love,

He draws you both to a stop, turns to face you, and slowly lifts a hand towards your face, which is not what you were expecting at all. You hold still, but he pauses before he can touch you.

"I noticed a mark, just here," and his hand drifts, a question all on its own. You nod slowly to give permission, only half listening and instead waiting with a held breath for his touch.

His thumb alights ever so gently on your bottom lip, just to the left of center. Right where one of Lady Havarn's guards had split it when he hit you for trying to escape that second time.

"You did not have this, when last we met. May I ask how you got such an injury?"

His query is soft but you think about how quietly he moves through the world, and how it means no one ever sees him coming. You are baffled that he's able to find the mark so unerringly in the dim light of the lanterns. You wonder how long ago he noticed it, and how long he has waited to ask.

You don't want to lie, you never want to lie to him again.

"I got it on the road to Oldtown, your Grace," is where you start. He leaves his thumb on your lip, so your mouth brushes over his skin as you speak. You drag in a ragged breath, and he feels it steal across his skin. He breathes deep too, matching you. His gaze is fixed on your face, flickering down to your lips, and then up to your eyes.

"On the road?" He asks, prompting you to continue. He passes his thumb over the scar once, then twice. The tether between the two of you vibrates under the pressure of its draw. You swallow, wondering why your mouth is suddenly so dry.

"There was a…small misunderstanding, let's say, between myself and the guards Lady Havarn sent with me."

"Oh?" He asks blandly, too blandly. There's fire climbing high in his mismatched eyes. Behind you, where your handmaid and the Captain walk you hear Nym snort. You don't see it, but you can somehow feel the air around you all tightening with a strange crackling energy. Baelor has it, from the corner of your eye with a quick glance you can see Tarly, who was leading your small party is tense with it. You hazard a guess the Captain is as well. You don't know what else to say.

Baelor brushes the scar one more time, before drawing away. As he pulls back however, you feel his forefinger linger along the edge of your jaw like an apologetic goodbye. Every touch this man lays against your skin is something your body remembers like a wound. There is no pain, no blood, no violence to it, but it cuts as deep all the same. To the bone, to the quick, you are cut. And after each time, you'd beg for the blade of his touch, of his attention, again. You don't know why pleasure doesn't leave its own scars. You almost wish it did. Those are marks that you would wear with pride.

He takes your hand, and tucks you back in against his side. You feel the tight coil of energy in his body. He's tense, like he's waiting for a fight. You all begin walking towards the ale house once more.

"I'm starting to realize you have a powerful gift for the understatement, my lady," the Prince says lightly. He half turns to look over his shoulder at the Captain. "Captain, you met up with the lady's guards, did you not?"

The Captain nods tightly, "I did your Grace. And I do remember their names and faces, in case you were wondering."

"Excellent, Captain, thank you. I will require that information from you later."

You think fleetingly of the guard that had blackened your eye and cut your lip. The same one that had taken your money to buy the chains, and the one that had bruised you while he waited impatiently for you to swear your "vows" to the motherhouse. You think for a moment of minimizing his actions, of trying to soften them.

But no, you think to yourself. You don't have to do that. You don't have to protect a man who didn't offer you anything except pain and ridicule. You're not the cause of whatever the Prince plans to visit upon him. He chose his path, the consequences are his own to bear. You have certainly had to bear the marks of yours.

"If you upset the Bloodraven's careful plans because of a desire for revenge on my behalf, he will probably do something drastic." Is what you say instead, reminding Baelor that House Havarn and its people, in many ways, can't be punished. Not yet, anyway.

"Let me worry about our mutual raven messenger." Baelor replies easily.

"I would pay gold to see you call him that to his face," you laugh.

"I would not demand so high a favor, for such a thing," Baelor teases.

"Oh? And what would you demand as price, my Prince?" You ask, still smiling at him.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, and then looks down at where your hand rests on his forearm. With his free hand, he reaches over, and with a surprising bit of boldness that you weren't fully expecting, he grasps your handkerchief from where you had tucked it into the sleeve of your dress earlier. Slowly, so that it drags tantalizingly over your inner wrist, he draws it free.

You are right back to being breathless in a single heartbeat. You watch as he tangles the small bit of cloth, that you have embroidered with little suns at the corners, around his fingers. A true lovers favor, you think helplessly. If he were tilting at a tourney, you might have tied that around his arm or wrist. Had he won a tourney, perhaps he would crown you his queen of love and beauty.

"May I keep this, my lady?" he asks softly.

"Of course, my Prince," you whisper, eyes fixed on him.

He smiles at you, "Thank you, my lady," he replies, and tucks the your favor into his tunic, over his heart.

The two of you continue walking up the street to the ale house. You can feel your heartbeat thrumming in your ears, and a burning energy has settled into your bones. You're not sure if you want to run until your lungs burst, or drag him into a kiss until neither of you can breathe anymore.

The walk isn't long enough for you to reach a decision, and you are left with only his kiss to the back of your hand in farewell. He holds your eyes for a moment longer than normal, and you think you can see some of that burning in him too.

He, the Captain and Tarly set off into the night to return to the boat. You and Nym watch from the doorway of the ale house until they vanish from sight.

"Alright, my lady?" Nym asks, finally, nudging you gently with her elbow.

You break out of your reverie, and shudder through a breath or two trying to calm your still racing heart.

"Could you purchase some extra handkerchiefs from the market tomorrow?" You ask her, still watching the street where you last saw Baelor.

"Of course," Nym says, laughter in her voice. You glance over at her and she's smirking at you.

You roll your eyes at both her and yourself.

