"They're doing well," Lyonel commented looking along the beach as his archers practiced their close combat skills. Guardsmen were moving between the groups, correcting bad technique where they saw it, those who were injured were resting against the rocks at the back of the beach.
"That they are, my prince," Rennic nodded, arms folded across his broad chest.
"How many do we have?"
"Two thousand prince, or so they say."
Lyonel raised an eyebrow. "They?"
"The people who count."
"You mean the maesters?"
"If you say so, my prince."
Lyonel chuckled. "Well, I do captain," he replied. Rennic's ignorance was oddly charming, though Lyonel didn't know how much of it was genuine and how much was an act. But if his captains were going to be able to even attempt to stand in councils of war with his lords, then they had to know the words to do it. They'd never be treated as equals, their low birth put that beyond them, but he could at least make it so they were tolerated for more than just him commanding it. "Two thousand is good, very good. Are we still getting recruits?"
"Not as many as before, and we're having to turn away more and more of those that do come up."
"Why?"
"Not good enough," Rennic replied simply, "can't shoot far enough or for long enough."
"I see," Lyonel said. He wanted more, but he knew enough that simply pulling in all the men he could would make the whole battalion lesser. "Let's walk among them," he said.
The two of them descended onto the beach, the soft sand slipping beneath their boots, walking carefully between the fighters, observing, watching, offering advice where it was needed and complements where they were earned. They paused as a group of twenty men split into two lines, their faces were red and their breathing heavy, with their new cloaks discarded on the dunes. Captain Albrech stood between them, tall and authoritative. Of the three captains, Albrech was the one who best slotted into his new role, he was a natural leader and instructor. He would never be called a leader loved by his men, like Robert, but he was one the men under him respected. "Now when I say go, each of you is to take down the man in front of you," he said. He stepped back carefully, then caught sight of Rennic and Lyonel. "Prince Lyonel!" He declared. The men hurried to turn, not as smartly or neatly as trained soldiers, but enthusiastic none the less.
He smiled at them, raising a hand to calm them. "Carry on Captain Albrech."
"Yes, my prince," he bowed his head. "As I said, be ready to attack, whatever it takes, bring down the man in front of you, ready? Go!"
The men, who had turned back to face each other, launched into their attacks, slamming together with crashing ribs and limbs. One was smart enough to duck low and took the legs from his opponent, bringing him crashing to the dirt, the rest were fighting with tooth, nail and fist, but within moments there were scattered victors panting over the fallen forms of their opponents.
"Very good," Lyonel commented, stepping over to the man who had tackled his opponent by the legs. "What is your name?"
"J-Justin, m'prince," he muttered, not looking into Lyonel's face.
"You did well Justin, very well indeed, I'm proud of you." He turned back to the rest. "And a good effort from the rest of you as well, keep up the good work. Please continue, Captain Albrech."
"Yes my prince," he said. "Right then you lot, get up, and switch partners, then we're going to try this again."
They moved on. "Not good enough to take on knights in fair combat, but battle rarely has fair combat, right Rennic?" There was no reply. "Rennic?" He turned to see Rennic a few steps back, looking up towards the main path leading up to the castle. "What is it?" He asked.
"Who is that?" Rennic asked.
Rennic glanced at the path. "The Red Woman, I've told you about her haven't I?"
Rennic nodded. "You have, but I thought she was the Red Woman?"
Lyonel glanced over at the archery butts. The butts were filled, it was a rule in his archer companies, every day they weren't directly at war they all had to fire at least ten arrows, if only so they could get used to the stress on their shoulders. Sure enough, the tall and terrible woman in red was standing near to them, her presence filling the common men of his archers with trepidation, at least one archer missed his shot because he was glancing over his shoulder at her.
"It is," he said, turning back to the path at the back of the beach. "Then who is that?" He couldn't make them out properly at this distance, but there was another figure clad in scarlet folds there, looking, watching. Had another red priestess come? One crawling around Dragonstone was enough to deal with, had his mother truly permitted a second? He couldn't believe that, but he didn't recognise the colour or style of clothes, he could tell the figure was a woman, but not much else. As they watched, the woman was approached by another figure, this one male and clad in scale armour, not the manner of Westerosi men. A foreigner, but the sellswords were all with his father. Then, the two turned, and made their way back up the path towards Dragonstone castle.
