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PART NINE
Dance
... ... ...
It was not so much the king's presence at dinner which was odd or even unnerving that evening, though it was both - but for reasons the majority of the present guests were ignorant to. They were likewise ignorant to the singular and noteworthy shock that was the state of his appearance.
Aerys had grown increasingly disinterested in maintaining any standard of neatness or cleanliness, or had elsewise grown too distrusting of the motives of his innumerable attendants toward his person. Yet he had allowed whichever of the body servants of which he was least suspicious to wash, tidy, and comb his hair, to trim and shape his scraggly length of beard. His nails were still overlong, but clean, as were the sumptuous layers of scarlet velvet and mahogany brocade with which he had been garbed. Rich brindled fur was clasped at his bony shoulders with gold brooches the size of duck eggs, doing much to disguise the thinness of his frame.
Though the bones in his face were a shade too prominent, and the smudges beneath his pale eyes were bruise-dark, there were hints of the man he had been before his mind had begun to fracture. That he appeared to be in a rare amiable mood only emphasized the likeness, as it emphasized just how eerie the change was.
In normal circumstances, Arthur would have welcomed the respite, even if it lasted no more than the night. He did not welcome it just now.
Most of the court was either accustomed to or unbothered by the king's ever more erratic spirals into madness, but the introduction of so many potential new eyes could have served as witnesses, and borne the disturbing news back to their respective homes and lords. Firsthand accounts that Aerys had deteriorated into a gnarled, disheveled creature better suited to a child's nightmare than seated upon a throne could have been enough to sway the decisions of at least a few houses, enough of them perhaps to tip the scale in Rhaegar's favor. Yet that potential boon had been thwarted. By the remaining scraps of Aerys' own cunning, or by that of the advisors who supported him for their own gain and power. Exactly which, he could not say.
The evening's banquet was certain to go late into the night. The more time spent in public view, the higher the chance something might trigger a shift in the king's mood, even incite a fit of irrational rage or paranoia, but Arthur wasn't about to hold his breath.
It would be too convenient, and too beneficial, to reasonably hope for. Especially in the light of such clear effort expended already toward the illusion of regal competency.
Aerys reached for his wine - already thoroughly examined by one of his food tasters - and the movement caused the queen at his left to give an almost imperceptible flinch. The king did not appear to notice, if he was even all that aware of her presence. No one else was likely to have noticed either, even had they been staring closely at Rhaella's face. The only reason Arthur saw it was because he was familiar enough with such signs now that he could pick them out with relative ease.
A familiarity which he reviled to the depths of his soul.
Leaving the king and queen, his eyes skimmed the high table, across Lord Arryn who exchanged polite conversation with Princess Elia, and Lord Tywin, evidently sour to have been seated so far from what he deemed his deserved place closer to the king. The children were not present, taking their evening meal privately with their nurses to spare them the effects of a late night and overstimulation.
Rhaegar sat at his father's right, and to look at the prince, resplendent in garnet brocade and calmly cutting his pheasant, was to imagine nothing at all was strange about the circumstances.
The bird had been one of several proudly presented to the kitchens upon return from the hunt that afternoon. It being yet winter, the boar and deer were all deep in hiding, or else over-thin and weak and thus poor sport. Fowl were the only plentiful prey, and the only prey worth catching.
In part due to this - and in part due to other things - the hunt had been dull and uneventful. For which Arthur had been immensely grateful. He had kept close as a shadow to the prince, glad that Rhaegar had little interest in hunting and elected instead to wander after those among the party more interested, content to gaze out at the surroundings and converse with those who shared his preferences.
Unexpectedly, or perhaps not so, young Lord Connington had appeared to echo him, hovering near to the prince, attention never straying too far.
At first Arthur had assumed that Lady Visaera must have asked Jon to watch over her cousin just as she had ensured that he himself would do so. While this might have been a contributing factor, Arthur had gradually begun to notice little details - subtle inflections in tone, infinitesimal hints enclosed within body language - which did not read as merely protective. Things which caused him to suspect that Visaera's plea was not the only reason the young man elected to keep so close.
It had been when they were waiting upon a lord to finish bagging the wild turkey his falcon had brought down that Rhaegar had shifted in his saddle, turning to inquire of Connington: "is your lord father still after you to take a wife?"
"He is," Jon confirmed with a wry chuckle. "Another year and I must disappoint him still."
The answer on its own was innocuous. Plenty of young lords felt no strong urge to marry. Certainly, Arthur himself had been among them, much to his own father's chagrin. Yet when combined with the occasional subtle, lingering glance, and just how thoroughly the ladies present had gone ignored - not oblivious, Arthur noted, but unthinkingly uninterested - the connotation was very specifically weighted.