"That's a relief," you say. "I caught him up and pouring over letters from Kings Landing yesterday morning just before dawn."

Valarr doesn't sit, instead he puts his hands on the back of one of the chairs around the table and leans on it. Matarys drops into the chair across from you, and theatrically makes grabbing hands wordlessly towards the teapot. Nym rolls her eyes, but obligingly pours him a cup and then watches in horror as the younger prince starts heaping sugar into it.

"Matarys told me he's staying up after the rest of us head to bed sometimes, looking over things and replying to ravens." Valarr reports, exasperated. You glance over at Matarys and the boy nods, aggrieved.

"The last time I caught him at it, I made him play cards with me for a bit until he got sleepy," Matarys says, with a salute of his now sugar bedeviled tea.

"Sir Tarly has told me something similar," you say, equally exasperated.

You slide the new sample sentence you have carefully inked on a page to Nym. She's got her practice quill and a small bottle of ink. You have picked up her lessons again now that you can more easily afford the tools to do so. The two of you spend an hour or so over breakfast every morning going over a new page.

"I don't know how to make him stop," Valarr huffs.

"You can't," you answer with a shrug.

Valarr gives you a look, unimpressed and more than a little annoyed. You chuckle just a bit, because while Baelor has never looked at you like that it's funny to get a sense of how he would look if he ever did. Valarr hears it too often so you don't tell him that he is a near perfect copy of his sire.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound defeatist, but you are very well aware your father is a stubborn fool."

"Yes," Valarr says dryly, "But I'm hoping there's a way."

"We're doing what we can. I distract him, you're taking care of what ravens you can, Prince Matarys is dragging him off to the beach or playing cards with him at night, Prince Moran keeps inventing new games to try, even Ser Tarly has started guilt tripping him into going to bed early by claiming he's tired."

"How can one man be so much work?" Valarr asks looking up at the ceiling as if the gods would answer. Matarys snorts in his tea cup.

You give the Prince Valarr a sincere smile.

"Think of it this way: it's a sign of how well he is loved," you point out. "That he inspires such care in so many."

Valarr gives you a look you can't interpret, one that reminds you that for all his likeness to his father, he is his own person. Nym, on the other hand must see something you don't because she suddenly sets her quill down.

"Excuse me a moment, my lady. I see the Captain and I need to ask him about the belt I'm making him," she explains as she rises.

You look out to the garden and indeed the Captain has shadowed Valarr out to the pavilion, but seems to be half halfheartedly trying to hide behind an insufficiently tall topiary off to the left in the direction of the covered hall.

"Is he still trying to refuse your gift?" You ask, amused.

"Yes," Nym mutters, aggrieved. "He bought me the cards so I could tablet weave again and he's going to suffer the consequences."

The Captain can clearly hear you both because he steps sheepishly out from behind his hedge.

"Maybe start with a smaller gift? Ease him into it?"

Nym gives you an incredulous look. "Did he ease me into it by getting me both cards and a loom? And thread?"

"I think he's trying to show his appreciation for your actions in the Sept."

"And I am trying to show my appreciation for his generosity. So he's going to stand still and tell me what his favorite colors are. Otherwise I'm using all of them and he can be the Rainbow Kingsguard."

"There are worst fates," Matarys remarks with a grin.

Nym huffs and shakes out her skirts.

"Tell him that, your Grace," she replies. She curtsies to Valarr and Matarys and then goes sweeping around the table and down the stairs of the pavilion. The Captain waits for her at the bottom of the steps.

"My lady -"

"Not a lady, ser." Nym says for what you know to be the hundredth time. Her voice has never had a trace of annoyance about it though, so you've never intervened with the Captain on her behalf. You're always on the look out for if that changes however. Nym is not just your handmaid. She's your friend, and you'll not have her be the target if any unwanted attention. Even if it's coming from someone you also consider a friend.

The two of them had talked a great deal on the journey to Sunspear. Nym was nervous about her 'borrowing' the Captain's knife, and how he'd feel about it. The Captain in turn was extremely curious to know where she'd learned to use it so expertly.

Nym had managed to distract the man somewhat by speaking at length about her training as a tablet weaver in her youth. But that distraction technique had failed in the long run because the Captain just ended up buying her supplies for the craft in Godsgrace when the boat stopped to replenish food and water.

The Captain doesn't know what to do with Nym's offer to make him a new belt, or strap, or whatever he'd like to suit his own tastes. And so far you've enjoyed watching the two of them bicker good naturedly over it.

Valarr takes a seat at the table on your other side but doesn't make himself a plate from the provided food. You frown a little and push the plate of fruit you haven't touched yet closer to him in clear invitation.

"You should eat, your Grace," you chide gently as you can. Valarr is a man grown and doesn't need you to look after him, but you can't help it. He has been pushing himself hard to take care of things before Baelor is even aware of them. And that means oftentimes being up before Baelor is, intercepting ravens and news by making sure he's always close by to the steward and castellan rather than out enjoying the gardens or the beach.

He gives you that look again, the one you can't quite understand. It's like he's looking for something, but at the same time nothing specific. Just…watching.

Valarr pulls the dish of fruit closer to himself and picks up a fork from the setting. He goes for the dragon fruit first and neatly eats two pieces.

He looks out of the pavilion, watching as the Captain starts a slow walk around the pond with Nym following along. They both stay within eyesight and shouting distance though, always aware of their duties those two.

You wait, patient. You know that some people just take time to gather their thoughts. You slowly start writing a new sentence for Nym to work on at the top of a new scrap piece of parchment.

"When they let me into my father's sick room at Ashford," Valarr begins. "They told me to prepare myself. That his injury was grievous and was probably going to kill him."

