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PART TWELVE
Threats
... ... ...
Upon her arrival to the capitol, stares and whispers had followed wherever Visaera went.
The Blackfyre bastard, they had muttered as she passed, alongside wagers as to how soon she would die, suppositions as to what horrible things the king might do with her. She had kept her head down and endured in silence, waiting for time to pass and other, more interesting subjects to draw the attention away from her. The entertainments of the past weeks had proved more than enough diversion - which was the only thing about them she was remotely glad of - but there was no doubt in her mind that were she to venture into any of the common areas that morning, it would be to find those stares and whispers turned back to her. And it would be to find them increased twofold.
By the time she had woken, word of the events of the previous evening had swept through the halls of the Red Keep as a spark engulfed a pool of oil in flame.
She knew the truth of it the instant the maids came to see to the fire and assist her in dressing for the day. They said nothing, but they hardly needed to. Their carefully arranged expressions, the unspoken questions in their precisely measured quiet, the glances shared between the two of them when they thought she could not see, were as clear as any shout.
It was not the first time she had weaponized gossip, nor the first time that she had done so in order to punish a social slight. She knew how rumors traveled, growing as they did the way ripples spread from the point at which a stone breached the surface of a pond, changing and redirecting as they traveled from mouth to mouth. She knew that in a place as large as this, news would travel rapidly - had been counting on that very thing. Just as she was counting on the vast number of eyewitnesses to maintain a thread of irrefutable fact at the center of whatever unrestrained tangle resulted.
The strongest lies were spun with a core of truth. So too were the most persistent - and damaging - rumors.
She wondered how much of the talk was centered around the actions themselves and how much of it around some sense of collective shock at her having committed them. None but a few would have imagined such a bold statement from the reserved, passive creature she had insinuated herself to be. Most would have expected her submission to the will of the Council. The entire court knew that Yarwyck had been personally selected by the Hand of the King, and it was no small thing that she had not only rebuffed him publicly, but scorned and refused him in the same breath. Certainly no one would be anticipating a wedding after such an outward declaration.
There would be plenty who disparaged her for it, disgusted that she would have the gall to put on such airs. But there would be others to claim that she had merely answered disrespect with its due. Plenty more still would say that it was her right to make a show of her disdain: she, daughter to the former king's own sister, dragged about for the pleasure and consumption of prospective buyers. It shamed the Small Council to have acted as flesh-traders, they would say, and whether or not she agreed with the sentiment did not matter.
All she had done was shown them that she was not the sort of lady they had imagined her to be - mousy and docile and content to silence at the direction of men not her king. It had been but a whisper of her true steel, no more. But if there were other whispers to liken her to her infamously indomitable mother…well, let them surmise what they would.
All she had wanted was to set a precedent, and that precedent was most assuredly made. Whether it served to drive away the lords whose pride or ambition had urged them to want her or draw yet more remained to be seen. She hoped for the former, yet knew perfectly well that she could not count on common sense or common taste to aid in that.
Some men were enticed by the prospect of bringing a spirited woman to heel.
Others had a taste for breaking them.
Fortunately, the same circumstances which had landed her in this cage also afforded her a measure of protection. Without direct gain to them, neither the Council nor her kingly cousin would be inclined to hand her off to just any passing lordling with a hankering for a Targaryen bride. And the fact that she had made it through the night with no attempt on her life told her that if she was fated to die it would not be before they had gotten something from her first. Which afforded her an altogether different form of leverage. So long as she kept her wits about her, she might actually manage to keep her freedom as well as her life.
If she had expected to be inundated by questions about the events upon entering Elia's solar later that morning, the expectation proved incorrect.
All five of the ladies in the princess' service were present: an occurrence which had not taken place in some days as - with the exception of Ashara - they had all been pulled away once or twice to attend to other business, be it visiting family or, in the case of Lady Katryn, with a prospective husband of her own.
The women milled about, sharing pleasantries and tea, catching up on the events of the past week and settling with their sewing as if it was any other day. Had Visaera not known better, she might have wondered whether any of them had either seen or heard. But she did know better. Every woman present had heard some version by now, it was only a matter of when the subject would come up.
"It's a shame that the celebration for the Prince is nearly over, isn't it?" Lady Katryn posed to the room and the circle of women within as she tied off a thread.
Though she did not look up from the length of raw wool fiber she was twisting between her fingers, Visaera caught the flash of movement to her right when Ashara lifted a hand from her sewing to stifle a tiny yawn.
Visaera quite agreed with the unspoken sentiment. She had likewise been fighting yawns all morning, even having the luxury of extra time to herself last night upon her early departure from the evening meal. With thanks to an agitated mind, however, she had spent hardly any of it resting, and was supremely grateful to be just a day and a night shy of the end to said celebration.
From her seat nearest the hearth, Elia gave a small smile and remarked diplomatically: "as much as My Lord and I have been honored by the attendance, we're both eager for life to regain some normalcy."
"Well I, for one, will be relieved when the week is done." Ashara's voice was flat, betraying the irritable mood she had warned them all against. "These endless dragging dinners are wearing my sanity thin."
"Yours and mine both," Visaera concurred, meeting the other woman's knowing glance before returning to her spindle, giving the shaft a single deft twist to set it to spinning - winding the fibers tightly together as she guided them.
Most women, no matter their birth or station, engaged in some manner of fiberwork. If not in the construction of cloth, garments, or other such things then by mending, darning, or alteration. She didn't have the kind of meticulous focus stitching required beyond simple mends, but she greatly enjoyed the methodical process and pattern of spinning. It was faster to use a wheel, certainly more efficient, but she was not subject to the cost of time as those who spun as their trade or for more immediate need, and thus preferred to do so by hand.
Illane's sigh of disappointment stirred the air to Visaera's left. "I liked them," she lamented quietly, directing the statement toward the sampler in her lap. "The food and music, anyway. And the dancing!"
Frown softening, Ashara lifted a hand and gently touched the underside of the girl's pointed elfin chin. It was an affectionate gesture, one that reminded Visaera of the way her own mother - a woman often sparing with verbal endearments - had bestowed little touches as ways to convey love.
"It won't be the last occasion for either, sweetling," the Dornishwoman kindly said. "I promise."
There was truth to Ashara's words, of a sense. There would always be some future cause for gathering and revelry. But what she did not say - what Illane was too newly come to the capitol to know - was that the abundance of celebration, or of joy, at court grew less and less with each passing year. Rhaegar had told Visaera as much in his letters, alongside reports of the swift rise in brutality, the fear cloying thick within the halls of the keep and leeching out into the streets of the city below. It was not a lie, but nor was it the full truth. Not that any of the other ladies were keen on saying as much.
The girl's face had brightened, hopeful, and if Visaera's smile held a trace of something wistful, she would not have been surprised to hear it.
When she had been Illane's age she, too, had been taken in by the pageantry of formal occasions, new and novel and therefore exciting rather than droll or demanding. At some point it had become clear to her that she could not simply enjoy a feast or a tournament; that these events no longer served as entertainment for her, though they might yet for others. She had begun to understand that the social sphere was in truth a hunting ground, wherein she and all other girls were considered prey the instant they became old enough to wed. Not that anyone had sought to wed her. At least not that she recalled.
Glancing across the room, it was to find a bittersweet softness in Elia's face, and Visaera imagined the princess' thoughts likely mirrored her own, though her experiences with the state of the world for noblewomen had been very different.
Elia was legitimate, and had been a princess in her own right prior to her marriage. Even if the rest of Westeros liked to imagine her homeland a conquered territory rather than admit her people had entered into unity with the other kingdoms willingly, it did not change the fact that she was descended from kings just as her husband was, and there would have been plenty of wolves circling her skirts before the Targaryen king had set his eye on her as a bride for his son. The same sort of wolves who would inevitably come sniffing after Illane and the Tyrell wealth that came with her.
