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PART THIRTEEN
Garden
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"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Lord Royce," Visaera greeted, rising from her chair at the young man's approach.
His steps slowed, coming to a stop just inside the pavilion and clasping his hands neatly behind his back to grant her a shallow bow.
"Of course, My Lady, it was my pleasure to accept the invitation."
The smile he wore was warm, genial, and so obviously heartfelt that the sight of it brought her a swift, bittersweet pang.
She extended a hand, gesturing to the empty chair across the table and imploring him to sit. He did so, the split at the front of his long tunic parting around his knees as they bent, then disappeared beneath the surface.
"Would you care for tea?" she offered, reaching for the cups laid out for them.
The palace staff had truly outdone themselves. She had requested a simple tea, yet had arrived to find no less than three varieties of tea, scones with cream, little tarts filled with soft cheese and dried fruit, and fresh early apricots brought up from where they grew in the southern orchards in the Reach. All prettily arranged upon fine silver salvers garnished with sprigs of sweet-smelling lavender. Though perhaps such abundance was considered simple for the Red Keep.
Or else the cooks had prepared such a spread in the anticipation of the very proposal she intended to make plain would not be occurring.
"Please."
"Do you have a preference?"
His golden brows lifted, taken aback. "Er…black?"
"One of the benefits to life in the capitol," she explained, laughing. "Anything that can be shipped here will be."
"I suppose so."
Kyle's laughter joined hers, the bright smile softening the sharpness of his chin. His was a face meant for smiling, she thought to herself as she measured the loose, aromatic blend of leaves into the cups. Not the face of a man suited to the cold artifice and machinations of court living.
Steam emanated from within the ceramic pitcher of heated water when she poured, a damp, pleasant warmth against her hand.
"We only ever had black at the Roost, too. Though we did get a chance to try red once. It was…" she made a face to illustrate her displeasure. "Not to my taste."
"Oh?" he probed curiously, reaching to accept the cup she proffered to him.
"I'm sure many would disagree, but I found it to be intolerably bitter. Which was a shame because the smell was delightful."
She had originally intended to meet in one of the sitting rooms. Yet the day had proven to be so beautiful that it had seemed a waste not to seize advantage. The pavilion which stood in the lily garden had soaked up the light all morning to provide a warm, pleasant spot for an outdoor visit.
There was a sprinkling of new green amidst the darker, more subdued hues of the winter-hardy foliage; plants tentatively beginning to produce new growth as though coaxed by the steady increase in temperature over the past few days. The provision of fresh fruit alone was a herald of the coming spring. Usually such an extravagance would have been reserved for more formal occasions than afternoon tea. Or…for royalty.
It was odd, she supposed, that for having known it all her life, she had never considered herself as royal; with all the meaning carried by such a word. It had been a part of her, as unseen and yet as inherent as the heart or lungs which allowed her to function. She hadn't ignored it, simply didn't spend time and energy on the subject unless she was forced to. Coming here had not changed that so much as made it impossible to ignore where there were reminders everywhere she looked.
Odd, too, was that it was not the larger, more significant of those reminders which disturbed her the most, but the little ones - the subtle shift in how she was addressed, the way the ladies of the court had begun to integrate braiding into their hairstyles, and the presence of fresh fruit at tea before it became widely available.
"Congratulations, by the by," she commented, reaching for a tart. "For coming in second at the archery contest."
She bit into the tart: bursting with the flavor tangy, savory cheese and sweet spiced raisins. It was rather ridiculously delicious in her opinion. If there was anything about living here that she could honestly say that she loved, it was the food.
Kyle was already adding honey to his tea, evidently preferring it not to steep so long, and he glanced up from the task to exclaim: "I didn't realize you were in attendance!"
He was all but beaming, which was precisely why she had elected not to draw attention to herself at the time by sitting well behind Elia. It had been the second and only other time she had gone to the tourney grounds, and that it had aligned with the archery contest had been pure chance.
Pretending as though she hadn't heard the eager lilt in his statement, she nodded once. "You shot very well. You were clearly not telling tales when you said you had a talent for it."
He touched a hand to his chest in acceptance of the compliment. "I thank you. Though it's more aptitude than talent. In truth, if I was to lose, I am glad it was to someone like Ser Tomas—someone who truly knows the craft of it, not just the sport."
She noted what he did not say: that Ser Tomas Ford was the better shot because he must be if he wished to see himself fed while on the road between tourneys and the next Lord or that who might have need of an additional man for a time. It was a mark of decency that he commended the knight's competency rather than allowing the loss of winnings he did not need to a mere Hedgeknight bruise his pride.