Abruptly, Lady Visaera's remarks regarding her foster brother's presence had taken on a new light, such as the somewhat dismissive response to Rhaegar's remark that Jon must be glad of the excuse to see her. In hindsight, the remark seemed much more bittersweet. Though he had no direct proof, Arthur was confident now that what she had not said was something along the lines of: "and just as glad of an excuse to visit you."
It might have been a suspicion based mainly on conjecture...but then, Arthur had always been quite good at reading people, and he had witnessed enough men and boys alike making calf-eyes at his sister to recognize the look.
As he had kept watch over his prince and, subsequently, the young man never too far away, he had found himself possessed by a powerful sense of commiserate kinship with this other man whose love lay beyond his reach.
As if steered by the remembrance, his gaze traveled onward down the table.
Once again Lady Visaera had been paired with the younger Lord Royce. She appeared to be in much higher spirits about it tonight. They were at the end of the table nearest to Arthur's position just below the dais, and while the level of noise in the expansive room was too loud for him to follow their conversation he could discern by animated expression and energetic gestures that the discussion was lively. She was enjoying herself - at least enough that she did not have to craft the impression of engagement. He was glad of that. She ought to have some measure of amusement if she could find it.
It was difficult to tell whether she looked especially beautiful tonight or whether it was simply harder for him to set the acknowledgement of that beauty aside, to pretend it was inconsequential and keep his eyes directed appropriately elsewhere. To pretend he didn't know just how sweet her lips were.
The warm, dusky rose shade of her gown certainly wasn't helping matters. The color was almost indecently flattering to her fair complexion, working in tandem with the light spilling from braziers and candelabra to bring out the color in her cheeks. Silver embroidery swept in curling, feather-like patterns down from her neck and shoulders to perfectly accentuate the neckline which dipped an inch or so lower than those she usually favored.
Seemingly inspired by something Royce had said, she tipped back her head and laughed, the peal of it just audible above the din. The sight - the sound - of it set a hollow ache in his chest.
Painfully, resolutely, he cast his gaze away and out to the room at large.
The hall had been well readied for an occasion of grandeur: brand new rushes strewn across the floors, cloths of rich linen damask adorning each table, garlands of greenery dusted with gold and strung between the tapestries, red winterberries scattered throughout. Twice the usual number of candelabras had been set along the tables, easily requiring at least another two-hundred candles. Beeswax, not tallow. The light alone was an incredible expense, and none had been spared. What remained of the king's pride would not allow for less.
As was the case in most formal dining chambers, two long tables ran the length of the hall perpendicular to the high table. The lower tables in the Grand Hall of the Red Keep were technically comprised of twelve pieces - six to each side of the enormous room - split thus so that both guest and serving staff alike could move about without being required to traverse the entirety of the hall. The expansive space down the center of the room was left open; sometimes to invite mingling or else to serve as stage for acrobats or mummers or other such entertainments, and sometimes - as with tonight - to allow for dancing.
Dancing was not as common in the Keep as it once had been, most joviality and music replaced by apprehensive tension, hush, and fear. To have such levity tonight was a treat, and a momentary balm to the court. One which all present seemed determined to thoroughly and exhaustively enjoy.
He spotted Ashara in the midst of the revelry; glossy dark hair twisted into a complicated braided arrangement that he knew immediately had been modeled after Lady Visaera's own elaborate Stormlands styles. She was clasping hands with Lord Caswell from the Reach, seemingly unaware of Caswell's enraptured, slack-jawed stare as she wove and turned gracefully beside him. Yet another hapless heart unwittingly captured as a hedgemoth by the flame.
Arthur suppressed a smile and kept his scan moving. He was not concerned about a man like Caswell, whose attention his sister was more than well equipped to send gently along.
In truth, he rarely now had cause for concern about those Ashara attracted. His reputation was generally sufficient to dissuade those with dubious motives, and those for whom it wasn't, he had ensured both his sisters knew how to disable an assailant long enough to get away. It was far more likely that she would come to danger by being in close proximity to the princess than anywhere else, which was not a threat at this present moment.
His gaze slid across the lines of dancers, the raised niche where the musicians were positioned across from the doorway which led into the kitchens, skimming down the length of tables along the far wall.
He found Connington at the second table down from the dais, a blaze of red hair locked in deep, impassioned debate with several of the younger lords and knights in permanent residence. A gathering which included Jaime Lannister, much to his sister Cersei's apparent annoyance.
