Bright and Burning Things

by Infernalitae

For a cloak and an oath are nothing compared to a woman's kiss. (Arthur Dayne/OFC)

11. Longing

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PART ELEVEN
Longing

... ... ...

Barely over an hour into dinner, it was inescapably clear to Visaera that she had vastly overestimated the extent of her own tolerance for the company with which she had been saddled.

Lord Yarwyck was neither the most insufferable nor the most unpleasant man whose proximity she had been forced to endure, even discounting some of the more beastly specimens she had encountered. From what she could measure, he was not a boorish, bad-tempered fool, nor a vapid prig. He contained neither the volatile, explosive malice of the Mad King or the controlled and purposeful kind which came so naturally to the Hand. He was not overly crass, covertly insulting, or outwardly repulsive. Yet he could have been completely revolting to look upon and she would have found him significantly less detestable for it.

The most obviously grievous of his qualities appeared to be that he was a pompous windbag with ambition to rival that of his liege lord, which, in truth, should have been easy enough to ignore - relatively harmless as it was. She was not finding it so easy tonight, and while it was indisputable that her nerves were still rather raw from the afternoon, it seemed that Lord Yarwyck was particularly suited to grating on them.

Especially when he persisted in bombarding her with a near to constant stream of boasting in regard to the value of his property and the annual yield of goods his folk exported throughout the Westerlands.

She couldn't decipher why he appeared so compelled to brag in such a way, or what it was he meant to accomplish. He had no reason to sway her of his merit. The choice was not hers to make, and thus her opinion of his worth as a potential husband was surely of no concern to him. If she had to guess, she thought it more likely that he was simply stroking his own ego and using her as the reflective surface with which to do so. Or else he actually thought her so empty-headed and simple as to be impressed. Though with what she couldn't begin to imagine.

Upon learning the names of her potential suitors, Visaera had extensively researched each of them in turn, absorbing as much information as she could glean. As such, she already knew that Cragmere produced a solid twenty percent of the realm's beer in addition to a decent amount of wool; and while she would be the first to admit that her head for trade and economics was not strong, she knew enough to understand that the value of these goods, while respectable, did not warrant such bravado.

Did he not know from where she hailed? She had been raised within the wealthiest houses of the Stormlands. Griffin's Roost alone not only raised sheep on a vastly greater scale, they produced their own textiles - functional cloth of varying degrees of thickness and quality which supplied most of the eastern half of the realm - and they were second only to Storm's End in the provision of fish, particularly the rich, buttery whitefish so prized in the capitol. The sturgeon adorning their plates in thick, expensive slabs this very night had come from the Roost. The city in which she had spent more than half her life. Yet he thought to impress her with raw, middling quality wool and beer?

Of course he did. She was a mere woman, after all.

"...am I boring you?"

Exhaling slowly through her nose, Visaera tamped down a hot flare of annoyance.

Gods forbid she not spend every waking second of the meal riveted to every single fucking word that poured from this pretentious old boar's mouth. If she managed to keep her temper in check through to the end of the meal, it would be by virtue of the Mother's own patience.

The task of maintaining the guise of a simpering court lady had rarely been so taxing as it was in that precise moment, as she angled her face to her left with the nearest approximation to a smile she could muster.

"Not at all, My Lord," she assured him, and if she was layering the honey a shade too thickly to avoid broaching the borders of sarcasm, he didn't appear to notice. "I am merely a bit overtired."

He gave an understanding - and completely performative - nod. "No doubt all the excitement from the joust."

Well…that was certainly closer to the mark than he knew.

Adapting her tone to something rueful, she said: "In truth, I don't much care for it."

Another nod.

"I understand," he told her. False sympathy creased his brow and deepened the lines which framed his mouth, descending into the looser skin along his jaw. "Such things are much too brutish and grisly for a lady so gently bred."

Gently bred. The patronizing arse.

She cast her eyes demurely downward, concealing the flash of disgust by reaching for her wineglass and lifting it to her lips, swallowing a hearty mouthful.

She would need to ease up her consumption. It was an extraordinarily good wine - rich and fruity and red as blood, with a hint of spice like clove or peppercorn - but she had already consumed two full glasses and was well into her third, and she was starting to feel the effects.

As partial to fish as she was, the sturgeon bathed in its creamy mushroom sauce did not appeal to her tonight. As the course before had not. And the lack of adequate food to balance out the spirits was certainly doing her no favors. Lack of appetite was not a malady she typically experienced outside of illness, yet - rather like her mood - it was one she could only partly blame upon the loathsome company. A significant portion of the tension in the pit of her belly could be attributed to the man stationed at the rear of the dais at their backs.

For the most part, he kept close to the king, but unlike Ser Gerold or Ser Barristan, Ser Arthur did not remain stationary at his post. From time to time he would stray from it in order to walk up and down the length of the table behind them.

He was never far enough that he couldn't get to Aerys quickly, but as she was certain he would have explained if asked, gaining a different perspective could occasionally be the difference in spotting trouble a second sooner or a second too late. All the same, she rather wished he wouldn't. Every time he passed, she imagined she could feel the motion of his steps, that she could pick out the faint clink of his mail even amidst the noise of the hall. Every time, her pulse would spike and her belly twist, and as ridiculous as it was, she could not ignore it.

Great though her gratitude was that he was physically unimpaired enough to see to his regular duties, she had not yet had the time alone she required to process the results of Jon's well-intended prodding. As uncannily aware of the knight as she had become, to be so near him just now was…immensely uncomfortable. Especially while also doing her best not to snarl at her dinner partner.

Frayed nerves were not at all conducive to maintaining the guise of good manners. Though, frankly, she was no longer certain how much she cared.

If what Jon had told her was true, then it hardly mattered how poor her behavior was. She could be as rude as she liked, and it would only protect her to a point. While it was still more to her benefit to keep up most of the façade to at least the greater populace, she wasn't sure she wanted to temper her bite any longer where these specific situations - and these specific men - were concerned.

"I have been eagerly anticipating this evening," Yarwyck mused. He spoke as though his mouth or jaw were hinged too tightly and the words were all cramped together before finding their way free. Unlike most of his other statements, she believed this one. She also believed he was rather annoyed at having been put off this morning, though, to his credit, he wasn't allowing it to show.

Refusing to offer the expected response wherein she returned the sentiment, she ducked her head in another fabricated mask of modesty, with just enough reticence not to be mistaken as coy. "You pay me a great compliment, My lord."

"A shame it has taken so long for us to finally have a moment to speak."

Whether it was empty small talk or a deliberate remark on her efforts to avoid him over the past several days, she couldn't tell. If he expected her to make apologies and pretty excuses, he would continue to be disappointed.

"Indeed," she said mildly, neither agreeing nor contesting.

Out of the corner of her eye she noted the fingers of his right hand clench ever so faintly about his fork. A sign of frustration. Perhaps even the hint of a temper.

Oh, he enjoyed the version of her that paid rapt, doe-eyed attention to his ramblings. Less so this version that didn't. Though she had hardly expected otherwise.

Of the many expectations of a noblewoman, this was the one she despised the most. Entertaining the attention of men who sought to use her - shallow and false, all but dripping with avarice. She was not a person to them, just as she was not a person to Yarwyck, who - like the rest of his ilk - looked at her and saw a bauble; shiny and visually pleasing, but little more than a vessel bearing the right blood with which they might advance themselves, whatever the cost to her. She was an object, after all. Why should they concern themselves?

Simply for the sake of appearing occupied, she scooped up a forkful of bulgur seasoned with saffron and studded with raisins. The grains were near to bursting with flavor, yet the food was tasteless upon her tongue. All the same, she would rather choke down sawdust than spend another moment trading meaningless small talk. And so she took another bite, chewing as slowly as she could stand. The strategy would not last for the remaining six courses - and gods, she could hardly wait to bid farewell to these excessive, mind-numbing formal dinners - but she would seize upon what little reprieve it would give her.

The air beside her stirred, disturbed by movement - by steps she could not hear. Her stomach gave a nervous lurch as Ser Arthur passed behind her, and for the space of a second she did not breathe.

Never had she registered a man's presence so physically before. It did not matter that there was at least a yard of distance between them, nor that he was almost certainly not paying her any mind. Having him at her back was so close to unbearable that she found herself bearing down on the powerful urge to turn, to set eyes on him like the frightened deer she was absolutely not.