"Wait here," he said, "I'm going to investigate."
"You sure you don't need me to come with you, my prince," Rennic fingered the longknife at his waist.
Lyonel shook his head. "This is my home, no assassin would walk so brazenly here if they meant me harm. I'll be fine, see to the men."
Rennic nodded and Lyonel marched off towards the path leading up to the castle.
He followed the narrow carved path up from the beach, the carved steps steep and unforgiving. This was a side beach, but even this path was carved to be hard to traverse, it could be held by a few men at arms with archers and peltasts above raining death down upon any attacker trying to push their way through. He'd decided this beach was best to keep his archers separate from the main army for now, until they were more cohesive.
Whoever the stranger was, they'd had enough of a head start to make it to the postern gate before he'd caught them. It was little more than a door, at most two people could squeeze through it. Normally it was manned and locked, but since he'd told his mother that he'd planned to spend the week with his men on the beach, she'd allowed it to remain open, perhaps that had been a mistake. He pushed the door open and headed through the small room at the base of the tower. As he approached the other side he heard the sounds of cheering. Curious, he pushed open the door to see the courtyard crowded, a great mass of bodies circling the sparring area. Not wanting to shove his way to the front, he carefully worked his way around the back of the crowd, making his way to the steps, where some more of the castle staff were watching whatever was happening in the centre of the courtyard. He kept glancing around as he ascended the steps, looking for the woman in red, not seeing her anywhere, it was like she had vanished.
Instead he turned his eyes to the sparring arena. He saw the captain of the castle's guardsman, clad in plate with sword in hand facing off against two opponents clad in foreign armour. Opposed to the captain's longsword the two soldiers wielded wicked scimitars, clad in scaled armour with conical helms, the steel curling up into a sharp point. One of them had a whip curled at their waist, while the other had a throwing axe. Together, they leapt towards the captain, blades flashing high and low. The captain stepped towards one, checking the whirling blade and attacking with three cuts before spinning back to defend against the second attacker. He pressed his attack, two, three, four cuts. It was one too many, the foe he'd just turned away from snatched the whip from their waist and lashed it out, snapping through the air and curling around the captain's foot. The captain stumbled and his opponents pounced.
The crowd groaned as the captain dropped his blade in surrender.
"Who are they?" He muttered to no one in particular.
"Don't even bother my prince." Lyonel turned to Ser Andrew Estermont, who sidled over, surcoat scruffy. "Their names are so queer we can't even try to pronounce them."
"But who are they?"
Andrew looked at him, confused, then the light dawned. "Of course, my apologies my prince, I forgot you haven't been here. They arrived a few days ago, the whole lot of them. Myrmen, from the Free Cities."
"I know where Myr is," Lyonel replied, "but what are they doing here?"
"I'm not sure, they came five days ago, a score of galleys, invited by your mother."
"Galleys?"
"I wouldn't get your hopes up my prince, they were built first for pleasure, second for sturdy travel, and only then for war. But your mother gave them permission to come, so here they are."
"Why?"
"You'll have to ask her that," Andrew said, looking on with interest as Aerion Bar-Emmon stepped forward to face the two warriors next. "But they brought a lot of wealth with them; maybe they bought their way here."
So they weren't pirates or sellswords, they came looking for wealth, not carrying it. But still, those two warriors... As soon as the bout began they had launched themselves at Aerion from two sides in a perfectly co-ordinated attack, driving him backwards until he was at the very edge of the ring, desperately trying to defend but catching as many blows on his plate as on his blade. But just as it looked like he was finished he swung his sword in several long arcs, clearing a small space around him as the two attackers darted out of reach. Aerion used the moment to pick one foe, the one with the throwing axe at his hip and charged. The warrior readied to defend but Aerion didn't even try to hack at him and instead barrelled into him, sending him sprawling. He then turned to face the other who had pulled their whip out and was lashing it at Aerion, keeping him at a distance, and Lyonel saw the other warrior use the time to swing back to his feet and attack again. Aerion was barely able to spin to block the slashing scimitar, and throw a kick out that caught the warrior in the middle, but then the wicked black whip snapped tightly around Aerion's longsword and yanked. Aerion resisted the pull, then seized the whip with his off hand and pulled hard. The warrior suddenly jerked towards him, stumbling and unsteady and in a single movement Aerion freed his blade and sent it ringing off their helmet. With one down, Aerion wasted no time attacking the other who, suddenly alone was on the defensive until the point of Aerion's sword was resting at their throat.