Lord Dustin sat among his retinue of pale, dark-haired northmen, seemingly oblivious to the goings on around him - with great intent to be so. There was a man who would be gone the very instant he was given leave to do so, whether with a new wife or not. In truth he seemed quite indifferent to the prospect, though from what Rhaegar's squire had managed to coax out of one of his men, this was due as much to a general aversion to what the north saw as overreach from the crown as it was active dislike of the prospective bride.
Glancing across the hall to the other line of tables, Arthur scanned the faces there, some known to him, others not, pausing briefly as he came to the latest arrived of Visaera's expected suitors.
Solidly in his mid-fifties, Harmon Yarwyck was by far the oldest of them, though in no way old enough for the match to be considered unusual. What Arthur knew of the man extended to little beyond that he was a minor Lord of a hilly, rocky bit of land to the west and that he had been married at least once before.
Having fathered at least four sons from his previous marriage, he had no real need for heirs. The common assumption would be that Yarwyck was after power as much as he might want a pretty young woman in his bed, yet such power would only last so long as the man himself drew breath. Westerlanders valued the concept of legacy near to zealously, and Arthur could easily imagine him seeking to increase the prestige of his own lineage by integrating his bloodline with that of old Valyria. Even if it meant setting aside his existing children in favor of those a royal broodmare might bear him.
Ignoring the surge of distaste in his gut, Arthur directed his attention onward.
Ser Lewyn stood alert at his post at the end of the high table opposite him. Briefly their eyes met, and Lewyn sent him a slight nod, flashing the hand-signal to indicate all was well.
Returning both, Arthur glanced up to where Ser Gerold and Ser Harlan flanked the king a yard behind - Harlan seated in deference to his age, the Lord Commander standing stern and imposing, forming the illusion of a man much larger than he was. Though Arthur did not see him from his post, Ser Jonothor was somewhere in the room on active patrol. The king and his heir were well protected.
There was a mild swell of enthusiastic applause as the musicians paused between songs, exchanging instruments for others, taking sips of wine or water.
For a few moments there was only the murmur of many voices, the clatter of cups and cutlery, the rustle of clothing, the arrhythmic patter of many feet. The wait was not long, and soon enough a new song began with an airy trill of a flute and the accompanying pluck of lute strings, dancers swiftly moving to realign themselves to suit the new tune.
In his periphery he noticed Royce rise to his feet. Seizing upon the excuse of checking rapid movement to justify it - if only to himself - Arthur glanced toward the young man in time to see him extending a hand to Lady Visaera in obvious invitation.
She refused him at first: with a smile and shake of her head, some politely murmured excuse. The look she shot toward the floor however, the folk assembled there, spoke differently.
The glance was miniscule; a flicker of attention so rapid that Arthur almost missed it, but lingering enough to read the longing in it. She wanted to accept. What was it that held her back, he wondered. Was it that she didn't want to lead the boy on? He supposed he could understand that, yet surely the eldest son of a great house understood there was no inherent promise in a dance…
A decent one would, at any rate.
The lad pressed her, open pleading in his face. Her mouth quirked with something resembling amused annoyance, but it was fleeting if it had been real at all.
She had likely already been relenting in order to soften so quickly to the plea, for Arthur could not picture her as easy to yield in the face of flattery or begging, no matter how pretty. After the slightest of pauses, she accepted the hand, allowing Royce to pull her from her seat and usher her down the shallow steps descending from the dais.
Arthur tracked her movement across the floor as the young man led her to a claim a place amidst those gathered, noting the graceful rhythm of her steps when she adjusted them to match the music.
He could see the marks of the swordswoman in her there - that seamless transition. As one of his masters had once said: not all good dancers were capable of becoming adequate swordsmen, but the best swordsmen were often excellent dancers. When one practiced at balance and exacting footwork at the point of a blade for so many years, even the intricacies of the most fussy and challenging reels came easily.
The lively, complex Avasse demanded both stamina and focus, and might have been more suited to springtime than lingering winter with its quick, energetic steps and precisely timed flourishing of skirts. Yet it was difficult to deny that the sweet trilling music and festive, colorful buoyancy was anything if not cheerful. Or that it might have served as some beguilement to the gods to hasten the new season.
It was, perhaps, a mercy that he could not simply watch, being on duty. Still, even in his careful study of the hall his eyes inevitably gravitated back to her for what glances he could steal.
Lines of dancers merged and separated into interlocked rings, then broke into pairs. Hands pressed palm to palm. Intertwined wrists arced aloft overhead. A flash of bare ankle peeked from beneath frothy rose petal layers of skirts.
The motion of a body passing in front of him, headed in the direction of the high table, seized his attention long enough to establish that the man was one of the servants assigned there for the evening. And when he found Visaera again it was to see Royce's hands close about her waist to lift her from the floor.
