The disclaimer: I own nothing. All things recognizable are property of G.R.R. Martin, David Benioff, D.B. Weiss, & company, & the asoiaf wiki.

As always, thanks for the reads, reviews, follows, and favorites.

First let me address some anonymous reviews left on Chapter 24:

Guest 1: Dear Reader, perhaps it is not fair for Rhaegar, but, it is not fair that can't wait a day when Rhaegar chose to be away for weeks, months even. Besides, anticipation always makes things sweeter ;) Thanks for reading.

Guest 2: Dear Reader, I truly am sorry for the long wait. 2015 was a very busy year in r.l. and I didn't have the opportunity to work on the story much.

Guest 3: Dear Reader, please do not worry, I am still here. As stated above, due to personal reasons, I haven't been able to write very often. I truly apologize for making you worry.

Lastly, I must heartily thank Sigrid Martell who is kind enough to give this chapter and its multiple versions much appreciated look-sees.

Chapter 25

Rhaegar picks up the shirt from a small pile sitting on the chair tucked in a corner. Too large for Viserys, let alone Aegon or Jon, it is clearly not for him. The embroidery, black upon yellow, tells him it is for no Martell either.

By itself, Elia making shirts is nothing strange; the inclination and time for specificity is.

When he hears the door creak, he throws the shirt back into the pile he found it in.

He forgets it entirely when she smiles at him at him hesitatingly.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting, but, the dress…" She brushes a hand over the article in question in an attempt to smooth the unfamiliar fabric down.

The dress, deep purple and figure-hugging was a gift from the envoy from Lys. It is an outrageous piece even by Dornish standards. All the same, there is no reason insult his guests by refusing to let his wife wear it when they promised she would wear it tonight. After all, the sight of her in it is most agreeable.

Too aware of what darker matters may cause Elia to be self-conscious, a smile tugs at his lips.

"It is well worth the effort."

A relieved look turns playful. Good, he thinks. Sauntering towards him, she puts her lips to his ear. "I had thought you tired of looking at me."

"No." He is not opposed to giving her a compliment if she had been after one, but, it had been some time since he felt he ought to. He would name her a liar, but, he knows the meaning behind her words all too well. He supposes it is a benefit of a marriage. It is equally a trouble.

"I was concerned you would be."

Elia presses herself closer and he embraces her. When they are expected in a few minutes, he should not allow the delay; yet, he does it. "How can you even say that?"

Unconsciously, his grip around her waist tightens. He knows how she could.

He rarely had the opportunity to experience what Griff once referred to as Elia's attempt to be the "dragon on the throne". Today, it accompanies ire directed towards Lord Arryn of all people. "I am not in the habit of betraying confidences."

"This is no silly secrets between ladies." He nearly winces. For all her talk of being less Martell now, a seething Targaryens prove to be far more dangerous.

Lord Arryn, however, is not without the ability to give in to rage. "I ignorantly invited that craven thing into my home."

"I understand your shock and dismay, however, it is not my place to disclose what Lady Arryn and Lord Tully had not."

Elia knew Lady Arryn and Lord Tully kept something from Lord Arryn? Liking this less and less, confusion turs into vexation. What were they discussing?

"It would have been proper."

With Arryn this furious, the mulish expression stamped across Elia's countenance heightens his dread. "It is improper to discuss a matter when the result will surely be painful for everyone involved."

Arryn returns, "I had every right to know."

"My lord, you knew-"

Arryn roars, "Not who it was."

With Lord Arryn all but waving his figure at Elia as if she was an unruly child, he almost intercedes, but, he does not. The sneer stretched across Elia's lips, much like Oberyn's at his worst, stops him. "You had abundant opportunities to ask about Petyr Baelish long before I learned the name. You chose not to take them."

He grimaces before Arryn flinches. The deceased Lord of the Fingers is the subject of their contention? True, it was an awful thing for the man to fall prey to a band of brigands on his way to the Eyrie for a post Arryn offered the man, but, what-

He wondered at Ser Brynden's embarrassment in discussing Riverrun's former ward. Now he knows.

Elia shakes her head as he does. "Go home, Lord Arryn. You ought to be comforting your wife about the death of a friend, not here."

He gasps is masked due to distance and Arryn's sound of disgust. "He was no mere friend."