She might have envied Illane her simple youthful pleasure, but she delighted in it just as much. Given the means, she would do what she could to protect it, as well as to protect the girl from the worst of the hunters when they began to prowl. Gods be good, she would be alive to do so.
"On the subject of the dinners…" Katryn began with a hint of trepidation.
The lady's eyes had flicked to her, but Visaera kept her attention firmly fixed upon winding her newly spun yarn along the spindle shaft, as though she didn't know precisely where this was headed.
"One of the Queen's ladies informed me that Lord Yarwyck and his retinue left this morning."
With effort, Visaera forced her expression to remain neutral rather than bursting into semi-hysterical laughter. Less than half a day had passed and he had already fled? The piteous, pigeon-hearted coward.
Ashara made a low noise in the back of her throat which perfectly conveyed the depth of her contempt.
Ignoring this, Katryn leaned forward in her seat to address Visaera directly. "Did you truly refuse to marry him?" she asked, her tone hushed as though they were in the middle of the great hall rather than in a private solar. "Right there at the table?"
There was an even mixture of skepticism and censure in her tone, but Visaera hadn't really expected different.
The young Lady Harte had been cool and distant with her since her arrival and subsequent assignment as one of Elia's ladies, but the reason why was no great mystery. Positions as a lady in waiting to a queen or a princess were coveted by noblewomen who sought influence, power, better marriage possibilities or other such things for either themselves or their families. Competition was fierce, and often outright vicious.
While the Tyrells were a high family, Illane was not of the main branch. Katryn, meanwhile, was directly descended from an ancestor that had once birthed a Targaryen queen, which had made her the highest ranking of the princess' company until Visaera's arrival.
Despite being bastard-born, Visaera's status superseded hers. While this had done no damage to her future, it would more than certainly have been a blow to her pride. Or, rather, that of her house; for Visaera suspected the frosty demeanor was as much due to the displeasure and subsequent pressures from an imperious, overbearing family as her own vanity. If there was any accompanying jealousy for how much and how quickly Elia had come to hold Visaera in a place of close confidence, it would not have been a surprise to hear. Only unfortunate.
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose I did," Visaera remarked, faintly amused when Katryn drew back, nervous disapproval flashing across her fair, heart-shaped face.
"And rightly so," came Ashara's reply, an undercurrent of anger within her voice. "I still cannot believe the stones on the man. To put his hands on you like that, and in front of the entire court— "
"Is that what happened?" Illane's eyes were round and wide as new-minted coins.
"I heard that you slapped him."
This came from Elia, whose normally warm countenance had become stony and cold. She was still paler than she should have been, having been laid up with a sour stomach the night before - the reason why she hadn't been in attendance at dinner.
"Please tell me that you slapped him," the princess added, and Visaera rather hated having to disappoint her.
It was Ashara that answered, however.
"I wish she had. Simply leaving was a far more gracious response than he deserved, the scum-sucking swine." The woman's lush lips curved with a hint of savage pleasure. "Though watching her cut him down like that was certainly satisfying."
Katryn frowned prettily, worrying her needle between her fingertips. "But was it wise to be so harsh? If he's to be her husband, then—"
"He's not her husband yet," Ashara snapped.
There was a bite to the words, and Visaera experienced a rush of fondness, touched by the vehemence of the other woman's defense of her.
"Neither Harmon Yarwyck nor any man in this city had the right to touch a lady in such a manner, no matter his station."
Collectively the heads of the other women turned to Lady Vevienn, who until now had remained calmly and quietly focused upon her sewing hoop.
The proper, dignified older woman had not looked up from her work, the delicate motions of her hands as she stitched steady as a heartbeat, but it had been conviction in her melodic voice. She believed her own words.
Visaera was surprised at that. The woman was an Algood - her house firmly in service to the Lannisters. Of all the women present, the very last Visaera might have expected to agree with her actions toward Yarwyck, it would have been Vevienn. And yet…whether or not she was a spy for the Hand - which was probable, if not certain - this was not the first time she had indicated she placed far more value on proper manners and decorum over politics. So perhaps it was not all that unexpected.
"Any lady," Vevienn added, her delicate lips thinning. "But especially not one of royal heritage."
"In a sense…" Katryn muttered dubiously. Perhaps not as softly as she might have.
Though some might have said she had the right to - and especially after such a jab - Visaera did not dislike Lady Harte. They would never be close friends, but the girl was no different than any other - than Visaera herself might have been, given different circumstances. Bound and hindered by all the expectations placed upon her and bearing them as best she knew how. And, being human, stumbling in the effort upon occasion.
To her credit, almost the instant the words left her Katryn's milk-pale cheeks reddened, her eyes lowering in an unmistakable air of contrition.
Growing up, Lady Connington had always said that the first thought a person had might be the most natural to them, but the second thought was the one that they truly meant and believed. The words Katryn had uttered might have come from a hurtful reflex, but they had not come from malice or with the intent to do harm. She regretted them, and that held more weight than had the words could - even had they been twice as nasty.
It would have been easy to be offended. It would have been easy to punish her for the comment. But the implication was nothing she had not heard from the lips of a hundred others - nothing Visaera hadn't said of herself a thousand times before - and she had neither the pride nor the desire to hold blame for an insult which, in truth, was no real insult at all.
"I doubt there's any confusion as to my being the illegitimate spawn of a traitor," she observed with a dry lilt of humor. "Why that doesn't appear to be dissuading the Lords so misguidedly eager to wed me, I have no blessed idea. I do question their taste. And the state of their minds."
Meeting Katryn's eye, uneasy with apprehension and regret, she offered a droll smile and a tiny shrug, pleased when the other woman gave a hesitant smile in return.
"They'll be pressing you to marry one of the others, then?" Elia asked gently, and Visaera gave a single shake of her head.
"I suppose they'll try."
"Lord Royce is handsome," Illane piped up helpfully, and Visaera couldn't contain her smile at the girl's hopeful enthusiasm for her sake. "Hopefully it will be him!"
Nudging the spindle into motion, she steadily pinched and stretched the wool fibers into shape as they twisted into their new form.
"Perhaps. Though I'd prefer to remain unmarried if I can."
"Marriage is often more a task than a blessing," Lady Vevienn noted, not without empathy. The fine lines framing her mouth softened with her expression when she added: "But having a child is the most fulfilling experience of a woman's life. The moment you hold your babe in your arms, whatever unpleasantness might have come before will all have been worthwhile."
Ashara rearranged the swath of linen which draped across her lap, pinching the hem she was replacing. "She need not marry to have children, should she want them," she said, matter of fact, completely unbothered by the mildly affronted look Vevienn shot her.
"Not if she wishes to remain respectable."
The Dornishwoman tipped her head to one side - the gesture in the same vein of a dismissive shrug. "Not everywhere measures a woman's worth by her relation to a man, or the lack of it."
If only that were the case here.
It went unspoken, but Visaera heard the words beneath those spoken, nonetheless.
Electing not to respond to such an outrageous statement, Vevienn turned to Katryn. "Your young man," she asked, "he's Lord Belgrave's secondborn?"
Whatever the girl's answer, Visaera didn't hear. Ashara had leaned closer, pitching her voice low so that it would reach Visaera alone.
"Did he hurt you? Yarwyck?" she murmured softly, the gemstone luminance of her eyes muted by a veil of solemn worry. "I saw Arthur reach for his dagger. He wouldn't have done it unless he thought you were in some kind of danger…"
And stayed his hand because he knew her to have it handled.
Visaera noted that the woman made no mention of the fact that while Arthur had, indeed, gone for a weapon, he had not seen fit to draw it. Perhaps Ashara had thought nothing of it, or else hadn't noticed to begin with. After all, the entire exchange had occurred over no more than a handful of seconds. Either way, Visaera wasn't going to point it out.
That was a path best avoided just now, for more than one reason.
"No," she assured the other woman. "It surprised me, but I wasn't hurt."
