"you've already done more than you realize." her hand lifted carefully from beneath the blankets, movements still slow with lingering soreness, until her fingers found falyn's. she gave them the gentlest squeeze she could manage. "though, if you truly wish to help, can you please tell me something ordinary? anything at all. a bit of gossip, perhaps? or tell me more about highgarden." her eyes brightened with quiet amusement. she settled a little deeper into the pillows, the exhaustion still present but somehow lighter than it had been that morning. "i think i'd quite like to be reminded that life has continued while I was asleep."

“the  position  of  fraternizing  alone  with  a  bastard  is  compromising  in  and  of  itself,  my  lady,”  he  tells  her.  “but  i  do  so  agree.  it  would  be  wise  to  squash  such  rumors,  lest  they  begin  to  spread.”  of  course,  he  wouldn't  actually  be  doing  that.  no,  instead,  he  would  be  keeping  a  close  eye  on  the  so-called  heir  to  highgarden.  part  of  him  wished  to  speak  with  the  mistress  of  whispers,  though  he's  not  sure  what  good  that  might  do.  for  now,  he  will  have  to  employ  his  own  little  birds.

this   remains   a   clear   thought   in   her   head.   perhaps   one   of   the   few   —           “        could   you   bring   me   that   parchment,   please?   and   the   quill.        ”        remaining   with   hands   outstretched   until   he   has   done   so,   using   the   flat   of   the   blanket   keeping   warmth   tucked   against   her   as   a   writing   surface.        “        i'd   like   this   sent   by   raven   to   dragonstone.   we've   already   a   thousand   ships,   what   are   two   or   three   more?   i'll   request   our   artisans   and   builders   to   come   for   aid.   the   coffers   will   sustain   it.        ”        her   handwriting   takes   a   great   deal   of   concentration.   she   sighs   without   sound,   focused   upon   the   page   despite   how   it   blurs   beneath   her   vision,   all   attention   going   towards   ensuring   the   lettres   are   legible   and   the   signature   sound.        “        if   you   could   seal   this   with   the   wax?   i   give   you   permission,   so   don't   doubt   me.        ”        a   twitch   of   her   lips.        “        and   send   it   as   soon   as   you   can.        ”        more   than   likely,   there   will   be   no   ships   in   the   harbour,   all   having   sailed   to   dorne   by   the   time   the   raven   reaches   them.   she   writes   something   else   at   the   bottom   before   folding   it.

devrim  watches  her,  amazed  at  the  kind  of  decorum  that  she  sustains  even  after  everything  that  has  happened  to  her.  he  has  enough  himself  to  turn  his  head  as  she  writes,  not  wishing  to  read  the  words  she  sends  in  case  he  was  not  allowed  to.  only  when  the  parchment  is  in  his  hands  does  he  bow  to  her,  "i  shall  seal  it  and  send  it  immediately,  your  grace.  the  smallfolk  will  thank  you  for  this,  that  i  know.  please  get  well  soon,  the  maester  should  be  here  now."  he  bows  once  more,  then  turns  and  leaves  the  princess  to  herself  while  her  letter  remains  in  his  hand.  he  shall  do  anything  the  princess  wishes,  no  matter  what  that  brought  upon  him.

And when he was awake and well… then perhaps he could answer properly, what he meant when he spoke of dragons listening to commands.

"and  donnell  should  bite  his  tongue  off  before  he  dismisses  your  care."  for  their  cousin  should  be  grateful  betha  desires  to  be  at  his  side,  loyal  to  the  knight  she  loves  so.  their  cousin  does  not  truly  comprehend  what  life  is  like  without  betha  becoming  their  shadow.  myria's  used  to  the  absence  by  now,  but  those  first  years  when  betha  left  .  .  .  how  that  absence  wailed.

betha  pulls  her  out  of  memory  then,  and  myria  snorts,  nudging  the  younger's  elbow.  "do  not  say  such  a  thing  before  you  linger  in  these  stables  for  longer  than  an  hour.  whatever  they  mix  the  horse's  feed  with  here  is  wretched."

and  there  should  be  more  levity.  but  the  question  ---  and  betha's  own  answer  ---  hangs  between  them.  myria  slows,  brushing  hand  over  hide  for  one  stroke,  then  another.  "some  nights,"  she  agrees.  another  long  moment  of  pause.  "most  nights,  though,  i  wish  to  linger."

firmly,  vaiora  fixes  her  gaze  upon  the  quiver  of  his  pale  brow.  it  is  easier  to  focus  on  the  crease  between  his  eyes,  rather  than  listen  to  him  stumble  through  memories  she  does  not  trust  are  honest.  her  mind  is  somewhere  far  —  imagining  her  hands  gripping  around  the  plush  of  the  down  pillows  beneath  his  head  now,  pressing  it  over  the  face  she  had  begged  the  mother  to  save.  stop.  vaiora  shakes  herself  from  the  daydream.  do  not  fight  with  him,  she  reminds  herself.  do  not  —  dark  eyes  widen  in  horror,  seeing  his  face  contort  in  pain  before  he  can  even  ask.  the  redwyne  pulls  away  so  quickly,  she  nearly  leaves  her  heart  behind  in  the  rush.  wooden  chair  legs  screech  against  stone,  catching  against  the  uneven  grooves  of  the  floor  as  it  falls  behind  her.  vaiora  hardly  pays  it  any  mind.  his  pain  is  more  important  than  her  own,  forgetting  her  resentment  already.  "maester  calcifer!"  she  calls  out,  turning  to  the  door,  steps  swift  beneath  her.  "maester  calcifer,  please!"