"There was nothing between them after she became your lady."

Seeing Arryn's face, he thinks playing at flagrant certainty is unwise even if true. Would it not be better for some time to pass so the man comes to terms with his wife's secrets if that is what Arryn wanted?

To Elia's stout reply, Arryn replies in kind. "She carried on as if she loves him still. Why should I have to contend with it?"

Elia, clearly, intends stubbornness. "You must contend with Lysa's sentiments. To try to avoid doing so by keeping away may prove to be to your detriment as much as hers."

Fondness for Lysa Arryn, fails to explain Elia's stance. Arryn obviously thinks similarly. "My detriment to be away from a liar? Pah!"

Hearing humorless laughter from the man who rarely laughs when feeling joy, he shudders.

Elia's lips purse. "Lord Arryn, be reasonable…"

Reasonable? What about this could be reasonable? Predictably, Arryn growls. "She recommended him to me."

Grimly, he is aware that is more than reason enough to be angry.

Elia, though, is undeterred. "They were not on speaking terms."

Something to consider, even if slightly, but, then, Arryn snaps out, "So you said."

Elia sighs, but, then her spine straightens. "Were you not twice wed before you took Lysa to wife?"

Lord Arryn was not the only one to stiffen at Elia's statement. Oh, gods! Certainly, Elia was not…

Coming to the same conclusion, Arryn sneers. "Yes, I was. They were not. A great difference." The 'you know this' goes unsaid.

The line of Elia's shoulders indicate it had not gone unheard. Dreading what else she would say, he is perplexed when her next words are: "Lysa wrote to me."

A lengthy stretch of silence passes and Arryn, clearly tired, groans. "What did she write?"

Elia's face twists into pity. He knows his wife. It is not for the Arryn before her. "The script ran together in multiple places due to wetness." In the face of Arryn's incomprehension, Elia adds, "She'd been crying when she wrote it."

Arryn remains silent.

"She feels guilty enough." Elia is not quite begging, yet…

"She is guilty." Arryn crosses his arms across his chest.

Elia scowls. "Baelish is dead because he was on his way to your household at her request. You left angrily without explanation. She is frightened, alone, and blames herself enough." Arryn, like him, hears, 'Without you adding to her burdens."

Unmoved, Arryn demands, "You expect me to forgive her."

Seeing Elia's expression turns grim, he grows more anxious. "I do not expect it to be easy. I know it can be done."

"What would you know about it?"

Arryn's sneer is less certain when Elia smiles sadly. "I know Lyanna Stark's son lives in a room down the hall from my own chambers."

Arryn is not the only one to flinch. It was obviously the opportunity she sought because Elia continues, "I know you are hurt she kept this from you. But, what would you have her do? You knew she was no maiden when you wed her. Learning who she gave her maidenhead should make no difference. What might have been fully died with Baelish. Let it."

He shivers as his mind whirrs. What did she mean?

When Arryn's shoulders slump Elia takes another gamble. "When you did it for men for battle and an heir, you took Lysa to wife. We both wed knowing there are benefits afforded. We are also beholden to promises. In giving your house a lady and you a son, she delivered upon hers. If, instead of being the comfort she would appreciate, if not grow to love you for, you turn into the villain she expects because you allow yourself to sink in the muck of what can never be, can you say the same? You are better than that or at least I hope you are."

Brow furrowed, Arryn remains mute as he turns and walks away.

Coming to stand next to Elia, he too says nothing. Instead he looks out to see Viserys out in the yard. Naturally, his daughter is there. The sounds of joyful youth fails to calm him.

It is a relief Elia speaks first. "Playing the martyr does not suit our former Hand."

'Former Hand.' The term comes as no surprise. Also, not surprising is her knowing he had been there.

Elia would defer to his decisions, yet, no good comes from a Queen and a Hand being at odds. He is fully aware of the responsibilities he must shoulder and he has no desire to take up another endeavor without need. In one way it makes things easier and yet…

"Is he not justified?" It is not where he wants to begin, but, since this started with the Arryns, it is a good place as any.

Elia frowns. "Young as she is and far from the first, when she does her duty to him, it is beneath a man of his stature to pout like a child because he is reminded of a 'flaw' he was fully aware of."