Ashara nodded once, yet while the tension in her posture eased, the worry in her face had become something iron and resolute. "Good. I would hunt him down and make the sting of my brother's blade feel like a kiss if he had."
Emotion surged - a fierce flood of endearment and deep understanding to join the second burst of gratitude.
Visaera did not need to hear any more than this in order to know that Ashara had faced her own Lord Yarwyck - probably more than one - and she had not been quite so lucky. Nor did she need to ask whether the lady had extracted payment of her own, whether or not she had allowed her brother to handle matters in the end. She had no doubt that Ashara carried a blade of her own somewhere upon her person. A blade she had used upon at least one man - the way she would have used it upon Yarwyck, without a second thought. The way Visaera would have done had their positions been reversed.
Releasing the length of new yarn, Visaera reached between them to gently grip Ashara's hand, hoping to convey even a shred of what was in her mind.
Ashara's wrist turned, her fingers curling around Visaera's and squeezing, tight and warm, before releasing them. The corners of her soft mouth lifted, the smile dainty, but deliberate.
Visaera regarded Ashara while she settled back in her seat and focused anew upon the linen she was mending. She truly was stunning, with her burnished skin and shapely, curving figure. Today her hair fell in a long, sumptuous spill down her back; black as the glossy plumage of a raven or the sky upon a starless night. How Visaera envied that beautiful hair, so much richer and more vibrant than the bland, dull bleached-bone white of her own.
It was an interesting work of fate that brother and sister had happened to befriend royal husband and wife, respectively. She saw no scheme there: Elia and Ashara had been girls together, and Arthur had met Rhaegar years before the marriage had been arranged. It was a fortuitous coincidence, nothing more, and one Visaera was deeply glad of. The Daynes had kept her family safe - cared for them, loved them, when she could not. Now they offered her friendship and protection in kind. It was a debt she would never be able to repay.
By the time she returned her attention to the conversation around her, it was to realize the ladies had begun discussing the final rounds of the joust set to take place that afternoon.
"The win will go to Lord Mallister," Katryn was insisting, "I'm certain of it."
Ashara rolled her eyes. "And I keep telling you , there is no way on this earth he beats out Teague."
Katryn's small snub nose lifted in a mime of scornful disagreement. Lowering her sewing to her lap, she turned in her seat to address the princess.
"What of you, Your Grace? Who do you favor?"
"I don't particularly favor either of them," Elia mused candidly, her own curling black hair fighting the pins holding it in a braided knot at the back of her head. "But if I had to choose the more likely to win, I would have to agree with Ashara. Ser Teague is by far the superior lanceman."
"Knights often are, I've found," Visaera noted, casting a sly wink in Elia's direction.
Ashara's husky, faintly wicked laughter filled the room, punctuated by Katryn's stifled, mildly scandalized giggle. Even the proper Vevienn's lips twitched upward at the hint of indelicate suggestion.
Roughly half an hour later Visaera left the other ladies, hoping to spend some time in her own company prior to her afternoon itinerary - perhaps order lunch to be brought to her rooms rather than going down to the dining hall to wade through the veritable sea of whispers. They were plans swiftly dashed, however, for no sooner had she stepped out into the hall she was met by a man wearing the boiled-leather armor and red cloak of Lord Lannister's personal guards.
"Lady Targaryen," the soldier addressed her with a stiff nod of his helmeted head. "My Lord would like a word with you, if you would come with me, please."
Whatever the shape of the words, it was most assuredly not a request.
Reflexively she glanced over her shoulder to where Ser Oswell stood vigil outside the solar. The big man's broad face gave away little - as accustomed to concealing his mood as the rest of the men of his order - but his eyes were ever so slightly narrowed, hinting that she was not alone in thinking something about the situation felt off.
Shifting his weight, causing the dragonscale mail at his sleeves to jangle lightly, the knight looked to her. "I can send for Ser Gerold, My Lady," he offered in his rolling, Riverlands accent, and something in his tone implied that it was a suggestion he would prefer for her to accept.
Did the Kingsguard distrust the Hand of the King? Certainly they were not obligated to trust him without question, but healthy caution was not the same as open suspicion, and that was what she was reading in Oswell now. If they did distrust him, it would be due to more than just the events of the previous night, and that was knowledge she was glad to be armed with. But she was not about to disturb the Lord Commander of the bloody Kingsguard just because Tywin fucking Lannister wanted to shapen his claws on her.
If Tywin meant to kill her, he wasn't about to do it in the middle of the day right after so much attention had been drawn to him and his affairs. Nor would it be after having sent a soldier wearing his own livery to collect her within full view of anyone who might see. He was much too cunning for that. If he intended to seek retribution for the setback, it would not be now, and it would not be like this.
The worst the lion could do was roar.
"No, thank you, Ser," she told Ser Oswell, flashing him a tight smile. "I'll be alright."
The knight did not appear pleased with her answer, yet he said nothing while she gestured for the Lannister soldier to lead on.
The man escorted her down to the lower level of the holdfast and to one of the receiving rooms there. Pushing the door open to admit her, he closed it once she crossed the threshold rather than entering behind her, and she was not sure whether to interpret this as a sign of safety or an indication of the opposite. While she was not afraid, she wasn't thick enough to be overconfident. She had the knife tucked within the cuff at her wrist and the other strapped below her knee, and was reasonably certain Lord Lannister did not yet know of her propensity to go armed - which meant the edge was still hers. At least for the moment.
Arranging her face into a facade of mild interest, she stepped into the room to find Tywin seated in one of the straight-backed chairs nearer the heavy glass doors leading out onto the shallow terrace rather than the plush ones framing the hearth. The choice did not surprise her. A man so stern and austere would seek structure over comfort every time.
He looked to her as she approached, but did not rise as he should have. This didn't surprise her either. With no audience to appease, what reason did he have to observe such niceties when it was obvious he did not believe her deserving of them?
Coming to a stop several yards from him she clasped her hands prettily before her middle. "You wished to speak with me, My Lord?"
"I did."
Then, and only then, did he stand, unfolding his long, stately form from the chair - and making it starkly clear as he did so that this was not to be mistaken for a social visit.
As if there had been any question.
It was, perhaps, one of the sole things she appreciated about Tywin Lannister: that he had little patience for this aspect of the game. He might be an expert strategist, but he merely tolerated the performance of politics, used it when it served him, and tossed it aside when it didn't.
Some called him dishonorable, though never to his face. Whether this was true almost certainly depended on who one asked, but to Visaera's perception, he was simply a pragmatist; sensible, expedient, and unsentimental to his bones. He was accepting of the world as it was, and there was nothing truly villainous in that but for how he chose to use it. There was a part of her - the same part which deemed honor of little use or consequence to a woman - which respected that. Though she might have respected it more were he content to leave her be.
For a moment he simply assessed her with those pale, cold eyes of his, pitiless as a shark's. Elegant fingertips tapped lightly against the rigid frame of the chair he had vacated, the sound silenced by the studded leather wrapping the wood.
"Lord Yarwyck has withdrawn his candidacy for marriage and departed the capitol," he informed her after a moment, voice utterly lacking in inflection. "Apparently he became apprised of a rumor claiming someone had witnessed firsthand while he attempted to put a hand up your skirts in the middle of dinner last night."
Grim satisfaction bloomed beneath her breastbone.
Visaera had no doubt this statement had been made at least once, but didn't need confirmation to know that it was not the rumor which had driven the lord in question from the palace like a thief in the night. Not on its own, in any case. Yet if there were whispers that he had pawed at her, then there were undoubtedly more claiming that he had attempted more than that, and once his name became tied to the label of a raper, even a lord would have trouble shaking it. The only recourse would have been to remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible and hope memory faded before it could catch and hold.
While careful not to lay the act on too heavily, she let her brows rise in imitation of surprise. "But…what would cause anyone to spread such a lie?" she began, with the faintest shake of her head, as if she were so taken aback that she could scarcely process what she was hearing.
