as high as honor

"And it was his response that wounded you more than the careless words of others." Amarei concluded with a sigh. "I do not fault you. I have been cautioned to sharpen my senses to the machinations of people, as I believe most of us reared for court have. But if we are to brace ourselves for ill will at all times, and never forge trust in friendships, what will be left of us but fearful rumination?" There was truth in her speech; it was a taxing way of going about their world, the assumption that every hand extended in kindness concealed a blade.

"I am glad you say so. I did wish to ease your lot. If I failed to do so with my with words, I would hope at least the salve brought you some relief." She looked briefly to the other salve in the cloth bundle. "I do not wish to anger the maester by undoing your fresh bandages." She simply placed the second salve next to the one she had applied to his lip. "The other salve, to cool sore skin. If you have need of my aid again, you need only call upon me."

Amarei then neatly folded the cloth in her lap, and placed her hands above it. "I happened upon Lady Emphyria, whose dress hem had caught embers of an overturned brazier. She is well, although presumably somewhat shaken. I did think it all a terrible shame -- House Dalt's home is a marvel; I do hope it did not sustain too much damage."

her reaction was much the same as his own when he had first felt lord gyles's teeth. it took some effort not to laugh. “expect the unexpected, i suppose.” at the second mention of her aversion to violence, he made a mental note to avoid the subject. “i learned from a young age as a matter of necessity. the winged knight cast a long shadow over the eyrie.” the knights of the vale were formidable warriors and it was in keeping with his house’s tradition that the heir be a capable leader of such a force. “i enjoy the discipline more than the violence itself.”

“it is a narrow line to walk. to foster a relationship of any sort requires trust, both given and received. somehow, we must remain willing to take the first step.” there were far too many snakes in the grass to begin casting doubt on those he trusted. “if i can understand what turned lord gyles’s thoughts, our relationship may yet be stronger for it.” or, he would have a firmer understanding of where they stood.

“ever wise. the maester threatened an extra dose of milk of the poppy should i attempt to leave this room before they bid it.” luc wasn’t one to be intimidated by greying men in long robes, although he didn’t doubt the maester’s threat for a moment. her offer was generous regardless. “i shall remember that, my lady. though i hope such a need does not arise.”

"nyke rrëg'redhrys vēdorys nowā yn lentor tembyr, pōja nyke wï'zkhedrys issa daomio drakarys ônnc’hæën vēttys." (I regret the thought now but at the time, all I wished was to rain dragonfire once more.) Aemma admitted. She had to be honest to Luceryn. If not anyone else for he might be the only one to understand, she hoped.

He might have had more, she thought. Still maybe it was for the best that it had been her brother and not her that had gotten in the fight. For maybe the relations between the Vale ans the Reach could have suffered or maybe with his new house he was marrying into.

understanding drew a solemn nod. “skoros mau'dhdérsā issa kesor ao díd'ñ’tva. zaldrīzi issa daor, ao rrém'aínnedion rȳ kônn'thrôlza hen aōha ácti'öñzrys.” (what matters is that you didn’t. dragons or no, you remained in control of your actions.) whether right or wrong, it was their nature to reach for flames. she was so like their mother in that way. “sagon pr’ôudā hen kesor.” (be proud of that.)

his stare followed her words, the crease of his forehead deepening with every new injury. “ao issa. bés’hïdéshtor, nyke emagon ael'rheaedyā sagon fû'sshédva tolī.” (you are. besides, i have already been fussed over.) a small smile quirked his lips. “se nyke urnegon daor indigon skorī syt ao sagon de’nníëdën hēnka.” (and i see no reason why you should be denied the same.)

luceryn made towards the basket, collecting first the herbs, and then to his bedside table where the salves had been left. arms full, he returned to aemma. “emagon aōha deragon.” (have your pick.) he nodded first to the green springs. “āeksia tyr'ëllion prr'ovydædza kh'ærrbthva syt br’uïzinngion, aōha kris ñé'edtor pōnte. āeksia jï'ghdôwérrrys sá'lvëshën syt thoô'dhínngva se giez aōha khü’dstor.” (lady tyrell provided the herbs for bruising, should your legs need them. lady hightower the salves for soothing and healing your cuts.)