Stirring a dash of cream into her cup, she lifted the cup to her lips. As she did, she caught the flicker of white at the very edge of her vision - the hem of a cloak.
Another of those little reminders.
Though most unwed highborn ladies were assigned chaperones when spending time in the company of a man, they usually came in the form of a septa or ladies maid. Those chaperones did not tend to be members of the king's personal guard.
She took a sip of her tea, strong and not overly sweet, as she liked it, and focused anew on the man across from her when he spoke.
"Lord Arryn has said that we are to leave for the Vale the morning after next," he began, with a hesitancy which implied he was leading up to something. "I had planned to send a raven ahead of my departure, and I had hoped I might tell my father that…"
That he would be returning home with a wife.
Guilt bit into her, lodging deep like thorns into her flesh.
She had this very conversation with Lord Dustin only yesterday. Once she had made her position clear, and thus freed him from any obligation he might have had, the brief walk had been the most amiable - and lively - interaction they had shared. But it had been obvious from the first that Dustin had no real desire to marry her. The same could not be said for Royce.
There would have been plenty of political gain for Runestone, certainly, yet she had spent enough time in his company now to feel certain that Kyle had a liking for her. Or, at least, for the version of her that she had presented. This likely contributed to much of the anticipation she heard in his voice, that he wore so openly upon his face.
He appeared to be under the impression that she possessed the freedom to choose him, had she wished to. Even were that the case she would not have, and not simply for the reason of bloodlines. She had no desire to see such a sweet boy dragged into the twisted, dangerous mire she would inevitably bring with her. He would be a vassal lord someday - a good one, she thought. And she could not stomach the idea of seeing such promise destroyed.
Steeling herself, she slowly lowered the cup.
"That's precisely what I asked you here to discuss."
Whether by the careful inflection in her voice, the subtleties of her body language, or the regret she could feel in her face, the expectant cast to his features ebbed, and the guilt bit deeper still.
"I am honored by your offer of marriage, Lord Royce," she said gently. "Truly. But I cannot accept it."
He sobered then, the faint creases of a frown forming to bracket his mouth. It was not an expression of displeasure, or anger, or even annoyance, but crestfallen disappointment. In truth, she would have preferred he had met her with anger. Anger she could weather and deal with…but this was gutting.
Suddenly she was choking on anger of her own.
The Small Council had never truly intended on giving her to Royce. Yet they had brought him all the way down from the Vale - slogging in the winter mud and frost and weather - allowing him to believe he had ever been in the running. The miserable beasts.
Tentatively, Kyle murmured: "have I done something to offend, or—"
"You have done nothing," she was quick to assure him, "nor is this due to any lacking or failing of yours. It is…"
Her words stalled there, momentarily uncertain how best to proceed. She had no wish to hurt him, especially not if he had begun to hold some form of tender feeling for her - however misdirected.
Yet before she could gather any semblance of an explanation, the light in his eyes sharpened, as though he were honing in on something she had said, or perhaps something he'd seen in her face. Resting his hand flat upon the surface of the little table, he leaned marginally nearer, his voice pitched low and soft.
"If this is about your…"
He paused briefly, his frown deepening - this time with uncertainty - and for the moment spent in wavering quiet she had the distinct impression that he was weighing his words out of concern that he might offend her.
The reason for such caution was immediately apparent.
"...the circumstances of your—of your birth, then you should know, that does not matter to me."
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Of course it didn't matter. Illegitimate or not, she carried the king's blood, and because she was pretty enough that it wouldn't be an unpleasant chore to look upon and to bed her. Those things were sure to have erased any other reservations there might have been.
That was not the way he meant it - she could discern that by his face alone, and in the care he had clearly taken to tread gently for the sake of her feelings. But it was the truth, nonetheless. Whatever he might believe of himself here and now, had it been put to true test, she doubted such amenable acceptance would hold. She thought no less of him for it. He was as much a subject to the rules, constraints, and judgments of nobility as she was; it was simply the way of the world. Or perhaps she was doing him a disservice out of assumption. Either way, it had been his intent to be kind, and she chose to accept it as such.
Folding her hands upon her lap, she offered a small smile. "I appreciate your saying so, but no, that's not the reason. The Small Council summoned you in the pursuit of their own agenda. One which I had no part in but was forced to entertain regardless."