A harsh assessment though he understands her meaning. If one entered into a pact with someone with supposedly known moral shortcomings one cannot claim to be duped when they act against one's interest. It is a wise thought. It is also one providing terribly unpleasant reminders. And yet, "Baelish was on the way to the Eyrie."

"He is dead." That she does not seem to ignore how much of a travesty this could have been should be comforting. However, he is shaken for reasons with little to do with either Arryn or Baelish.

"As is Lyanna." Avoiding discussing Lyanna was impossible, but, it has been quite some time since they had. Why now? Why for this? Why at all?

"You should not have used Lyanna's memory for this."

She grows paler as she starts to shiver. She tugs at her shawl. He wonders if it is to cover her reaction or give herself time. When her words come out, they are unsteady. It is not particularly reassuring even if such a possibility of it being that existed at all. "I am merely one among many who could seek to use her memory for their own purposes."

When anger could have, and perhaps should have, blazed, it barely flickers. Where pain and regret there is little room for fury, especially with the way apprehension rolls off of Elia who clearly expects his rage.

It stings, but, properly used weapons are meant to. Weapons are weapons no matter who they are wielded by or aimed at. Remembering his time in those damnable crypts, he knows his foolishness allowed Lyanna to become a weapon for anyone to use. "So you reminded him what a true breaking of vows was?"

She flinches again. The side of her face visible to him is flushed a deep red. "No."

There was no following explanation. He does not expect one. He needs it not. "You knew how it felt and still you took Lady Lysa's part."

Now, she turns to him. If anything, she looks more distressed. "I also know what it is have your husband leave you and the only answer anyone, even your mind, has to why he would are your own failures."

He flinches even before he sees her reaching for his arm. A soothing touch after one takes a wound would be welcome and, yet, even for the briefest of moments, he thinks about pulling away.

As if she could see into him, her face falls and her hand comes to an abrupt halt. She grips tightly on the bannister in front of her.

He pushes down the bile which rose up in his throat. "That was my failure not yours."

Despite his intentions, he sees his words fail to comfort her. Of course, they do.

Elia looks away again. "And for me to continue to punish you for something that cannot be taken back could have been mine."

Elia falls silent and he helps maintain it. There is little to say.

He stares at her hand.

This was never meant to be about broken vows. Nor was this about Lyanna or Petyr Baelish. One can try and drown themselves in tears and apologies or endlessly whisper the most fervent of prayers and in the end none of it will do very much for the dead. All anyone has is the living. All anyone can do is move forward.

Years ago, he had done as he liked and used the past to build his future and the world burned for it. He remembers being at the Wall and feeling foolish for depriving himself of what he had here. There, he sorely missed his wife and children. He came back demanding more.

Looking down to where all the children are now, he can hear their laughter from this height. Even when not pressed close as he knows they could be, he can feel Elia's warmth.

Making his choice, he covers her hand with his.

When her face slips into that thankfully familiar smirk, he releases the breath he had been holding. "Not a week ago passed when you did not even want to be seen on King's Landing streets with me."

Suppressing the wince at the memory of his choosing to read yet another letter from Maester Aemon, he takes a long, appraising look at his wife. "Going without me does not seem to have affected you negatively."

How easily she laughs is a boon. "How shameless have you become?"

When he snorts she nudges her elbow in his side. "And completely beside the point. You have been overly preoccupied of late."

Between his traditional duties and the ones he insisted on taking on among other concerns, he had been more distant.

At least Maester Aemon had written that his efforts were noticed. That was well and good especially when his last attempt at trying to find hidden meanings in the Maester's letters found him miserable, if well informed. However, his inability to let things be has always been a weakness.

He let himself be consumed by the same duty and prophecy which destroyed his mother and father. It nearly ruined him and his family and so many more. It is still his folly to himself continue to be enthralled by which he should not give too much weight. But, he is resolved not to become mired in the past. To do so would cost him more than he is willing to pay.

He lets those thoughts slip from his mind as they arrive at the entrance to the ballroom chosen for tonight's fete.

He squeezes her hand. "I suppose it is a good thing you prepared for dancing this evening."

She smiles. "Oh?"

"What better opportunity is there for me to dance each dance with you tonight?"