You set your quill down and give your full attention to Valarr. Matarys sets his tea cup down on the saucer suddenly and also seems intent on what Valarr is saying. You wonder if Valarr has spoken with anyone about this before.

"I sat up with him all night," Valarr say and here he looks down at his hands. "I held his hand. I talked to him. Told him…all kinds of things. Things he knew, things he didn't. I prayed to every god I could think of. The ones I believe in, and the ones I don't."

Valarr looks over at you at last. His eyes, the same mismatched eyes of his father, down to the exact shade of blue stare into you. He glances over to Matarys too, who you notice is looking at his big brother with such empathy in his eyes.

"When he survived that first night, I sat up with him all the second night and did it again. And on the third too. I started to believe that the only reason he was lasting from night to night was because I was there, refusing to let him go."

You're familiar with that kind of thinking, sadly. When your mother labored with your youngest brother, an ordeal that took two nights you remember being on the edge of your body's limits but refusing to rest. As long as you were there with your eyes on your mother, she couldn't go anywhere. She couldn't go across the river without you.

"That night of the storm, when he went missing, I was convinced that he'd…that he would die. It didn't matter that the maesters assured me he was much more stable, that he was probably fine. I couldn't see him. I wasn't there to hold his hand."

He looks back at you and you hold his gaze with your own, you don't look away.

"The Captain told me later, what you did, what you risked. My father told me how you took care of him. Held his hand. Prayed over him even. I just wanted to tell you: thank you."

You let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Valarr is a little less approachable than his father, so you can't quite bring yourself to reach out and touch him, not yet.

"You're welcome," you say rather than dismissing his gratitude. You know that this was a lot for the Prince to speak aloud. You won't give your self effacing tendencies any quarter here.

"You know I would have done it for anyone," you let yourself add.

"I know, my lady," Valarr says with a warm smile. "But it was my father that you helped. So it is my gratitude you are owed."

"Our gratitude," Matarys says quietly. You look over at the younger prince and find him looking between you and his brother.

You smile back at them both. "He helped me too," you confide. Valarr tilts his head to the side in question.

"I had…stopped hoping that I'd ever be free," you admit quietly. "Your father, he was determined to help me. He made me believe that things could be different. That I could be happy."

"It can be easy to let apathy turn into a habit," Valarr agrees, wiser than you were expecting.

"Exactly so, your Grace. Your father, well. I don't have to tell you, he is very clear sighted. And he saw me. For the first time in a long time, someone saw me."

"I'm glad." Matarys says. "That he was able to help you, I mean. And I'm grateful you were there, gods, fate or chance – I don't care. I'm just glad you were there."

"I'm here for as long as he wants or needs," you tell them both softly. You're not sure what they think of their father courting again. It has been many years since their mother passed, and while the possibility of Baelor taking a second wife is likely something they understand and accept, that's very different from having to accept it as a reality.

Baelor told both Valarr and Matarys privately about your courtship, at your insistence. You wanted them to be able to react without your presence, sparing them having to be polite or congratulatory even if that wasn't what they felt at first.

Valarr sighs, letting go of just a bit of his stiffness and relaxing back into his chair some. Matarys pours himself another cup of tea and then ruins it again with too much sugar.

"You make him happy," Valarr says, tapping his fingers on the table one after another in a wave. A fidget you think, like Baelor does with his rings.

"Is that enough?" You ask.

"For right now? Yes." Valarr replies. "For the future? I don't know."

"How do you mean?"

"He'll be king someday. Hopefully not soon, but someday." Matarys pipes up. "The court won't want another Dornish queen." His tone is apologetic but clear.

You don't know what to say to that at first. You mind wings through a few thoughts at high speed. It's not like you're unaware of the bad feelings amongst many in the South over the Crown's close ties to Dorne. Bad feelings that had been stirred into rebellion once already. Being queen also was empathically not a position you ever thought you'd have. Certainly not one you had any training or tutelage in.

"You look like he just announced your execution," Valarr says with a wry note to his voice.

You glance up from where you'd been staring at your hands.

"It's…well, not really something I ever…rivers!" You curse at the end unable to articulate anything, your thoughts still spinning in several directions at once.

Valarr brightens and almost laughs. Matarys on the other hand, does laugh, setting his cup down.

"It's overwhelming, isn't it?" Valarr asks.

"Rivers, yes!"

That makes the Prince actually laugh this time. He slouches in his chair fully, almost a sprawl.

"I know how you feel," he commiserates. You smile at him and relax back in your own chair too.

"How do you deal with it?"

Prince Valarr snorts. "Poorly."

"It's not like I'm unaware he's the heir to the throne," you say on a sigh. "It's just…when he asked me, I only saw him, you know? I didn't see the crown at all. It was just him."

"When I held his hand those three nights, he was only my father." Valarr agrees. "I didn't care about what happened next, I just wanted my father back."

"But he's not just our father," Matarys says.

"No," Valarr says with a sigh of his own. "He's not. And you would not just be his wife. You'd be a queen, and I need you to understand, it would be a fight. You'd have to fight for it, for him, everyday."

You're quiet for a moment, looking out at the pond. These aren't new revelations to you. You've even talked a little with Baelor about it too. Not about the crown specifically, not yet. But about how your time would be spent, where it would be spent.

"I would fight for him," you say. "Not for the crown, but I'd fight anyone for him."

Prince Valarr gives you that inscrutable look again. Matarys is quiet, solemn in a way you haven't really seen him be.

"I believe you," Valarr says quietly. "But they're one in the same. He's not just a Prince, but neither is he just a man. You'd have to fight for both if you want to succeed."