Abruptly, and completely inappropriately, she recalled having pictured his hands on her skin, sliding between her legs. She didn't even have the decency to be remotely embarrassed by it.

Chances were high that at least some of this intense and distracting awareness - and the desire which caused it - stemmed from the absolute certainty that she would find no pleasure in the marriage bed with any of the Council's selections for her. She couldn't see Dustin as being interested in much of anything but the functional purpose of the act. Yarwyck was undoubtedly the sort to foist himself upon her once or twice a week for a hiking of skirts and fumbling in the dark, over nearly before it began. As for Royce…sweetness was well enough, but he did not stir her in the ways that mattered.

The way her knight stirred her with little more than a glance.

Or, it seemed, just by being near her.

Though she felt the tremor of tension humming beneath her skin, her hand was steady when she lowered her fork and reached instead for the wine. Before she could lift the glass, however, she felt the curl of cold, dry fingers around her chin. The insistent pull which followed.

To the casual observer it might have appeared as a tender gesture rather than a demand. It was not a gentle thing. There was force behind it, causing chapped fingertips to dig into the soft space beneath the point of her jaw and leaving her little choice but to acquiesce to the pressure; allow Yarwyck to physically force her head to turn so that she was looking at him rather than fight him and strain her neck.

She had been in no way prepared for such a thing. Not only due to the considerable distraction which had overruled her mind up until this very second, but because she couldn't have anticipated such boldness. Or such a blatant show of discourtesy. Thus far, his conduct with her had existed strictly within the parameters of what was socially acceptable and his manners were decent enough, arrogance aside. She had never imagined that he would cross that line so drastically, or so publicly.

It was not simply rude. It was not simply a sign of disrespect or violation of her person. It was a sign as to the manner of man he was underneath even the arrogance. She could see it in him as he studied the shape of her face, the arrangement of her features, searching for signs of ill health or other such unwanted qualities. A cold, calculating man who weighed the world and all those in it solely by gain.

Had he been present, Jon would have demanded the price of Yarwyck's hand for the insult. But a calling out would only have ended with the man paying a fine (with Lannister gold, no doubt) rather than any real penance. But Jon was not in attendance tonight, and she did not require her brother to extract payment for an offense.

Even as her spine went rigid, as the venom and obscenities pooled sharp and acrid within her mouth, she held her silence for the handful of seconds required to raise her left hand and lay it lightly across the back of his wrist. Carefully her fingers closed, angled just so. Then she exerted force of her own - pressing the pad of her middle finger into the space between the thick tendons running down the inside of his wrist in the way she knew would cause his grip to loosen.

Surprise flickered across his face, a barely-there flash of it amidst the faintly smug self-satisfaction he managed to cling to even as she guided his hand down to the surface of the table.

"If you value your hand as it is, My Lord," she murmured, just loudly enough for him alone to hear, "you will not bring it near me again."

His smile was amused, indulgent. She itched to cleave it from his face.

"Not a request I'll be able to oblige as your husband, my dear," he noted, and it was not merely the impertinent familiarity which caused her hackles to rise even further, but that he seemed to view the prospect as certain.

It told her far more than he likely intended, yet it was nothing she had not already suspected.

Whatever arrangement he had with Lord Lannister, he believed it to be done and settled - the decision made. Whether this was true or simply further evidence of his overinflated ego was beyond her knowledge.

"Nor one that I will tolerate."

The amusement he wore shifted, cooled, turned hard, and she knew precisely just what form that lack of tolerance would take.

No doubt he was accustomed to women shrinking obediently into submission at the threat of a hand or a belt. As accustomed as he was to administering such treatment to those smaller or weaker than himself. For many, it would have had precisely such an effect. The world was cruel and did not protect the innocent from cruel men. But that was all he was. A cruel, self-important fool drunk upon his own perceived power.

She had seen the monsters men could make of themselves, stared into the eyes of creatures so twisted and foul as to barely resemble the human in whose flesh they resided. Compared to them, Yarwyck was no more than a flea-ridden mutt nipping at her heels.

The smile she gave him was pleasant, but she allowed the veneer to slip just enough to offer a glimpse of the predator underneath - all sharp teeth and bloodthirst - gratified when she saw his mantle of confidence slip.

Light and syrupy sweet, she mused: "Oh, I don't imagine it will be all that difficult."

Curling her index finger, she pressed down until the tip of the clawed ring she wore there bit into the back of his hand, stopping just short of breaking skin. Just enough to get his attention.

"As the chances of my marrying you are as high as are yours of surviving any such wedding night."

Slowly she released him, pulling back the sharp bits of silver. Watched as his eyes darted down to the whitened imprint upon his hand, now rapidly reddening in the wake of the pressure, then back up to fix upon her face.

She held no illusions as to his taking her own subtle threat seriously - even with the aid of a weapon. So many men interpreted such things from the lips of a woman as some customary protest that must be made but was never in earnest. Or else they saw it as a challenge. He already believed that he held some right to her - enough to disrespect her in front of the entire court and all assembled guests - but whatever else he might believe, he would not have her. He could have her cold and rotting corpse, but he would not have her while she still breathed.

None of them would.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, voice elevated to be heard beyond merely the two of them and making it very clear that the words were in opposition to what she would rather have said. "I find I have no further appetite."

She offered no parting courtesy, no use of his title as she slid her chair back and got to her feet, putting her back to him before he had the chance to react - utilizing the subtle social cuts available to a noblewoman in such a specific situation. Yet it was in the abruptness of her departure from the table which served as the deepest, most damaging rebuke she could issue. In doing so, she proclaimed to the entire hall that she left not due to some ailment or personal matter, but in direct response to some word or action which had offended her. Offended deeply enough to mark such rudeness on her part as justified.

By tomorrow, the gossip would have spread rampant as fever, and not in Yarwyck's favor. If anyone present had also witnessed his untoward behavior just before, those rumors would be all the worse.

It was in the midst of stepping away that she realized that Arthur had not returned to his post behind the king's chair as he should have by now.

She spared a glance, no more, toward where he had paused at the leftmost end of the dais. Not enough to find his face (as if she dared) but long enough to glimpse his right hand easing slowly away from the dagger at his hip.

Even as she turned and made her way down and out of the hall, she did not think of Yarwyck. Not of what he had done or any of the things he had said to her. Her mind was focused completely, helplessly, upon that almost imperceptible slide of gloved fingers from steel hilt, and everything it meant.

It took no great intelligence to understand that the knight had been watching closely, assessing the situation, as any guardsman should. He had also, it seemed, been gauging whether or not to interfere.

There was no doubt in her mind that had she been any of the other women seated at that table, he would have done so immediately. But with her…with her he had waited. Had she shown any sign of real distress, he would have had that blade to the base of Yarwyck's neck in a matter of seconds, and he would not have been so careful to avoid the drawing of blood. In the absence of any such sign however, he had elected not to act. Merely to stand by should she have need.

She had never experienced such a thing before.

Even among those who knew her as she truly was, Visaera had never known a man who trusted her capability completely enough to stand back and let her handle even such a minor incident. Not when it mattered. The constraints of social order forced women into the mold of helpless damsels and did everything it took to keep them there. Even those who did not seek to punish her when she railed against those chains often ended up doing just that, if unknowingly and unintentionally. It was all out of love, of course. Concerned and well-intentioned. Yet it undermined her all the same.

For all that he had only known her for a relatively brief amount of time, Arthur understood her well enough to realize this, and plainly respected her enough to make the conscious choice to support rather than undercut her.

Such a small thing, in truth. Yet it was this more than anything else he had thus far done or said which pierced her so deeply that she knew she would never be able to rip it out.

How in the name of everything good in this wretched world was she supposed to smother what she felt for this man? After this, after the horror of that brief, terrible instant when she had been certain she was about to watch him die, dangers which had hitherto been far too high to tolerate seemed more than worth the potential cost.

Damn him.

In all her years, or any of the men she had been entangled with, had emotions had never so overruled her mind, yet here she was, scrambling to think of anything other than the fact that the only thing preventing her from doing something incredibly, indecently stupid was her faith in hisresolve. His, not her own. Because hers was all but gone, and if the thought of making a complete and utter fool of herself hadn't been mortifying beyond comprehension…

She wasn't sure what she might have done.

...

There were numerous theories as to what had caused the extinction of the dragons.