Now, she laughs, "While the prospect is more than agreeable…" Having her press against him again, the warmth on his face spreads until, "I am afraid that will not be possible tonight."

Taken aback, he frowns. Hadn't she just intimated- "Why?"

Her face constricts oddly. Seeing her smother a laugh, he is only mollified when she presses close again and takes his hand, giving it a squeeze. "The Lyseni envoy's wife would obviously expect one and Lady Olenna has been asking for you."

There was no sense in refusing either. He was not going to insult his guests and he certainly was not going to think of challenging the grand dame.

She looks at him slyly. "For my part, I will be too occupied."

Not with the past or shirts, at least. "With?"

"The Lord Commander, of course. Lord Stannis also requested to engage me in one."

His feet, like his mind, come to a swift and unexpected halt. Stannis Baratheon? Seeing the usually sour-faced younger man across the corridor he quickly looks away, thoroughly doubting Elia's words. The man who barely speaks to him unless necessity dictated it voluntarily asked his wife for dance? As far as he could tell, the last time he saw Stannis Baratheon dance was the man's own wedding.

She shrugs. "Ashara probably put him up to it."

He stops. Incredulous, he stares. Ashara was in Storm's End and in no position to make her recalcitrant husband do anything. He supposes the man can be persuaded, but, if he put his mind to it…He shudders.

"What has my wife done now?"

Startled, he nearly jumps as Stannis Baratheon, eyes narrowed, bows sharply.

Elia giggles. "My Lord Stannis, I was telling the king you asked me for a dance."

To his amazement, the younger man's cheeks color, even when he is staring disapprovingly at her gown.

"It is nothing." How unbending he sounds…That at least sounds like the man he knows.

Blithely continuing, she says, "Perhaps so, my lord, but, is it not so you rarely engage in dance."

Surely Elia was not- "Might I enquire how-" Lord Stannis pauses, grimaces more fiercely while concluding, "My wife."

She smiles as if the ferocity of the man's flush does not match that of his frown. A mild reaction, he thinks. If Stannis Baratheon desired, any exchange could be unpleasant and heated.

"Naturally, Ashara and I correspond, however, as have been blessed to host your august presence on many occasions to note such things is my prerogative."

When the man opens his mouth to speak, he does it properly, if noticeably clipped. "As you say. For now, I beg your leave."

Elia smiles pensively in Baratheon's direction. "It is quite sweet how much he loves Ashara. Pity he is so shy about it."

Sweet? Stannis Baratheon? Though it was without effort once again he thinks of the Arryns.

Saying nothing more, he relaxes when a distraction from the states of other's marriages in the forms of Viserys and Rhaenys. He laughs at Viserys' now rare, youthful squeak of indignation when Elia straightens his collar. Rhaenys, for her part, demands a dance from him, 'After Lord Jon though'.

Viserys sends Griff an accusing look before pulling Rhaenys after him and disappearing into the crowd. Deciding it was not worth it, he turns again to his wife. "I see you were right about dancing."

She snorts. "I promised one to Lord Tywin."

She nods distractedly, she was smiling at something behind him. "Ah, Ser Oswell, good. You are here."

Oswell's roguish grin is fully on display. "What am I a party to this time?"

Unhooking her hand from his, Elia explain, "I was going to tell His Grace of the dance I owe you."

While wondering how that came about, Oswell bends to give Elia's outstretched hand a kiss. Oswell cheerfully corrects, "Two, in truth."

His eyes fly open as Elia and Oswell share a laugh. "How foolish of me."

The smile the knight gives his wife irritates him. Obviously unware of his thoughts, Oswell adds slyly, "Perhaps that would entitle me to three."

Stunned by Oswell's audacity, Elia's merry contribution intensifies his reaction. "I doubt you could manage three."

He frowns as Oswell, hand over heart, makes a show of pretending offence. He is less amused at Oswell's boast, "I will. I cannot say the same for you, my queen."

Annoyingly, Elia only rolls her eyes. "I know my steps."

"True, but, if you try to prove it, I might have to take up a weapon." Oswell raises gestures lazily with his sword arm.

"Oh?"

His fists clench when Oswell leers at his wife. "One false move in that thing you call a gown and they'll want more than the eyeful they are sure to get. I can't have that on my conscience."

