He didn't go to the celebrations for the Royal Wedding. He was very careful to stay away from the city for days before and after; he didn't see a single piece of bunting or a single flower. When people tried to tell him about the food and the dancing, the beautiful bride and her handsome prince, he had turned away.
Because he'd never cared about things like that anyway, right? He'd only been at the coronation to sell ice and the wedding was in October, frost already on the ground. He wasn't needed and he was also quite sure he wasn't wanted, especially not by a woman he'd only known for three days. He wasn't the type to wave flags or drink and dance just because. He had no interest in it all whatsoever.
In the mountains he worked until he could hardly stand, slept, got up and worked again. Tried not to think about blue eyes and red hair and the weight of her in his arms. Tried to forget about things that were never his to think about in the first place.
He told himself he wasn't going down to the city on the day it ended, either. It was bleak January by then, the air bitter and the cobbles slick. He told himself he wasn't going, right up until he found himself at the edge of the crowd before the scaffold, all watching silently as the rope was dropped round the traitor's neck, as the trapdoor fell away.
And he cursed his height as he was able to see over the heads of the people in front of him, see the two sisters standing over to one side, holding hands like children. See her so pale and drawn, how the last few weeks had broken her. He looked at her for as long as he could bear, then turned and headed back into the mountains.