She was smiling, her lips parted upon a laugh. He could tell just from the single brief glance that it was genuine, guileless joy.
Emotion knotted in his stomach like the first, faint pangs of hunger. The sight of her happiness, however small or fleeting, brought him pleasure - there was little purpose in pretending otherwise. Nor was there aught inherently wrong about this. That he cared for her was not a concern. That he found himself contemplating how it might have been to take the Vale lordling's place, however…
Even had he not been Kingsguard she would have been beyond his reach. Certainly he had his titles, the prestige of an old house, the accolades he had earned, but not the kind of wealth or resources which would have made him a desirable candidate. Nor would he have been considered a suitable source of exile. Not with the love and influence of powerful families at his back. His friendship with Rhaegar alone - forged years before he had taken the White - would have been enough incentive for the Small Council to work to keep him well away from her.
And work they would have needed to, for he would have risked a great deal to court her.
He had never courted a lady. Women, yes, in a fashion. But not a lady, and certainly not one of royal blood. With this one, though, he doubted that the prospect would have daunted him for long.
There was a perfect, bitter irony in what he had made of his life. He could have elected to take a number of paths, yet he had chosen to study the sword; chosen a road that had so neatly aligned with her own, a choice that had shaped him in ways she had indicated she respected and admired.
Were he a religious man, he might have seen a touch of fate in those choices. For had he been nothing more than a lord's second son, he doubted he would have drawn the interest of such a discerning and singular creature. Not that he was arrogant enough to imagine he might have been enough for her as he was: a mere knight with no lands or property and middling wealth. And even had she held any regard for him - a bold assumption to begin with - it would have meant nothing. She would have been no freer to act as she wished than she was now. They would still have found themselves here, in this very situation at this exact moment, with but a single difference.
He could have asked for a dance.
Another melodic swell of violin strings heralded the men once again to lift their partners, turning as they did. Visaera was careful with the placement of her left hand as she balanced against Royce's shoulders, attentive to the blade-sharp silver claws there - no doubt wary of accidentally slicing through his sleeve.
She had been wearing them more regularly of late, he'd noticed. It was not a laborious task to understand why, especially considering what was expected of her in specific regard to these suitors, and Arthur couldn't rightly claim to be anything but thankful for her caution. Still, he was reasonably confident that Kyle Royce, at least, posed no threat to her safety. Even had they been in a more secluded setting and had she been absent her more courtly weapon. He doubted the boy would require more than a tight hand and a subtle warning should he step out of line rather than any direct threat to tear his bollocks from his person.
It was something of a testament to this certainty that the very brief thought of her hand anywhere near Royce's cock did little to perturb him. He might envy Royce the dance, the shared laughter, the privilege of even formal touch, but it was difficult for him to muster jealousy of something he could not picture as likely, and presumptuous as it was to dismiss the idea so swiftly, he wasn't quite able to counter all the subtle signs Visaera gave that she saw the boy as exactly that - a boy.
Though that was hardly any of his concern.
Set back upon her feet, Visaera moved several paces back from her partner to join the other ladies in the quick, dizzying final promenade; right hand fisting in her skirts to toss them with a dramatic flourish when the music came to a bright, trilling culmination.
Enthusiastic clapping rose up to fill the quiet left in the wake of the instruments, and Arthur's gaze had moved on, sweeping back toward the high table.
Rhaegar was smiling, applauding with too much enthusiasm to be mere politeness. Next to him, his father was staring intently, fixedly at a point somewhere in the crush of bodies.
It was not apparent whether Aerys saw the here and now, or whether he was looking into some dark corner of a reality which existed only in his thoughts. Though when the musicians took up again and the dancers rushed accordingly into new positions, he blinked, shifted in his seat, and directed the unnerving stare to some other point - breaking the illusion of a man spellbound.
Footsteps rose above the steady clamor of noise, a glimmer of breathless laughter, and he turned his head to watch Royce lead Visaera past him, her hand clutched in his - a bit awkward for the way she kept her thumb and forefinger angled away.
They were both breathing heavily from the exertion. Royce's golden curls were mussed, and he was grinning widely - the very picture of elation. Visaera was laughing, so effortlessly, brilliantly happy that she seemed aglow with it. She all but collapsed back into her seat, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. The flash of mirth in her eyes, the ever so slightly crooked tilt to her smile, reminded Arthur of another smile. One accompanied by a hint of mischief and the glint of dulled steel.
"I believe I'll get along well enough with this one."
He had already been watching for too long, already straining the limits of what he could explain away. He could feel the seconds racing relentlessly by. Yet he did not avert his gaze, even as Royce moved to reclaim the seat beside her, even as - in that single, lightning-swift instant - her eyes caught his.
