your submission to anyone who was not him; he did not want to imagine it.

(He knew, in reality, that you were more likely to command him than the other way around.)

It was quiet again. Upon his entrance, your staff had quietened down some, but he could still hear the gentle strumming of the lute, the low thrum of chatter. The letter sat in his lap.

He grit his teeth.

"I have no talent with words. Forgive me," Maekar spoke. "I… had every intention of returning to the Stormlands within a moon of my coming here. I have little love for the Keep — if it were not my father's seat, I would be happy to never return."

"And yet, you stayed."

He nodded. "And yet."

Your fingers had released your dress. He watched as they slowly, surely made their way from your lap to his — hesitating over the letter, before moving to take his hands in them. Your skin was soft as satin, free of calluses and roughness. He couldn't imagine his hands were very pleasant to hold — large and unwieldy, callused and brutish. Made to hold a mace, not a lady. You cupped them gently regardless.

"You know that I care for you," he said quietly. "If I had not come across you that night, I would have returned to Summerhall. You have been infuriating, and maddening, and I have been ailed by the very thought of you, and I have stayed here for you."

A laugh erupted from you — and his eyes shot to your face, because the laugh was a warbling thing, thick with tears. Your eyes were glassy. "Infuriating. How romantic!"

He almost snorted. It would be the first time in years someone had called him that. Things were like that with you, he found; the first in years to touch him gently; to temper his vexation; to look at him not as the realm's prickly, impatient prince, but with a fondness he craved like air.

"Saying such things aloud — it has never been where I excel." His voice had taken on a note of pleading, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You know this."

You hummed, thumb smoothing over a tensed tendon along the back of his hand. Your eyes were downcast. He wanted to rip that infernal mask off and see your face — your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your chin. "I thought, perhaps, that you thought me unimportant, or shallow. Unworthy of knowing."

The idea was almost offensive. Unimportant. He grimaced. Perish the thought. "Don't be a fool."

"Do not make a habit of it," you returned. Your eyes met again — and there they were. Widened and round, the picture of girlish innocence. "Do not close yourself to me again, Maekar. I couldn't bare it."

He swallowed. Traitorously, his hands twitched in yours, closing over your fingers. "I shan't."

"I will hold you to it. Now — what is it you've brought me?"

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

"The winds were unfavourable," Maekar said, peering down at the parchment. The seal — a sparkling, emerald green, emblazoned with the golden key and coin of your family — had been split from the parchment messily, as if he'd opened it with great impatience. "And your father has the fastidiousness of his daughter. The response took longer than anticipated."

You felt distinctly as if you were looking at your very own future — there, in his grasp, scrawled in dark ink in your father's hand. You knew what the letter would say. There would be no reason to deny that which you asked for, and yet fear persisted in that way it usually does: illogically, and foolishly.

"I can be patient," you heard yourself say, "when it suits me. Though I should scorn you, Maekar. You did make me wait terribly long."

A noise left him. "You have scorned me enough, girl."

The hush returned. You gathered your hands in your lap again — mourned the loss of his heat, and the feeling of his skin against you — and watched as his thumb worried the folded edge of the letter. A lump had formed in your throat.

"In truth," you said, before he could speak, "I spent the day in the sept, praying for a woman I did not know, unsure of my standing with you. I lit candles for her. Spoke to your foreign gods for her -- and for me, too."

You could feel his eyes on you. Yours remained resolutely on the letter.

"In those moments, I realised something terrible about myself; a gnawing, persistent desire I carry. I have tried to temper it — Neema says these things take time, but I fear it will never fully leave me. I've been this way since young."

"Are you trying to dissuade me? I shan't be."

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. "I wouldn't allow you to be dissuaded -- you are mine to keep. But you know not of what I speak, Maekar. The thoughts I have."

"Desire," he echoed — and it was back again, you remarked fondly to yourself, that edge of annoyance he carried in his voice, as if wholly unimpressed by your lamentations. "Whatever desires plague you, they plague me thrice over—"

"I thought of devious things," you said quietly. "Graceless, unkind, selfish things, in that place of gods. I cursed them for placing me along your path so late, and I thought of all the ways I could keep you, as if you were a dog to be kept. I wanted you to… to… be tortured by the very thought of me, to ache as I have."