Many said it had been the civil war: the great conflict nearly two centuries back which had rent the royal family in two and set sisters and brothers to one another's throats. Too many dragons had died in the resulting conflict, the stories went, and too few eggs had been laid in order to replenish their numbers. Some claimed it had been the work of magic - a dark, treacherous sorcery which had poisoned them gradually over time. Others still placed the blame directly upon the Targaryen masters who chained them, caged them, used them for their own gain.

According to records, Balerion the Dread had been of a size so great when fully grown that he could swallow a fleet of ships. His spread wings had blackened the skies over the greatest city ever built upon the continent - which stood no more. The last of his descendants had barely reached the size of a barn cat, so sickly that it lived for only half a year. The last remaining eggs had simply never hatched. Where they were now, no one knew. Not a single egg had been seen in Westeros since the tragedy of Summerhall.

In the effort to contain and control them, the Targaryen line had almost singlehandedly reduced once magnificent creatures to slaves, and then to little more than stone and ash. Gone forever, all for the sake of ambition and fleeting power.

The comparison was, perhaps, a dramatic one. Yet every time his eye fell on Visaera that evening, every time he passed her when he paced the length of the dais, Arthur found himself thinking of those long-dead dragons - caged and chained by the will of some foolish, selfish king.

She was in full form tonight: graceful, reserved, perfectly demure, and, to all appearances, thoroughly engaged by her dinner companion. Arthur could have pegged Yarwyck as a blowhard from a mile off, and thus was unsurprised to note that the lord was dominating the entirety of what conversation there was - if it could be termed as such. He at once pitied her, for being forced to endure all that egregious bluster, and admired how well she was maintaining the appearance of interest.

He was more careful than ever to avoid lingering too long, endeavoring to moon over her with a bit more discretion, since it seemed that he could not prevent himself from doing so. As always, he kept his eyes at a constant scan, taking in the patterns within the activity amidst the hall. Yet he could only avoid her to a point, and however firmly he might instruct himself not to, he seemed utterly incapable of ignoring things he ought not to notice every time his glance skimmed across the queen and to the left.

Things such as the elegant turn of her wrist when she lifted a sliver of fish to her mouth. The subtle shadow lining her eyes, emphasizing the brilliant blue of her eyes and the length of her lashes. Or that her lips were stained several shades darker than usual, either from cosmetics or from the wine she had been consuming at a steady and near constant rate.

He had never seen her drink so much in one sitting. What was more, it was not the weak, watered-down stuff from the Reach being served to the high table but a Dornish red. He could tell by the color, the viscosity when poured. Unless he was mistaken - possible, but unlikely given the particular cinnamon sheen to the liquid - it was a vintage commonly referred to as Red Ruin for its potency and for the way its sweeter notes could fool the drinker into believing they were less intoxicated than they truly were.

Either she could hold her liquor as well as some of the more disreputable soldiers he had known in his time…or it was a sign that her mask was not as strong tonight as it appeared.

If she didn't slow down, and continued to do little more than pick at her food, she would make herself ill. Perhaps that was her aim. Though surely she needn't go to such lengths in order to secure an escape. All she need do was complain of pains from her moonblood. It didn't need to be true. No Westerlander would question such a claim, nor think on it any longer than it took to bring a swift change to the topic of discussion.

He supposed he could understand some of the more modest northern attitude toward the subject of sexual relations, but he would never be able to wrap his mind around their aversion to the perfectly natural workings of a woman's cycle.

In any case, whatever the cause for the increased consumption, the amount worried him. For all that he could do nothing about it. Or should.

It was not his concern how much she did or did not drink to cope with the duties asked of her.

He made a deliberate effort to ignore her on his next sojourn along the walkway behind the row of chairs, directing his focus up and outward to the hall at large rather than down as he passed her, Yarwyck, and finally Tywin Lannister who, fittingly enough, had been wearing the self-satisfied look of a cat well fed on meat and cream since the beginning of the meal.

Upon coming to the empty chair beside Lannster he smoothly turned, making to retrace his steps back to the king, and caught the flicker of sudden movement. He lifted his gaze to follow it, precisely in time to see Yarwyck reach for her.

Fingers just skirting the edge of gnarled seized her by the chin to forcibly angle her face toward him, and Arthur's hand fell to his knife.

The absolute bollocks on the man. That he would dare to do such a thing, have the audacity to treat her thus, and to do so here…the sheer insolence was almost staggering.

She was kin to the king. He had neither the leave nor the right to touch her hand outside of the proper circumstances and without express permission, let alone her face. And yet the relaxed, brazen assurance with which he had seized her stated that he believed otherwise. There was a sense of ownership in it, in the way he seemed to be regarding her the way he might have a horse or a hound - examining the merchandise he thought to buy.

For her part, Visaera had masked the majority of her shock. It was the barest hint of a wince which betrayed her, and betrayed just how tightly the man held her.

Arthur's jaw clenched so hard that his back teeth ached, his fingers tightening reflexively upon the hilt beneath his hand. The muscles in his limbs coiled with the latent urge to cross the insignificant space, grip Yarwyck by the scruff like the mongrel he was, drag him from his chair, and toss his vile, disrespectful carcass from the dais.

But he did not move.

Narrowly he watched as she lifted her own hand to where Yarwyck grasped her, fingers delicately circling his wrist. Exactly what she did to urge him to remove his hand, Arthur could not discern, only that it worked, and that half a second later she was pressing that hand flat to the table, all the while maintaining a pleasantly bland expression.

Her lips moved, words lost amid the low roar of the hall. In answer, there was a subtle shift in Yarwyck's posture, the faintest change in body language which read closely enough to hostility for Arthur to instinctively loosen the blade in its sheath.

Visaera was perfectly able to deal with vermin such as this without any assistance from him. There were, however, lines she could not cross while playing the role she had assumed - a role which he suspected she wished to maintain for the time being. If Yarwyck gave even the slightest signs of open aggression, he would have to intervene. If for no other reason than to maintain appearances as the bodyguard he was supposed to be beneath all the flash and gilt. But for now…for now he merely observed, half of him hoping he would not be needed while the other half almost longed for the excuse to deal out a good thrashing.

They spent a few tense moments in what appeared to be a brief verbal exchange, neither moving much except to speak.

Then Visaera smiled.

And that smile…Stranger take him, but that smile was a thing of glory.

On the surface it was cordial enough, if perfunctory. Yet just beneath, beyond the pretty visage, the bewitching eyes and enticing reddened lips, was the baring of fangs. A flash of warning, and of promise.

She had the matter well handled indeed. She was, after all, a dragon. And dragons in their prime had once laid waste to mountains, melted cities of stone like so much candle wax. She might not have fire at her command, but she could - and would - demolish this pitiful excuse for a man, and she required no violence to do it.

By this point he had heard her speak candidly of her dislike of court politics and the games that so-called polite society expected her to play several times over. That she could detest it so, yet manage to so effortlessly and skillfully maneuver within the constraints which bound her in order to use them, was impressive. She could wield those rules and customs and expectations like weapons as effectively as she did a sword. Which was precisely what she did now.

Rising from her chair, she stepped smoothly and swiftly away from the table, leaving the lords seated to her left scrambling to rise with her as protocol dictated. By the time they managed to part from their seats, she had already passed behind the king, well on her way to vacating the dais.

That she would refuse to allow Yarwyck so much as even this small opening to save face by seeing her off properly was no mere rebuff but a scathing rejection - and not simply of the improper conduct, but of him. It had been a devastating cut down. Expertly done. The damage dealt by such a blatant statement of personal offense would be immediate, vicious, and far more lasting than the slight the Lord of Cragmere had committed against her.

One did not manhandle the cousin to the king publicly without consequence.

Arthur watched her go - an action easily disguised as dutiful - admiration swelling to fill his chest.

She was absolutely magnificent.

She had also, he remembered, had quite a bit of wine and hardly any solid sustenance. Her stride was even, absent any hitch or sign of instability as she descended the steps from the dais and made to leave the hall. Still, he couldn't help the tiniest pang of worry. Had he been stationed on the floor, he would have intercepted one of the kitchen staff and directed them to send something to her rooms. Unfortunately, he was not, but he hoped one of the women assigned to her would ensure that she ate.

The sound of laughter pulled his attention back to the table, where Yarwyck and Lannister were both resuming their seats.

"Spirited little thing," Yarwyck chuckled, adjusting the wide cuff of his jacket.

No…he was rubbing the side of his right wrist, directly where Visaera had gripped him. Not to examine a cut, but as if to smooth away what had likely been a warning press of sharp silver.