her gaze followed his to the faint stain upon his vest. relief settled across her features when he brushed most of it away with little effort. "only a few drops?" she repeated, feigning solemn consideration. "how fortunate for us both." the corners of her mouth curved upward again, unable to sustain the seriousness for more than a heartbeat. "i'm enjoying myself immensely," she admitted without hesitation. "dorne has entirely lived up to its reputation. the food is wonderful and i suspect half the hall has already found itself tangled in one scandal or another."

she tipped her head ever so slightly, studying him with open curiosity. "what about you? how have you been?" the question lingered only briefly before another followed in its wake. "more importantly," cerelle leaned in just enough for her voice to become conspiratorial. "have you seen anything interesting? or anyone interesting?"

luceryn listened with rapt attention to cerelle’s recounting, finding her good humor almost contagious. “i’m glad this has been a worthwile journey for you.” he briefly considered following her lead where he could, allowing himself to be swept up in the festivities. unfortunately, the arryn didn’t share in the same ability to sniff out drama as his lannister cousin.

“i have been well,” he responded politely, smiling at how quickly her focus shifted. “and i have seen many interesting people.” her meaning was heavily implied; unfortunately for the lady lannister, however, he had little to report. “i’ve learned of scarves from lord dayne, poisonous flowers from lady hightower, and the virtues of dornish red courtesy from my sister.” his head ducked fondly at the thought. “she should be somewhere about here sharing its merits with someone else.”

luc nearly wished there more to tell her. nearly. “i’m afraid you question the wrong sibling, i have spent much time on my own in the water gardens and stables.” he smiled apologetically. “have you seen anyone interesting? surely you have stumbled across some scandal worth repeating.”

"It was he who speculated on your mother's fate?" A crucial detail. It would bring her closer to unveiling the instigating parties, and where disdain was being fostered. "Dorne pours potent drink that loosens many a tongue. I am rather wondering if there is more than wine at work." Her words were a subtle prod -- perhaps, the wine flowed in abundance so that courtiers would reveal themselves just as easily. Or perhaps, they were simply being wined and dined most opulently, and some did not know to appreciate a good thing while it lasted.

Her eyes softened, then, her fingers stilling for a beat. "I am very sorry you and your sister were made to listen to such despicable talk. Wars have divided many of us, but surely the dead should be afforded the dignity the living so often deny one another."

Upon his question, she offered him another smile. As her hand withdrew, she grazed his chin with her clean fingers. "You are wise to seek amends." Amarei cleaned her fingers with the cloth she had bound her supplies with, and placed the salve on his bedside table. "If you would hear my counsel... Apologise for the violence inflicted, but not for your indignation. You may regret the blows you dealt, but not the cause that stirred your hand. Any honourable man will recognise the difference between the two." It was not a matter of courtesy. It was a matter of moral advantage. "And a clever man will know to answer grace with grace. If he proves wise, he will extend an apology of his own. If he does not, you will have done all that is required of you." It was a course as honourable, as it was beneficial for Luceryn. "Your mother's memory will stand protected, and any refusal to reconcile, will rest solely with Lord Tyrell."

“i learned as much when i met with his teeth.” it was said in jest, and he raised a bandaged hand to rub at the back of his neck. for all of his swordfighting instructor’s lessons, nothing could have prepared him to expect a man’s bite.

he nodded. “when the conversation strayed to her, he made light of the rumors of her capture.” he need not give breath to a repetition of the lord’s wording, nor the laughter that followed. “i would not have struck him otherwise. i believed our houses stood united." his eyes narrowed. “if it is wine that spills the true thoughts of men, i would rather they remained sober enough to own them.” lady hightower’s words offered a stark warning. lady hightower's words offered a stark warning. was there more at work than tongues loosened by hospitality? feasts held to provide opportunity to air grievances — and reveal traitors. yet what was to be gained by turning guest against guest?

“you are kind to say so.” luceryn inclined his head. “she gave her life believing it served a purpose. i could bear her death more easily than seeing her memory treated carelessly.” luc considered her counsel in silence, his gaze lingering on the salve she had set upon the bedside table. it was much as he thought, and hearing it from another secured his path. he had acted rashly but not unjustly. “you offer sage counsel.” his thumb traced absently along the edge of the bedpost. “i shall hope lord tyrell is as clever as i have always believed him to be.” eccentric, perhaps, but not as tactless as his words might imply.

“The maesters assure me my brother will make a full recovery soon enough.” Gyles had accumulated his fair share of bruises and quarrels over the years. Compared to some of the scrapes he had managed to survive, this was hardly the worst of them.