Elia snickers. "Quite a gallant man you are." 'Hardly', he fumes.

Oswell grins. "I have a white cloak to prove it."

Finding his voice, he sneers. "You are not wearing it now."

"I know." Oswell cheekily grins at him, turning to follow after Barristan revealing black bats on a yellow background.

Before he could demand to know when Elia became such fast friends with Oswell, she was cheerfully greeting an equally exuberant Lady Redwyne.

Rhaegar's hand clenches from under the table.

Elia's hand brushed his thigh again. He had taken the first instance as the slip of her hand. Now he was thoroughly disabused of the notion.

Mindful of the perpetual sternness of the man sitting across from him he tries restrain himself from reacting. Things go well when Tywin Lannister is pleased. His leave is imminent. It would be disastrous if his composure failed him now.

More than Tywin Lannister's outrage was at stake. For the Lannister lord or Oswell to see him react works in her favor too much. He cannot let his demeanor slip because he cannot control himself, or rather, his wife.

"Some more water, perhaps, my lord?"

Elia, hand firmly gripping his thigh tighter, smiles at Lannister. The man's practiced grimace eases by a miniscule amount and he barely holds back the groan threatening escape.

Even when not at their best with each other, he had not deprived himself the feel of her hands upon his skin. He certainly has no objection now, but, when she barred him from her rooms last night, today, her timing leaves plenty to be desired.

Why be playful now?

As she places her hand where it ought not to be, he barely stops himself from jolting in his chair. His skin feels feverish. She smiles at him sweetly. Damn her! She knew how much distress she causes him.

Returning her gaze towards Lannister, she purrs, "Are you certain you wish to leave on the morrow, my lord? To host you is always a pleasure."

Damn her and her stalling! But, of course, the lion inclines his head, making a show of considering. Lannister is a fortunate man, he thinks as he represses a pleased shudder. The Warden of the West does not have to worry about a wife's devious mind or hands.

How no one notices how unsettled Elia's attention makes him is a small mercy. It takes nearly everything him to keep still as Lannister eagerly, or as much the man allows himself to show, replies, "No, my queen. I waited long enough and you would not deny me the chance to see my grandchildren, my first grandchildren, when they are your kin as well?"

Now passing for suitably demure, she smiles bashfully. He would laugh himself sick at the display of feminine modesty most falsely attribute to his wife if he was not compromised. As it is, he can barely keep himself still under her assault.

Elia asks Tywin Lannister if he would agree to carry more gifts to little Gerion and Joanna all the while running her palm against the insides of thigh with a painstaking slowness.

He exhales deeply for reasons with little to do with the accusing looks Tywin Lannister gives Elia.

"More gifts? You have already been generous…"

Rhaegar barely contains his snort at Tywin Lannister's attempt not to be outdone in gift giving.

Predictably, Elia's shy smile is incongruous with what he currently experiences.

"Not too much more, it is just I had thought to get these gifts, but, they were not quite finished to my desire. Isn't that right Ser Oswell?"

He squints as his knight smiles at his wife. When did Oswell allow himself to be dragged to markets? Since when did Oswell Whent merit any part of his wife's attention? His traitorous mind supplies, 'Or shirts?'

His squint becoming a glare is a near thing when Oswell volunteers more. "Quite right, the merchant had promised, but, certainly my lord is aware…"

Ignorant of his thoughts, Elia smiles demurely and finishes, "One cannot believe in every promise even if one wishes to."

Trying not to think of what that is supposed to mean, he listens as a pinch-lipped, Lord Tywin replies, "I trust it was easy to find a different vendor."

Elia, dancing her fingers much closer to where they ought not to be, laughs softly. "Of course."

Feeling the weight of her hand across his clothed skin is the only reason he finds himself agreeing with Lord Tywin's attempt to reprimand Elia, or so he tells himself.

He clenches his jaw tightly when the man, despite the suspicious gleam in his eye, agrees to Elia's request easily.

Of course, things would go her way.

Her hand feels heavier on his skin even when he sees Oswell grin at his wife again. Gods knew the only reason Jaime Lannister was not underfoot because he was already in Dorne. Corbray was still quite young and susceptible. Tully, because of her continuing correspondence with his nieces, favored her as well. Aemon had not been immune. He'd seen the routinely arriving letters. Even Arryn, for all his bluster returned to the Eyrie with mostly good grace. Now Oswell, too, it seems, had fallen prey to his wife's charm.