She elected not to mention that he had never truly had a chance. The news of her choice was sure to be sour enough. There was no need to worsen things by telling him that he had been brought here under entirely false pretenses.
Kyle's frown deepened, his expression shifting to convey a flash of indignation - on her behalf, she thought, as well as his own. His chin had lowered slightly, causing his sandy curls to fall across his brow, and he was no longer looking at her - his focus now directed downward so that he appeared to be staring intently down at the dish of apricots, though she expected he was seeing nothing at all.
"I regret that you were misled. Had I any say in the matter, it would not have been so."
He was nodding faintly, the frown lines fading into smooth acceptance of the unpleasant revelation. "Has His Grace chosen someone else for you, then?"
A reasonable conclusion, and technically one she could neither confirm nor deny. She wasn't confident that even the gods had any glimpse into the workings of Aerys' mind.
"Perhaps," she gave a small shrug. "It doesn't matter. I have no intention of marrying."
She had shocked him, judging by the way his eyes darted back up to her face, but there was as much confusion as surprise there, telling her that he wasn't sure how to interpret what she'd said.
"Just now, you mean?" he asked slowly, "or…"
Or ever?
Visaera sighed, suddenly feeling twice her years. "The lineage I carry contains as much poison as it does power, and I mean for it to die with me. You are the heir to Runestone. You need a wife who will bear you children."
Even had she wanted to be, that wife could not be her.
"Besides," she added lightly, gesturing to herself with a sweep of a hand, "this facade I've worn isn't what I truly am. Eventually you'd have found yourself wanting for someone more suited to you."
It was his turn to surprise her, it seemed. When he met her eyes, soft and a little sad, she was certain beyond doubt that he had already known she was presenting a curated image of herself, though just how long he had been aware of it, she couldn't say. The second thing of which she was certain was that at no point had it put him off.
From the look, she thought he would have liked to learn the truths she had shielded. Or else believed that he did. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps he might not have minded her unladylike interests, her wildness, as people were fond of calling it.
It was one more in a long line of possibilities never to be explored.
"I'm not sure I agree with that last," he said quietly, confirming her guess. "And I cannot say that I fully understand…but I respect your decision. Though I can't help but think it a shame."
As would many others, she knew. A waste, they would call it. Waste of a healthy, reasonably appealing woman, waste of the womb she carried, waste of her thrice damned Valyrian blood.
But this was not the shame to which Kyle referred. He was lamenting the loss of what happiness or contentment she might have found in the husband and children she had elected to deny herself, and while she knew all too well that such things were as rare among the highborn as were pure white ravens, she wasn't above conceding that a small piece of her wished she had the luxury to choose differently.
Rising to his feet, he circled the table to approach her. She offered her hands when he reached for them, allowing him to draw her from her seat to stand with him.
"While it hasn't ended quite the way I hoped," he began with a mild note of levity, "I have enjoyed the time we've had together."
Though it was a bittersweet thing, she couldn't help her smile. "As have I."
It was not a lie.
"I wish you well, My Lady."
Giving her hands a brief, warm squeeze, he released her.
"Thank you, My Lord. Safe travels home."
With a small smile and a respectful bow that she truly didn't merit, he turned and took his leave.
For a long moment after she simply stood where he left her, staring down at the tea gone cold in her cup.
What appetite she might have had for it had left her, and now that she had accomplished her objective, she had no real reason, nor inclination, to stay. Yet she wasn't all that keen on returning to the keep, either.
Ever since the confrontation with Lannister she had been ill at ease. The sense of being pinned down with nowhere to run had become almost stifling, and once or twice it had felt as though she couldn't breathe for the bars of the cage appearing to close in on her. She had the sense that if she wasn't imprisoned yet, she would be eventually.
It had always been a question in need of answering - simply one she had not yet had the time or the freedom to focus on. But now that all the visitors to King's Landing were beginning to disperse, she found that the question was beginning to gnaw at her, with an urgency she could no longer ignore.
It was vital that she learn how easily she could get out of the city, should she ever have the need.
Preferably she would be able to find several options, but one would be enough. Other details could be configured later - once she had a base knowledge of what was possible. If it was possible.
She would give it a day, maybe two for caution's sake, but she was resolved to try. The sooner the better.
For now, however, she wasn't ready to return to her cage just yet.
Lifting her skirts to keep them from tangling about the spindly legs of the chair, she turned to face the Kingsguard positioned near the edge of the pavilion.