You stare at him for a long moment. Enough to show him that you're fully considering his words.

"Both, then." You say, resolved. Valarr gives you a nod, and it feels like approval.

"You should speak more with Kiera," Valarr says. "I think you two could become good friends. And…she could help, I think. If you wanted to prepare."

"You should be her lady in waiting," Matarys says suddenly. "It'll give you some cover when you come to the capital."

Valarr rolls his eyes at his brother. "Stop volunteering my wife for your schemes," he says.

"It's a good idea!" Matarys insists. "Gives her an easy reason to be in the family quarters. We can ease her into things, rather than her being thrown in as a source of gossip!"

"You can't volunteer a place in someone else's household your grace" you say gently.

"I'm not! I already asked her."

Valarr throws his hands up in annoyance. "Why do I even bother. The two of you are always conspiring."

"Because we're good at it," Matarys sniffs. "We surprised you for your name day with an entire ball and tourney last year, and you had no idea beforehand. Kiera and I worked together to find good matches for her ladies in waiting, over the past couple of years."

Valarr grumbles but doesn't disagree, which tells you all you need to know about Matarys' claims. You hide an amused smile in your tea cup.

"Come on, I want to go down to the beach while father is still asleep," Matarys says, after letting his brother finish his grumbling. "I got up early and everything."

Valarr looks over at you, hesitant for a moment, while Matarys grimaces.

"My lady, you are of course welcome to join us," Valarr begins but you just grin at him.

"No, thank you. I think I'm going to go find Princess Kiera and speak with her on this plan for Kings Landing. I can also keep an eye out for your father and intercept him when he wakes before he can get settled in the solar to work. Early morning is my shift, after all. You two go enjoy the beach."

Matarys gives you a plain look of gratitude, while Valarr dips his head in agreement. You know that the two brothers likely have things they wish to speak about alone. Especially after what Valarr had just told you both about Ashford. You're not even sure the two have had a moment alone together since you all arrived from Sunspear. Prince Moran is usually very thorough in making sure that everyone is sufficiently entertained. Which for the Dornish man typically means surrounded on all sides, at all times. Rivers bless him, but it can be a lot.

"Go on, your Graces," you bid. "Prince Valarr, I'll have someone come fetch you if any more missives or ravens from the Capital arrive."

"Thank you, my lady, I was about to request just that." Prince Valarr says as he rises from the table. Matarys is in the process of stuffing several pastries into a cloth napkin like a bandit. You say nothing, if Matarys can get Valarr to eat more you're not going to interfere at all. In fact, you boldly pass him two uncut dragon fruit to include in his makeshift satchel. He gives you a cheerful smile when you do.

"We'll be back well before lunch, my lady. If anyone needs us -" Valarr starts, but before he can finish Matarys has knotted his napkin around his goodies, and darted around the table to grab his big brother's arm and drag him away.

"I'll find you, Prince Valarr, I promise." You say laughing.

"Thank you, my lady, and thank you - Matarys lay off!" Valarr interrupts himself this time, trying to pull away while Matarys hustles them down the stairs, oblivious to Valarr's attempts to keep his feet while being dragged backwards.

"Nope, we're going, Father and you are cut from the same cloth, honestly." Matarys complains. "Getting you to stop and enjoy yourself is almost impossible."

"Surely I'm not that bad," Valarr says with a frown.

"You're getting there," Matarys chirps. "And I mean to break this behavior before it becomes a real habit, now let's go. I didn't get up this early for nothing."

"So you've already said, we get it, you woke up early!"

Prince Valarr lets his brother drag him the rest of the way down the stairs, but once they are at the bottom, Valarr twists out of Matarys' hold and grabs his younger brother by the back of his neck like a puppy. Valarr turns them both so they are facing towards you, and then pushes his brother down into a bow that he himself copies.

"Thank you, my lady, for your time and assistance on our family matters," Prince Valarr says seriously, but also with laughter in his voice.

"Thank you, my lady!" Matarys echoes dutifully, sweeping his arms out in that theatrical way he has to turn the bow into something that players would do at the end of a performance.

Matarys pops up from the bow, grabs Valarr by the tunic, despite Valarr still having him by the back of the neck. The two of them half walk, half tumble out of sight, heading off to the covered hallway that will lead them down through the lower gardens and to the paths towards the beach.

The Captain looks up from where he and Nym are in conversation on the other side of the pond. He dips a hasty and apologetic bow to your handmaid before running off after the two princes, clattering all the way in his armor and yelling for them to wait for him.

Nym comes back to the table and returns to her seat, while you pour yourself another cup of tea.

"This is going to be your life now, you know," Nym says as she settles, showing that she'd probably been listening, at least a little to your conversation. "Still time to change your mind."

You hum an acknowledgment, but go back to staring out at the pond. The water ripples and dances as the wind passes through the courtyard.

"I know. I'm happy with my choices, Nym." You assure her. "No matter where they take me."

Nym nods in understanding.

"How about you," you ask. "Are you happy with where you've ended up?"

You won't blame her if she's not. Just like you, the position she has found herself in is probably very different from what she imagined for her life.

"I am," Nym says. She smiles at you, and then gestures to the slip of paper she had been working on. "Now tell me what is wrong with these capitals, I think I've done several backwards."

You smile back at her, and pull the paper between you so you can more easily explain.

That afternoon, you've got your little ragged notebook of sewn together pages and a charcoal pencil in hand while you trail after one of the gardeners. The man is twice your age, but is quicker and more spry than you.

