Silver

He is beautiful. His face is the kind that bards sing about, cut as clean as glass. His expression is open, encouraging those around him to continue with quiet prompting. His pale lips press together as he listens, hands tucked behind his back. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, drawing your attention to his eyes.

They are two different colours. You tilt your head slightly as your focus reins in upon his irises. One blue, and one brown. It is an odd trait, yet it is not off putting how you may have imagined. He moves his head as he listens, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the silver streak within his brown hair.

He is enchanting.

You watch as he stands tall, but not towering. He stays engaged with those he speaks to, and his voice is soft from what you can hear faintly from your place.

He seems kind, far less arrogant than you expected of a prince.

And you were meant to take advantage of that.

“Father, I do not know if—” you attempt to argue your father’s plans, making your voice small to attract no one’s attention but his own. Despite who you direct your voice at, you are still staring at the prince.

“Nonsense,” your father cuts you off, voice firm. He casts a glance around to make sure no one is near enough to listen to his words. He has always been a private man.

With his body angled to hide his words, head ducked so only you may hear, he speaks harshly: “You will speak to him as I taught you.”

You shrink slightly underneath his glare, but he does not soften until you nod in agreement.

“Of course, father,” you say, a small smile on your lips. You lean forward to place a kiss upon his cheek, before slipping from his grip. You do not wish to stay for more scolding.

Your feet bring you in the direction of the prince no matter how your brain argues. It is the perfect time to approach, for he is currently alone, having finished his prior conversations. You feel dread beginning to form, heavy and solid within your stomach. You exhale shakily.

Your grip tightens upon the folded fan you carry, wishing to use it to cool yourself down. Yet your lessons of how to seduce with it linger in your mind. It was a tool meant for more than fanning the sweat from your brow.

In a quick motion, you use your free hand to pinch at your cheeks in hopes of bringing colour back to them. You always looked ghostly when you were nervous.

Although when you lift your eyes, fingers in the midst of squeezing your flesh, you find the prince’s mismatched eyes locked upon you.

You straighten, lowering your hand as if it had burned you. Your brain flounders. How utterly embarrassing to be caught off guard by him.

“My—” you begin to greet, though you falter when a servant passes through the space between you with a quick apology. You are too far away to speak comfortably at all, your mind swirling with mortification and regret as you move closer.

You have to fight to keep your eyes upon him, for you long to duck your head in shame. He has turned towards you now, and you swear you see a twitch of his lips but you must have imagined it.

At least he is not mocking you.

“My prince,” you say politely as you stop before him. You hope you can make him forget your mistakes with a few pretty words.

“My lady,” he says courteously, inclining his head. He puts forth one of his hands to take yours, but you startle slightly. He stops.

You are merely caught off guard by the action, no matter how used to it you should be. You did not have a kind relationship with touch.

He does not move until you relax, his grip gentle as his fingers cradle your hand. He brings it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on your knuckles. You watch the entire thing transfixed, focused on how his lips look touching your skin.

“It is an honour to meet you, my prince,” you marvel quietly, realizing you’ve been silently staring for too long now. It is hard to think properly when he is so close, his chin lowered to hear you better.

You feel your cheeks warm, pulling your hand back.

“As is you, my lady,” he replies. His hand flexes briefly as it drops from yours, before he returns it behind his back.

You fidget with your fan, thinking of what your father told you. How to make him fawn, how to make him fall.

“…your father?” The prince asks, eyes shifted away from you. Your own eyes widen as you stare at him, worried that you spoke your thoughts aloud. His jaw flexes as he surveys the space behind you.

“What?” You whisper in question, completely convinced he is speaking of something that slipped from your lips, instead of the man watching you both.

His gaze finds yours again, and his eyes soften slightly at your expression. He cocks his head slightly, leaning in to whisper to you.

“Lord Damon, is your father, isn’t he, my lady?” He mutters, casting a look past you once more. You take the hint to take a look yourself.

Your father was poorly hiding his attention upon the pair of you, sipping wine as another man spoke to him. You flushed further, placing a hand over your face.

“Yes,” you confirm in a shy voice, turning back to the prince. “I apologize, he only cares much for me.”

“Yes, of course,” Prince Valarr nodded, pressing his lips together as his forehead wrinkled.

With the reminder of who is watching, and what is relying upon this conversation, you plaster a smile upon your face. It is one that you practiced many times in preparation. Many mornings had been spent being taught how to entice men.

You hoped you looked charming enough to vanish his questions about how it happened so abruptly, but that hope is crushed when his eyebrows furrow. He seems confused, but you do not let him speak.