He stood still as marble with his less dominant hand wrapped loosely around the hilt of his sword, the way most of them did when at watchful rest, his eyes - sharp and alert in his weather-worn face - trained on her.
There was nothing about Ser Gerold's appearance to identify him as their commander. His cloak and armor were no different from that of the others. Yet to Visaera's eyes there was something about him, a subtle, silent sense of subdued authority which made it obvious even without marker. Despite the respectable span of his years, she found him daunting enough to understand why he was widely known as the White Bull. So too why it was considered the height of folly to test him.
Reflexively she wanted to assure him that he needn't feel he must stay with her now, as she required neither guard nor chaperone in her own company, but knew better than to suggest it. The Kingsguard relieved themselves of their watch when and only when they deemed it time to do so.
Meeting the knight's penetrating gaze, she asked: "Would it be all right to stay in the garden? I'd like to walk for a while."
The white-gold steel of his helm gleamed as he inclined his head in answer.
She had to curb the impulse to glance over her shoulder when he followed her down the shallow set of steps and onto the path. He was not intrusive, remaining several paces behind her in order to grant her space, yet she still found it strange and disconcerting.
It wasn't that she was unaccustomed to the presence of guards, Lord Connington had many men at arms in his service to defend his home. But they had mainly been stationed at the entrances to the keep and at the main stairwells. They had not been posted outside of solars and bedchamber doors, or shadowed Armond or his heir throughout the day.
Most of the time she spent under view of the Kingsguard was while in the company of others - when she was with Elia or visiting with Queen Rhaella, or else during mealtimes when one of the family was present. The rest of the time they seemed content enough to allow her to roam about the keep on her own, apparently relying on the palace guard to see to her safety, which suited her fine. It was only fitting. Yes, she was blood of the dragon, but she was of minimal importance and would never be a priority.
Though they had certainly treated her like one throughout the past two weeks.
They had been with her during every walk, every meal, every event that the Council had demanded, when one of the red cloaks would have been more than sufficient for the likes of her.
Not all that long ago she would have believed they watched her for the signs of treason her cousin suspected, or else to ensure that she did not attempt to take advantage of the chaos to run. Now, however, whether any of those things were true, she believed they truly had been serving as a safeguard as well.
She was by no means unappreciative. All the same, she was eager for things to return to the way they had been, with the lion's share of their attention focused elsewhere.
Following the gently winding path, Visaera breathed deeply of air thick with the smells of soil, fresh-cut greenery, and earthy decay. She caught the faint hint of brine from the sea and the sweetness of the humble, late-blooming snowbells that grew scattered amongst the carefully manicured beds of far more grand and lustrous plants.
Climbing vines twisted about narrow stone arbors, trained to drape in curtains of flowers overhead. Some were still brittle and bare where they clung, but others had begun to fill out with new leaves, and there were buds upon the magnolia and ornamental pear trees.
While she would have preferred a forest glade or the open moors, the gardens were certainly pretty in their way, and it was good to be outside.
She - they - walked in unbroken quiet for some time. It wasn't until they came to the wall marking where the lily and rose gardens joined the central walk that Ser Gerold addressed her.
"Lady Targaryen," he called, his voice was a deep, throaty rumble. "Might I have a word?"
Gods…Visaera would never have wanted to cross blades with the older man, but she would have gladly drowned in such a voice - like singed velvet. Even as a hint of trepidation crept along the back of her neck as to what it was he wished to discuss, she still found herself delighted simply by the prospect of listening to him.
She paused just inside the archway, where the intricate wrought-iron gates stood wide and open.
"Certainly, Lord Commander."
Lifting the helm from his head as he drew up alongside her, he tucked it under an arm. "Only my fellow Kingsguard need call me such, My lady. Ser is sufficient enough."
"Very well, Ser." She nodded in acceptance of the correction and waited for him to proceed.
The knight was not what she might have called handsome at first glance. Dignified, certainly, and proud of bearing. He was possessed of a naturally stern, almost severe countenance which the careworn creases did nothing to soften, yet there was something unusually compelling in his face, about the lines which framed his eyes and bracketed a thin mouth made softer by a neatly cropped beard and the slightly mussed state of his short, iron gray hair.
He reminded Visaera of the sort of noble knights which resided in childrens' stories, had those knights been real men allowed to learn and grow beyond the confines of their tale.
As he regarded her with steady dark eyes, so innately commanding even without speaking a word, she felt the compulsion to stand a little straighter. She thought she might have done so without even being consciously aware of it.