The crowd erupted in cheers. "The first victory?" Lyonel asked.
Andrew nodded. "Indeed, and I suspect Aerion only won because he's been watching them fight all morning."
"As long as you win the fight that counts," Lyonel muttered. Fire, chains, gods. "I should go see mother."
Andrew nodded and bowed. "My prince."
Just before he left, he asked, "who was the person in red?"
"Who, my prince?"
"There was a woman in red, not the priestess, someone else, down at the beach, I came up here to see who she was, do you know who she is?"
"I think it was one of the myrish," he said, "someone else said they saw her coming through, though I didn't see her myself."
"I see," not an assassin then, perhaps he'd see them down at the beach again. "I should go."He pushed his way through the crowd and ascended the steps into Dragonstone's keep. When in the keep he headed straight for the chamber of the painted table, but the guard at the door told him that his mother was not there, that she was in her solar.
"Is my mother inside?" He asked the guardsmen when he arrived at the lord's solar.
"She is, prince Lyonel, she's entertaining guests."
"Guests?"
"The new guests," one guard sneered.
"Don't know how she's entertaining them, I can barely understand them," said the other.
He coughed. "They are guests, you will speak about them with respect while they are here."
The guards bowed, chastened. "Of course, my prince. We shall announce you."
"That won't be necessary," he said stepping forward.
"Forgive us, prince, but your mother commanded that you were to be properly announced if you came.
He sighed, "very well."
The two of them opened the door and one of them entered, standing tall. "Prince Lyonel of House Baratheon, rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, Conqueror of Tarth and Master of Arrows." He stepped aside and bowed to let Lyonel enter.
He didn't know those two titles, but he kept his face neutral as he entered. The four figures in the room turned to him. Brightest of them all was his mother, dressed in all the finery of a queen. Her dress was heavy gold laced with black thread, a string of pearls glinted out from under a fur shawl wrapped around her bare shoulders, not a hair on her head was out of place. It was held up by a silver scroll like ornament, fastened with two thin ivory hairpins. Her cheeks were blushed faintly and dark purple lines accentuated her eyes, thinning out into a sharp point along her temples.
The other three had to be the myrmen, an older man and woman, his parents' age, maybe a little older, and a girl who looked to be about twenty.
"Ah, my son has come. At last, Magister Traghar, this is my son, Lyonel, the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. You may leave us." The guard bowed and left.
"We have heard a great deal about you, oh prince," Magister Traghar said. As one, the three essosi fell into a strange bow, their right feet extended forward until their legs were straight as swords, their toes just touching the ground, they settled down onto their bent left legs, folded their right arms over their stomachs, their left arms behind their backs and bent low. After a second they looked up. Lyonel was about to speak when his eyes caught the younger woman. Her lips slanted up and her right hand twitched, making her dress pull down slightly letting him look right down her-
He looked away, cheeks flushing. "I apologise I have not come sooner, and for my tardiness," training clothes were hardly finery, "but it is a pleasure."
"The pleasure is all ours I assure you," said the older woman as the three of them stood again.
"Allow me to introduce us," said the Magister. "I am Melios Traghar, Magister of the Traghar family of Myr, this is my wife Taleia and our daughter Amalia."
Melios and Taleia wore matching robes of sapphire and white silks, while Amalia wore shimmering purple and golden lace that wrapped softly around the soft pillows of her flesh. Their skin was the colour of pure amber and their hair was dark brown.
He bowed his head to the parents, trying not to look at Amalia, but when he did glance her way, she wasn't showing any unasked for flesh, in fact, her gaze was one of innocence and humility. Confused, it took him a few moments to look away again.