And held.
The smile ebbed, her features softening in the very same instant that something in her eyes shifted. A flash of heat, of vulnerability - open and beguiling. It was, he realized abruptly, the same look she had given him right before he had recklessly, impulsively kissed her…and it was gone as soon as it had appeared. He could trace the trepidation as it chased across her face right before she angled it away, glancing toward Rhaegar to answer some question the prince had posed.
Immediately he followed suit, fighting to subdue the poorly timed rush of tenderness, and something disturbingly near to covetous.
Gods' blessed breath. So much for his resolve.
The power to banish what he felt for her lay beyond Arthur's knowledge. At this junction, that was indisputable, and so he would not try to bury it down only to succeed in nothing but poisoning himself in the attempt. But he could control it. He must control it.
If not for his own sake, then for hers.
...
Visaera could not sleep.
It was hardly a strange or uncommon phenomenon; sleep had oft been elusive throughout her nights since childhood. Sometimes it was the dreaming. Frightening or disturbing images fit to chase her out of bed and across the room to fling the window wide, to let in the soothing sound of the waves as they struck at the cliffs below. Most of the time, however, it was simply a matter of her mind's inability - or else flat-out refusal - to set aside whatever matter or worry it insisted upon picking apart. Tonight was most definitely the latter.
With an aggravated huff, she rolled to her side, curling an arm beneath her pillow to glare daggers at the wall.
The stone shimmered in the firelight, as though it had once been brushed with gold. An assortment of birds was painted there, captured in graceful flight. Herons and swallows and songbirds, colorful plumage muted by age; like mythic, watchful guardians amidst the night shadows.
Would that they could bid her mind to be still.
She had no idea how late it was. Late enough to encroach upon being very early, if she were to surmise. Late enough that she should have felt at least a little tired. But she wasn't. She was wide awake and painfully restless.
All throughout the day she had fixated upon the brief scraps of interaction in Rhaegar's study. Every word, every look, every gesture.
It wasn't as though she hadn't been expecting Ser Arthur to be there, she had known he would. It was more that she had been unprepared for the visceral response seeing him had elicited, or how unexpectedly difficult it had been for her to ignore it.
His expression had been politely impassive, as if nothing at all had happened between them. She had been immensely grateful, for it made it that much easier to pretend to herself that she felt nothing when in fact she was reeling in the shock that she had ever found it possible to maintain a facade of waspish hostility in his presence. That she had ever managed to look him in the eye and not turn soft as butter spread across warm bread.
She was not above admitting that she had been more than a little afraid he might have come to revile her as some sort of temptress - blame her for leading him astray, as so many men in his position would have. She had hardly been able to stand the thought, to the point that it had been an effort to focus on the task at hand. A struggle not to invent some excuse, however weak, to flee. Sheer stubbornness had enabled her to endure it, and only the near to overwhelming concern for Rhaegar's sake had granted her the fortitude to address him directly.
Considering the way their previous interaction had ended, she hadn't expected him to purposefully touch her again if it could be avoided. Yet the gentle ghost of fingertips to her arm, while hardly enough to be called a touch, had been nothing if not deliberate. At once an extension of reassurance as it was a request for her to look at him. One she had obeyed primarily out of shock.
The cool reticence in his face had been replaced by a kind, empathetic sort of knowing, and it was immediately plain that he held her in neither contempt nor blame. And when he had looked her in the eye and sworn that he would protect her cousin - sworn it to her, as though her peace of mind meant everything to him - she had been at a complete loss as to how she was supposed to do anything other than fold into that quiet, undemanding gallantry.
While she had fled with as much grace as she was capable of mustering, she had fled all the same. Yet the question as to whether or not she had imagined the faint flicker of something like devotion had thoroughly consumed her up until dinner, and the distraction it provided.
Much of her good mood that evening had been a result of relief at the king having deigned to show some measure of support toward his son, even if only the guise of it. She didn't care that it was a lie if others believed it. She had found herself more relaxed than she might otherwise have been, which, in turn, had caused Lord Royce to relax, and opened the way for what had been a truly entertaining conversation. She had allowed more of her (albeit limited) knowledge of bow-craft to show, which had delighted him. And he had - as promised - recounted the events of the hunt for her. Including a hilarious jibe at the expense of Lord Florent, who had done a great deal of bragging as to his prowess yet managed not a single catch even with the aid of his falcon.
On the whole, Visaera was quite fond of dancing. And while she might have preferred a piece which involved a bit less direct physical contact, especially during the last lingering remnants of discomfort from her monthly, she had nevertheless heartily enjoyed her dance with Kyle. All the same, she had been unable to keep from noticing that every time he lifted her it had been a bit of a labor for him. It wasn't a failing, after all he had managed. He was quite fit for a man of his station - he simply hadn't had the leverage to do so without some difficulty.