"Here, look at this, my lady," he bids, beckoning you over closer. You do so, pencil at the ready. He points up the canal above the sluice gate you've stopped at.

"See the water level on this side? We've got a whole row of saplings up that side, around the corner that are still getting started, and we've not yet been able to build out the sunshades overthere. Those beds need twice the water that the lower beds on this side need."

Having walked the orange grove multiple times at this point, you've got a pretty good mental map of the layout at this point. You mentally race along the canal lines and realize what he's getting at.

"Oh! I see what you mean, the layout you've picked with the gates is letting you artificially raise the water level in that section alone."

"Exactly, my lady. We realized that it was better to limit the flow and let the beds saturate for several hours, then lower all the gates and force the level up for the whole garden."

"I'll bet that makes the up keep of the canal much easier," you muse out loud, noting down the rough layout in a few strokes of your pencil.

The gardener chuckles, "These gardens have less of that problem thanks to the extensive tile work, but yes, we find it is nicer. You have to keep an eye on it, however, you can't let the water stagnate for too long."

You make a note of this, "How long is too long?" you ask.

"I wouldn't recommend more than a couple candlemarks more delicate plants. The orange trees are finicky and don't like to have their feet be that wet for too long."

You nod and make a note of that too.

"Ah, I should have known," an amused voice remarks.

You look over your shoulder to find the Prince making his way over to you alone, walking among the orange trees. He, like you, is dressed in more casual, loose clothing. He has some light linen pants, and over that a beautifully embroidered split tunic with a wide sash tied around his waist and then draped over his shoulder. He's wearing sandals, and carries nothing but a pleased smile.

"I'm learning more about sluice gates," you tell him with a grin. "The layout here is ingenious, it's giving the gardeners so much flexibility with the water levels. I'm using this in the tea fields."

"I think we have the original plans in the library, my lady," the gardener says helpfully. "I'm sure Prince Moran would be happy to allow you to copy them."

"Thank you so much, goodman. And thank you for showing me," you say, while putting your notebook and pencil away in your belt purse. The gardener offers you a quick bow and goes back to the work you had pulled him away from.

Baelor offers you his arm which you take. The grove is starting to cool off as the sun sets lower in the sky, but the tiles under your sandals still radiate a warm and comforting heat. You are so glad that you were able to purchase a couple of more Dornish dresses while in Sunspear before Prince Moran had insisted on bringing you and Prince Baelor's entire group out to the Water Gardens palace to relax and enjoy the spring weather. It feels so good to be back in the fabrics, colors and styles of your childhood. You feel freer, more yourself - a little piece of your identity that you had do without for so long that you have claimed back.

"I have come to fetch you for some pre-dinner festivities." Baelor explains.

"Oh rivers, what is Prince Moran planning now?"

"I'm not sure, but it appears to involve several bottles, two lit candles and a curious amount of paper."

You rack your mind, trying to think of any party games that fit that description of items. Nothing comes to mind.

"Well, who has he roped in, then?" you ask instead.

"Hm, Matarys, Kiera, Tarly, Godwin, Doran, Ella and now you."

"Wait, not you?"

"I am playing cards with Valarr, Sylva and my aunt."

"Rivers, can I join your group? Surely you need a fifth."

"Moran asked for you specifically. And five players would upset the teams of my game." Baelor teases.

"I'm going to hide out in the gardens with the sluice gates until dinner is served," you state firmly. Pulling the Prince off the main wide path between the orange trees and into the narrower paths between the beds.

Prince Moran is an incredibly generous man, you have found. Gregarious, hospitable and kind, he at every turn demonstrates the best aspects of the Dornish culture. He is also, incredibly enthusiastic about having so many guests, many his family, visiting for such a long period. It doesn't help that he's utterly devoted to his wife, who in turn is also delighted to have so many members of her family around. It makes for a joyous time, but often a very loud one too.

"You cannot spend the entire time we are here studying the architecture." He says but follows you willingly enough as you take a more winding path through the trees towards the lower gardens.

"Of course I can," you reply. "Prince Doran said I could ask any question I liked of any of the workers to understand better. I plan on making myself a complete nuisance."

"Curiosity and the desire for more knowledge should never be treated as a nuisance," the Prince remarks.

"It can if the knowledge seeker is relentless. But Prince Doran has opened up the archives to me, so I can study the yield numbers from the beginning."

"Hm, my cousin wants his investment to succeed," Baelor says, and he's got that tone again. The one you still haven't been able to find a reason for. You'll get him to tell you about it someday.

"Yes," you say slowly, almost a drawl. "He very much does. I am grateful that he took my petition for investment so seriously. With the funds he is willing to give us, we'll likely be able to repair the entire northern field before the turn of the seasons. Which means we'd be able to get new saplings started this spring after all."

"I'm glad to hear it. My mother will be pleased to be able to have Nilgiri tea again."

You stare at him, while he faces forward, his face neutral, not even a hint.

"Hmm, Prince Doran also has told me he'll arrange for me to meet with a couple of architects once we return to Sunspear. He told me he wants to ensure that my keep is restored fully. He offered to meet them with me, did you know your cousin has a deep interest in castle defense?"

The neutrality in his face breaks, his jaw clenching for just a second before he forces himself to relax. Prince Doran, the eldest son of Prince Moran and Baelor's aunt Daenerys, is as jovial and pleasant as his father. He's a bit more wild, a little more unfettered, but never in a cruel or callous way. After Prince Moran approved the investment into your tea fields, it has been his son who has worked tirelessly with you on the plans.

It's not a surprise to you, Prince Moran clearly wants his son to have more experience working with the Martell family's vassals, and this presents a prime opportunity for it.