"I... would be honoured." He had wanted to refuse so that he could return to his men but he caught himself just in time.
The Traghars left, Amalia closing the door behind them and Lyonel turned back to his mother. "I hope you don't plan to be so tardy when you greet your emissaries from the Iron Throne," she declared, dissatisfaction clear in her tone.
He looked away, embarrassed. "I was training," he replied.
"As your messenger said when I summoned you back here," she replied. "If you've been training so hard that you can't even drag yourself back to your bed, I hope your new men are worth it."
"They are my men mother, if I leave them every night to sleep in a feather be then I'm no more to them then their old lords."
"You are even higher, you will be their king one day."
"But before then I must command them in war, and they will be more loyal to me if they know me."
His mother scowled. "At least you are thinking it through. But next time don't burst in on us, do send me more warning."
"You had the guards ready to announce me," he pointed out.
"Just in case," she replied, her scowl turning into a smile, "I'll always be ready for your return home."
He looked to the closed door. "So, we are a court of exiles from two continents now."
"Not for long," his mother vowed. "When Westeros is ours exiles become guests, until then, we should be grateful, the Traghars brought enough wealth with them to fund the war for several years."
"Is that why we're hosting them tonight?"
"It is," she replied. "Now, get going to your rooms, I'll have the tailors and washers sent, you need to look the part."
He nodded. "Then I'll see you at dinner."
"Before you do, I want you to escort them personally, bring them to the table yourself, let them open to you in your finest clothes and on your finest behaviour. I want them to forget that their first look of you was when you look like that."
He glanced down at his dust caked leathers, cracked bracer and worn boots. No, not his best.
It took a long time for the maids to scrub the dirt that had built up off his body, the brushes scraping away the dirt from under his fingernails. Next they pulled him into a velvet doublet, with a blue half cloak over his right shoulder, the material pulled up to his neck to hide any possible trace of his greyscale. Finally they tamed his hair and tightened his ceremonial belt and placed a gold chain around his neck, every part the prince.
When he was done he made his way to the chambers offered to their guests and knocked calmly on the door.
Magister Melios opened the door and bowed his strange bow again. "Prince Lyonel, you honour us."
"It is my pleasure Magister," he replied, smiling and bowing at the waist. Melios and his family stepped out clad in matching olive and ivory dress. "If you'd like to follow me."
He led them through the castle towards the royal solar where he and his mother would dine with them. The guards outside bowed and opened the door to long table set for five, lined with dishes of pork belly and fat sausages dripping with thick gravy. His mother was already waiting for them, standing beside the chair at the head of the table, with two on either side of it for Lyonel and the Traghars. Lyonel offered two of the chairs to the magister and his wife which left the other two for him and Amalia. As he took his seat beside her he breathed a sigh of relief, her dress covered her fully, and her smile was innocent. Still, when he sat down and placed his hand on the table, her fingers ghosted over the back before she picked up her fork.
"So, prince Lyonel," Melios said as he started tucking into the meal, "your mother tells us that you are a very skilled archer."
Lyonel nodded, picking up his cutlery. "I am, one of the best in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Indeed?" Melios sounded impressed. "You must have had an excellent teacher."
"He did," his mother said, her lips twitching at the memories of their first lessons.
"You, Queen Myrielle?" Taleia asked,
Myrielle nodded. "Archery has always been big in my family, when I saw Lyonel first take up the bow, I started teaching him. He was the most naturally gifted archer I've ever seen."
"I did not realise archery was so important, we'd always heard that the knights of Westeros preferred the blade," Melios commented.
"We learn all manner of weapons here," Lyonel replied. "Lance, mace, sword, axe and more, but the bow was always my best." He wiped a smear of grease away with his sleeve. "Do you have many archers in Myr?"
Melios shook his head. "Only those who choose to practice it, rich sons mostly, to try and impress those of the Summer Isles who come to visit. There was one Summer Islander who set up a school of sorts, but only for the rich sons, our city watch uses crossbows instead.