“I apologize, my prince,” you say airily, the embarrassment making your breathing shallow. Thinking only in half thoughts for a way to earn favour back, you lift the fan within your hand before he can respond to you.

You flick it open—

Too hard.

It falls to the ground between you and the prince, the corner of the handle scraping against the stone path.

All you can see is that something your mother had given is lying dirtied below you, so you bend at the knees to fetch it. Your fingers miss it twice in your haste, humiliation filling you as you rise.

You can feel the eyes that are now upon you, the murmurs that stir at your expense.

“My lady,” the prince tries, his voice softened. You had not noticed he moved, but now he straightened and withdraws his hand. It only makes you feel worse, and you wish you could leave.

“Forgive me, I…” you whisper, drawing in a slightly shaky breath. Your throat feels tight, eyes stinging with the warning of tears. You keep your gaze lowered, not wishing for him to see you in such a pitiful state.

You hear someone laugh to your right, and it makes your heart sink. Everything has gone so wrong because you are too much of a coward to right it.

He does not join their laughing.

“My lady,” the prince tries to gain your attention again, stepping forward slightly. He keeps himself at a proper distance away so as not add more scandal to the situation.

You think the act is a kind thing to do, and it helps you to calm yourself a bit.

“I am fine,” you clear your throat, raising your eyes again. You blink a few times to keep moisture from gathering and you faintly hope it looks as if you are batting your lashes. It is silly, for you are aware how you are more likely to gain pity than desire.

All that time you spent being taught how to charm men, and you could not even apply it in a true conversation with the man it was meant for.

“I did not mean it, I am so very sorry, your Grace,” you rush out, your gaze shifting away from him to an entrance to the Keep. You dip into a curtsy, bowing your head. You need to leave, you have to get away from these last few moments.

Your fingers grasp the skirt of your dress, lifting it slightly as you turn on your heel with a respectful parting bow of your head. You walk fast towards the door that would lead you inside, ignoring how your father stares you down. You do not wish to see him so soon.

You hear the prince call for you once, but you do not slow.

You had not even wished him happy name day.

Your father leads you through the section that holds nobles who are important to the crown. Like your father, and you.

His face has been tight with irritation since you had that poor interaction with Prince Valarr, and he had not spared you lectures upon lectures. He sent you to bed without supper three days in a row, claiming that you did not deserve to eat.

You spent your days with your septa as if you were nine again, her harsh voice not helping with your mood.

You sit within your seat, casting a glance at the ladies near you who you know well. You are sure that is is you who they are whispering about behind their hands as they giggle, but you try to ignore it.

Chatter echoes from the stands, both from where nobles sit and peasants stand. The sun is bright above, but thankfully not sweltering. It shines kindly off the softly flowing banners and armour. You thank the Seven that you will not need to squint to see, for you would end the day with a worse headache than you already possess.

You have your fan again. It feels like a great weight in your hands after the situation that had occurred days ago, but you refuse to leave it behind. It had been a comfort for years, one your father clearly disliked. He always said that you carry your mother’s tender heart.

You flick it open gently, fanning yourself as your dress begins to feel tight.

It was an extravagant gown that your father had commissioned for this event, meant to flaunt the wealth of your House. It was a pretty crimson, hugging your frame.

You did not like what it symbolized.

Your father was never a man who gave up, and even now you could see how he watches the men who are to compete. You follow his gaze nervously, roaming over the men who are each older than you. Strangers.

Your breathing picks up as you allow your thoughts to wander. One of these men could become your husband if that is your father’s wish. A man who will own your every movement and thought, who will want for nothing more than you to birth an heir.

You feel as if the heat has become worse. Your dress is too tight, almost as if it will not let you breathe. Everything is too much; too loud and too bright.

But then your eyes land upon him.

He is standing beside his horse, dressed in dark steel armour as servants adjust it in final preparations. It looks heavy, elegant. It has his House sigil upon the chestplate, a red three-headed dragon that does not allow you to forget his importance. He wears his helm, and yet somehow you feel as if he is staring at you.

The idea of his attention on you of all people makes you tense, but your breathing has calmed and your body cooled. You shift within your seat in an attempt to see him better, but you cannot truly see where he is looking from so far away.

You had prayed that he would forget you. Before bed and in the morning at the Sept, you would kneel and beg for the prince to forget that he had ever met you.

You feel as if you have gone mad, for he plagues your every thought.

You watch him as he hauls himself up onto his horse with ease, making the motion look effortless in a way that stalls your thoughts. His hands gather the reins as he turns the horse toward you, the stallion moves forward with the nudge of his heel.

He was approaching the stands.