Lannister's narrow lips thinned ever so slightly, though his stare remained unchanged - as cool and shrewd as before.
"Do you think me a fool?" he mused, and either she was as mad as her cousin or there was a lilt of amusement in his rich, cultured voice.
Swiftly weighing her options, she elected to stick to the show of ignorance. "I don't know what you m—"
"Yes, you do," he said shortly, the words cutting through her attempt to demur as efficiently as a razor slicing through parchment. "You imagine that because you are a woman I won't see plain as day how intelligent you are? Harmon may have acted the halfwit and given you the opening but you knew precisely what you were doing, twisting it to your advantage to send him running from the disgrace."
Well that was certainly unexpected. Yet she supposed it was her own error to assume he would be quick to dismiss her simply by virtue of what was (or wasn't) between her legs as most men of his rank were. Still, all knowing it did was reaffirm how dangerous he was.
Reaching for deflection, she inserted a note of frost into her tone. "If you would have had me act differently, you should have kept your dog on his leash. I will not be made responsible for his poor behavior, or that of any man you throw me to."
To her astonishment - and intense unease - Tywin's mouth curved, forming a brisk slash of a smile, and in that moment, she genuinely could not determine whether it was hatred or admiration in that look.
"Come now, My Lady," he scolded quietly, and it did not escape her that this time the title was not wrenched from his mouth like a tooth gone to rot.
It was, quite possibly, the one time he had actually meant it with anything approaching the edge of deference.
"The rest of the mewling sheep within these walls might believe you are the soft, defenseless maid you pretend to be—your little charade at dinner would not have proven successful otherwise. I do not."
And she didn't doubt him for a second.
She would never know whether he had suspected from the beginning, or whether he had come to the conclusion later - perhaps even as of this very morning. She might have shown just a bit too much of herself at just the wrong moment. He might have acquired some scrap of information to round out a conjecture. Of only one thing was she certain: he was acting on knowledge, not speculation.
It was no real shock to her that a tactician such as Tywin Lannister had seen through her. He might have done so sooner than she would have liked, but it had always been a chance balanced on the inevitable, and circumstances had not allowed her to garner the distance it would have taken to put him off the scent.
He was correct on one account, at least: had her pretense not been received and accepted, the court would not have sided with her against Yarwyck. If the overall sentiment was that the lord had overstepped so grievously it was tantamount to violation, it was proof enough that she had sold the illusion as she had hoped, Blackfyre bastard or no. But she hardly needed him to confirm it for her, and she very much doubted this was his way of tipping his cap to her, as it were.
She was not on his level, nor would she have claimed to be. She was no strategic genius, after all, nor a seasoned, expert political or military campaigner - but she was not about to let that deter her.
So.
As of this moment she had two choices. Either she could concede to his accusation, or she could continue with the pretense.
The latter would be a gamble. She was under no illusions that he would abruptly capitulate, accept that truly was just a silly, guileless girl with neither brains nor objective and declare himself mistaken, and while he might find her interesting, entertaining, a curiosity even, it was only up to the point where she stood in his way. But even if he knew her protestations of innocence to be a sham, that was all he could know for certain. And if she refused to submit, his response might prove insightful.
"Forgive me, My Lord," she began, bringing tension to the syllables to replicate frustration and uncertainty, "but I don't understand."
He tilted his chin as he studied her, the angular lines of his clean-shaven face sharp and refined. He was composed of harsh angles, plains, and sharp, uniquely striking edges; the long, leanness of him heightened by the crisp, richly modest clothes fashionable in Casterly Rock rather than the more forgiving, indulgent styles of the Crownlands. His hair gleamed in the firelight spilling from the hearth, leonine gold - pure as that of a newly minted coin - just faintly threaded with gray. Were it not for the unfeeling coldness underneath, she might have thought him beautiful for a man of middling age.
He stepped away from the chair, fingers slipping from where they had curled around one of the decorative finials crowning the top rail as he moved toward her - stalking like a great cat.
Undaunted, she remained where she was, though she watched him closely; the length of his steps, the easy, loping pace, the hands hanging loose and empty at his sides. Briefly she experienced the urge to bare her teeth and hiss a warning for him to keep his distance. One she wrestled into silence.
Just shy of a yard from her, his steps slowed, then stopped. He was a tall man, and even from the modest distance he loomed over her. He intended to.
Her eyes caught for a moment upon the heavy gold badge worn over the left side of his chest. Gold as the ornate clasps at the front of his tunic, the fist loosely gripping the elaborately engraved ring which encircled it. Rather emulative of a crown, now that she considered it. The symbolism - unintended though it might have been - of where the true power of the realm resided did not escape her.
"Your sire might have been as stupid as a crackbrained boar, but your mother was uncommonly clever and a blind man could see that it's her you favor, whatever you pretend." The piercing, single-minded light was back in his eyes now, all hints of sentiment - however small and threadbare - gone as though they had never been. "You will not interfere with my plans again, or you will regret having done so."
It was little more than a murmur, and it was deadly, resolute. Unbending. But it was also the threat she had anticipated. She was far more interested in what had come before it.
She had already known that Tywin had offered for Rhaelle's hand before the former king had given her to Ormund Baratheon. What Visaera found of note was that he had gone out of his way to compliment her mother. He had not simply deemed her intelligent, but uncommonly so. Praise of that nature - she had both heard and observed - he reserved almost exclusively for those that managed to outsmart him. Perhaps she was reading too much into what wasn't there. Or…perhaps Rhaelle had guessed Lannister's game, and had advised her brother Jaehaerys to accept Baratheon's suit over that of the far wealthier house.
That was very interesting. Likely not of any use, but she filed it away regardless.
"I would never dream of it," she assured him with just a pinch of biting sarcasm.
"You are a stubborn little thing," he noted with another miniscule flash of amusement, "Harmon would have had his hands full with you. Victarion Greyjoy will not."
A sliver of fear slid between the bones in her chest, rose like dark water to close like icy fingers about her throat. She shoved it savagely away, but not quickly enough to curb the flinch. It was infinitesimal, but to a seasoned manipulator who knew how to watch for it, anything more than a complete lack of response was loud enough to be a scream.
Agitated fury welled into the space left by the fear like fresh blood as she floundered, trying to calculate the damage done or how to mitigate it and coming up with nothing.
Stranger fucking take her, she was too slow, too damn…
"The Ironborn have sent word that their party will arrive within the month. Or had you forgotten there were four candidates?"
"I had not forgotten," she answered tightly, just managing not to spit the words in his face.
Within a month.
A month.
Her grip on the anger was rapidly unraveling - hands slipping upon greased rope to send her pitching back into the cold pit of fear.
"Heed the warning, My Lady."
She hardly felt the whisper of the air against her skirts when he brushed past her, headed for the door.
"There will only be the one, and you are not as clever as you think you are."
...
Ever since she had been a girl, Visaera had found solace of a kind among horses. People had not always proven reliable, but horses were constant, and they were good-natured. Even the testy ones might become her friend with the gift of a carrot or an apple or two, and the worst she might expect for a misstep was a bite or a trodden foot. A horse would not stab her in the back, nor rip out her insides and smile as she bled.
When people discovered her love of riding, they tended to assume it had been the result of an overly indulgent father, but that was not the case in this instance. It was Lady Connington that had taught her to ride properly - both sidesaddle, as was expected, but also astride, as a man did.
"Lady or not," Lady Sorcha had instructed while showing her foster daughter how to secure her skirts above the knee to free her legs, "there may be a time when speed and stability must come before decorum. And if such a time comes, I want you to be ready. "
It was from Sorcha that Visaera had learned to care for horses, and from her that she had received the gift of her own mount upon her eighteenth nameday. As a result, though she had found sanctuary within them before being sent to the Roost, Visaera had come to associate the sounds and smells of a stable with some of the qualities of the mother that had raised her. Warmth, serenity, a seemingly never-ending supply of patience. It was, funnily enough, not unlike the link between the resilience, independence, and strength she found within weaponry and the mother that had birthed her.