She allowed herself the smallest sigh. “He remains entirely himself, which I am told ought to be reassuring.” The headaches, the dizziness, and the physician’s insistence that he avoid bright light for a few days seemed details better kept to herself. “He will be perfectly well.”

Her brown orbs lingered on Luceryn a moment longer, quietly noting the careful way he carried himself, the stiffness hidden beneath his robe that no amount of composure could quite disguise.

“And you, my lord?” The question was gentle. “Will you be able to enjoy what remains of the festivities?” Her eyes met his. “And I would ask that you answer honestly. I promise the truth, whatever it may be, will offend me far less than courteous lies.”

“i’m glad to hear it.” much as his actions might appear to prove otherwise, he did not wish harm on the other man. they had served as wards together, boys grown to men, and in that time came to establish a trust in one another. if a fracture had formed somewhere through the years, a resentment beyond ill-advised jests, he was not aware of it. yet the future of their houses depended on him getting to the bottom of it, and for that, only a meeting with lord gyles would do.

rosalyn’s question drew his full attention, and he paused only long enough to search her features for a trap. finding none, he sighed. if it was honesty she asked for, who was he to decline it. “truthfully, i am not sure,” he admitted. “my injuries are not severe, bruises and burns that will heal so long as i heed the maester’s requests.” of which he was certain there would be many, if the large dram of milk of the poppy they’d given him was any indication. “however, i cannot promise to enjoy it, much less knowing the sentiments still harbored by many in attendance, but i will mind myself.”

then, earnestly, “i promise i won’t give in to impulse. with your brother or anyone else.”

luceryn’s gaze fell briefly to the bottle, noting the seal pressed into the wax. a small smile touched his features. “i have always been fond of highgarden’s hippocras.”

he lifted his eyes back to her. “though the thought behind the gift is appreciated far more than the drink itself. it was thoughtful of you to come, lady rosalyn. i hope your evening was not entirely marred by what followed.”

“Watch your wine,” Emeric said, “And begin drinking water now. You do not want to find yourself too hot and too dry in the Dornish desert and it takes more than a day to put enough water into your body.” 

“And leave your armor behind. Ride in leathers or padded trousers but wear light, loose clothes wherever you can. Steel gets too hot beneath the Dornish sun and too unforgiving for the rise and fall of the Dunes.” 

He caught one end of the scarf draped loosely about his neck between thumb and forefinger. It was soft white linen, embroidered at the edge with the little grey and purple stars of his house.  

“Go to the bazaar and find yourself some of these,” he instructed. “Come to my sister or I on the morning of the race and we will show you how to wrap it properly. It will keep the worst of the sand from your eyes and mouth when the winds begin to blow.”

luceryn listened to him closely, taking note of each point lord emeric highlighted. water, riding leathers, loose scarves. “many tricks, then,” he commented around a smile.

he admired the scarf for a moment. the scarves of the eyrie were thick wool, meant to stave off the bracing chill of the mountain winds. they were hardly suitable for the conditions, and he was grateful for the demonstration. it was the gesture of a good host to see where a guest local knowledge and remedy it. “i will purchase several.”

“i appreciate your advice, and will be certain to take you up on your offer.” both spoken and unspoken — surely the bazaar would have sugar cubes on offer. if it would endear solara, he would make it his mission to carry a small bundle in his pockets. “will you and your sister be competing?”

starter: @ofembcrs

she walked with a fury into the chambers. Aemma blew off any of the handmaidens and others who tried their best to talk to her though they held caution in her voice as she made her way to see her brother. it felt as if it all happened so fast.

one moment she was starting to slightly enjoy herself. the next a comment was made about her mother and what had transpired in Hellhot. she could only stare at her goblet as the memory of receiving the letter of what happened before she heard a laugh and few of colorful words spoken when a fight then broke out. the Arryn remembering staring before she jumped into try and break it up when realizing no one else seemed to want to interfered, with more chaos following afterwards

"Ao emagon vēndar Tyr'ëllion nyke, Lûce'rhyñā. Nowā ao issa kh'ürrdhtor." (You should had left the Tyrell to me, Luceryn. Now you are hurt.)

it was a small fact known to a few that when Aemma was angry she spoke in high valyrian and that was what she just did to Luceryn once she made eye contact with him. she heard from the maestar of his injuries. it should have been her instead to have fought and now she heard the whispers of what the people spoke. she wondered if her Uncle was regretting having made them all come here.