You wish to shrink back, but you only hide behind your fan. You curse him in your mind for his decision, which you quickly apologize to the Seven for. He has done nothing wrong and surely is not ill-intentioned.

But you do not understand why. Your father had told you that Prince Valarr would not ask for any lady's favour until he was betrothed, for it often got twisted into politics. You had only brought your favour in case another knight thought to ask.

You turn to your father in hopes he will provide guidance, yet he is talking with other lords about plans and such. He does not draw his attention away from them until the noise of others hushes into murmurs at the prince’s path towards your section.

He then looks to you, his expression twisting with disappointment as he sees how you cower. He snatches your fan from your grip, giving you a glare that makes you sit straight.

You know he thinks he trained you better than this, and you hate that assumption.

“Your favour,” your father directs, gesturing to the Myrain silk ribbon within your lap. You obey, your fingers grasping the ruby coloured fabric. It was something you had personalized yourself, embroidering the edges with golden stitching of flowers. It had kept your mind busy.

You are not able to think about it long as your father pushes you to stand, which is the custom thing to do. You catch yourself on the gallery rail with your free hand, your heart pounding as you stay there for a few moments to collect yourself.

Prince Valarr is before you in seconds, giving you a small nod of his head in greeting as he gets the horse to stay where he wants it. The animal is big, clearly bred strong for a man like the prince. It seems impatient, stomping its foot before the prince calms it with a gentle pat.

The young man below you then reaches up to remove his helm, lifting it to reveal himself beneath. His short brown hair is slightly tousled from being under the armour, the silver behind his ear catching in the sun.

He tilts his head back to look up at you properly, blinking a few times to adjust to the change in light. He squints slightly as he stares at you.

You wonder if his lighter eye is more sensitive to the sun than his other.

“My lady, would you allow me to ride with your favour?” he asks, his voice even as you feel nauseous enough to actually bring up. You give him a small smile that you hope looks encouraging instead of concerning. It is a miracle he has approached you at all, and you cannot waste it.

You swallow as you nod, for it would be stupid to deny his ask. You have no real reason to. You do not think anyone would accept your excuse of feeling like a cornered animal.

“It would be an honour, my prince,” you accept, leaning forward over the rail to extend your favour to him. The breeze blows the fabric gently as it dangles from your hand, the prince’s gaze fixated upon it as he moves his horse closer.

He raises his hand to grasp for it, yet the steel of his armoured fingers wraps around your hand fleetingly. You almost gasp before he pulls back, making that brief contact known by only the two of you. His grip is upon only the fabric now, so you release it to allow him to have it.

Your pulse races as you straighten back up, hands settling upon the wooden rail with a tight grip born of the stress of him.

His head is ducked, seemingly caught in looking at the details of what you have embroidered. You feel even more embarrassed at the thought, for even if there is nothing scandalous in the stitching, you had still not thought it would be seen by anyone else.

You did not think you would be asked for your favour.

“My prince,” you call, the words impulsive. You solely needed his gaze somewhere else.

It works, Prince Valarr raises his head to look at you once more. You know he is not the only one awaiting your words, and you know you must make them good.

“Good luck, and happy name day, your Grace,” you wish, your voice softening as you become unsure of what you say. Is that the best thing to tell him? You did not wish to insinuate that he needed luck.

Your brows furrow as you overthink your own words, feeling as if you have messed everything up again. But the sight of how the corner of his mouth is pulling faintly tears you from your doubt.

“Thank you, my lady,” he responds. He puts his helmet back on over his head, your favour still tangled within one of his hands as they return to the reins. He lingers for a moment longer, eyes upon you through the visor, before he steers his horse away with a measured pull. The stallion carries him back towards where he is waited on as you step back from the rail.

You smooth your hands over your skirts, wiping off your sweating palms as you settle back within your seat next to your father. You look at the man, hoping he may be proud of you for having Prince Valarr ask your favour, but he looks as satisfied as usual.

Which is little.

“Good,” he says simply, as if that entire thing was entirely expected. He hands you back your fan as he leans back in his seat.

Your shoulders relax as you realize it has pleased him, even just some. You try to calm down, but it only stresses you out more to feel how fast your heart is beating within your chest. You wish to place your hand over your breast to check, but you do not dare.

Instead, you let the noise of the crowd stirring draw your attention back to the tourney.

Your eyes lift to look for Prince Valarr, and you find him sitting upon a still horse instead of moving to the lists as others were. He waits as a servant knots your favour around his upper arm, the soft silk looking delicate compared to his blackened armour.

You thought he would have tied it upon his lance. Instead, it rests in a safe place tied to his bicep.

It seems he does not intend to lose your favour.