Both of her least ladylike joys and qualities had come directly from the formative female presences in her childhood. There was something indescribably beautiful in that.
Even in a place as inescapably horrid as the capitol, there was a sense of safety within a stable that she had never found anywhere else. It was difficult to remain consumed by frightening things with a horse's slow, steady breaths beneath her hands.
Usually.
She hardly recalled how she had gotten there, truth be told. She had managed to return to her rooms with a reasonable amount of composure - or so she thought. Ruffled, yes, but composed. Once there, however, the stone walls around her had begun to close in and she hadn't been able to stand it any longer than it took to shed her dress and scramble into breeches and boots before the shadow looming in the back of her mind had chased her outside like the scared little girl still imprisoned inside her.
For a few wild, reckless minutes all she had wanted to do was haul herself onto Sigyn's back, saddle be damned, and ride until she came to a place where not even the past could touch her. But once surrounded by all the earthy, comforting horsey sounds and smells her mind gradually stopped racing and she no longer felt as though she were on the verge of collapse.
Lannister was right - she was nowhere near as clever as she pretended to be. But she was smart enough to know that whether he had already known of the weakness he'd prodded or whether he had merely been testing for it made no difference. If he'd gotten anything from her, it wasn't what he thought he had. She, on the other hand, had gotten something from him.
The contingent from the Iron Islands would be in King's Landing within the month. That might mean she had the better part of four weeks, or it might mean she had less than a third of that time. Either way, it didn't matter.
Let Tywin think what he wanted. She was not afraid of Victarion bloody Greyjoy. She would dismiss him as she had Yarwyck - perhaps with a bit more difficulty, but she was more than up to the task. He was not the kraken lurking in the dark corners of her mind, and dreams were not glimpses into the fucking future. There were plenty of dead Targaryen kings who could testify to that. She had no reason to believe that her nightmares were anything more than figments enhanced by memory.
There was nothing to fear. She was protected here as she had not been on the battlefield. So why didn't she feel that way?
Telling herself that there was no reason to fret was doing little to quell the knot of slow, simmering dread trapped in the pit of her stomach, or numb the faint pang of remembered pain in the wound at her left hip, long since healed and scarred over.
The repetitive tasks of grooming were so familiar to her that they were all but ingrained into her body, more muscle memory now than truly conscious. She no longer had to think about the fact that Sigyn was more sensitive around the flank than other horses in order to approach the area with extra care, nor to do more than perform a quick feel in order to tell if the mare was suffering from contusions or inflammation in her joints. The repetitive nature of the chore was normally plenty soothing on its own...but that was not the case today.
Though she would have claimed otherwise, she had begun humming to soothe herself as much as her horse. She was more fatigued than anything else, but the anxiousness stubbornly refused to abate, and at some point after switching from hard brush to soft she had found herself leaning into Sigyn's side, pressing her cheek to the mare's soft winter coat. Her intent had been to rest for a moment, nothing more, but she found herself listening for the strong heartbeat, timing her own breaths to those of the animal who endured her moment of oddness with even tolerance.
"Are you well, My Lady?"
She never expected anyone to search for her there. The staff mostly left her to her own devices, satisfied that she knew her business, and no one else tended to look - it was one of the primary reasons she liked the palace stables so much. As such, it took her a moment to register that the man's voice was addressing her.
Blinking, she glanced toward the stall door, only to straighten with a jolt, hot embarrassment flooding her face and neck.
There, dressed down in everyday clothing, a bridle, of all things, slung over one shoulder, stood Ser Arthur.
She ought to have known him just from the distinctive way he shaped the honorific, she thought. The vowels in Lady - drawn out just so. A part of her must have, for even in her tense, anxious state she had not startled at the sound of a human voice.
He was surveying her carefully, concern drawing his brows inward and pulling his mouth into the shadow of a frown.
"Yes," she blurted, flustered, abruptly realizing what it was he must have said to her. "Thank you."
Somewhat belatedly it occurred to her that, having witnessed him speak to his own horse to calm it, chances were high that he didn't think it strange for her to sing to hers. Assuming he'd been there long enough to hear...but of course he had. Hence the worry. For he could see plain as day that the mare was in no need of calming, unlike herself.
At the edge of her vision she saw him nod, saw him take the shallow step backward, his body angling away. Whether he took her at her word or not, he meant to go. As he assumed she had indicated for him to do.
She had little reasonable explanation for the sudden twinge of dismay which overtook her at this. For all that she hadn't expected him there, the idea of him leaving now was utterly intolerable, and before she could hope to hold them back the words were tumbling from her mouth in a babbling rush.
"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."
Guilt and self-reproach prickled like pins and needles across her skin.
What in the Mother's name was she playing at? Hadn't she said she would steer clear of him where she could? That she would avoid placing him in a position which might result in discomfort? Yes, she bloody well had.
She also dearly, desperately did not want to be alone just now. She thought she had, yet it had turned out to do nothing but exacerbate the trapped, helpless feeling, and Arthur…Ser Arthur was calm and steady, quiet, and he was safe, and all she wanted was to feel safe for a single gods damned moment.
He lingered on the precipice of hesitation for a long moment, and during that time she was sure beyond all doubt that he was going to defer to the wisdom she lacked and leave her anyway. Then, smooth as silk, he was moving to close the distance between himself and the stall door, leaning leisurely against the wall as if it had always been his intention, tipping his chin to indicate the horse standing patiently beside her.
"She's a lovely creature."
Visaera seized upon the topic immediately, proceeding to prattle along about the mare's qualities and her own fondness for being in the saddle, guided by his subtle prompting.
Scattered as she was, she didn't immediately notice that he'd gotten her talking - astute enough to recognize that she was searching for distraction and promptly moving to provide it. Perhaps they had been fortunate that the surroundings offered a good source of subject matter, but it had been gracefully done all the same.
Knights were meant to be kind - to be gracious and gentle, courageous, charitable, honest. Loyal, merciful, and good. It was in the vows they took. Yet few of them turned out to possess even half these qualities, if they possessed any. A true knight, one who upheld all attributes and standards of knighthood, was a rare specimen. In recent memory, there were only two known men described as such among common and high-born folk alike, one of whom was the legendary Ser Duncan the Tall. The other stood not three yards from her, listening to her ramblings.
For all Ser Dayne was the epitome of knightly gallantry, chivalry did not demand that he must humor a woman's loneliness. Yet he chose to linger with her anyway, offering those small, easy probing questions, absorbing her answers with diligent focus. He did it as though there was nothing in the world more important, nor anything else he would rather be doing, not for gain or in pursuit of any outcome, but because he had the means to do so. And, perhaps...because he wished to.
She hesitated before extending her own observation, uncertain whether she was brave enough to say what was in her mind. What had been in her mind for the past full day.
"You must ride quite frequently yourself..." she finally said, hedging in spite of herself.
The statement appeared to surprise him.
"Pardon?" he asked her, almost nonplussed, as though he imagined he must not have heard her correctly.
"To stay in the saddle the way you did in the lists. I've…never known anyone who could do something like that."
She hadn't meant to gush, and hoped she had managed to school her tone to not sound quite so much like a fawning admirer, though that was precisely what she was. Along with blushing hard enough to burn. Not that he could see it - gods be kind.
"A combination of practice and luck," he remarked simply, "nothing more."
She glanced at him across the shallow dip of Sigyn's back, at once amused and somewhat annoyed by the brush-off. She imagined he was rather immune to such flattery by now, but that was no reason to dismiss the facts of the matter out of hand.
By all that was holy - she had said she'd never seen someone able to do what he had, not called him the greatest horseman on the damned continent, and he was not fool enough to mistake her for a sycophant.