Still, he cannot say what brought this on. While this unabashed indecency is more like Oberyn, Elia was more Doran than anyone would admit. For all that this feels pleasant, the realization is entirely the opposite. He cannot help thinking if her purpose in driving him to distraction for nefarious reasons. Though such thoughts are preposterous, his wife was no innocent.

He likes to think it is this knowledge alone which stirs a desire to be less yielding, but, this is not so.

He is a greedy man who always did as he liked. When he wanted to be well-read, he got himself books. When he wanted music he took up his harp. When he wanted to be a warrior, he took up arms.

Remembering whispered words and fullest of touches and the true press of skin, trapped like this he wanted.

This does not merely stoke the fires in him. It envelopes. It burns. But, what was fire to a dragon?

Mind made, he puts a hand on her traitorous one, pressing around her dainty palm. Her hand twitches violently in his grasp. She tries to shake it off. Because her attempt is gentle it fails. Her hand stiffens completely in his and it remains there. He nearly smiles.

After hearing her with Arryn, when he had taken her hand it had been a gesture of mending, one of determination.

This time, he took her hand for an entirely different resolution. The near smile threatens to turn into a smirk.

He holds her hand still. When it finally softens in his, he begins to rub a finger slowly across the back of her palm. His smile widens into a smirk when his wife's spine straightens. From under the table, she tries to wrench her hand from his discreetly while keeping her face trained on Lannister. He watches her attempt to conceal her reactions to him. She is far from steady.

Her lips press together, but, she does not look at him. He knows she wants to.

When she quickly offers to show Lord Tywin out, he nearly preens.

Laughter bubbles up. It is difficult to suppress, but, he manages, barely. Who ever thought of a sun which runs?

He lets her go and leans back in his seat. It is of little consequence if she manages to free herself from his onslaught now. Let her flee. He caught her before. Even if all he does is wait, he will catch her again. There is no sense in keeping himself from what was freely offered and since his wife decided to play games it is only right he answer in kind.

For now, this small victory leaves him unsatisfied. "My queen."

Were this years ago, weeks ago even, his own audacity with Elia would have been cause for concern. In this moment, he is delighted with himself.

"My king?" There was a tremor in her voice; disguised, but, there. A small thing and it takes everything in him not to crow in triumph.

"When you have seen to Lord Tywin's comfort, I should like to have your thoughts on the household accounts."

Ever the picture of the modest wife, she bows her head sedately before shuffling Lord Tywin out the room without another word. Oh, but, the look she gave him. His laughter is loud in the silence.

"Your Grace?"

Even if his thoughts are less than charitable towards Oswell of late, he understands well his knight's confusion and possible alarm. But, Oswell lived with him and should know his ways. At least, he should remember Elia's books had never been a point of interest for him. "Yes, Oswell?"

"It looked as though you were plotting for war."

Mind whirring with far more pleasurable possibilities, he has no thoughts of correcting his knight's misunderstanding.

"Oh?"

"But, you laughed?"

He rises. "Yes, I did, didn't I?"

Uncaring of leaving a bemused knight in his wake, body thrumming with anticipation, he walks out of the room without another word thoughts consumed by a war of an entirely different sort.

The door shuts with a sharp 'snap'. Knowing who it is, he is in no hurry to look up. Oh, no, the wait is far too intoxicating.

He cared little for his good-brothers, but, even Doran would say vipers were amusing. His own proves to be quite entertaining. How she reacts to him exponentially so. It is a lesson learned late, but learned all the same.

"Household accounts."

He fights back the grin.

He waits before glancing at where Elia stands. There is a sneer firmly planted on her face.

His throat jumps.

Though he remains where he is, it takes everything in him not to rise and cross the room to get to her. Oh, but, he wants to.

His words fail him. So much for that vaunted eloquence, he thinks grimly.

But, how could he be when faced with this sight?

It's the same dress and jewels she wore when she brought herself his chambers the first morning after he returned from the Wall.

Mind all-too-easily remembering feel of her hands on his skin and the taste of her lips, seeing her lean back on the door he wonders if she wears the same perfume.