there was a force to his sister that few had the privilege of witnessing. she had the remarkable ability to channel the energy of a rogue wave, swiftly moving through space with effortless menace. when paired with xylean, she was a sight enough to strike fear into the hearts of men.

aemma’s entrance found him lounging on a chaise, gaze fixed upon the ceiling, counting the small bubbles where the paint had lifted beneath the dornish heat. he had just reached forty-two when the doors clambered open.

luceryn had to fight the urge to laugh at her words. “kesīr nyke emagon vēndar tyr'ëllion ao, zirȳ emagon pryjagon ja’ewtor má'thkhhën zirȳla karlin.” (if i had left the tyrell to you, he would have a broken jaw to match his head.)

the maester hadn’t been forthcoming in their report, as if wary luc might seek out the man again, but from what he understood, lord gyles was still struggling to form words. aemma's assessment wasn't wrong; lord gyles had made light of that very point — “fly away little bird. oh, you can’t! you don’t have your dragon”. just before he was met with luc’s fist. “pōnte daor.” (they would not.) and should they have and the fight continued, the night would have ended very differently.

for the first time, luceryn considered it wise that jaelor was far from the dornish shores. he rose, moving to stand before her. his brow furrowed as he searched her features for any obvious injuries. “issa ao kh'ürrdhtor?” (are you hurt?)

Amarei drew the chair from his desk to his bedside, settling into it before she spoke again. Her gaze did not leave his visage. "Lord Tyrell. He never once struck me as a brute. In fact, we danced together before journeying to Lemonwood. He was a touch reluctant, but polite enough." A brief pause. "You were wards together, were you not? A shared childhood, of sorts." A brotherly scrap, then? She did wonder what exactly had unfolded.

"I will do my best to apply a gentle hand." Unravelling the honey salve, she applied a little to the tip of her finger and leaned in, dabbing it onto his split lip. Her ministrations were slow and tender, and his question caused her to smile faintly. His glance toward the closed door had not escaped her. "It is safe to say word is spreading across Dorne as we speak, and it will travel north swiftly and mercilessly. That is the way of the world." Another dab of salve. "If we do not control the narrative with a firm grip, it will control us. Malign us." A soft exhale. The scent that clung to her wrists was of jasmine and the delicate blue flowers they had admired together in the Water Gardens. Perhaps it would merely delight his senses -- perhaps he would recognise the note. "Fists do not shape reputations, my lord. Words do."

“we were. he was never one for the blade, but he was clever.” luceryn’s brow furrowed. “he of all people should have understood the weight of his words.” as he spoke, he settled at the edge of the bed. it was little secret that his mother’s body had never been recovered. he wanted to believe that she was lost atop her dragon, forced himself to accept that small mercy. it had taken years to quiet the persistent question that lingered — what if. last night, it had reared its head again. a jesting lord suggesting that she had suffered in a dornish dungeon. held beneath hellholt. tortured.

“to speculate — here of all places, in our presence— about her fate, and not expect a response…” in front of aemma. even knowing apologies would have to be made, he was not certain the evening could have unfolded differently, short of never setting foot at lemonwood at all.

his spine straightened as she worked, determined to remain still for her benefit. he inhaled against the ache in his ribs, the pain checking the darkening of his thoughts. with it came the scent of jasmine, accompanied by something lighter, more familiar. its name escaped him. we. the word gave him pause, though not an unwelcome one. she spoke as plainly as he he had asked, and it was an honesty he respected. “and what words shall i have for lord tyrell?”

Location: Luceryn's private chambers, the Old Palace.

Amarei did not leave much in life to chance. Where she could, she would exert what influence had, subtly, steadily, and ideally so that it would appear not as calculation, but diligence. Consideration. Before she had requested to enter Lord Luceryn's chambers, she had spoken to the maester who tended to his injuries. No more than a gentle-hearted lady's genuine concern, a friend's lament. She stepped past his doorstep with supplies wrapped in cloth, propriety compelling her to hover by his bed's edge, and inspect from a distance what damage the altercation had wrought.

Men, for all intents, were little more than wayward children. Instead of settling a dispute sensibly and employing what skill of debate they had surely been taught, they would answer slights with blows. She gazed upon his burst lip, and what further injuries she could make out, and vented the gentlest of sights. Bleeding fools, the lot of them.