"Quite the comely piece, too. Though anything with tits looks appealing when a man has a need to stick his cock in something soft."

Lannister's low rumble of amusement joined the lord's rolling laughter. It wasn't clear whether it was agreement, or simply Tywin humoring his vassal for the sake of appearances.

Reaching for his own wineglass, Yarwyck angled his head toward the king's Hand, overlong hair partially veiling his face, and the oily smile it bore, from the crowded hall.

"I've half a mind to lose my way tonight…" he mused with the slant of subtle suggestion, and a far less subtle hint of lechery. "...perhaps wander my way into her chambers. See to that need."

Sharp, icy rage crackled along Arthur's veins - so cold that he would not have been startled to find his breath leave him in a fog of white.

It was not uncommon for noblemen to speak of women as though they were merely vessels to be used and consumed for their pleasure; empty, mindless, pleasing bodies onto which they could project their baser desires. It was frowned upon, but that was hardly a deterrent. Yet while ill-mannered language was not something Arthur had the power to correct, the insinuation of rape was another matter entirely.

In all likelihood, it meant nothing. The comments were almost certainly the result of Yarwyck's pride - bluster to mend an ego bruised by the brutal slight he'd been dealt in payment for his insolence. But Lannister…

Lord Lannister wanted this match. He had not been subtle about this, and his reputation - the very reputation which had secured his position as Hand of the King - was that of a man as cutthroat and merciless as he was brilliant. There were few limitations to the sins he was willing to commit in order to see his ambitions achieved, and Arthur could very easily see him ensuring Yarwyck's proposal, however flippant it had been, came to pass if it meant securing that advantageous marriage. Compared with some of the acts attributed to his name, arranging an assault upon an unsuspecting woman would be considered relatively tame.

Especially in light of this context, such a comment, even if spoken in jest (and in poor taste), could be considered a threat, giving Arthur plenty of license to intercede.

Visaera did not require anyone to protect her. In fact, there was a hard, vengeful part of him that would dearly love to see Yarwyck attempt it just to revel in the sight of her slitting him open from throat to groin. The choice he made to stand between her and this man - or any other that might infringe upon her honor or person - was not for the sake of any weakness on her part, but because she bore more than enough on her shoulders as it was. If he could relieve her of one (of this one especially) then he would do so, and gladly.

"I would not attempt it were I you, My Lord," he remarked, loudly enough that he could be sure both men would hear - for while the warning might be directed at one, it was equally intended for the other. "Such wandering would not end pleasantly."

Tywin's eyes were cold when he turned to regard him, measuring, as they always were, and revealed nothing. Yarwyck, however, gave a small start before angling his shoulders in order to blink up at Arthur with faint surprise; startled not by his presence, but rather his having spoken. It appeared the lord was of the persuasion which relegated guards to the same station as a piece of furniture - meant to be dormant unless needed, unobtrusive, and silent.

As quickly as it appeared, the surprise faded, replaced by a mocking amusement.

"I'd expect a Dornishman to agree with me, considering the Dornish will fuck anything with a hole between its legs."

Arthur remained passive as he returned Yarwyck's gaze, meeting the lazy, contemptuous malice with expressionless, glass-smooth composure.

Yarwyck expected him to react - wanted a reaction. Wanted to provoke him to anger and watch as he was forced to swallow it, unable to act. Fortunately for the lord in question, such predictable and frankly unimaginative prejudices such as the one he had just wielded with the intent to provoke were no more than that.

While common northern opinions declared the people of Dorne to be hot-tempered and violent as well as base, immoral, and vulgar, Arthur was neither quick to rile nor so easily baited. Such barbs from the mouths of petty, ignorant dogs had long since ceased to trouble him. Had this not been the case, Yarwyck might have found himself with a shattered jaw or a few less teeth for his trouble. For Arthur was no mere palace guard. Had he wished to punish Yarwyck for the insult, he need only claim to have misinterpreted the threat to Visaera's honor as one to her life.

Yet he said nothing - merely held Yarwyck's eyes and watched the smug superiority falter, and then begin to crumble beneath the scrutiny.

Averting his gaze to focus instead upon his wine, Yarwyck took up the quickly fraying threads of the verbal swipe and carried it further.

"Well. Evidently you have no want of women to have so readily given them up," he mused, seemingly harmless but for the subtle scornful bite, "or perhaps Sword of the Morning is simply a pretty way to say you lack the proper equipment..."

A far more personal slight, and twice less effective for that.

Insinuations that the Kingsguard were gelded upon appointment were popular jest, especially among the nobility for the sake of their own spiteful amusement. Linking this insinuation to the ancestral title of his house was a new slant, but the fact that Yarwyck imagined such a pathetic, worn-out excuse for a challenge would have an effect was altogether laughable.

What the man thought of him - or his equipment, as it were - was among the very least of Arthur's concerns. He had nothing to prove other than that his warning was not for show. Something which, hopefully, would not require proof.

The only response he offered was by way of the faintest hint of a cool smile. Whether Yarwyck glimpsed this out of the corner of his eye or not, Arthur couldn't say. Nor did he care. He knew the man could feel the resolute weight of his stare by the faint tics of discomfort - the twitch of a muscle in his jaw, a reflexive tightening of fingers about his glass as he lifted it to his mouth, no doubt in hopes of distracting from those little, disconcerted signs of unease.

The irony was rather perfect. Whatever the rest of Westeros thought about Dorne, they certainly liked the wine well enough. Even if only to hide behind.

Making a production out of lowering his glass, Yarwyck gave a careless half-shrug and turned back to the table. "In any case," he remarked, "the girl is far too prickly to be worth the trouble."

It was a bald-faced lie, and all three of them knew it. Otherwise there would have been no suggestion, however miniscule, of coercing said girl into marriage by compromising her. But Arthur allowed it. Turning from the two men, he returned to his post behind the king - satisfied that his caution would be heeded. While Lannister might have considered trying something even now, the Hand was not fool enough to place his money behind a losing bet and Yarwyck was too much a coward to test his luck.

For the moment, at least, the seeds of this particular plot had been ripped from the earth before they could begin to take root. Unfortunately, Arthur very much doubted it would be the last of its kind.

...

Barring the occasional flurry of activity, the stables were consistently one of the more peaceful places within the walls of the Red Keep.

Arthur did not have as much time to spend there as he would have liked. For the most part, the grooms looked after his horses. Though his preference would have been to do so himself, the way he had been taught as a boy was the responsibility of anyone in possession of an animal, it simply wasn't practical to do so regularly. Not that this prevented him from taking advantage of whatever opportunities became available.

While he easily could have sent someone to fetch him the bridle in need of repair, going himself meant he could spend some time with both animals. They were already groomed and fed and didn't require anything of him, but he lingered anyway; looking them over, talking to them, presenting treats in the form of carrots begged from the larder. Merely being near them was a reprieve. A recollection of simpler days, and a life no longer his own.

He would have liked to stay, but he had only a few hours to see to errands before he was expected to relieve Ser Barristan with the king. And he would need to use another compress on his shoulder before arming up.

The lingering effects of tilting had not been quite as bad as he had feared. All the assorted impacts had compounded and set overnight, but a mild soreness was no more hindrance than the bruising. The shoulder was stiff and angry, but he had not damaged it, nor had he pulled or strained any muscles. Overall, he had been fortunate.

Upon retrieving the bridle he examined the damaged areas he had noted the last time he had ridden. The stitching on the throatlatch was frayed, the noseband was cracked to the point of splitting and would need to be replaced. He already possessed the tools for such work, but the supplies would have to come from the palace supply.

With the stable master's permission, he set about raiding the stores for the thick, sturdy thread and fresh leather he needed. Slinging the bridle over his shoulder to free his hand, he picked through the box of scraps, searching for a piece of hide suitable for cutting down into a new band.

At first the humming escaped his notice. He heard it, of course, merely dismissed it with the rest of the normal sounds of activity within the space; the typical human noises melded with those of the animals. It wasn't until he was about to leave, supplies gathered, that he fully registered, and then recognized the voice coming from several stalls down.

He was not the only one to visit the stables today, it seemed.

Approaching the stall, he paused just beyond the door to listen.

"The sheep's in the meadow, and the kye is in the corn."

As he had thought before, Visaera was not technically skilled as the prince was. But as much as he might appreciate Rhaegar's voice, were he forced to choose, he would have chosen this warm, slightly husky humming scattered with words rather than the lyrical perfection of a structured ballad.