"That's a load of shite if I ever heard one, which I suppose is fitting, given the locale."
The note of sarcasm leant a harder edge to her tone than she'd reached for, but she couldn't quite manage the effort to correct it. Not today, even for him.
"I refuse to accept it nonetheless."
To her astonishment, he let out a warm, rolling peal of genuine laughter. An interesting, and unexpected, response to a reprimand, and a rather discourteous one. Yet rather than appearing put off by her insolence, he actually seemed heartened by it, going so far as to shift subtly nearer, resting his hip against the edge of the low door as he adjusted the position of the bridle slung over his left shoulder.
"I'm not spouting false modesty," he protested, proceeding to appeal to her own knowledge in order to make his argument that the reticence was based in fact rather than sentiment.
There was certitude to his words; he believed what he told her, wasn't simply spouting nonsense. Yet as appreciative as she was of his deference to her understanding of the practical science behind horsemanship, none of the points he made, the variables he claimed to have had such a drastic effect on the outcome of the joust in question, detracted from the instinct which had driven him to hold fast rather than to prepare for imminent collision with the ground. Nor from the sheer amount of core strength, to say nothing of the strength in legs and knees required to accomplish such a recovery. Those things were qualities of his, not external factors acting upon him.
Disguising her intent behind a disapproving cast, she looked him over as she crossed behind the horse, hand stroking absently along Sigyn's left side. She couldn't determine by looking at him whether he had been injured in his bout yesterday. If he was in pain, he was either concealing it well, or it was minor enough that didn't have to, for which she was supremely grateful.
She had only seen him out of his pretty armor half a handful of times. Each time she expected the lack of metal and mail to make him seem smaller, less of an impressive figure, and each time managed to be surprised when it didn't.
Visaera imagined he'd been rather lanky in boyhood. He had the frame for it: the long torso and limbs, both of which would have required growing into. Which he most certainly had done. Now, his was a warrior's build, solid, wide in the shoulder and broad in the thigh, the evidence of power clear in every inch of him. The way the soft brown leather of the jerkin he wore hugged his chest, the taper of his waist, was a lovely thing indeed. As was the way the thick muscle in his upper arms caused the sleeves to pull tight.
It would probably have been rude to argue further, and difficult to attempt while entertaining incoherent fantasies of sliding his belt free and slipping open the plain brass clasps down his front to glimpse what he might look like beneath. And yes, she knew very well he wore a shirt - she could see the white of the collar framing his throat - but that was far from the point.
"Well," she relented finally, "whatever the cause, you're clearly a hell of a rider."
Turning her attention back to the brush in her hand, she resumed her work, making the pointed effort not to imagine the warmth and give of that lovely olive skin at the touch of her palms.
She hadn't experienced someone watching her perform the duty since she had been still learning as a girl. Though she supposed it would have been more accurate to say that once Lady Connington and the stablemaster had deemed her responsible enough to leave her to complete her chores she hadn't tolerated such observation. Not even from Jon, who she had snapped at more than once to find somewhere else to loiter before she knocked him sillier than he already was. She was accustomed to being watched, being what she was, but being watched in this context had always felt like an intrusion into something private - a relationship that bordered on the intimate. It was strange, she supposed, that it did not feel so with Arthur. She wasn't sure if it was because she suspected he felt similarly about his own horses and thus was in possession of some innate understanding, or because she was just so damn comfortable in his company.
Having him watch her did not rankle. There was not a single trace of scrutiny or critique, no impatience nor boredom in his silence. It was almost as though he found it soothing in his own right, and within his passive quiet all thoughts of Lannister, Greyjoy, threats, and intrigues seemed to simply rust over and float away.
He held the stall door open for her when she was finished: and it was such a natural, unthinking thing that she might have laughed had she not been so distracted by the delicate curl of his fingers about the slender iron latch - by the improper paths her thoughts took. Considering other things those agile fingers could do. Things she had imagined them doing.
As she passed him, she experienced a lightning-quick stab of the same intense, nervous awareness of his nearness that had plagued her all throughout dinner the night before. Only this time the nerves were accompanied by an inopportune spark of wanton yearning.
The stables weren't entirely private, but they were far more private than most…especially at this time of day. If she were to seize him by the collar and drag his head down to kiss him, no one would see. Not if she was quick. She wasn't about to attempt it, though. For one thing, she doubted he would let her get close enough to try. Even if that wasn't the case, he would only rebuff her. Gently, no doubt, but he would do it all the same. The man was steady as a rock - a man, yes, and hardly perfect, but steady all the same. And thank the Mother for that because she certainly wasn't.
It was only a momentary flicker of impulsive madness, thankfully, and she swiftly reached for something to say to take her mind from it. Her eyes fell again to the bridle, to the objects tucked in his left hand. A scrap of new leather and a spool of the heavier waxed thread used by saddlers.
Returning the kit of brushes and grooming oils to its home upon the nearby workbench, she asked: "Are you mending your tack?"
She hadn't meant to let so much of her surprise come through in her voice, but he didn't appear bothered by it, only reminded her that he lacked a squire to see to the work for him.
"I was taught," he added with the illustrative cadence of a storyteller, "that it's best to keep such skills sharp in case one needs them unexpectedly. Having had to do so twice on the road in less than ideal conditions, I can attest to the value of the lesson."
The exaggerated hint of a wince accompanied the last point, and while she wasn't all that sure he'd been trying to win a laugh from her, he'd gotten one all the same.
By nature, Visaera was not much of a dreamer. She didn't tend to languish under if onlys and might-have-beens or other such idle, maudlin wishes, having neither the time nor the patience for them. But in the few seconds of quiet which followed the fading notes of her own laughter, she found herself plaintively wishing that she could stay in the moment forever - this exact moment, in this place, with this man - where the demands so adamant upon closing in upon her could not enter. Where she was free and whole, and yet…still so needlessly empty.
She had not expected him to stay with her or to offer his assistance once more, this time as escort and - as she suspected he intended quite deliberately - as a shield against any and all unwanted interruption either until she wished it, or until they reached the point where he could go no further.
He needn't have, yet he had elected to anyway. Because he was kind. Because he had given his oath to honor and safeguard all women. Because he was Kingsguard even when not on duty. Because, or so it seemed, he required very little excuse to take the opportunity to be near her.
He had made no comment on her choice to use the servants' passage back to the holdfast rather than the main path and the Serpentine Steps - either out of the habits of a seasoned guard, or because he already grasped her reasoning. What he presumed it to be, in any case. She wasn't about to tell him that she would have taken this route even if she were in a gown rather than trousers - that she did whenever she could get away with it. Not that she imagined he would be disapproving…though perhaps he might be, if the very reasons she elected to take it were the same reasons which might make it riskier in his absence. Though he knew as well as she did that there was no such thing as true safety for her, even if he was with her.
As during the previous time he had performed this service for her, the walk was easy and companionable, punctuated by his occasional, amicable questions. A few times along the way she caught him looking at her in a way that mirrored some of those other subtly telling glances she had seen before. Looks that weren't sexual, but…soft. Caring. He looked at her as a peer and as an ally, but also as a woman just as she was, flawed and plain.
She thought she might have caught herself looking at him in a similar way. Certainly, she had spoken to him far more freely than she ever had before, naturally diverting to language she would have used with Jon. Casual, and foul as a dockhand.
It had simply happened. She had been comfortable...he had encouraged her to be. Not in so many words, perhaps, but in a roundabout sort of way. And when she had accused him of avoiding the breach of protocol rather than correcting her, he had issued a dry, drawling retort of: "oh, I could, I simply have no desire to feel that venom turned on me."
His chin had dipped slightly when he smiled, his eyes cast briefly downward. It was a ridiculously charming smile, with just a dash of a roguish twist when he glanced back up to catch her gaze.
Visaera's heart stuttered, thrashing like a wild thing beneath the look.
Indecently charming.