Though she had done her best not to, she thoroughly failed to prevent herself from imagining how it might have been to perform the Avasse with Ser Arthur, the ease with which a partner of his height and proven strength would have handled her. Having allowed this, it was that much easier for her mind to wander just a bit farther. To picture him holding her just a shade too close as he lowered her back to the floor, so that she was forced to slide along the front of his body before he let her step away.
Her efforts to avoid looking at him had been a success up until that point, but in the breathless wake of the dancing she had risked a glance…only to find him watching her.
His expression had given away little but the inscrutable focus of a soldier, his eyes cool and alert, yet something in it had recalled the intent, burning stare from that night in her bedchamber. Her heart had kicked hard in her chest, her stomach pitching like a ship helpless in the grasp of a gale. Swiftly she had averted her gaze, flustered at having been caught as much as by having caught him looking.
Even before the...incident, there had been signs - things she would normally have interpreted as indications of amorous interest. Lingering looks, taking small excuses to touch her, the way he spoke to her when they were alone, the deliberate delineation between how he conducted himself as a Kingsguard and how he conducted himself when he wasn't actively on duty. They were far more subtle indicators than those she was accustomed to, but in hindsight it seemed quite obvious.
That aside, for a man that had sent such strong signals of contrition for his actions in the moment those nights ago, he seemed oddly intent upon sending such conflicting ones now, and she had no idea what to make of it.
She had spent the rest of the meal in a low, simmering state of nigh to painful awareness; too afraid to look at him again for fear she might find exactly what she wanted to find there. And shouldn't. Not even one of Rhaegar's heart-rending and mournful songs - because of course he would play the bard at his own nameday feast - had been enough to lessen it. And thus, here she lay, the countless questions in her head festering like a wound gone sour.
Visaera flopped gracelessly onto her back, distress rising to tangle amidst her frustration.
She had not been prepared for this. She had not expected to find herself in this position - pining for a man the way she might have in her girlhood. Yet the things she wanted now were not the things she had wanted then: dances and flowers, romantic walks in the garden, chastely daring kisses. Those had been the desires of a child, simple and rough-hewn from the approximations of what such love looked like rather than those shaped by experience enough from life and from hurt to know better. The desires of a woman grown were quite different.
Above all else, she merely wanted to be near him: to bask in that quiet, gentle warmth, to be in his confidence and listen to his worries, his joys, his dreams. She wanted to learn from such a naturally gifted swordsman and the experience of his years, to see more of the glimpses she'd had of a dry, quick humor. She wanted to talk with him. Just idle, nonsensical talk. Wanted to laugh with him. To rest and (gods willing) sleep beside him. Innocent things, if incredibly intimate. But they were by no means the only things that she wanted.
A hot flush crept across her skin as a wicked, altogether indecent thought crept unbidden into her head. She wondered whether he fucked the way he kissed. Assertive and sensual, fully immersed in his purpose; with all the focus and vigor which made him such an indomitable force with a sword in his hand and the consuming fervor of which she'd had but a taste.
The thought rendered her a needy, aching thing.
Some small, incessant part of her didn't care that it was foolish to give in, or else accepted that she wasn't strong enough not to. Whatever the case, she allowed her mind the leeway to wander in the ways she had not permitted before. She let herself imagine that he might come to her again - in the dead hours of a sleepless night - summoned not by the sounds of a nightmare but by his own volition. And perhaps she was delirious from lack of sleep, for she could almost see him there, just inside the room, skin burnished gold and violet eyes fixed resolutely to her. Pressing the door quietly closed behind him.
In her mind she saw him cross the floor, stride long and deliberate. He would not be in armor here, but clothes like those she had seen him train in, simple, comfortable. There would be nothing to hinder the grace of his movement when he braced a knee, and then a hand against the bed to lean over her - broad-shouldered and so blasted beautiful.
Tension curled, a soft, yearning clench between her legs. She pressed a hand flat to the curve of her belly, feeling the shallow dip of her navel through her nightdress where heat gathered. It was made of lawn, quite fine, though not so thin as the other. Yet just then it felt rough and heavy as burlap, chafing at her skin, at her nipples - drawn stiff beneath the cloth.
In all her squirming and tossing about she had kicked most of her blankets away. Her skirt had rucked up about her knees…and for the space of several breathless heartbeats she hesitated. Then, with a trembling exhale, relented.