“        and   that   is   exactly   my   point,   my   friend.        ”        as   though   such   remarks   are   a   simple   part   of   teatime!   and   in   truth,   to   taliesin,   such   things   are.   they   take   a   seat   at   the   table   whether   he   wishes   to   give   a   cup   or   not,   and   so   the   little   imp   might   as   well   be   acknowledged   with   a   modicum   of   dignity.   they   feign   that   gasp   of   surprise,   gloved   hand   demure   to   cover   their   mouth.        “        my   will   is   a   coward?   news   to   me,   but   you   would   know   best,   ser.   so   long   as   there's   a   way,   my   will   …   will   return.        ”        although   at   devrim's   inquiry,   something   in   taliesin   sobers   a   bit.   they   keep   their   tone   light   as   their   lack   of   station,   and   lean   in   as   though   whispering   a   great   and   terrible   secret.        “        i   believe   the   council   may   benefit   from   someone   who   brings   a   different   point   of   view.        ”        whether   he   means   himself   or   not,   that   remains   up   to   interpretation.        “        and   that   our   dear   lords,   ladies,   and   lieges   are   not   so   ill   fit,   so   much   as   they   think   they   have   more   to   their   duties   than   they   actually   do.        ”        the   only   one   taliesin   would   outright   accuse   of   overstepping   their   station   would   be   his   father.   and   it   would   be   out   of   resentful   love.

he makes her laugh, the sharp of her canines revealed in the dim candlelight. she had made them so at cider hall, aged only ten and three, eating at their white points with shards of rock smuggled indoors in a billowing black sleeve until they were sharp to the touch. she had cried in her mother's lap each time she'd drank anything cold for the duration of the next sun. even still, desmera thought the pain worth it. " i shall leave you as pretty and dreadfully pale as i found you, " she reassures, the ghost of her laughter still present in her eyes. there was not much humourous about the state of daemian's body, seared and cracking as it was. desmera finds it quite easy to speak as if that were not the case. she has always been good at pretending. " do not die, then. it's likely your gods wouldn't even have you, in this pathetic state. a sword through the belly is marginally less shaming. that is what i imagine for you. " she picks at the embroidery on the skirts of her gown, threads escaping their prisons one by one. a single, black bead falls to the floor, bouncing into darkness. she follows the sound of it with her eyes as she speaks. " you remind me much of a home i've never had the pleasure of knowing. " she confesses. of course desmera liked him. she could not help but like him when he was the only person who deigned speak to her in something resembling her mother tongue — her first language, one that she had spoken before even the common tongue despite her upbringing in the reach. " and i would not endure your current ham - like odour if i did not like you plenty, you crabapple. "

" do you not? " he bounces her question back at her like a blow off of a shield, head tilting in mirror of her own. willas thinks that he speaks the truth. in the end, if they could not save anyone — at least they could try. the curfew could give them that, even if it turned out to be a hollow reassurance, when faced with dragonfire. " no one was ready, then. no one expected it. " next time, it would be different. if the dragons descended from the heavens once more, most would be ready. most would find validation in death, knowing that they had not been walking around with every muscle tensed in anticipation for naught. " you would be welcome, of course. " willas imagined, if any child were orphaned, that he might take them on as his squire. he would treat them differently to how he had been treated by ser colin. it was not that the ashford knight had been cruel — but he had not been warm. he had not been encouraging. he had not been fatherly in the way that willas had dreamed he might be. " i suppose i'll be buried in the crypt on battle isle. where all hightowers are laid to rest. " in truth, he did not much care where his massive body was set aside to rot. " or in a great big ditch off the side of the kingsroad, if not. perhaps the ruins of the dragonpit will be just about big enough of a hole. " with that, he sets off in the direction of the taverns just outside of the keep's walls, intending to make them his destination even if she does not follow.

“i  never  said  such  a  thing,”  he  says  with  a  slight  tilt  of  his  head.  “being  cordial  with  bastards  is  one  thing,  cousin,  but  to  remain  close  to  them…  it  is  a  very  compromising  position,  for  a  lady  of  high  birth,  you  know  that,  don't  you?”

“your  mother  sounds  like  she  was  an  amazing  woman,  i  wish  i  had  gotten  to  meet  her,”  she  says  sweetly,  looking  down  at  the  hand  placed  on  her  arm.  she  looks  up  to  her  with  a  gentle  smile.  “and  rebuild  we  shall,  soon  enough,  i  hope  at  least.  it  would  be  quite  nice  to  get  this  whole  kingsmoot  business  sorted  out  finally..  it  feels  like  ages  since  we've  had  a  true  ruler  to  look  to.”  of  course,  the  guidance  of  the  hand  was  one  thing,  but  the  word  of  a  monarch  was  another.

“it  does  not  surprise  me  that  you  feel  such  a  way,  my  lady,”  he  begins.  “indeed,  i  do  think  it  is  best  that  we  keep  our  distance,  as  you  said.”  he  allows  for  silence  to  hang  in  the  air  for  a  few  moments,  lets  her  think  that  she  is  safe.  “…but  you  know,  i  did  hear  a  rather  interesting  rumor  about  you.”