Air shuddered in your lungs. Whatever words you thought to say next died in your throat, and you could not bring yourself to look at him again. Instead you watched him twist the ring upon his thumb, the ruby catching candlelight.

"Do you think me a septon or eunuch?" he demanded. Your head shot up, and his gaze was already fixed on you. You were reminded, quite suddenly, of the proximity between you — shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He eclipsed you almost completely, the King's Anvil, and he was bowed towards you now, shoulders hunched. If you hadn't had the mask, you might almost be nose to nose. His stare was intense. Desperate. Your heart thudded in your chest. "I am a man."

Your voice came as a whisper. "I know."

"You do not know the ways of men," Maekar said. "I promise you. You do not know the ways I have… have hungered."

Your mouth was dry. "What would you have me do? To… to ease it?" Quiet. Anything louder would shatter the space between you, delicate as spun sugar.

He stared at you for a second. "I—"

A raucous, piercing volley of cheers suddenly erupted — you jolted in place, head snapping to the doorway. There was nobody there, of course. The festivities had not reached you.

When you turned, Maekar hadn't moved. His eyes were still fixed on you, narrowed as if in annoyance. His mouth was screwed up, pursed. With a tilted head, you opened your mouth to ask what he was thinking — but his hands were coming up, and you didn't shrink from them. You watched them disappear from your view, but you could feel the heat of them as they neared your body — and then his fingers were on you, warm and thick, hooked beneath the chin of your mask. Your heart was rabbiting, now, breath stuck in your throat. You couldn't breathe — wouldn't breathe, rather, caught in the anticipation of his touch.

Suddenly your cheeks were being cooled by as he pulled the mask up and over your head, unfalteringly gentle. Strands of hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, damp with sweat, but you felt no embarrassment. His fingers were still splayed across your jaw — just as they had been, back in his tent at the tourney. You'd dreamed of them ever since — but in all those dreams, he had never looked at you like this. It was frightfully vulnerable, even with his jaw clenched as it was, and his eyes glaring as they were — there was something in his that had softened, had bared itself to you. How had you thought yourself second-fiddle? How could you, for one moment, see what he felt as anything less than what it was?

"Your father has given his permission," he said, and his voice was softer than you thought possible. Maekar Targaryen, the Anvil, was whispering to you with such fragility. Holding your face like something precious, his nose nudging against yours. "Marry me."

Oh, gods. You were not being punished. This could not be punishment, divine or otherwise. Your hands shook, and you squeezed them between your thighs — a grin so bright and satisfied pulling at your lips, and you hadn't the strength to dim it. They were the words you'd longed to hear. The affirmation your heart had long desired. To hear them spill from his lips -- to see his face contort in abashment, as if to say the words were a weakness that struck the very heart of him...

"I — I will, of course," you said, embarrassingly breathless. If you just leaned forward, you could… "I've -- only been waiting a year, you foolish man."

His laugh came in a sharp burst. "Yes, and you've been ever so patient."

"Only as much as you have," you said. "Though I shall warn you — I am horrendously jealous, and scornful, and spiteful, and I have tried terribly to shield you from it. If you marry me, I shan't be any better."

A pale eyebrow quirked. "Oh?"

"I may be worse, even," you added. "A wife must covet her husband, after all."

"You'll find no argument with me," he said — and, as if noticing for the first time how close he'd pulled you, released your jaw like it burned him. Maekar cleared his throat, sitting straight once more, though you didn't miss his eyes' traitorous path back to your mouth.

"Come," you said, shaking your head fondly. A giddiness took you over — you were tired no more, springing to your feet with zeal. "There is wine to celebrate, and we simply must inform everyone, of course, and — are you quite alright?"

With a pained groan, Maekar pushed himself to standing. He stretched tall, and you winced as you heard something pop.