"In regards to the first day of the jousts," he began, "I understand that you are not accustomed to guards, or perhaps to the need for them. It may not have occurred to you how dangerous and irresponsible it was to be on an open tournament ground without one."
The brusqueness of his words made her want to bristle and snap, to remind him that she was not a child to be scolded, but she wrestled the defensive reflex firmly into line.
She could not rightly unleash her temper when she agreed with him. At least to a degree.
Had she attended the joust with Yarwyck, she would have been well guarded - by Lannister soldiers. There had been no sign of a white cloak about when the lord had cornered her with his false niceties and invitation, which told her in hindsight that his aim had been to intercept her before her intended escort arrived. She had never been meant to reach the lists. That was very clear to her now.
She hadn't expected the arrival of a Kingsguard, though by then she probably should have known to. If she had, she would have found a way to delay being dragged away - would have kicked and cursed and, yes, screamed if she'd had to. Had it come to that, whichever of the Kingsguard was assigned to her might very well have taken his head for such an offense. But in the moment, it hadn't occurred to her.
Once Jon had liberated her…she wasn't sure where her head had been. It wasn't that she had forgotten that she was not home at the Roost, where having Jon with her was more than enough to discourage the common thug or cutpurse. She had been aware of that, aware that he had been no more armed than she had been, yet for some reason she hadn't been concerned. Out of habit? Her own hubris? Though she had been armed with no more than a knife and slightly more aggression than was typical for a lady?
Stupid. Unacceptibly stupid.
At any point they might have been separated. At any point they might have come to the wrong place at exactly the wrong time and neither Jon's presence nor her knives and teeth combined would have been enough.
Any one of the thousands of strangers swarming the city might have been there with the intent to seize and steal her away - some who believed themselves her supporters, her defenders, others who merely sought to use and debase her. Any one of the men selected as candidates for her hand might have intended the same. It was their prerogative to prevent any and all of those things. Whether they did it for her own sake or because such a threat to her was a threat to their king hardly mattered in the end. The presence of a Kingsguard was the presence of a human shield to stand between her and danger, and a human sword to eliminate it. But they could not protect her if she was too much of an idiot to let them.
She wasn't sure how Ser Gerold had come to be aware of her stunning lapse in judgment, or why he was only addressing it now that the proceedings were coming to a close, but none of that mattered now. It had been a careless, perilous mistake - one which could have cost her dearly. He was well within his rights to chastise her for it, if not to assign a guard to cling to her like a shadow during the waking hours.
"You're right, Ser Hightower. I suppose…having Jon with me caused me to forget that things are different here than they are at home." If there was a sour taste to the admission, it was only for the sake of her own folly.
To all appearances, neither his expression nor his posture changed, yet somehow there seemed to be a little less iron to him. She gathered the impression that he had been expecting her to offer up more resistance about the matter, and now sensed that he would not be required to fight her on it, as he had been prepared to.
"I don't doubt Lord Connington would have done what he could to keep you safe," he allowed, and while he continued to speak in what she surmised was his natural clipped, straightforward way, it was not quite so hard and unyielding. "But he is not a guardsman. One of us should have been with you."
She couldn't argue with that either. Jon had been no more armed than she, and was - as Ser Gerold noted - no bodyguard. He had his knight schooling, of course, had passed his exams and earned his shield, and he was more than decent, but he had not trained the way they did - did not spend a third of his free time in the yard to remain sharp.
Here Ser Gerold paused, and the way he studied her was almost akin to the way he might have studied the quality of a sword. It was odd, and a bit unnerving.
"I also understand that you have skill with weaponry."
Of all the things she might have expected him to say, that had not been among them.
"I…have some, Ser," she conceded, slow and cautious.
It hadn't been a question, so denying it was pointless. Nor had it been a condemnation. It hadn't sounded like one, in any case, or as though he were about to scold her for this as well. Though if that was the case, then she would be giving him the fight he had anticipated, even if he did intimidate the unholy hell out of her…
"I'm—in all honesty I'm surprised that Ser Lewyn or Ser Arthur would think to mention it. Surely my more…indelicate pastimes are of little concern to you? So long as I pursue them within the bounds of the keep, that is."
"We share any information which might prove to be of use to us, including the knowledge of any potential assets."
And now she was completely at a loss.
"Assets?"
"Lewyn's praise is plenty on its own," he told her in that captivating gravel rasp, "but Arthur does not impress easily, and is not free with commendation where it concerns the sword. If he says that you are capable of aiding in the defense of your kin as well as of yourself, then yes, you are an asset."