Some of the language he didn't understand completely. Old, he thought, a bit antiquated. But he followed the sentiment through the melody and the gentleness in her tone well enough to recognize a lullaby reminiscent of the folk songs of his childhood, the kind his father and mother had sung to him and his siblings. Simple and sweet.

"Canny at night…bonny at morn."

She descended into quiet - an absence not simply of the singing, but of all movement. And for a moment he might simply have imagined hearing anything at all.

He stepped forward, drawing nearer to the low door set within the higher partition walls in order to look within.

The stall housed a slender bay mare, which she appeared to have been in the midst of grooming - or so the kit of brushes in one corner suggested. Just then, however, she stood with her cheek resting against the sturdy surface of the horse's shoulder, eyes closed, one hand stroking the sleek line of the animal's neck.

He couldn't have said why, after all, there was nothing in her face or posture to imply it…but something about her radiated a kind of sadness that wrenched at his insides to witness.

"Are you well, My Lady?"

Dark lashes fluttered as Visaera's eyes opened, slowly, almost dreamily coming to rest on him. "Oh—" she swiftly straightened, a hint of self-conscious discomfort in the downward dart of her eyes. "Yes. Thank you."

Assured, and not wishing to intrude further, he nodded and took a step back, intending to be on his way.

"I was just apologizing to my horse for not having been able to take her out this week. Or last. And likely next as well."

She said it as if by way of an explanation, which she did not owe him. Yet the phrasing was casual, lacking in formal address - almost conversational. As though she were inviting him to stay.

Discreetly Arthur took measure of her appearance. A man's shirt, sized for her frame and tucked into breeches. No additional or protective layers, no vest to outline her figure, no cloak lying nearby. The frontmost sections of her hair had been pulled back from her face in simple braids, the rest hanging in loose, rather messy curls down her back. Though simple, the style was not at all practical for her current occupation. Nor were the delicate balck pearl earrings he would wager she had entirely forgotten she still wore.

Whatever more formal obligation she'd had this morning, she must have come straight here after. What was more, she had done so in haste - barely having taken the time to properly change. She had been running from something, or else had sought an escape. This was a place where she might scrape some small measure of sanctuary for herself, to be left alone to her own company and that of the horse she clearly loved. He wouldn't have imagined she would relish the presence of other people in such a moment, but perhaps she needed a distraction more than she needed the solitude.

When she glanced his way again, a flicker of something near to hopeful in the look, he was reasonably sure of his guess.

It would have been wiser to take his leave. The more time he spent near her the more time he found himself wanting to spend. Doing so now, in this setting - so much more casual than any other - was to walk a fine line.

Electing to move back to the stall door was at once a conscious choice and one he was powerless to stop.

He leaned against the sturdy oak of the frame, favoring his right side, focus shifting to study the horse. A sturdy animal, if significantly lighter than either of his own, with a beautiful red-brown coat, coal black points, and graceful lines. At the moment the animal was calmly contented, but the bright spark within wide dark eyes hinted at a sprightly, energetic nature.

"She's a lovely creature," he noted. A statement true as much for the lady as the mare.

There was soft pleasure in her face when she nodded. "She's quite nimble, and very fast," she remarked, stroking down the length of the horse's muzzle. "Which suits me well, as I tend to enjoy dashing about the cliffs and the moors more than is good for me."

She emitted a tiny, happy noise when the mare pressed the end of a velvety black nose into her palm, and Arthur felt no inclination to smother either the warm rush of fondness or the smile it pulled from him.

Moving away from the horse's head, she lifted the soft brush she held in her other hand and took up where she had left off, smoothing the bristles across the mare's side in short, gentle sweeps from the arch of the spine down along the swell of the ribcage. Deft motions, practiced until they had become engrained.

Like him, she saw to her horse herself as much as possible, out of enjoyment as much as obligation.

"You ride often, then?"

Inane as it might have sounded, the question was designed more to coax her into talking than it was meant in earnest. She had indicated she wanted the company, and whether she wanted it for its own sake or for something to occupy her mind when familiar tasks would not suffice didn't matter to him. He was glad to provide it. Gladder of the permissible reason to speak with her.

"I did before coming here." One side of her mouth tilted in a crooked half-smile as she added: "I should have attended the hunt. It would have been an acceptable excuse—and no one would have questioned it. I just couldn't stomach any more…"

She quieted, appearing to struggle for a moment before deciding to hold her silence rather than finish the statement. But she didn't need to. He knew perfectly well what she chose not to put into words; that she hadn't been able to tolerate any more of the forced smiles and empty pleasantries that would have been expected of her had she decided to attend. It had been the better choice to stay away, even if doing so had robbed her of the opportunity.

Strictly speaking, there was nothing to prevent her from riding if she wished. She could saddle up this very moment and no one would stop her. But the reasons she elected not to had nothing to do with the lack of ordinance, rather the chance of such a choice being misconstrued as something it wasn't. Especially now with so many visitors to the city - both recognizable and un.

The very last thing she wanted was to inadvertently kindle a rumor that she was involved in some conspiracy against the crown; and were she to ride out unchaperoned, the probability of someone suggesting it, even if in wickedness rather than true suspicion, would be significantly heightened. It was as far from fair as it was absurd, but such was the way of court life, where the backbone of politics was strung as much with gossip and falsehood as it was with strategy.

Even in the absence of all that, it simply wasn't safe for her to leave the keep unaccompanied. Not now, when the city had never been more dangerous for her simply by virtue of being a woman. Even a woman armed with steel and the knowledge to use it was vulnerable in ways a man simply wasn't, drew attention that a man did not, and even she - skilled as she was - could not best five or more attackers simultaneously were it to come to that.

Sympathy tugged at Arthur's heartstrings, as did a yawning, helpless frustration on her behalf.

He hated that she was trapped in this cruel place, shuttered away from the things which bring her some manner of joy. Worse, there was fair little he could do to help her. And that was a special hell all of its own.

Visaera ran the brush carefully over the mare's flank. "You must ride quite frequently yourself."

He stared at her, taken aback.

"Pardon?"

"To stay in the saddle the way you did in the lists," she clarified. "I've never known anyone who could do something like that."

The discovery that she had been in the audience during his muddle of a joust was not exactly a heartening one. Yet whatever pride might have been bruised yesterday was immediately outweighed by the hint of shy, almost girlish veneration he caught in her voice.

She had been referring to his horsemanship, not the jousting, and realizing it brought him a heady rush of satisfaction. He was only a man, he supposed, and not immune to the allure of impressing a woman he fancied - especially one as accomplished as she was enchanting. All the same…it was a compliment better directed to his teachers.

"A combination of practice and luck. Nothing more," he offered honestly, bending a knee to brace his heel against the lip of stone lining the base of the stall door.

Lifting her face, she shot him a look over the horse's back - one he hesitated to classify as anything but disapproving.

"That's a load of shite if I ever heard one," she declared with the flat toneless disapproval of a mathematics tutor displeased with his figures. "Which I suppose is fitting, given the locale. I refuse to accept it nonetheless."

He laughed, unable to stifle the bust of delight in the face of her reproach. The force of it was enough to jostle his sore shoulder, and he adjusted the bridle where it hung as he insisted: "I'm not spouting false modesty."

One brow rose in another small indicator of skepticism, and he didn't bother concealing his smile from her.

"Surely a horsewoman like you knows how difficult it is to ride while weighed down like that," he said in deliberate reference to the experience he didn't doubt she had. "So you know it was fortunate that I caught the loss of balance as quickly as I did. Had my horse not been so sturdy or well-trained, I might have pulled us both down by attempting such a maneuver. Had my lance broken farther down, the weight might have been too much for me to compensate for. That it didn't was due to chance, not by any skill of mine."

Visaera circled around to the mare's other side, resting a hand just above the tail to ensure the animal knew where she was and wouldn't be inadvertently spooked. She was still eyeing him in a dubious manner, but appeared to concede to his logic.

"Well, whatever the cause, you're clearly a hell of a rider."

Another flush of pleasure rose, pooling sweetly in his stomach like warm brandy.

The next several minutes were spent in a relaxed, easy quiet as he watched her work the brush along the mare's other side.

Though he was all too aware of just how attractive he found her like this - haydust streaking the knees of her trousers and straw caught in one of her braids - it was not at the forefront of his mind. Ever since their spar, she had become progressively more comfortable lowering her guard in front of him. In moments such as this one, she allowed him access to parts of herself that she kept safely tucked away from all but those she trusted, and while desire was well enough, having earned such explicit trust from a woman so resilient and self-assured, that she was willing to be vulnerable in this way with him…was invaluable.