At that traitorous thought, he took a breath to steady himself. This was likely the first of many ploys his wife would practice. It would not do to toss over the leverage he gained since the last encounter so quickly. For him to give her the reaction she desires would be unconscionable.

The other thought forcing him to remain firmly seated are hands. Her empty hands.

For a moment he wonders what would be a bigger worry, a wife not clever enough or too clever.

In the end, it does not matter. The wife he has is the wife he has and of the regrets he does have, this is not one of them.

"It seemed legitimate enough an excuse."

Her eyebrows rises. "Not a very good one. You have not looked at 'my books' for years."

A smile tugs at his lips even as he nods towards her hands. "I suppose that is why you decided not to bring them."

She tilts her head, the look almost playful. He finds himself leering, "But, it was wise of you. Of your things I enjoy looking at, your books are not chief among them."

Elia rolls her eyes. "Are you being deliberately being obtuse?"

Feeling more at ease, he leans back in his chair. "Are you telling me I should learn to become a better liar?"

A thrill of something runs through him when her eyes narrow. "Whent is looking at me oddly."

He tries not to grin. Better 'oddly' than anything else, he thinks. Oswell had not been wrong about the eyes on his wife that night.

"Ah, so it's back to 'Whent' and not 'Oswell'?" Try as he might, and he barely tries, he fails to curb the bite to his words.

She glares. "You deliberately mistake my meaning."

He fights to keep the smile off his face. "I can tell him to stop staring at you, but, that will only lead to more questions. We cannot have that, can we?"

She hisses, "Are you making light of the predicaments you put me in."

The predicaments he puts her in? Such cheek! Energized, he rises and stalk his audacious prey.

He shakes his head, but, not in answer to what she thinks he means.

This defiance simply will not do.

"Would you have liked me to say, then?" He braces his hand on one side while the other he presses against her neck. As he inches towards her, he unfolds his lips into a smile, "It was either that, dear wife, or tell Tywin Lannister about your deplorable behavior."

He smirks at her raised chin. "If I am so deplorable, why put up with me?"

He trades his smirk for an expression of patently false confusion. It almost turns to a smile at the searching look he receives. To explain, he says, "You were there in the Sept when I said the words. I suppose it helps I have become quite accustomed to you. "

"Rhaegar Targaryen!" When she shoves at his shoulder, he laughs.

Her face heats in the most delightful way, he thinks. But, it is not enough. No, it will not be.

"You seem to think yourself amusing, do you? Perhaps you ought to try your hand at being a Fool."

He laughs harder. He presses himself closer to Elia. He smiles at how she does not try to pull away. "Now, wife, that's not very kind."

"It is not nice when one's husband complains of his wife's attentiveness." She is being far too bold for someone with such a flush, he thinks.

As he be bring her to move away from the door and settles her on the edge of his desk, he helpfully points out, "I was not complaining."

"You are now."

He shakes his head even as he kisses her frown away.

He sighs. Given his past exploits he must be careful to be above reproach. Despite his own lack of personal shame, he shudders what would have happened if they had been discovered. "Tywin Lannister is hardly the man to toy with."

"If you dislike how I act you should have said something." She shrugs. "He did not notice. Of course, it was not his notice I was after." His eyes widen when Elia only leers at him. "Can you say it was not pleasurable for you?

For someone who ran from him, she being is awfully intrepid now. No, this certainly will not do. Even when he should not, he finds himself leaning into her. He rests a hand on her hip. "And you thought that this was the best way to stir my notice."

She runs her hand along the length of his arm. "I thought the direct approach would be best to achieve my aims. Obviously, it proved successful."

Words gently spoken and all they do is burn. She did not care who had been there, the Lion of Lannister or the High Septon. Years ago this would have never have happened and now…

His arm snakes around her waist. "To what end?"

The wicked gleam in her eyes sparks brighter. Seeing it does little to help him smother the want that continues to stir.

"You have not been to my rooms in days."

When she pouts so prettily it is difficult to stop himself from kissing her again.

Vowing not to do that, he lifts her chin with a hand. "You refused me."

Eyes bright and without an ounce of shame, she retorts, "Of course, I did."

He huffs a laugh. "And now you complain?"