Lyonel nodded, he'd heard of Myrish crossbows being among the very best and told Melios as much. "Did you happen to bring any of them with you?
"I am afraid not, my prince, well, not enough to use in war, perhaps a dozen, most made too beautiful to be fired."
"What about Hektorios, father?" Amalia asked, "Did he not bring any?"
"I fear not, my dear."
"Who is Hektorios?" Myrielle asked.
"A crossbow maker, he had our patronage and came with us with the city under threat, along with his workers."
"Did he make your crossbows?"
"No, his crossbows weren't works of art, but they were sturdy and stable, he and his sla- workers, made half the crossbows used by the city watch of Myr."
"You can see why it was useful to be his patron," Taleia commented.
Amalia spoke up again. "Did he not bring any of his works?"
"Possible a few examples, but he couldn't take much with him."
"Could he make more here?" Lyonel asked, leaning in.
"He had a whole workshop in Myr," Melios said, "I doubt that can just be replaced."
"But he would know how he could start up again, it is his trade after all," she turned to him with a smile that could melt the Wall. "He is still on the ships, I would be delighted to take you to speak with him, should you wish it, my prince."
"I... yes thank you."
"Tomorrow?"
He nodded, and then remembered himself. "Yes, tomorrow."
She reached out and stroked the back of his hand, tracing the soft pads of her fingers down the gaps between his knuckles. "I look forward to it."
Myrielle steered the conversation away from crossbows and onto tapestries. "Your gift was most generous, magister, truly those tapestries are works of art to rival anything made in Westeros."
Lyonel turned his attention to the food.
Just as he was finishing up his second course there was a loud knocking on the door.
His mother paused from talking about Stannis' achievements to answer in a clipped tone. "Enter." A servant shuffled inside. "Why have you come, I gave orders that I was not to be interrupted?"
"Y-yes, forgive me, Your Grace, but I... that is... Ser Davos, he has returned."
"I see," his mother sighed.
Lyonel slipped his hand out from under Amalia's fingers and got to his feet. "I'll speak to him mother," he said, knowing it would look bad for the host to leave part way through. "I beg your leave and shall return shortly," he said to Amalia and her parents. He felt Amalia's eyes follow him as he followed the servant out of the room.
"Where is he?" He asked, when the door was shut.
"In the table chamber my prince," the servant said, clearly relieved to be out of the room. He noticed a few other servants nearby, and wondered how they chose who would be the one to interrupt the dinner.
"Thank you."
He found Davos looking pensively down at the map. The onion knight bowed, looking no less haggard for his time at sea than he ever was. "My prince." He looked down at Lyonel's clothing. "Did I interrupt something?"
"Dinner with some visiting dignitaries, nothing more."
"Oh, I didn't know, I'm sorry, Ser Rolland said to wait here and have your mother told, he didn't say anything about dignitaries, this can wait if you need?"
Lyonel waved the objection away. "Nonsense, you're here now, I'm here now, tell me, Ser Davos, what news is there?"
"A lot, and most of it strange." Davos took a seat when Lyonel offered it. "The capital has reintroduced rationing, several of my old friends were asking if I had any onions."
"Friends?" Lyonel asked pointedly.
"They are still friends, my prince."
"Very well, what else? I don't think you came here to tell me that the capital has remembered that they are at war."
"No, there is more," Davos said. "Rumours coming from the pot houses and taverns, they say that the road to Highgarden is infested."
"Infested?"
"More of them say haunted. They say that the dead walk the road, their spirits howling with the rage of all those slain in the war, denying the passage of food to the capital."
"Spirits? What on earth is possessing them?"
"I don't know, I daren't travel among the highborn places, but everything from spirits to wolves and monsters of darkness, one sailor said it was a kraken walking on land. I can't say what is truly happening, but there is no food coming up the roseroad."
"Do you think the Tyrells have stopped it?"
"Not if they wanted the support of the capital," Davos assured him, "they were the love of the city when they were handing out food, and without warning it has stopped and the people are not told why."
"Of course they aren't, they never are," Lyonel sighed.