She worked with a thorough efficiency that even the strictest of his masters would have approved of: smoothing her empty palm along the horse's coat as she went to feel for signs of soreness or discomfort, the marks of fly bites or irritation, crouching to run her hands down the long, slender legs looking for hints of strain.

In the midst of examining the second hind leg, the mare shifted, swaying gently into Visaera's shoulder and knocking her momentarily off balance. It was playful - with the air of a long-standing joke shared between the two of them. And though she didn't fall, Visaera fixed a mocking, narrow-eyed glare at the horse.

"I will sell you to the tanner," she muttered, overloud, to which the mare flicked her tail in apparent response.

Once finished, Visaera returned the brush to its place in the narrow wooden box and lifted it from the straw-strewn floor, bestowing a final affectionate pat to the mare's nose and an order to behave. Reaching for the latch, Arthur opened the door for her, noting the slight inward curve to the shoulders which accompanied her murmur of thanks. It read almost as nervous, though after a blink it was gone.

She gave the bridle slung over his shoulder a curious look while she returned the kit to the rows of shelving between two stalls across the way.

"Are you mending your tack?" she asked, eyes sliding to the strip of leather and spool of thread in his hand.

He was not offended by the note of surprise in the question.

"Mm. I've no squire to do so for me."

She gave a slight nod as if remembering. "Ah, right."

"Besides which, I was taught that it's best to keep such skills sharp in case one needs them unexpectedly." His mouth slanted with an exaggerated grimace. "Having had to do so twice on the road in less than ideal conditions, I can attest to the value of the lesson."

Her laugh was brief - subdued, but appreciative of and possibly sharing in the sentiment

"Are you headed back?" She tipped her head in the general direction of the keep proper, and there was a reluctance to the question, in the lines of her posture. One which said that she didn't much relish the prospect of leaving, though she felt she should.

It was understandable. She wouldn't be keen to return to the demands which lay beyond the stable walls, all those additional eyes regarding her as a commodity, a source of novelty and fascination. And, of course, potential gain.

He had learned in passing that at least a few of the visiting lords had come in the hopes of bribing or otherwise weaseling their way into consideration should the approved list of suitors be rejected or expanded upon. It wasn't surprising, only…tiresome, he supposed was an adequate description. He could only imagine how it seemed from her perspective

He was likewise reluctant to leave her, though his reasons were far less sensible, and skirted the line of what was proper.

As he had in response to Lord Yarwyck's reprehensible comment last night, he found himself experiencing a strong sense of protectiveness that was not entirely appropriate within the confines between their respective stations. His instinct, and inclination, was to shield her from the attention she quite plainly did not want, to be a wall between her and all the scrutiny and whispers and venom, to ease the strain of being pulled in so many directions at once. To be whatever she needed, or wanted, him to be.

There might not be much he could do to alter or improve conditions for her, but he could make them more bearable. He could bring her the distraction of aimless conversation. He could bring her smiles and laughter and an undemanding quiet. And if a part of his eagerness to do these things was self-serving, he chose to overlook it.

"I am, yes," he answered, and hesitated, the offer held poised upon his lips.

While it was true that she didn't fully require an escort, she had allowed him to serve as one before. The context had been rather different, but she was a lady still, whether in skirts or mud-splattered boots, and he didn't think she would find the suggestion offensive, especially if his presence could be a deterrent to interruption and extend this brief sliver of freedom.

"Shall I walk with you?"

Though it was small, there was a brightness in her smile. Yet it was the hint of gentle happiness in it which suggested she might have wanted him to stay with her, and not simply as a shield against unwanted disturbance.

It was a fleeting idea, one he promptly dismissed as fanciful. She seemed to enjoy his company well enough, but any enthusiasm she had would be for the safety he represented. Which, he reminded himself, was a good thing. He wanted her to feel safe with him. Though doubtless she would not deem him quite so safe had she known of the increasingly sordid thoughts he'd been having about her of late.

"All right," she said, dipping her chin by way of acceptance.

Stepping to one side of the center aisle between the rows of stalls, he gestured for her to precede him. It was as manners dictated, not for the sake of any ulterior motive. And yet once she passed him and he turned to follow, he found his gaze drawn rather helplessly down to where the breeches hugged the swell of her hips, and then lower, flawlessly outlining the shape of her backside.

Slender as she was, there was a lushness to her that her clothes often concealed. But then, he had already known it was there, hadn't he? Already felt a bit of that supple, curving body beneath his hands. Though he had not, to his everlasting regret, possessed either the focus or the daring to fill his palm with that sweet, perfect flesh...

Sucking in a heavy breath, he dragged his eyes away, fixing them steadfastly to the back of her head.

Upon exiting the stable doors, she headed not in the direction of the Serpentine Steps which would lead directly to the Holdfast, but rather toward the rear of the courtyard and the servants' passage which opened behind the barracks. He followed, stepping across the threshold between the rougher cobbles to the smoother paved floor of the corridor, the natural outdoor light reduced to that which the narrow slits cut high into the wall at their left allowed in. Torches had been lit within, supplementing the fragile ribbons of daylight with a much harsher luminance.

It was clever to use the backways, though he suspected she did so due to how she was dressed as much as to avoid interruption. No one could accuse her of displaying more flesh than was acceptable, but they would still deem the attire unseemly for a lady.

Once again he noticed that she lacked either a cloak or a wrap. It was unseasonably warm out, and she didn't appear to be cold. He would have offered his jacket if she had, regardless that it was still a bit too cool for him to find comfortable, and was only mildly disgruntled by his own relief at the lack of need.

Lengthening his stride enough to move into step with her, Arthur considered whether or not to broach the topic that had likely driven her to seek solace in the stables, and decided in favor of offering her the outlet to speak should she want it.

"How are you faring with the, ah...dining partners?"

She emitted a delightful sound, half amused snort and half sardonic laugh, apparently enjoying his roundabout epithet for her prospective husbands.

"As well as you might imagine. That I've taken to hiding away where I won't be found so quickly might tell you more than anything else."

It did indeed.

"I didn't think I could hate this place more than I did at first," she admitted, dry and humorless, "but by the Father's own righteous arse does adding a pack of men to quarrel over me like dogs over a haunch of deer make it that much fucking worse—"

She stiffened abruptly, stopping dead in the middle of the corridor and her hand flying to her mouth as though she wished she could cram the words back inside. When her eyes flicked up to his face, he could see that she was utterly mortified.

"Forgive me, please," she implored him while he stepped aside to allow a laundress bearing an armload of linens to pass them with a quick, bobbed curtsy. "I have occasionally been known to possess the mouth of a sailor rather than that of a lady."

As true as that might have been, here he was, quite thoroughly taken with that mouth - brashness very much included.

Humored as much by the endearingly sober nature of the apology as by the expert ease with which she could hurl such profanity, he smiled, and said simply: "you've no need to apologize for speaking your mind, whatever form it may take."

One of her brows curved into a perfect arch. "An eloquent way to say you cannot scold me for the foul language."

"Oh, I could," he said with the slow note of a drawl to emphasize his teasing. "I simply have no desire to feel that venom turned upon me."

Her lips twitched with a hint of mirth, and he took advantage of the opening presented to admire her face - to look his fill. It would have been sacrilege not to. The torchlight cast her features in harsh brightness and shadow, turning her hair into strands of spun gold. He all but itched to pluck the bits of straw caught in the wild, mussed curls. An urge he held tightly in check.

He shadowed her as she turned to resume the trek, adjusting his balance as she did to compensate for the subtle upward slope the passage took. Unhurried, they followed the last leg of the passage out where it opened into the upper bailey at the base of the Steps.

"My mother once told me that a woman's first blood doesn't come from her womb," Visaera mused absently, "but from biting her tongue. Every year I understand what she meant by that a little bit more."

Though he had never met, nor even seen Princess Rhaelle, and truthfully knew very little about her, Arthur did know that she had died before Visaera had reached the age of ten. Some might have viewed such a caution a grim one to bestow on a child so young, but he imagined Rhaelle had been as capable and pragmatic a woman as was her daughter.

While she might have been removed from the main royal line by marriage, she would have understood the position any girl she bore would be in - a position made all the more dangerous when fathered by a pretender to the throne. She had evidently believed it kinder to arm her child with knowledge than to raise her in sheltered ignorance the way many noble families did, and it was no doubt due to this foundational teaching that Visaera had come to be so adept at navigating the political strategies she despised, and which even now kept her alive.