"I would not impose myself upon the maester's expert care, my lord, but I heard of your affliction and brought you salves from my own satchel of remedies. One that is cooling and should ease aggravated skin. And another with honey, to help keep wounds clean and aid in their mending." She looked to the salves nestled in the cloth, and fluttered her dark lashes upward to Luceryn again. "The cooling one for your burns, perhaps. The other for your lip. If you would have me assist you."

the chamber was silent, the only sound the occasional scratch of a quill across parchment. luc had managed only a few lines of his father's letter before the maester's instructions —and the persistent ache beneath his ribs— persuaded him to surrender the desk for the bed.

the earlier visit from lady tyrell, followed by the maester’s morning assesment, had left luc with much to consider and little room for distraction. their instructions were clear: he was to remain abed until the purple splotches across his ribs ceased to ache with every inhale. he stared at the basket beyond the foot of the bed, at the fresh bread that poked out from it. the consideration that so plainly reflected his lack thereof.

his quill stilled when he heard footsteps. lady hightower’s appearance drew him from the letter entirely, habit compelling him to rise. the movement pulled sharply at the bruising beneath his ribs, and his jaw clenched in frustration as he steadied himself against the bedpost for the briefest of moments before the discomfort settled into a dull ache.

luceryn's gaze dropped to the bundle in her hands as she explained herself. “minor injuries, my lady. still, your thought is most appreciated.” it was little surprise that amarei’s understanding of plants extended into herbal remedies, although he scarcely expected her to share it with him. he looked to the salves once more. “if you would lend your assistance, i would be grateful.”

a faint smile touched his lips as he considered the irony of it. “it seems i did not heed our conversation as closely as i ought to have.” his lip had only just stopped bleeding, reopened by the maester’s prodding.

“tell me truthfully.” his gaze flicked toward the door. “how far has word spread?”

All the relief Rosalyn had felt upon learning they were not under attack vanished the moment she discovered her brother had been involved in the fighting.

The rest of the night passed without sleep.

The lanterns had long since been extinguished, the music replaced by distant murmurs and hurried footsteps beyond the pavilion, yet every time she closed her eyes another version of the story found her. Lord Arryn. Gyles. Blood. Steel. Politics. Every possibility seemed worse than the last.

By dawn, she had accepted that sleep would not come. Because she knew that by sunrise, the story would become The Lord of Highgarden came to blows with the heir to the Vale during the wedding festivities.

And, knowing Gyles, she had little difficulty believing he had given the realm something to gossip about. Whether he had been right or wrong scarcely mattered now. The story would not wait for explanations.

So she dressed before it had the chance to spread through Sunspear.

If nothing else, she hoped to reach House Arryn before resentment had the opportunity to harden into something more permanent.

She set about preparing a basket herself.

Fresh bread still warm from the ovens. Preserved fruits. Honey. A small assortment of pastries from the previous evening. Herbs said to soothe bruising. Flowers borrowed from the arrangements in her own pavilion. A bottle of one of Highgarden’s lighter wines.

Thoughtful. Deliberate. Impossible to mistake for anything but sincere.

“Lord Arryn.” Rosalyn’s voice was gentle as she knocked upon the pavilion’s entrance, the basket balanced carefully in one arm. “I hope I have not come at an inconvenient hour.” A brief pause. “I wished to apologize for the distress my brother has caused you and Lady Aemma.”

for luceryn, the evening had the ended in a blur; a flurry of hands, and torn silks. it had happened swiftly, first a jape then a jest on his honor earning the first swing. his aim, frayed at the edges by dornish red, failed to take into account the other man’s height. his fist collided with lord tyrell’s head, and then the sharp sting of teeth sent him reeling backwards. only for them to tumble together into the ropes, the pavilion collapsing around them.

he had sent the maester away to tend to others, insisting there were better things for them to do. iron/copper filled his mouth, but the wounds were surface, nothing more. he was fine.

and now, as the wine’s fog lifted and the last of the milk of the poppy left his system, the weight of his actions hung heavy across his shoulders.

he would need to apologize to lord tyrell for his behavior, warranted or not, and his hosts for the disruption to their festivities. unsettled as he was by his time in dorne, he had not wanted his own actions to cast a shadow across his uncle’s alliance.

moreover, he needed to inform his father of the dispute before the repercussions reached the eyrie, but first he chose the most pressing task: penning an apology to his sister.

her face would haunt him. when the canopy collapsed, beyond the burn of the rope as it wrapped around his forearm, she had been standing there. caught in the middle of a fight that he’d never intended. luc had done it for their mother, for her, for the vale. and yet, in the light of morning, it carried less of the honor duty demanded he protect.

the note was short yet managed to hold three variations of ‘i’m sorry’, and was to be delivered to aemma’s chambers just after she woke with a dish of candied ginger. wine had been the least of their troubles, though it was at least one he could solve from his pavilion.

he had just sent the letter when a knock drew him back to the door.

thinking it to be the maesters returned for their morning exam, he reached for his robe, wincing as he cinched the fabric across his bruised ribs. lady rosalyn was the last person he expected to find on the other side of the door.