He said it so easily, with no amount of reluctance nor doubt. As though it were not at all strange or unusual for a knight of his caliber and renown to announce that the two most magnificent fighters she had ever seen had gone to their commander and declared her…
She didn't dare think further about that revelation, or what that nearly inconceivable praise meant to her, else she become a nonsensical, emotional mess.
She supposed it made a certain sense. After all, there were only the six of them active, barely enough to pair with each member of the family - and that was excluding her. Only the king and his heir were accompanied by a Kingsguard at all times, she knew. With the queen, the younger prince, and the princesses, they were often forced to prioritize, and to lean on the red cloaks more than she suspected they entirely cared for. if her passable ability meant an extra layer of protection for the rest, they would use it to their advantage.
It seemed unlikely that every generation of them had, and would continue to have, such an opinion, but apparently whether any of them believed that a woman should not take up arms, even in her own defense, apparently the pride and prejudices of a nobleman ceased to be of any consequence to this group.
She also presumed they did not believe her to be a threat, elsewise this conversation would have been a very different one. Assuming she would have still been alive to have it.
And here she had once thought the Kingsguard would be conservative, cold, and overproud beneath all the prestige. Instead, she had found them to be profoundly devoted and almost ruthlessly utilitarian regardless of their personal opinions.
"That notwithstanding," he continued after a long stretch of silence, "I still must ask that you not leave the Red Keep again without at least taking one of the palace guards."
Visaera hesitated.
Studying the knight's face, she noted the twice-broken nose, the nasty, jagged scar which disappeared into his high, white collar. Someone had done their best to open his throat, and though they had not failed entirely, they had not succeeded in taking his life - as they, no doubt, had paid with theirs.
She did not know much of the man, but knew more now than she had and what she saw, she respected. She wanted to agree, if only for the sake of respect…but it was a promise that she could not make. However valuable he and his fellows considered her now, they would obey the word of their king above all else, and when that king might turn on her in his very next breath, her trust in them could only ever extend so far.
They might very well end up being the reason she needed to flee the city.
All the same, she did not want to lie to Ser Gerold outright. The idea of it felt wrong, sat poorly in her mind and in her gut. So she weighed her possible answers, choosing her words in a way to assuage his request, and not commit her word to an agreement she could not keep.
"Of course, Ser. And I shall endeavor to keep you informed accordingly."
If he noticed the deliberate ambiguity, he did not mention it. He merely gave a short nod and replied: "Thank you, My Lady."
With that, he lifted the helm back into place.
It was a handsome piece of armor, exquisitely crafted with intricate details to emulate the sweep of wings and the ridge which ran the length of a dragon's spine. Perhaps more decorative than functional, it still fulfilled its secondary purpose; that of turning the man beneath into a faceless, nameless sentinel meant to intimidate as much as to defend.
Pretty as it was, she didn't much care for it.
Turning once more to the central garden, she stepped out onto the dull rose-gold stones which paved the ground and started off in the direction of the southern terrace, Ser Gerold a pale shadow at her back.
...
On some level, Arthur was aware that he was dreaming.
It wasn't truly a dream in the purest sense of the word. To dream one must be fully asleep and he was not. Rather, he was balanced upon the edge of sleep and wakefulness, his consciousness caught in the liminal space between the two where the mind was free to wander as it wished, released from the restrictions and ordinances that held it chained in the waking hours.
He'd had this particular dream before - more than once. More than a few times. Replaying that fateful bout in the indoor training yard almost step for step up until that final blow.
Instead of delivering the overhand swing, he let Visaera come at him. Catching her diagonal strike with a sharp clang of steel, he used the particular twist and flick of his wrist which would knock the practice sword from her hands and send it skittering across the hard-packed dirt. Her glance flicked to the weapon, then back to him. Measuring, considering. He studied her closely, watching the latent tension coiling in her limbs as she made her calculations.
When she dove, he followed her - casting his own blade aside and snaring her about the middle to carry her down with him to the floor.
A shallow grunt left her at the impact, a sound which melted - rather charmingly - into a breathless laugh even as she threw back her shoulders in an attempt to buck him off. An attempt which resulted in no more than a brief flare of discomfort and bought her nothing.
She would have to do far more than that to dislodge him.
Squirming sharply, she kicked, the toes of her boots raking shallow furrows into the dirt as she struggled to get her feet back under her, use her legs to regain leverage. He planted his knees into the ground to keep her there, his arm tightening around her. And though she squirmed something fierce, he held her firmly where she was.