"It's a…" Visaera paused, mulling over her words, "difficult line to walk. If I'm too rebellious, I risk being disciplined, or eliminated. If I'm too docile and accommodating, then I may as well give over and have done with it all—which would kill me just as well as a knife in the ribs."

She flashed him a wry, sardonic slash of a smile.

"So you see my dilemma."

He would never truly understand what it was to be in such a position. Not as a man, not as the second son of middling nobility. But he grasped enough.

"I do."

A quiet sigh left her, skimming soft across her lips. "In the end it's all a waste," she remarked, and he heard the weariness in it - if no louder than a whisper. "It doesn't matter what they want of me. I can't—will not have children, and so I cannot marry."

He risked a glance at her, and found only immovable conviction.

There, at least, was the answer to the question he had pondered. Whatever she might want or not want, she had resolved herself to childlessness. And from the look on her face - the bleak, haunted exhaustion - he could harbor a guess as to why.

Another experience he could never understand. All the same, he grieved for that little girl who had spent years in the shadow of constant fear, wondering when punishment for the crime of simply being born would come.

"Besides. I made an oath, and I intend to keep it. I can't do that as the wife to some lord or another."

He nodded, more for acknowledgement than in reply. There were freedoms she possessed while unmarried that she would not when bound to a husband and lands. Even without the problem of the heirs any nobleman would expect of her, there would be duties she couldn't simply walk away from, responsibilities to the people in those lands that she would be honor-bound to care for.

That was a duty he understood all too well from the four years he had spent as his brother's heir. The birth of his nephew had relieved him of the position. Taking the oaths of the Kingsguard had ensured he could never become Lord of Starfall, even were tragedy to occur.

Deferring to Visaera's choice to walk along the curve of the outer wall to the left rather than cutting across the bailey to the keep proper, he considered the statement.

Before now he had not considered what exactly she intended by that oath. Rhaegar had asked for her sword, and that was what she had promised. The assumptions he'd made at the time had proven wrong, but he had not thought of the matter beyond that. She had given her support in other ways up until now, and he had no doubt she would continue to do so - to the point where she would refuse the relative security she might have found in a marriage, however unappealing. In this precise moment, he suspected she had not ruled out the possibility that what they were in the process of planning might lead to war.

He did not need to ask if she would fight if it came to that. It was a question to which he already had the answer.

"How do you plan to slip the rope, as it were?" he inquired as they passed beneath the bare branches of a row of ornamental trees.

She turned mid-stride to walk briefly in reverse, and the grin that streaked across her face was at once as brilliant as it was unexpected, a flash of teeth giving the broad smile a half-feral slant.

"Why, to be as insufferably myself as possible!"

Her hands lifted to rest demurely, and dramatically, against her chest. The laces at the collar of the simple shirt tangled with her fingers when she did, and while he knew perfectly well she wasn't moving to undo them, the faint lurch in the pit of his stomach did not care about the logic of this. By the grace of both willpower and the demands of decency, he managed not to glance down to the faint sliver of skin just visible where the fabric parted, but it was a very near thing.

"I already made a good start last night," she added, pivoting gracefully back around on the balls of her feet.

This snared Arthur's attention.

"With Lord Yarwyck?" he prompted, not desiring confirmation so much as elaboration, which she smoothly provided.

"Mm. I may have informed him that the likelihood of my marrying him was the same as the likelihood of his surviving said wedding."

His brows shot nearly to his hairline.

Well, that certainly explained some of the lord's subsequent flex of power, and the implications therein. Yarwyck had been licking his wounds as much as soothing the blow to his pride.

The terse, sarcastic laugh she emitted was echoed by a shallow wince. "It was probably not the best way to handle the situation, but it's done now."

He wasn't sure he agreed with the regret. From where he'd stood, her response had been more than deserved.

Extending her left hand, she let the tips of her fingers brush along the dull gray stone from which the outer walls of the keep had been carved, weather-roughened and stained by salt from the sea, ivy creeping along the outer edge to drape down in greedy swaths of green.

For a moment the only sound was the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. She seemed to be weighing something in her mind, the tension in her frame frosted with uncertainty - as though she wasn't sure she ought to say what she wished to. He saw her lips part, hovering on the edge of hesitation. When she allowed the careful words to fall, however, they were not at all the somber, serious things he had anticipated.

"Thank you, by the way."

The look he sent her must have conveyed the confusion raking his mind, but she wasn't looking at him to see it. Her gaze was fixed in front of her, face angled slightly downward in…he was hesitant to call it shyness, but wasn't sure how else to name it.

"For letting me handle him," she explained softly, casting the nervous body language in a clearer light as she did. "And for being there if I needed you."

Emotion slammed into him, closing around his heart with the strength and force of a man's fist.

Anything, he wanted to tell her. Anything you need. It's yours.

"If making myself undesirable isn't enough," she said firmly, resolute, and it took his compromised brain half a second to recognize that she was doubling back to the subject of how she aimed to avoid the unwanted marriage. "Then I'll refuse."

He mirrored her when she slowed to a stop. Without looking to gather his bearings he knew they had reached White Sword Tower simply by the subtle curving shape in his periphery, by the shade of the white basalt used to form the narrow pillars and archway of the entrance and the stairs just beyond. It was as familiar to him now as any living space had been. He spared no attention for the tower that had become his rudimentary home, however. He was focused on the young woman that stood so straight and steady before him, and whose face held at once such bone-deep resolve and the weariness that came with carrying too-heavy burdens for much too long.

Strength and hardness were not one and the same. She was inherently strong in many ways, but the hardness he saw in her then…it wasn't hers. It had been thrust upon her. She had been forced to carry it through no choice of her own. The sight of it saddened him, yet for all that it should not have been that way, he did not judge her for protecting herself.

"The lords of the Small Council look at me and see a mirror image of the queen. But I am not docile the way she is. They cannot threaten or punish or coerce me to do anything but what I must to maintain my own self respect, even if it means I can't fulfill my promise."

She hadn't come out and said as much, had barely skimmed the surface of hinting it…but hint it she had.

She would take her own life before she would be forced into a more confining cage than the one she was already trapped in. It was a last resort, but she would do it if she must.

Even as the suggestion sent a cold, bitter chill to sink its teeth into his throat, it did not for a single second occur to him to argue. Not even in his own mind. Only she could decide what she could endure and what compromises she would or would not make. Only she could make that choice. It would rend him to bloody shreds, that he knew. But while he would have a right to his grief, he did not have - nor would he ever claim - the right to challenge or to stop her. Were he in her place, he could not be certain that he wouldn't do the same.

He had the nearly overwhelming compulsion to reach for her, to give some gesture of comfort or support...but he didn't dare. For one, he didn't trust that he could maintain the necessary formalities if he broached that boundary again. For another, they were not in a private space. While he was fairly confident the solidity of his own reputation was adequate protection against a touch of that nature being misinterpreted, he preferred not to take the chance - if more for her sake than his own.

"I dearly hope it does not come to that, My Lady," he said gently, hoping that the limited power of his voice was enough to convey even some of the sentiment he could not declare openly.

"As do I." Visaera lifted her gaze to meet his, her mouth forming a cynical line. "I find I'm rather attached to living."

He had not fully realized how closely they stood to one another until her hand lifted, fingertips just grazing the base of his forearm where it bent to hold the bridle balanced at his shoulder. It was barely more than a brush against his sleeve, but he felt it all the same, just as he felt the half-frantic jump of the pulse in his throat. For a fleeting moment his senses were flooded with the scents of sweet hay, of spice and warm woman.

"I am—"

She faltered, pulling her hand away a little too quickly, fingers curling inward, as though having abruptly realized what she'd been doing and curbed the impulse too late to stop it. Yet the ghost of the barely-there touch lingered, fixing into his skin like a brand. Her eyes lowered downward, dark lashes veiling the brilliant blue of them, the faintest hint of a frown limning her fine features. It wasn't annoyance, though at first glance he might have mistaken it as such. Nor was it frustration, though that was nearer.

Before he could examine further, she had recovered from the slip; the flash of emotion smoothed over and reset into a pleasantly neutral expression.

"I'm grateful for your ear. I am not too proud to admit that it's been difficult, trying to balance all of this alone, in my head."