“lady tyrell, not at all.” he stepped back to allow her entry, gaze falling across the basket. “you owe me no apology, my lady. your thoughtfulness humbles me, particularly given the cirumstances. it’s i who owe an apology to you and your good house.”

news traveled quickly; he would have to write faster. “my actions last night do not reflect the conduct becoming of a lord, much less of an ally.”

his hands clasped behind his back, and he hid his grimace behind a bowed head. “it was never my wish to sow discord between our houses, and i hope you will accept my sincere apology.”

"Well, I know better than to seek favour from the Stranger," a soft exhale, coloured in a wry sort of amusement as she remarked on his musing. Amarei had drifted closer, effortlessly so, dancing as closely to the colourful blooms as she did to the Lord Arryn -- a calculated move, so as not to risk offending propriety. "But I can assure you, I would guard yours just as steadfastly." There was a glint in her dark gaze, warm and curious. "With some exceptions." Amarei countered when he spoke of plants, and not quite of just that. "There are some that thrive entirely of their own efforts. And some that would wither, without proper care." There was a certain finesse to gilding speech into metaphors, without sounding contrived or grating. When another matched her, Amarei found herself all the more compelled to continue. "But even those that would depend on cultivation are much less fickle than the machinations of court, I agree."

She settled comfortably into his reflectiveness, allowing it to stretch into a pause in conversation. To contemplate his words, to curate her own. "We have become too practised at the art of veiling our truths. But it is safer to wrap them in silk, is it not?" No one could afford to be naïve here -- they either learned to the rules of the game, or they were sacrificed to it. "And yet... even silk frays. Eventually."

“exceptions,” he repeated, a brow lifting in amusement. “and what might those be?” it wasn’t often that his conversations at court held genuine interest, much less strayed towards jest. that is, without the aid of ale. rarely could he speak freely. “it is. but is safer always best?” he countered, not for the sake of argument, but consideration. “perhaps it frays because it was never meant to be there in the first place.” her answer interested him, the inner-workings of it far more valuable than flowers and silks. “we don’t fashion scabbards from cloth.”

an amicable pause settled between them as she accepted the bloom. the brief brush of her fingers against his did not go unnoticed, though he betrayed little of it beyond the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “it was. i had cousins and dragons to occupy my time. i was very lucky.” save for the occasional adversarial encounter with a certain crown prince, his wardship was largely uneventful. “not to mention, the southron climate was more favorable to jaelor.” the dragon would have enjoyed the heat currently scalding the back of his neck.

“still, there are some places no amount of familiarity can make feel like home.” he looked back to her. “and you?” with so little distance between them, his voice settled into a lower register. “did oldtown give you all you hoped it would?”

"perhaps its the dragon fangs being bared instead, dear brother." she quipped. Aemma was quick to fire back to her brother. it felt as if they had much time to make up for ever since they were away. ever since they were around each other again once more. she no longer had to spend her days writing letters about her day to him when she could tell him in person herself.

luc tilted his head thoughtfully. “perhaps, though a dragon might be kinder.” his teeth flashed in a broad grin. it was a comfort, having her within reach again after so long in the south. the years apart had sat heavier than he liked to admit.

“i feel the same.” the king had his reasons, and he was not quick to question them, but aemma spoke truthfully. “but we’ll be home soon enough.” their presence seemed to be little more than a symbol of unity, rather than necessity. “i’ve begun preparing for the desert race in hopes it will keep me distracted for some time. and i heard there are refreshments at the dance lessons — we should make an appearance. remind them we not only skilled atop our dragons.” he nudged her shoulder lightly, catching the way she toyed with her skirts. “it was an awful journey, wasn’t it? at times i’m certain it would have been faster had we crossed westeros on foot.”