"It is good of him to do so, I don't like the idea of you living there without defenses," Prince Baelor says tightly.

"The Captain, Tarly and Godwin promised they'd help me conduct interviews for household and town guards, so please don't worry too much. It seems I'm going to be very busy we when we get back to Sunspear." You explain, grateful for the Kingsguards' support.

"I didn't realize you had already come so far in your plans," Baelor admits, as the two of you finally leave the main part of the orange grove, and find the path around one of the long ponds that make up the edges of the canal system and touches the start of the lower gardens. There's another pavilion, similar to the one you had breakfast in this morning, at the top of the canal, and garden beds full of flowers, trees, and hedges along the walls are a gorgeous riot of color and scent.

"Hmm," you hum, and decide to answer the question he's not asking. "It seems you are not the only person who has issues setting work down, when we are all supposed to be relaxing. Prince Doran is quite excited by the project I think, he brings up ideas and plans whenever they strike him."

Baelor huffs, "I see the conspiracy about my health continues."

"Conspiracy is such a terrible word for it," you remark. "It is a holy alliance, my Prince. We are working for the good of the realm."

"I am fine -"

"Liar." You say fondly, but not without exasperation.

"I am better than I was -"

"Low bar, my Prince," you say without softening the blow. He winces.

"I'm just trying to say, you can also speak to me about your plans for your home. My advice or help is yours for the asking, although I recognize that perhaps my cousin has more knowledge in the area of Dornish agriculture." Baelor says, dragging the topic away from his health.

You look at him a little surprised. Is he…jealous of his cousin? That is unfathomable to you.

"Your help has already been invaluable to me," you say slowly, tightening your grip on his arm. "I know that you would help me again in an instant if I asked."

"I would," he says, his tone firm. But as you watch his profile, you can see there is still a touch of…something to his jaw, and around his eyes.

You won't stand for that.

You look around quickly and are pleased to find that since you are in one of the lower, lesser used gardens, the usual Martell household guards are no where to be seen. You take Baelor firmly by the hand and step boldly off the path. He seems too surprised to stop you, and lets himself be pulled along.

These lower gardens near the orange groves are still in the making. Many of the flower bushes, shrubs and trees are young, only just now starting to really fill out, but the hedges are tall and thick with foliage already. There is a small gap between two separate plants that you take shameless advantage of, ducking just a little to miss the taller branches and tucking yourself in the slim space between the plant and the wall. The space is deeply shaded, and completely hidden from the path.

"My lady," Baelor says, but you just pull him in after you and then press him up against the wall. He goes, of course he does, he always goes where you push him, pull him, guide him.

You press yourself up against his chest, just as warm as the stones of the wall at his back. His arms come around you instantly, one low across the small of your back, the other in a line up your spine, his large hand covering the bare part of your shoulders above your dress. His mismatched eyes are a little wide with surprise still, but he's already bending his head down towards yours. You push up just a little rising onto your toes, your hands on his shoulders to help keep your balance.

The kiss is sweet with the taste of Dornish wine and makes you dizzy.

You slide one hand up from his shoulder to the nape of his neck and press up into the kiss fiercely. He meets you and raises the stakes, just like you hoped he would, by parting his lips under yours and giving in wholly to this moment.

You can feel the tension drop out of his shoulders, like he's setting something heavy down finally and experiencing that moment of weightlessness that comes after. His arms tighten around you, almost to the point of pain and you love every pinprick and point of pressure he brings.

You smile into the kiss, and can feel him smiling too. The joy bubbles up in you and you giggle, still holding him close, refusing to let go just because you can scarcely stand how happy he makes you.

Baelor pulls back just a little so he can find your eyes, and the crinkle of the smile lines at the edges of his mismatched eyes only stokes the joy in you more.

"My lady," he whispers, "This is most improper." But he doesn't pull back an inch.

"My Prince," you murmur back. "I don't care. I wanted to kiss you."

There's a flash of something that looks almost like pain, but sweet. The ache of being desired is no small thing, you think. He makes you feel that every day, every time greets you with an open hand. Every time he finds you in a room. Every time he tucks you in by his side.

"And are you satisfied?" He asks, his voice still quiet but there's an edge of a growl or groan to it. Something not princely at all.

You want more of it. So you tighten your grip on his shoulder.

"No," you say, plainly. "I'm not."

The smile he gives you then, all desire and fire, and a possessive glint to his eyes that you want to match.

He turns you both, quick and easy on his feet as though leading you gracefully on the dance floor. Your back hits the stone, and he crowds you against it just as you did him.

"Allow me to tend to you again," he says, laying the gentlest of kisses to the skin if your throat. "I shall devote myself to your needs, my lady, and I will not stop until you are satisfied."

"That," you say on a gasp because the feel of him like this again, in your arms, your back against a wall is maddening in the best way, "is a promise I will hold you to, my Prince."

He kisses you again, and you open to his onslaught like flowers in the sun. Mouths open, sharing air, sharing breath, sharing the quiet sounds of desire, you push and pull. He cedes, you chase; you retreat, he peruses. You fit.

You want him closer. He presses into you like he wants that too, like he wants to crawl inside and never leave. Just like all those months ago, one of his hands finds your knee and draws it up so he can get closer. You welcome him, using one hand to draw your hem up so you can more easily hitch your leg around his waist.

He doesn't waste any time, and instead of letting you stay balanced, slightly unsteady on one foot, he breaks your kiss for just a moment to scoop you up and hold you against the wall, pinning you with his body. You wrap both legs about him happily, helping him center your weight. One of his hands stays low, under your ass while his other daringly slides up your thigh well above your hose. The touch of his skin there burns, you feel him like a flash of lightning all over.