Rennic had told him how it was. "We're told nothing. In peace, that's fine, just carry on, day in day out, but when war comes, what do we know? Nothing, not how much food we have to store, not when the war will end, and the first we hear about our lords being replaced is when some new lord with a different banner plants it in the village square as his promise of protection."
Davos continued. "But it does seem to have done something, the camp outside the city is much smaller than it was."
"Indeed? How much smaller? Can we make an attack?"
The onion knight shook his head. "I'm afraid not my prince, there is still a strong force outside and inside. But there are certainly less men at arms around than there were."
"Fewer."
"What, my prince?"
"Nothing. So the army outside King's Landing has marched, at least a part of its strength anyway."
"So it would seem, my prince, towards the Reach, I can't say why though."
"You're no magician, Ser Davos, but I suspect we'll hear soon enough."
"If I was, this would be a whole lot easier."
Lyonel chuckled, "that it would."
"What will you do, prince Lyonel?"
He shrugged. "There's not much I can do from here, my men aren't ready for war yet, and even then, the capital is still protected, we can't strike there, and I have to be ready for the Redwyne fleet, we have no idea where it is. But perhaps father can do something."
"Do you want me to fetch the maester?"
"No need for that, I'll do it in the morning, you go and rest, you've more than earned it, Ser Davos, thank you." He would have to send more than one raven to be sure, but they only had a finite number of them, he would send one to Storm's End and one to Grandview. It wasn't far away and they would be able to pass the message on.
"My prince," Ser Davos finally allowed his exhaustion to show as he smiled a weary thank you before bowing and departing.
Lyonel looked towards the opening in the chamber out towards the sea. Things were moving, beyond his sight, and soon he would be forced to act.
He made his way back to the dinner table, where Amalia was pushing some of her food around, looking pensively at the plate, while her parents and his mother were still deep in conversation. They looked up at him when he entered, shutting the door behind them. "Is it all dealt with?"
"It is," he said, taking his seat again. His mother nodded and returned to her conversation while he looked at Amalia, who hadn't looked up. "Is everything alright with the food?"
"It is," she said, smiling at him. "It's still a little foreign to me, but still quite wonderful."
"You'll get used to it, in time," he said, though he wasn't sure if he was right, Westeros was all the home he'd ever known. "There are a lot of different flavours here."
"Do you have anything spicy?"
"Spicy?"
She nodded. "Yes, we often spice our foods in Myr, do you do the same?"
"Umm, some Dornish dishes tend to favour spices, I believe." Why was she staring at him like that? "Do you like spices then?"
She nodded, not looking away from his eyes. "I do, I like my food... hot."
"I see," he said.
"And sweet," she said, still not looking away, her eyes hungering. "You'll see."
"I will?"
She nodded. "It was our pleasure to provide the desserts for this evening, do you like sweetness?"
"I- mostly, often, a bit, a lot... yes." The shine of her amber skin in the candlelight was glinting like goldleaf.
"Good, I think you'll love what we've brought you."
She went back to her food, leaving him flustered. He finished the main course in silence, not eagerly awaiting the coming desserts, until they were brought in. They were set on the table in place of the main course and even though the meal had been filling, his mouth immediately began to water. Pies and tarts glazed with sticky sauce and decorated with sliced up berries and fruits. They also brought in a strange pot that smelled sweetly, and five cups decorated with blue flowers. "What's this?" He asked as a golden brown liquid was poured into the delicate cup, it steamed with a sweet scent.
"Tea," Amalia replied delightedly, raising the cup to her chin and breathing it in. She took a sip and sighed at the taste. "You should try."
Tentatively, he raised the cup to his lips and drank. The drink was hot, it nearly burned the inside of his mouth, but after the heat he noticed the flavour and he couldn't stop himself sighing. "That's really good," he said.
"We're glad you like it," said Melios with a smile.
His mother was also surprised by how much she liked the flavour. As she was complementing Melios, Amalia put two cuts of pudding on his plate and took a different pair for herself.
"You recommend these two?"
She nodded, picking up one of her pieces and taking a bite. He followed suit and closed his eyes to savour the taste, by the gods that was delicious. "You like it?" He nodded. "I'm not surprised, that one is my favourite."