Her own skin was hot to the touch of her palm, but it was his hand she imagined grasping the hem where it bunched, pushing the fabric up and back to bare her thighs. His hands were easily twice and again the size of her own, and it was easy to picture his palm following the curve of her body, over the arc of the hip and along the dip of her waist. He would have a swordsman's calluses - like those of the master at arms and the soldiers that had trained her. With that same, rough, rasping texture, but with a mindful gentleness that was entirely his.
Dazedly she brushed the fingertips of her other hand against the tender skin just below her jaw and dragged them down. Lightly, as if to replicate the sensation of his lips skimming down the line of her throat.
Realistically, he likely would have done so much sooner, yet she imagined him pausing here. To seek permission. Everything else might have been fanciful daydream, but this - the idea that he would stop in order to inquire whether she would permit him to do more - felt real in a way the rest did not. She had no idea whether he would ask plainly, straightforward, or whether he would plead or coax. Exact words lay beyond her ability to invent, but she could hear the low pitch of his voice, husky and rich, as he all but breathed them against the shell of her ear.
The tension inside her gave a sharp, urgent pang. Liquid heat was pooling between her thighs, and she squeezed them together to appease the instinctive need for friction, gasping at the sweet flare of wanton pleasure.
Visaera had never been quick to spread her legs for a paramour. Even when she had been young and far less cautious, she had been all too aware of the risk which walked hand in hand with such vulnerability. While yes, it was only in the fabrication of her mind, it almost frightened her just how eager she was to toss all that defensive vigilance aside, how little she cared in that moment about anything but the man summoned by her waking dreams and how desperately she wanted him.
She was shaking, trembling as her hand slowly descended, curving with the slope of her belly. Her thighs parted, exposing herself to the cool night air - slick and swollen and wanting. For the briefest moment the sensation broke her from the haze of fantasy, and she was starkly, abruptly aware of what she was doing. Yet she simply could not bring herself to care beyond the feverish wish that the fingers sliding through damp curls to dip into the heat of her body did not belong to her.
Whether true or not, with his hard-earned concentration, she could picture him being a patient and attentive lover. So she moved slowly, the way she imagined he might - sliding along delicate outer folds to gather the wetness there, spreading it across the sensitive little bud at her apex and softly stroking.
A breathless sound left her, completely uncontrolled and much louder than she might have expected.
The shame of being overheard should have cooled her fervor at the very least. It did not. For all the likelihood that it wasn't, the idea that it might be him posted in the hall outside while she did this - while she touched herself to thoughts of him - only intensified the pitch of the need building in the pit of her stomach. And as her toes curled and her hips arced into the touch of her own hand, it was Arthur's that she pictured. Strong and agile. Sliding down and up again, fingertip drawing slow, tight circles against the swollen bead of her clit.
Her left hand fisted into the fur at her side at the fierce, wrenching pulse in her cunt - at once bliss and awful pain. She pinned her lower lip between her teeth to stifle the moan before it could slip from her mouth.
Her knees drew up, widening the space between them. In her mind's eye he moved into that space, pressing gently forward, until she was forced to spread them wider still to accommodate him.
The visual gaps in her knowledge were not ones that she was inclined to fill in with rough approximations. She was content with the power of her imagination to rid him of his shirt; but only so far as it enabled her to surmise what his skin might feel like against hers. Warm and golden, gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Satisfied enough with the image of his wrist grazing the inside of her thigh when he reached to undo his laces and free himself; to adjust his position above her, trapping her against the soft give of the mattress.
A luscious shudder worked along her spine; for all that the weight of him was not there. The sheer force of the wanting was potent enough that for the span of a single ragged breath she could believe that it was him sliding smoothly into her - thick and hot and seated to the base - not her own absurdly inadequate fingers.
It wasn't enough. Nowhere near enough. Yet she ground her heels into the bed and rocked into the too-shallow thrusts of her hand, chasing the bright sparks of pleasure that danced along her veins.
She tossed her head to one side, unable to care if the shallow noise which left her was audible beyond the stone walls. Her skin felt too tight, as if it might split and crack to send whatever coursed within her welling up from beneath, her heart beating so hard and rapid that she half feared it might burst in her chest. Lifting her other hand, she brought it to one breast, cupping the swell of it - heavy and tender. Her hand was too small, but her spine still curved into the delicious friction against the tight nipple. She recollected the soft flick of his tongue at her lip and imagined him lowering his head to do the same to the straining, sensitive peak. Dampening the cloth. Taking it into the heat of his mouth to suckle and tease.
Quickening the pace of her fingers, she pressed the base of her palm against the demanding ache in her clit, her hips jerking at the clenching, needy throb of the delicate muscles inside her.