Her eyes lower but, she pushes herself closer to him. Her hands start to play with his collar. There is hardly a reason to be coy now, he thinks. He allows her wordless examination. But, then, she asks, "Why shouldn't I?"

He takes hold of both of her hands to still them. "And what had I done to warrant such a sentence?"

When she looks up at him again the spark of mischief in her eyes sends a rapturous shiver up his spine. "You asked when I started making shirts for other men."

He exhales sharply and he finds himself flushing for an entirely unpleasant reason. His arm tightens against her back pulling Elia closer to him. Between the Kingsguard's continued ease with his wife and there being few exceptions to the lustful gazes now sent his wife's way, he had not been able to temper his jealousy well. Or at all, it seems. "You married a very stubborn man." Before she says what he knew she would, he adds, "You also have yet to answer the question."

She throws her head back and laughs. The way her flesh is pressed against him, sweetens the sound. "Still focused on that are you?"

With the way she is now trailing her lips across his jaw it is difficult to force out his next words, but, he gets them out. "Your reluctance to discuss the matter allows me think there is enough reason to warrant my attention."

Grinning, she settles closer to him. "I like it when your attention is directed towards me."

Curious, he pulls away from her assault. Half in jest, he says, "Please do not tell me you convinced Oswell to help you make me jealous."

Wide-eyed, she asks, "Would it work?"

This time, he pokes her shoulder. "Quiet, you!"

She snorts. "I am not that clever, you know."

His wife is quite the liar. "I think you can be plenty clever."

As pleased as she seems by the simple compliment, the wickedness in her makes him anxious for reasons he cannot begin to fathom. "Then you must not be."

This time, he snorts. "You may be right after all, I do not know when my wife started making other men's shirts."

Snickering, she collapses into his arms. It is a far from unpleasant thing as he grips around her waist tighter.

Into his chest, she whispers, "Why do you insist on knowing?"

"Does not a husband have a right to know?" He flushes, embarrassed. Not a very good question to ask. "I did not mean-"

Predictably, Elia sighs heavily as if feeling put-upon. "I have been making Whent's shirts for some years now."

"Years?"

She gives him an artless look. "Who else was going to make shirts on Dragonstone for the Kingsguard you brought with you?"

Laughter explodes. Clearly it was the reaction she was trying for because she pulls herself closer to him and continues, "If it pleases you, I make yours first and more often."

He grins. "Good."

Pointedly, she exclaims, "I grow tired of speaking of shirts."

He snorts. "Mine or theirs?"

She chuckles. "Anyone's." She ends with a kiss to his chest and burrows further into his side.

He finds himself grinning. "What would you like to talk about?"

Once more, she looks up at him with her dark eyes. "You demanded me I come to you. Obviously, you had questions for me. You received the answer you craved." He did not respond to the barb. Then again, he knew she was going to continue. "Certainly, it is you who has something to say."

Of course he has plenty to say. In this moment though, he would rather not. He tears himself away from her arms to cross the room.

She glances curiously. "What are you doing now?"

He glances over his shoulder. "I am bolting the door shut."

She huffs. "Obviously." From her perch on his desk, she leans forward. "Why?"

Task completed, he moves again to stand with his hands bracketing her body and his legs standing to frame hers. He revels in the way she shivers at his proximity. She asks again, "Why did you bolt the door."

He stifles a laugh. "Perhaps you are right and are not that clever. I bolted the door so that no one can come in."

Annoyance and suspicion are plain on her face. "Why do you want no one to come in?"

Trying for a serious tone, he croons, "You are here so that I might see your books."

Her eyes widen and her skin flushes. "You know I did not bring any."

A smirk tugs at his lips. He runs one hand across her collarbone while the other pushes aside the things on his desk for once not caring if some of them break. "Even better, because I do not want to talk of books. I do not wish to talk at all."

A smile unfurls. "What do you want to do?"

He presses a kiss against her neck. "You desired my undivided attention. Now you have it." He brushes his thumb against her lips. "To start, I want to see…"

She kisses his thumb. Then, she whispers, "What would you like to see?"

He presses himself closer to her. "I am fairly certain you can show me something far more worthwhile than any book."

Pressing his lips against hers he gives her no time to question him further. But, then, her moans are answer enough.