He glanced down at her plate. "Then why don't you have one?"
"You're right," she said, smiling and leaning in, "and you're holding a perfect piece right there." She opened her mouth and waited.
"What?"
She pouted. "Don't leave me with my mouth hanging open, my prince, I look ridiculous, and I might swallow a fly."
Tentatively, Lyonel moved the what was left of the piece he had taken and towards her plate. But she still stared at him, her mouth open and his arm drifted up and gently placed the sample into her mouth. Like a cat snatching at snacks, her mouth closed around it, her lips warming the tip of his finger, her tongue tracing it gently as it pulled the rest of the food further into her mouth. She chewed softly, eyes fluttering closed before she swallowed. Her tongue slipped out and wetted her lips. "Wonderful," she said dreamily. She reached down and picked up the half eaten pudding from her plate. "Here, let me return the favour."
"What?"
She held out the morsel, her fingers dancing it before his face. "Come on, my prince." His mouth opened and she placed it onto his tongue. As he closed his mouth a crumb fell out which Amalia deftly caught and pushed in behind the rest of it, pulling her fingers out just before he inadvertently kissed them. "Good?" He nodded, not able to do anything else. "I'm glad." She turned back to her food and ate the rest without looking at him once. He turned back to his own plate, eating his second dessert without comment, his left hand clenched tightly beneath the table to stop it from shaking.
When he was done he wrapped his hands around the ceramic cup of tea, focusing on the warmth as he sipped his way through the drink. After he'd drained the last dregs he sat back, looking anywhere but at the woman sat next to him. Instead he engaged her parents in conversation, discussing Myr and Dragonstone, comparing the two, asking what they hoped to achieve in future. Melios hoped to purchase property in King's Landing, set up the businesses that had made him wealthy there. It was an interesting idea, but he wondered what the people of King's Landing would think of it. Still, the crown could use the money that successful enterprises could bring.
Once the food had settled to a point where he could comfortably move, he cleared his throat and stood up. "Tonight has been lovely, thank you for the desserts, Magister, and the tea, especially the tea. But we're at war and there's much still to do. I must retire."
"And I could do with some sleep," Amalia said, getting up. "My prince, would you do me the honour of showing me to my quarters, I fear I still don't know my way entirely around this castle."
"I... don't think..."
"I'm sure the guards could escort you, my dear," Taleia said, frowning.
"There's no need for that," Myrielle assured her, "you do not need to worry for your daughter's virtue. Lyonel, could you."
He sighed. "Of course, please, lady Amalia."
He gestured for her to join him and they left the room, him leading her feeling very conscious of her eyes on his back, and fighting the urge to look around. Finally, after what felt like far too long, they arrived at the quarters he had picked her up from. "We're here."
"Not quite, my rooms are the next along," she said, gliding past him towards the next door several feet down the corridor. "But thank you, my prince, I never could have found my way here alone."
"Think nothing of it," he said, wanting to leave but following her to the door.
"And even better, you now know where you will be able to find me."
"You won't be here all the time," he pointed out.
She giggled, brushing a stray brand of hair from her face. "But I will be when it matters. Unless you wish to show me to your chambers?"
He stepped away from her door. "That is hardly appropriate, you are a guest here."
"Are guests not allowed to mingle with their hosts beyond official occasions?"
"They are, but not in the hour of the wolf." He stepped backwards as she glided towards him, her footfalls silent beneath the rustle of her dress and the whisper of her breath. "And if my door is not bolted shut, there will be guards on it."
She giggled again, the sound warm and light, completely at odds with Dragonstone. He tried to step back again but found himself against a wall. Suddenly she was uncomfortably close, her body ghosting against his own. "I don't need to worry about any guards on your door, my prince."
"And," her hands traced up his arms to his face the soft pad of her middle finger running softly over his lips, "why," she leant up, her breath smelling of sweet tea and cinnamon, "is that?" her left hand darted low and traced over the front of his trousers, making him lurch backwards.
"Because," she leant in close, all but nuzzling him, "there are no guards on my door." She closed her door without a look back at him.
He let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding, settling back against the wall, panting. "What was that?"