"That you have." She smiled, the gesture reaching her eyes. "I do not find it all that strange. We have all been shaped for court since we were out of swaddling clothes. We are taught when to smile, how to weigh our words lest we spend them carelessly. And most of us heed our lessons." Briefly, she thought of the relations she entertained to one particular Ironborn. The thought drifted away as quickly as it had come. "But it is tiring, is it not? To watch and measure -- to be watched and measured, incessantly." Had any of it ever tired her, in truth? She found she had long fashioned it into a source of motivation. "It can feel impossible to determine where courtesy ends, and honesty begins." For all the Dornish levity at play, Sunspear was as much of a game as any other court that lay north of it. In fact, Amarei believed it more dangerous than most -- wine, dance, and merriment, all served to loosen tongues, after all.

When he steered her focus to the tangle of blue, she lingered for a moment, and shook her head softly. "No, my lord." Fingers reached for the blooms, ghosting over petals. "These are perfectly honest in their beauty."

“i will carry it to my last breath.” then, his smile turned wry. “once i'm met with the stranger, though, i'm afraid all promises are beyond my keeping.” there was a quality to the lady’s speech that held his interest, as if imparting several meanings beneath the guise of conversation. he wasn’t so naïve as to believe that her lessons were ever far from her thoughts. few, if any, could truly evade the game. there were those worth listening to twice, and it seemed the lady of the reach was one of them.

“perhaps that’s why we gravitate to nature. plants ask very little of us.” would that he could remain in the gardens until given leave to return to the eyrie. “my mother sent me to ward when i was young; she believed there was no better teacher than my uncle’s court.” luceryn’s voice softened, looking past lady hightower to some distant point in the canopy. reflective in a way he often reserved for the furthest corners of the vale. “she wasn’t wrong. but there are days i wonder whether we become too practiced.”

satisfied with her explanation, his hand joined hers among the blooms, carefully plucking the bluest one. its vine snapped evenly, and he turned it between his fingers for a moment before offering it to her. “for your collection.”

the feast had only grown more animated with the coming of night. where the dornish sun had dominated the celebrations earlier in the day, lanternlight now claimed the old palace instead, casting everything in shades of amber and gold. music drifted effortlessly through the feasting hall, accompanied by the steady murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter that seemed to ripple from one end of the room to the other. servants moved gracefully between tables carrying silver platters laden with roasted meats, sugared fruits, and wine that never seemed to stop flowing.

cerelle found herself rather fond of it all. perhaps a little too fond. it had been impossible to remain seated for long. she'd already wandered from one end of the hall to the other twice over, stopping to admire embroidered tapestries, exchange pleasantries with unfamiliar nobles, and shamelessly sample enough desserts to warrant at least a small amount of guilt. not enough to stop, of course, but enough to acknowledge it.

with another goblet of arbor gold balanced carelessly in one hand and her attention fixed upon a particularly elaborate arrangement of blood oranges and pomegranates decorating the high table, cerelle continued onward without so much as a glance in front of her. which proved to be a spectacular mistake.

she collided rather unceremoniously with someone rounding the corner from the opposite direction. the impact wasn't enough to send either of them sprawling, though it did slosh wine dangerously close to the rim of her goblet. "oh!" she exclaimed, blinking once before looking up, the surprise lasting all of a heartbeat before dissolving into an apologetic smile.

"well." she glanced briefly at her still-full goblet, then back at the unfortunate soul she'd nearly barreled into. "that could have gone considerably worse -- unless, of course, i've just spilled wine down the front of you." her expression shifted into one of genuine concern as she leaned ever so slightly to inspect the damage. "...have i?"

luceryn kept an eye on the platters of food, content to eat more than his share of roasted meats. dornish wine was renowned for its strength and palatability, and he was careful to resist its temptation until his stomach was well-lined. he wasn’t particularly eager to wake with a headache.

as the night pressed on, his resolve began to dwindle. he had just risen from the table to seek the serving boy carrying a flagon when someone collided with him.

he reflexively raised a hand to steady them, recognition bringing a smile to his lips. “lady lannister.” he dipped his head in a small bow. the formality of the feast wasn’t lost on him, and he was quick to fall back on his manners. he followed her gaze down, spotting a faint splash of wine across the front of his vest. “only a few drops.”

he smoothed a hand over the fabric, satisfied when most of the wine wiped off. “it won’t be fatal.” he smiled. “are you enjoying yourself?”