She was so bloody light that it took little effort to flip her smoothly onto her back. Though he didn't know for certain exactly how heavy she would be, all it took was eyes to determine that if he ever did manage to lay a hand on her, hauling her about like this would not be all that taxing.
She lashed out to strike him, and had it been a real fight, she would have been aiming to break his nose with the base of her palm, dig into his eye sockets or damage his windpipe. Instead, it was a considerate, open-handed blow intended for his ribs or his shoulder joint and which would do little more than bruise. Yet he caught her wrist before the hit could reach him, pressing it firmly back and down into the dirt above her head.
The other arm he did not touch. He would never have trapped her in any real way, and it was imperative she understood that. All she need do was push at him, order him to release her, and he would…
But she never did.
Every time it ended this way: with her on her back, pinned beneath him. Every time she would lie still while the tension in her body changed, softened. Every time she would look at him with that sapphire spark of elation and challenge that reached into the searing, hollow place within him not yet fully stripped of the man he once was. She would part her knees, allow him – invite him – to slip between them, and angle her hips up into his in a way impossible to mistake for anything but the clear, direct request it was.
This was usually the point at which he became cognizant of the fact that the events taking place were not, in fact, real. He had always possessed a fair amount of control over dreams when he had them, and so when he reached this point, when he became aware, he mostly managed to tear himself away, direct his mind in some other direction, or else cast it back into the real world. Not that reality was any kinder, truth be told. For each time he wrenched himself free it was only to find himself balanced on the edge of a pain which only seemed to worsen as time went on, and which became increasingly difficult to ignore.
It was perhaps because he was not properly asleep that he found it so much more difficult to drag himself from the grip of the dream tonight. His mind clung to the conjured image, resisting his efforts in order to linger upon her face - watching coal dark lashes lower to veil her eyes, her chin tilt up as if in wordless plea.
He rolled stiffly onto his side, suddenly all too aware of the physical world around him where it clashed against the picture in his head. The surface of the bed beneath him, the hushed, commonplace sounds of the palace grounds during the night, the cool texture of the air where it touched his skin. Presumably he had tossed the furs askew, for most of his upper body was exposed. There was no need to suppose why. He was fever-hot and streaked with sweat. The muscles in his stomach and lower back were wound so tight they felt near to snapping, and he mourned the loss of the ache in his arm and shoulder to distract from the ache in his cock.
How many nights was this now? How many nights had he woken to find himself burning for the thought of her?
Too many to count. Each more consuming than the last.
Feeling heavy and half-drunk he moved to sit up, hissing between his teeth at the friction when he gripped the coverlet bunched across his groin to toss it away.
Some nights back, he had begun to forgo clothing entirely when taking to his bed. An attempt to ease some of the discomfort he could seem to neither avoid nor redirect, and one which hardly seemed to make much difference.
Gingerly Arthur shifted his legs over the side of the cot and lowered his feet to the floor, barely feeling the chill. He set his tired eyes upon the pitcher waiting at the other side of the tiny room, steeling himself to cross to it and douse himself with the icy contents as he had done so many times. Yet even as he reached for it, the resolve upon which he had relied before seemed to slip from his grasp like sand between his fingers. In the place of reason or better sense, or even obstinance, he found only the rash, impulsive need thick and cloying in his blood.
Seven hells…he was so hard that it hurt. And all for an image that wasn't even truly that lascivious. He might have been amused had the rapid thrum of his own pulse not been quite so excruciating.
His hands curled into the bedclothes as he fought down the instinctive urge to bring himself some measure of relief.
Up until this moment he had maintained his honor and resisted. Yet if he had imagined the compulsion a powerful one in the beginning, it had been an estimation made in ignorance - foolishly believing that the inconsequential demand of his flesh could never become so strong that he might find himself unable to master it. He had never before known desire which broached the realm of agony. Yet now he could almost feel his restraint crumbling, splitting down the middle.
It was as if he were skirting the edge of madness with neither the comprehension nor the strength to stop it.
He needed to get up.
Right bloody now.
He had told himself that he would not use her image in this way. At first it had merely been a fundamental matter of ethics. More recently the reasons had not been so pure. He had been forced to face the undeniable certainty that if he were to give in to the impulse, if he crossed that line…it would be next to impossible to cross back.