Climax took her quickly. She convulsed, body curving into the sharp agony of release as it tore through her in bleeding spasms, biting harshly at the inside of her cheek to silence her cry.
For long moments, Visaera lay there, panting and dazed as the pleasure – forceful as it had been – faded swiftly into abject dismay.
There was no relief. She was neither sated nor appeased. If anything, she felt even more bereft than she had before. It was as though in effort to purge herself of them, she had inadvertently given life and breath to things she would have been better off locking somewhere deep and out of sight. Instead she was left raw and flayed open, and still - hopelessly - wanting. And somehow, on some level, she had suspected that there would be no other outcome.
With effort, she sat up and rose from the bed, crossing to where ewer and basin waited. Absently splashing water into the shallow silver dish, she wet a clean cloth and ran it along her face and neck, washed the cooling stickiness from between her legs.
She was not ashamed of it. As a girl she might have been, but she was far too comfortable with her desires now to be shamed by bringing herself pleasure. Nor was she ashamed of having thought of Arthur while doing so, though perhaps she should have been. Surely it was some manner of sin to use the visage of a man sworn to chastity in such a way.
Seven fucking hells, Ser Arthur, she corrected herself sharply.
If she was ashamed of anything, it was that she couldn't seem to maintain the appropriate formality between them, even if only in her own head. Although, if she were completely honest with herself, conjuring him into her bed was hardly the best way to go about doing so. Nor had it been the best way to purge herself of the tangled, convoluted mess of sentiment she carried. Far from it, as it happened. But the blame for that was her own to bear.
She could not persist in thinking of him as though she had the right to feel anything near to possessive. He wasn't hers. And as fiercely as her headstrong, impulsive, and deeply selfish nature wanted to deny it, he was never going to be hers.
No matter. However much it might sting, this was far from the most trying of disappointments - to say nothing of outright punishments - life had presented her with. It might take longer than she had hoped, but eventually this untimely form of madness would fade. In the meantime, she would ride it out as she had all the rest, with plain resilience and sheer, hardheaded tenacity.
If nothing else, perhaps she would be settled enough now to sleep.
Smoothing her dress back down across her hips, she returned to the bed. The dislodged covers were set to quick rights before she slipped beneath them, curling up on her side and nestling into the furs. They were delightfully cool, soothing what remained of the flush in her skin.
After a moment her eyelids fluttered, then closed. Soon enough, she drifted into sleep. And, mercifully, did not dream.
NOTES:
Hi there! Apologies for the extra delay (it's been a busy few weeks).
Though my reasoning for the last chapter being shorter was an issue of length…I'm glad I posted it anyway because I proceeded to be unsatisfied with the scene order and moved a bunch of stuff around, and here we are doing the same thing – posting something shorter than I originally wanted, but because of the same damn scene. Which will be the start of the next chapter. This time for real. Because it's written (mostly).
I have specific music that accompanies the dancing scene, and I'm sad that I have no way to share it. It's music that was used in a recital when I was still taking dance classes, I have no names, and the audio I have is too low quality for any music identifying app. However, for a similar tone and mood, allow me to direct you to "Two Magicians" by Jean Luc Lenoir (sans lyrics) and "Laride" by Jessica Baran-Surel.
As I made up a dance, I also made up the name for it: Avasse is a modification of a 'Pavane' and a 'Basse,' which were both renaissance and medieval dances that existed, though there is no knowing resemblance to said dances and what I describe here.
Female masturbation is probably not a shocking concept for the world of GoT, but as to whether it's considered all that acceptable as far as the social/moral sensitivities of the historical period. I'm not sure the reality of female desire was denied into mythology in the medieval period as it was later, or as we might be led to believe. But considering how the concept of "courtly love" existed in this liminal space between sexual desire and this weird state of spiritual transcendence which held women up as these virtuous, moralizing figures…I feel like there was a hearty bit of a good, old-fashioned Madonna-whore complex going on there.
All that to say, whether historically or even fantasy-world accurate, no internalized shame here, folks.
Only pining. ;)
Last thing – though not directly related. To my utter amusement, I recently received a delightfully ragy comment on an earlier chapter. I'm not going to address it specifically because I have no need to, and I honestly do not care. I will, however, say this:
If you're reading a fanwork and come across something you don't like, be it as big as style or characterization or as small as a one-sentence detail…STOP READING, WALK AWAY, and MOVE THE HELL ON WITH YOUR LIFE. If you have something constructive to say, by all means, please share it. But if you just want to bitch, leave the author alone and find something else to waste your time on. This is a fanfiction site, nobody's getting paid here. Don't like it? Don't read it. It's that easy.
On that note - thank you so much for reading! Take care, be well, toss a comment if you can, and until next time~