Your heart is racing, and held up as you are you now have a bare inch in height on him, letting you look down at him while he looks up at you.

His eyes are dilated wide, only the outer edges of the color visible, and like this his blue eye looks even more lavender. You place your hands on either side of his face, your fingertips gently touching the still healing scars partially hidden by his longer hair.

You kiss his cheek, and then his other cheek. You press a kiss to his brow, then to each of his closed eyes. To the old breaks on his nose, to his temples. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, while he breathes your name over and over again.

You kiss his lips again and he devours you, a man on fire once again in your arms. He uses his teeth on your bottom lip and you are caught in a flash flood of heat that starts at that point of joining, and rushes right through you. He presses firmly into the peak of your spread thighs and it's like all the stitching of your body pulls tight, clenching, in a way you've never felt before. The gasp you let out is high and sharp, tearing your mouth from his to pant up at the sky while he presses open mouthed kisses to your neck and shoulders.

He pulls back just a little and then presses in again. You have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep back something, a yelp, a scream, an exultation of his name you have no idea. The smile you feel against your throat is distinctly smug. With your other hand you drop it down to his neck and shoulder, right above his collar and dig your nails in. That earns you a very gratifying shudder and quiet groan from him.

Out on the path someone drops something and curses, and what ever it is crashes loudly to the ground and you both freeze.

"Oh no," the person says, and you realized, mortified, that it sounds like Prince Matarys. Baelor very slowly leans away from you, his eyes also round with surprise. He then twists, and looks over his shoulder, trying to see past the greenery of the hedge that hides you both.

You crane your neck to do the same.

Thankfully, you can't really see anything, which assures you that the younger prince likely can't see you either. Still…you're not completely sure how quiet you and Baelor were actually managing to be.

"Guess I'll have to go get more. I should find a servant to help me clean it up." Prince Matarys announces loudly…to himself. You drop your forehead down onto Baelor's shoulder and suppress a slightly hysterical laugh. Baelor leans his temple against you, and you can feel the huff of his own laughter against your neck.

Prince Matarys walks off, practically stomping his feet as he does so.

"My son doesn't do subtle well," Baelor breathes softly. You snort.

"He wasn't trying to be," you whisper back.

Baelor pulls you away from the wall, and you drop your legs from his waist. He sets you down with infinite care, but still holds you close. You release him, so you can shake your dress out, letting it fall back around your legs neatly. The straps of your dress have wandered well away from your shoulders and down your arms, which you do not remember happening, but aren't surprised. You impatiently tug on one of them, but Baelor takes over. You stop, your heart in you throat again, and let him do as he likes.

He goes slow, which is its own kind of torture that gives you that feeling of all your strings pulling tight again. He draws one strap up, letting his fingers drag over your skin every inch of the way. Then he bends his head and drops a soft kiss to the ball of your uncovered shoulder. He does the same with other side, and somehow this seemingly courteous act has you trembling just as much as if he was back between your thighs again.

You reach up, and gently rearrange his hair from where it was wrecked by your fingers. He stands there, his hands dropping to rest on your waist and lets you work. His hair now that its longer has a bit of wave to it, and you smooth it down into something that looks purposeful and a little rakish.

When you are finished, he leans forward and presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, and just breathes for a moment. You leave your hands on his shoulders and do the same.

"You should go first," he whispers. You nod, he will likely need a couple extra minutes. You turn your head, lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek.

It's just a small, quick press of your lips, but he shudders like you've set your nails to his skin again.

"I'll find you later," you tell him lowly, your tone suggestive and intentional. His eyes fly open to look at you, stunned. You grin at him, and pull away from his hands, sliding down the wall back to the gap in the hedge.

"My lady," he rasps, trying draw you back. To argue with you, likely, but you just keep smiling at him. You won't push if it's not what he wants of course, but you intend to have a frank conversation about it at least. Your future is your own. Thanks to him, to the actions of your parents, and your own hard work – you are beholden to no one. And you get to make the choice about who and when to share yourself with someone.

"You have a promise to keep, my Prince," is all you say, and then you are gone, out the gap of the hedges. Your slippers barely make any noise as you steal from the garden beds back onto the path around the canal.

There's a metal tray on the path, with scattered fresh oranges laying on the ground. Matarys must have been sent to gather some from the gardens for dinner or to include in drinks. Nothing is broken, all could have been picked up and righted by the person who dropped it. You'll feel more embarrassed about this later, you know. But until then, you plan to enjoy the evening.

You scoop one up as you go by, and peel it while walking. The sharp bite of the citrus is a flash on your tongue, and you smile around the taste. Prince Moran has festivities planned late into the night, and you'd be a terrible guest if you missed them.

Later, after an incomprehensible game of what turns out to be a strange combination of charades, drawing, drinking, and lots of excited yelling, the hour before dinner finds you back at a smaller gaming table set up in one of the gardens.

The entire evening should have felt like a large party, some courtly event given how many people are in attendance, but instead it has felt far more intimate and relaxed. The Martells certainly know how to throw a get together.

Even now, at your table where you sit with a couple members of the royal family, and the Martells each, you find yourself at ease. They're just people in the end, you have realized. And you are so grateful that these families, who have so much power to do great and terrible things – all seem to be kind and thoughtful people.

The beautiful Princess Daenerys sits giggling over her hand of cards, which you have come to learn means she's got nothing at all. Prince Valarr, with Princess Kiera in his lap, drowsing against his shoulder while he broods over his hand, is completely unaware that his darling wife is sneakily signaling to both you and the last person at the table, Princess Sylva, Daenerys’ youngest daughter, what Valarr's hand is.