Damn him. And damn those blasted dazzling eyes.
She hadn't intended to blather on about things as she had…certainly not to the extent of bringing up her decisions regarding childbearing, and with it the determination that she would marry no one. He was almost unnervingly easy to talk to. Which might have disturbed her had he not taken both revelations so easily in stride. He had listened closely, made responding remarks and posed follow-up questions, and made no indication that he regretted having broached the subject in the first place. He truly seemed to enjoy speaking with her - enjoy her company, as she did his - so she couldn't be entirely mortified at the uncharacteristic looseness of her tongue.
"How do you plan to slip the rope, as it were?" he asked her mildly. His eyes flicked briefly outward to sweep the courtyard around them when she angled her body to walk backwards - something Visaera had noticed him do several times on the walk. Surveying the space around them before returning his attention smoothly back to her.
It was not conscious. She could see that in his posture, relaxed rather than alert. It had become as natural to be aware of his surroundings as it was to breathe, like the ease and centered balance of his stride, and had little to do with watching for a direct threat as it was for something else. Security, perhaps, which was a thing all soldiers must prioritize if they wished to remain alive.
"Why, to be as insufferable myself," she chirped brightly in answer, flashing him a smile and pressing her folded hands over her heart in a mockery of maidenly daintiness.
Visaera didn't think she imagined the quick glint of something hot and rapt within the rich violet of his stare. It was there and gone in the span of a heartbeat, but she was familiar enough with the signs of a man's interest - with his interest - to recognize it.
An answering warmth sparked in her belly, and she hurriedly tore her eyes away before it could catch and spread.
"I already made a good start last night."
He posed his response like a question, but it wasn't one. "With Lord Yarwyck?"
Shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet, she turned and fell back into step with him. "I may have informed him that the likelihood of my marrying him was the same as the likelihood of his surviving said wedding."
Recalling the way the lord in question's indulgent arrogance had curdled, becoming that gratifying mixture of disbelief and fury spiced with a dash of unease, she laughed.
"It was probably not the best way to handle the situation, but it's done now."
And she possessed not a single fraying stitch of regret.
For what must have been the hundredth time, the image of Arthur's hand slipping from the dagger flitted across her mind.
He wore no sword just now, only the two knives tucked securely in place at his right hip, including that one - the longer, sturdier parrying blade with a modest leather-wrapped grip and simple pommel, used as a primary weapon in close quarters.
Though she lacked now the wine to enhance the warmth in her belly and her head, the things seeing him release that unused blade had done to her were no less potent than they had been in the solitude which had followed.
Plenty of those true, just knights had acted on behalf of a woman, but how many had chosen not to act due to their trust in that woman's own merit? How many of those knights treated their women the way he had treated her, their deference founded in respect rather than empty reverence? She didn't even know if he approved of the way she had dealt with the situation, but it hadn't mattered. That had not been his choice - he had accepted that - and whether he approved or not, he had not let it affect how he'd elected to proceed.
He had already proven that he was not like most men, yet this was on a different sphere than entertaining her fondness for mannish pastimes and tolerance for her foul mouth. The exact nature of that difference defied language as she understood it, and language that she was free to use. All the same, it was important to her that he know she was grateful, even if he could never conceive of the extent.
"Thank you, by the way," she murmured, "for letting me handle him."
She felt the brush of his eyes on her, and she had no explanation for why this soft, undemanding attention brought the warm, giddy flutter to the space beneath her breastbone, or that for perhaps the first and only time in her life she wished the flush would color her cheeks rather than just heat them for reasons that made absolutely no blessed sense.
"And for being there if I needed you."
It was completely inadequate to convey what she wanted to express.
Yet even as those inadequate words became absorbed by the hushed roar of the sea from beyond the outer wall, his answering silence seemed to hold a tender knowing. Of course, it seemed to say, as if there was no other conceivable reply.
She couldn't have said why that made her feel hollow and…unbearably sad.
Gravel ground beneath the soles of their boots as they walked on, the path veering in a shallow curve before cutting sharply left where it opened onto the base of the tower of the Kingsguard - the slender structure shaped from white and pale gray stones. A cool, somber spire of ice set within red-gold sand.
Of its own accord her thoughts spiraled back to the confrontation with Lannister - the entire point of which, she comprehended now, had been to stress how securely she was caged. There was nowhere to run and no choice she could make but to obey or suffer the consequences. Or so the Hand would have her believe.
But she did have a choice, as unpalatable as it might be.
Only once all the words had spilled from her mouth did she see the questionable wisdom in saying any of it. It was probably inadvisable to hint at killing herself within earshot of a Kingsguard, no matter how vaguely. She trusted him, but perhaps this stretched the bounds of that trust farther than they could reach. He owed her no silence. Not where it concerned something so dire. The instant she stopped and turned to face him, however, the momentary flicker of doubt crumbled to dust.
Arthur's gaze was calm. There was no reproach, no judgment, no alarm. Even the horror she found there was banked, contained, tempered by an empathy more sincere than she could have prepared for. Her words would never leave his own lips. Nor, she realized, would he ever act to prevent her from doing whatever she felt she must, even if the loss of her meant dealing a crippling blow to the prince he served above all else. To his view, it would be her way of ensuring her own honor. He understood that. Deeply. He would not rob her of it, no matter how it might hurt him.
And it would hurt him. She could see it clear as the pale sun shone in the sky. He would mourn her, even as he let her dash herself upon the rocks…and she was utterly incapable of grasping that.
"I dearly hope it does not come to that, My Lady."
His voice was pitched low, and so unspeakably gentle that it was all she could do not to fling herself into the arms she knew would catch her if she did.
"As do I," Visaera admitted, the softness of her own voice betraying the bitterness in her smile. "I find I'm rather attached to living."
She was rather attached to him, too. Attached enough to test the fortitude of her convictions.
Granted the opportunity, she drank in the striking lines of his face. There were faint circles beneath his eyes, as though he had been missing sleep, or else the product of several nights back-to-back spent on guard duty. It did nothing to lessen his looks, only leant to them a realness that was more alluring than the perfection of any mythical legend could have been. Yet he could have been much less handsome and she would have been just as smitten for the sake of every other quality he possessed.
She occasionally forgot just how tall he was - and how much taller he seemed - until he was quite so close. He stood a head higher than she, her eyeline at level with the lowest point at the hollow of his throat. Visaera didn't usually find herself drawn to height or size - she had never much liked the idea of being too close to a man so capable of overpowering her. Perhaps that was her mother's influence, or of the stories which had forged that influence. Maelys Blackfyre had been a monstrous, hulking beast of a man, so said those who remembered. But therein lay the difference.
She could not find her way to applying any such descriptors to Arthur. And she was drawn to his height, to the breadth of him. She wasn't sure why, but she supposed there was something about knowing that he could overpower her, easily, but that he would never, ever do it…
Absently she wondered whether his hair would have the same rich wave as his sister's, were he to grow it longer. The choice seemed to be one dictated by practicality rather than fashion or cultural significance. She might have thought it another marker of the Kingsguard - symbolism of forgoing their former identities - but Ser Jonothor wore his hair to his shoulders as Targaryen men did. With that ruled out, she might have thought it a Dornish custom of some kind had Ser Lewyn not worn his long enough to reach his jaw. Nor did she think it was a sign of mourning or loss as was the practice in some of the places across the sea to the east. In truth, she didn't dislike the length, it suited him nicely. But she wasn't above the confession that she would have liked to see him with a bit more of it. Just enough to run her fingers through.
She didn't fully realize she had made to touch him when thanking him for lending the listening ear. Not until her fingertips met the cool, supple leather above the bend of his elbow and she recoiled so fast that one might have thought he had struck at her like a snake.
What the blazes was wrong with her? She couldn't just…they were in the middle of the palace walk, of all places. Granted, it was probably the least likely place they would be seen, but she shouldn't be touching him anyway. It was tempting fate in a way that could do neither of them any good. The last time she had reached for him had ended with her halfway in his lap and sighing into his soft, beautiful mouth.