The smile she gave him was somewhat self-depreciating, yet for the most part, it was just a smile. Simple. Hers. Her natural smile was just the slightest bit crooked, as if hinting at the quick-minded cleverness residing underneath. It was this tiny thing which told him it was real, and which endeared him all the more.

"So, again, I thank you. For listening."

Arthur felt his brow furrow, with equal parts hesitancy and concern, even while he answered: "Of course. Though surely my sister would have been just as willing to serve as an ear for you?"

Almost the instant the words left his mouth he regretted them. He did not want her to think he was implying she wasn't free to speak to him if she wished, or that he listened only out of obligation or sense of duty when the exact opposite was true.

"A more competent one, in any case," he added hastily. "My perspective on the impacts of arranged marriage—marriage at all, really—being somewhat limited…"

Her laugh was soft, a musical lilt of sound. "Perhaps. Yet as Ashara does not know of at least one fairly crucial part of the total equation, being the aforementioned promise…or, I assumed that was the case—"

"She has not been apprised, no. In truth, however, I don't know how much she may suspect."

And he had not considered it in that way, though she was right, of course. Without the proper context, not all of her reasoning would seem as intentioned or purposeful, and there were choices she could not easily have explained.

While he trusted Ashara deeply, he himself kept anything remotely related to the subject of Rhaegar's plans battened tightly down. However…as careful as he was, Ashara knew him better than did anyone else in the city. He thought it more than likely she at least had an inkling that he was involved in something, if not specifics. There might come a time when she would need to know, but for the time being, the less people with direct knowledge the better. In that same vein, it was safer for Visaera to keep the whole of the matter in its intricacies to herself; minimizing the chances of accidentally revealing something damning.

"She's perceptive," Visaera agreed, "like you are."

There was a fondness in her voice which he automatically dismissed as being meant for Ashara. Whether he believed that was where it belonged, or out of sheer self-preservation even he didn't know.

Glancing over her shoulder, she regarded the tower, eyes roaming the elegant simplicity of the stonework. "I suppose this is where I relinquish my duties as escort," she observed, "which is probably for the best. I do make a rather poor one."

It was his turn to laugh. "I wouldn't say that."

"Of course not. You're far too polite."

The response was whip-quick and matter of fact, eliciting another laugh - fuller, from deeper in his chest where the warmth of this easy exchange gathered and spread like honey.

Dangerous, whispered the warning chime at the back of his mind.

A lazy breeze swept across the courtyard, causing the leaves of nearby ivy to shudder and catching at the errant strands of hair which framed her face. It carried just enough chill to serve as a reminder that spring was not yet arrived. The muscles in Arthur's back tightened in protest to the burst of cold, but Visaera appeared entirely unbothered, merely lifting a hand to brush the hair from her face. Far more roughly than he would have done.

Not that he would ever…

"I'd best get back," she said upon a sigh, resignation in the slight dropping of her shoulders even as she rolled her eyes skyward. "I smell of horse, and I'll need to freshen up before my supervised walk with Lord Dustin. Though really, if I'm to act like a sodding show-pony I might as well bloody smell like one."

She gave a sharp, sarcastic bark of a laugh immediately followed by a flinch of chagrin, which relaxed some when she saw the corners of his mouth turn up.

"Hell," she muttered, the curse laced with regret. "As I said—a sailor's mouth."

"I've never truly held the opinion that a lady ought to speak in any particular way versus another," he remarked steadily - which was true, though he had never encountered a lady so mastered in the art of vulgarity as she was. And he would not have her be any less so. "Certainly not in private."

She appeared to take him at his word, for the rest of the tension left her face, replaced by an almost bemused gratitude.

She was starting to turn, shoulders angling toward the path. Her fingers twined amidst the errant white wisps of hair to sweep them behind her ear, grazing the side of her neck as she did.

It wasn't suggestive, she wasn't intending to be alluring, to charm or entice him. It was no fault of hers that this infinitesimal motion reminded him that he had regularly been entertaining fantasies of dragging his lips up the delicate line of her throat, preferably as it arched back into the cradle of his hand. Some of them sweet, others quite decidedly filthy.

"Good day, then."

He managed to scrounge the wherewithal to grant her a deferent, if unsteady, quarter-bow just before she turned away. It was the appropriate response to the situation - the only appropriate response. Yet it felt ludicrous and hollow in the wake of the conversation, the things she had shared with him; grave, significant, and lighthearted in kind. Confiding in him with the same assurance she would with a friend. And as aware as he had been of the lines that stood between them, he had naturally echoed her, swinging sharply between effortless ease and intense discomfort as he did because while he knew he should not, he wanted the connection, the closeness of it. The intimacy.

He wanted her. In a way he had never wanted a woman - wanted anything before. So fiercely that he felt it in his bones, felt it knotting in his gut like sickness. Had he been burning with fever, it would not have shocked him. Much like the sigil of her mother's house, she possessed the power to set him aflame with the ease of a breath.

A harsh gust of cold pursued him into the shallow stair of cold white stone leading into the tower of the Kingsguard, and he welcomed the chill, drawing it deep into his lungs as though he might use it to chase away the unbidden warmth in his blood.

The attempt was thoroughly, absurdly, in vain.

---

NOTES:

My sincerest apologies for the wait on this chapter. I know it's pretty much an understood fact that delays are caused by writers' lives interfering with productivity on things they would rather be doing. But when I say this is what happened...I am not talking about this in the typical ways. I won't get into more, but it has been a very difficult time in my life, and honestly working on this fic, even if more slowly than I want, has been an anchor to sanity.

Moving on.

Let's talk about the "everyone's in love/lust with the OFC" trope. When it shows up as literally that…yeah, it can be unrealistic and annoying. (No judgment - live your best transformative fan-fantasy lives. I support you) The thing is, it's usually the motivations that are the problem, not the interest itself. One of the positives of GoT is the political maneuvering particularly where high-profile marriages are concerned. In later seasons, the subject of who marries Daenerys, Sansa, or Cersei is a BIG FUCKING DEAL because of power and assets that come with them, and sometimes you get a bit of "I just want to fuck a queen" in there.

So, if it seems like Visaera is getting a lot of attention from men, it's because she is, but it's not because no one can resist her or any such bullshit. I hope I've laid that groundwork in the narrative well enough that any interest shown to her (aside from Arthur's) is to be viewed through the lens that every single one of them wants something from her, whether it's position/power/influence, money, favor from the king/council members, revenge, or something along that line. If lust is in there, it's not going to be a primary motivation and even if it was, no one's going to be able to get close enough to her to actually do anything about it. Anyway, I just wanted to take a moment to address this trope because it is something that can have roots in realism if handled right. I hope I have, but if not…I did try!

Prejudice against the people of Dorne is definitely canon, though culturally it's much more subtle and insidious than blatant. I have Yarwyck being particularly nasty in a semi-defensive power-trip, which feels accurate. The insults are very closely based on book-accurate ones, which I'm ok with as it leans into the concept of stereotyping before that was even known as and called such a thing. Along with that - you cannot know how many times I had to scramble for substitutions to calling Yarwyck a bastard. It comes very naturally to me, but the word doesn't have the same meaning in this world/time as it does to us now. It was unexpectedly challenging.

The song Visaera hum/sings is an old Scottish/English folk song. It's actually meant to rouse a child rather that a true lullaby, but it sounds like one. The version that inspired its use is from "Outlaw King" sung by Florence Pugh (credited to Grey Dogs on Spotify and everywhere else). I hesitate to use actual song lyrics in stories, but I used them here. Still unsure about it, but I'm deciding to leave it be.

On the subject of religion: as to the faith of the average Westerosi commoner or noble, I can only surmise that it's about like what religious faith looks like in reality. Various people have various levels of taking it seriously. For this fic, there's a lot of reference to the Seven (or the many-faced god), mostly on an individual level, in ways like how a lot of folks raised in Christian-influenced cultures use "god/jesus/christ/etc" in varying degrees of casual swearing, whether they view it as blasphemous or not depends on the person. So…loosely and selectively agnostic while using the names, as I think a lot of people tend to be.

With that, I'll leave it here. I'll do my best to see that the next wait isn't quite so long. Cross your fingers for me!

Thank you, as always, so much for reading, for the kudos and the comments. It was a comment from someone checking in on me and letting me know they were enjoying a re-read that really kicked my ass into gear to get this posted today. Never let it be said that a few words from a reader cannot work wonders. Thank you all for spending your time in this little fandom corner with me.

Until next time. Take care!