You share a pleased look with Sylva, your partner for this round. You slap down a set, and before Daenerys or Valarr can react, Sylva throws out the other half of the set, securing you and her the point.

"Blast!" Valarr curses, "Aunt Dany, they're crushing us!"

"They're going to keep doing it, my hand is awful," the Princess announces. She dumps her cards into the discard pile and redraws her whole hand. Valarr mutters darkly, shifting his cards around into a different configuration.

You feel Baelor’s sudden presence behind you, you don't even have to look. That tether between you draws tight, and every inch of your skin hums when you register his warmth. He has placed his hands on the back of your chair, and leans over you.

You tilt your head back and look up at him with a smile.

"Did you steal my place in the game?" He asks, amused.

"You're the one that abandoned the table, my Prince." You tease.

"My uncle wanted to show me something," he defends.

"Hm, and then you went to the solar to look through the missives from the day," Valarr says without looking up, drawing a card from the draw pile and discarding another. "You were gone to long, so we invited the lady to join us."

"I think I'm getting good at this," you say grinning. "Princess Sylva has been an excellent teacher."

"She's actually destroying us," Princess Daenerys says with a theatrical sigh, while she keeps shifting her cards around. She's still giggling a little, but not as much, which tells you her hand is better this round.

"You're a savant, my lady," Princess Sylva remarks airily, trading a sly look with you, as she taps her finger on the back of her cards twice.

Hm, you think, three of a kind then. You reassess what you have for how to build on that potentially. You glance over at Valarr and see Kiera is flashing four fingers and then two fingers over and over, by the edge of the table cloth. But as you look over, you realize Valarr has his eyes fixed above you, intent. Confused you glance up and see that Baelor is mouthing words silently at his son.

"Cheat!" You say, turning in your chair and dropping your cards to your chest to protect them. Princess Sylva starts laughing.

"The whole point of the game is the cheating, my lady," Princess Sylva says through her laughter. "Mother has been tapping out her cards with her feet on Valarr's shoes."

You almost raise the table cloth to check, but hold back. You start laughing as well, that makes the rules of this game make so much more sense.

"And my darling grand niece has been giving you two signs for Valarr's cards," Princess Daenerys says through her giggles.

Valarr looks down at Keira, his face a picture of betrayal.

"My love," he says, "You said you were sleepy!"

Princess Kiera just sits up a little, and kicks her feet while grinning.

"I am sleepy! But I'm also helping my potential new lady in waiting win." Princess Kiera explains, gleefully.

"Betrayed!" Valarr says, a little less theatrically than the rest of his family, but still with the same warm smile. "My own wife, how could she do this to me?"

"Happily and without regret," Princess Kiera announces, but also leans over and smacks a kiss on Valarr's cheek.

You feel Baelor's hand, still on the back of you chair, but he lets his thumb sweep back and forth against the skin of your shoulder. The same place he'd pressed a kiss just a couple of hours before.

"Shall I return your seat to you, my Prince?" you ask him, looking back up. He smiles down at you.

"I think you are doing a far better job than I was," he says.

"Oh she is. In fact, Baelor, off you trot, I'm sticking with the superior player as my partner." Princess Sylva states, as she starts gathering all the cards together to shuffle the deck for a new game. You toss yours into the pile.

"I see how it is, cousin," Baelor says. "Just because I cannot understand your incomprehensible hand signs -"

"They're not incomprehensible! It's very easy to understand! Two taps for a -"

"Princess!" You interrupt, laughing. "Don't give your secrets away!"

"Oh, her hands signs aren't a secret, but Baelor's right they are incomprehensible, which is why she never wins." Princess Daenerys says, teasing her daughter.

"Mother!" Princess Sylva exclaims. "They are not! My current partner is perfectly able to understand them!"

You nod in solidarity with the Princess, her signs have been easy for you to follow. You don't know what the others are talking about. Baelor looks at you in surprise.

"You really are able to follow what she means?" He asks.

"Of course!"

"I told you they were destroying us," Princess Daenerys half sings, as she takes the deck from Princess Sylva to start dealing.

"Then I must concede my seat after all, I can't, in good conscious, take this chance to actually win for once away from my cousin." Baelor says with an exaggerated bow to Princess Sylva.

"I will throw this plate at your head, cousin." Princess Sylva threatens, as she eats the last slice of orange from said plate and picks it up threateningly.

The Prince holds his hands up in surrender, chuckling.

"I can see I am not wanted, I shall go find another table to join."

You turn to look at him again and find that he's already looking at you. He reaches out, and you reach back, putting your hand in his. He presses a kiss to the back of it, it sends that rush of heat through you again, and it's like that tether has been plucked like a string, making you feel the vibrations of want sing through you. Emboldened by the night, by the warm company, and the easy affection that has been on display within this family, you don't let go. Instead, you pull his hand to you, and press a matching kiss to the back of it.

He looks at you like you're all the stars in the sky, brought down and handed to him. You squeeze his hand tightly.

"I'll see you later, my Prince." You promise.

He swallows once, his throat clicking. "As you wish, my lady." He says, still a little breathless. You let go of his hand, and he draws away from the table. He keeps his eyes on you as he goes however. And you feel his gaze like his hands were still on your skin.

You turn back to the table, and pick up your new cards, not bother to hide how your hands are trembling just a little. The other players at the table are all looking pleased. You grin at them, and settle back in your chair.

"Now then, who goes first?" you ask, glancing over the cards you have been dealt, looking to see what the future holds.

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