Which had been a mistake, she reminded herself firmly.
After a few moments and a few words more, she noted the hard, narrow shadows upon the path, from the narrow tower - indicating the rapid approach of the noon bell.
It was no hardship to admit that she would much rather have stayed with him. But he had his duties to see to, and she had obligations of her own. Obligations which would come searching for her, with all due noise and commotion, if she did not surrender to them first.
"I suppose this is where I relinquish my duties as escort. Which is probably for the best," she jested lightly, "I do make a rather poor one."
He gifted her another quiet laugh, the thick, sooty dark length of his lashes drawing down across strong, elegant cheekbones.
"I wouldn't say that."
"Of course not," she quipped. "You're far too polite."
This time, when he laughed, it was louder, unrestrained - rich and husky and wonderful. A warm shiver chased down her spine at the sound, pooling in her belly with a wistful pang.
A light, sweet breeze teased across the courtyard, playing with her hair and with the conquering curtain of ivy where it spilled over the outer wall. She thought she glimpsed the faint hitch of his own shiver at the light flurry of air. It wasn't nearly as cold a day as some - and would warm soon when the remaining cloud cover burned away - but then, not everyone had grown up to relish the harsh coast gales which had granted the Stormlands their name.
Did he dislike the cold? She supposed that made a certain sense. Starfall was farther south even than the capitol of Sunspear, which meant that he hailed from a much warmer climate. He had lived here for so many years that she had assumed he must have acclimated by now...but it seemed a hint of ice in the air still managed to get his back up, which was rather endearing, if she were honest with herself. It was almost inconceivable to imagine that she could be hardier than he was in any way. Yet there they were, she in her shirt, unfazed, while he shivered in his leathers. Poor man, stuck in this hellish, sunless place.
"I'd best get back. I smell of horse," she confessed with an aggravated toss of her head, "and I'll need to freshen up before my supervised walk with Lord Dustin."
Whereupon she fully intended to release the surly northman from whatever compact had landed him there.
Then, wryly, she added: "though really, if I'm to act like a sodding show-pony I might as well bloody smell like one."
Her amusement splintered around a wince, belatedly recognizing the profanity. Not as vile as some of the previous things she'd uttered in front of him, but still enough to shame her. He appeared no more perturbed by it than he had before, in fact, he was already moving to absolve her for it, a smile tugging at his lips.
"I've never truly held the opinion that a lady ought to speak in any particular way versus another. Certainly not in private."
She was half a second away from delivering a retort - something along the lines of it being clear that of the two of them he was the one in possession of the golden tongue - before her brain fully caught up with what exactly she had been about to say and wired her mouth shut before she could. She wouldn't have meant anything suggestive by it, yet in light of the fact that she had a certain acquaintance with that tongue in a context which had nothing to do with words, brief as it might have been, what had begun as a flippant joke took on a vastly more literal (and highly inappropriate) connotation.
They very idea that she might have said such a thing to him…thank the ever-loving stars she had managed not to humiliate herself in such a fashion. She wouldn't have been able to face him again.
There was something tense and sweet in his expression when she bid him good day, something in his eyes which bordered on the edge of anguish, and which tore at her insides to witness.
She turned away before she could examine it further, yet the look lingered with her long after she had returned to her rooms, washed away the mud, dust, and horsehair and stripped from her boyish clothes to reassume a lady's silken armor. It haunted her until late into the night when she was finally able to discern just what it was she might have seen in Arthur's face, the faint flicker of what she could only describe as supplication.
Please. Stay with me, it had seemed to be saying, in perfect echo of her own plea not half an hour before. Stay with me.
NOTES:
Holy shit, you guys. This chapter WOULD NOT lie down and let me write it. Even acknowledging all the external, real-life shit outside of my control which contributed, it was really goddamn frustrating.
On the plus side, it ended up being much longer than I planned. The first scene I wrote, intending it for the middle of this chapter, will actually be the beginning of the next one (meaning the next chapter is already half written).
The automatic impulse I had to make the conflict among Elia's ladies to be nastier was very loud. I know it's because it's easy shorthand and conflict is interesting, and these are things that have been ingrained into me as necessary, but I also know that those things are neither inherently true, necessary, or what I want to read or put into the world. I very much wanted to steer clear of that bitchy mean girls trope when what is both more realistic and more interesting to me is the reality that no, not all women will be best friends, but that doesn't automatically mean they're going to be awful either. They're allowed to simply exist within one another's sphere somewhere on the scale between liking and tolerating. It's honestly not that big of a thing, but the underlying reasoning feels important to me.
Tywin Lannister in an interesting beastie. Everything in me wants to depict him as evil, because he can be needlessly cruel, does and allows for horrible things, and is obsessed with legacy to the point of abusing his own family. He's also a goddamn genius. I also distinctly recalled having moments where I genuinely liked him. I actually rewatched some scenes from season 2 specifically to remind myself of why (all the scenes with Arya and his attitude with and about her), and I'm really glad I did, because what you see here was not originally how this scene was supposed to go. But I prefer it this way.
Much like Visaera, I am not a political strategist - though I do not have the kind of trauma she's also trying to balance alongside keeping up with Tywin's genius brain (we'll get into the Greyjoy situation more in the future). Fortunately, much of the maneuvering in the show, at least, is actually pretty straightforward when you've watched it a couple times and know what's going on. In the end it all comes down to who wants what, why, and how their personalities, morals, etc. shape what they'll do to get it. I've attempted to make this tangle complicated enough to suit the world and the characters, but not complex enough to overshoot my own capabilities. I still feel like a baby writer a lot of the time and stuff like this is challenging for me, but that's all right.
I had Visaera humming an old English song last chapter, and her horse is named for a Norse goddess of loyalty and faithfulness (which inadvertently became symbolic naming for her relationship with horses). Those were not random choices! There're a few different fan interpretations as to which real-world countries translate into the ASoIaF nations. Commonly the North is deemed to be Scotland, but I actually don't agree with that. The North reminds me much more of Russia in terms of its isolation/separateness from the rest of the kingdoms (and their attitude about that), the huge variation of micro-climates - i.e. Sochi being almost subtropical and Siberia being deemed a snowy wasteland - and the cultural affects of that across such a vast space, their relationship with the Old Gods versus the Faith of the Seven, etc.. Whereas the Stormlands make me think more of a Scotland/Ireland while the Vale is like Denmark - with similar terrains and industries, the crucial differences being culture and the influence of being closer to the capitol, with a great deal of natural crossover because that's what happened when you had the Vikings (Iron Islanders, yes, but also just shipping routes and seafaring cultures) spreading genetics everywhere. ANYWAY. It's not vitally important, but I think it's interesting. Do my takes on the national translations line up with yours? I'd love to hear other folks' thoughts on that!
I've been having some issues of confidence (for lack of more accurate word) about this story of late. I keep cycling between thinking I'm doing a decent credit to the idea in my head and fully believing that it's awful and I have no idea what I'm doing. A lot of it is that I have such an investment in these characters and what I want to do with them now, and I desperately want to do right by them, but am intimidated out of my mind. On top of that, due to the way is set up, my stories don't tend to get much engagement here - comments OR reads, that I can tell. The time and energy it takes to reedit, reformat, and post things here as well is getting hard for me to find a way to justify. Especially when the only real interaction I've had with this story was a flame made in bad faith when fellow fan interaction is the biggest reason I post my writing in the first place.
Anyway. All that to say, please be patient with me and my slow-ass self as I try to overwork massive impostor syndrome on top of just being slow to begin with!
To each and every one of you who has read this far, who is still reading - thank you. I see you, and I appreciate the ever-loving hell out of you. Thank you for choosing to spend your time on my humble, silly story.
Until next time (hopefully not as long!), take care and be well!