Even in spite of this, there was a dark place within him - wretched and weary and heartsore - that wondered if it mightn't be better to simply succumb. That single brief, stolen moment in the midnight hours was all he would ever have of her. If allowing himself to acknowledge how much more he wanted might buy him even a fraction more focus, or a few nights of unbroken sleep…
Recalling it, if only for the barest fraction of a second, proved to be his crucial mistake.
Before he could think to correct it, his head was filled with the throaty sounds she had made, the scent of her, the heady meld of rose and spice and the faint hint of sweat. How she had gone soft and languid in the grip of his arm and clutched at the neck of his armor. The way she had looked after, all tousled hair and flushed cheeks, lips glistening from the touch of his tongue.
A rippling surge of lust coursed through his body, coiling tight and sharp in his belly. His spine went rigid, his stomach cramping as though with the wracking pangs of sickness, and for a moment it was as if his bloodbeat had ceased to reach anywhere but his groin - as though he had ceased to be anything other than flesh and heat and unfulfilled yearning.
This was a hunger far more powerful than he was in any way prepared for. Still, intense as it was, he could have banished it. He had both the ability and the means.
He could have…but he didn't.
Even he, with all his training and self-control, possessed only so much discipline. He was so tired - worn down to his bones - still partly immersed in the drowsy, addled state where the full weight of waking things was weak and watered thin.
Curse it all, he didn't want to banish it. He wanted to feel it. And in that precise moment he simply did not give a damn about the consequences.
Letting his eyes drift closed, he relinquished the failing stranglehold upon his own mind and allowed it to sink back into the image still cradled there, waiting patiently to welcome him.
Much as she was.
The beseeching press of her hips contained an air of permission as well as request. Were this real - were she real - he would have asked anyway; would have sought the confirmation, the absolute certainty. In this hazy, illusionary space, a look was more than enough.
Easing his right hand from the rumpled linens, he reached almost helplessly for his cock where it strained, pleading, toward his stomach. His fingers closed, gripping himself at the base and stroking slowly up the length. The flood of sensation was immediate - at once relief and its utter, torturous opposite.
Much less time had passed since he had last seen to himself this way than since he had last touched a woman. The motions were the same, but otherwise this bore little resemblance to that straightforward, obligatory means of working through tension - sexual or not. He wasn't simply following the guidance of his body the same way he might have to ease a stiff knee or a knot lodged within a strand of muscle. It was neither mindless nor mechanical. Nor was it focused on bringing about a quick, efficient end to a physical urge. Even while only half-conscious, he was deeply, ardently present in a way he had not been in years.
His hand slid down, then up again as pleasure bled in its wake, his breath trembling as it left him. It was his own touch, his own callused palm, yet his body responded as fervently as if they belonged to someone else entirely; almost managing to fool his addled mind into believing that the texture of his own skin had become softer, finer, when it had not. That the hand wrapped around him was small, delicate, fingers slender and pale. Exploring him, learning what touches made the rigid flesh pulse and swell. What turned him to the panting, aching wreckage of a man.
Running the pad of his thumb across the sensitive tip, he found the slit where moisture had already begun to gather and focused there, eliciting a deep, desperate throb which crackled lightning-hot along his veins.
Clenching his teeth together, he strangled the guttural noise before it could fully form. He would bite his tongue bloody before he would make an audible sound, though not for reasons based in any shame. Gods knew he cared little for any judgment he might receive for being overheard.
Not that he would have expected to draw such a judgment from any of the men in this tower. But those same men were observant. They were required to be. And his reputation was one of unwavering convictions and consistency. It would have been unusual to hear such sounds from him, and such a marked difference in behavior, even within such a private context, would draw notice.
As he preferred not to inspire questions - even those which remained unspoken - as to what might have brought about such an aberration, he dug his heels firmly into the cold stone of the floor, the sturdy, rough surface of it grounding him just enough to keep his sense and remain silent.
He knew at the next stroke that it wasn't going to take long. He was already close just from the weeks spent in this near constant state of feverish, barely suppressed hunger. Granting himself permission to utilize visual inspiration would only serve to hasten matters.
Arthur could no longer remember when he had last pictured the visage of a particular woman while in the pursuit of release. He had found it easier, and thus better, to avoid specifics and usually endeavored to do so. He had no such reservations this time. Instead of brushing them aside, he embraced the impulse - calling up all those little, devastating details and immersing himself fully within them. The intricate pattern of her plait where it coiled upon the floor. The luster in her skin. The softness in the lithe length of her body, hidden beneath the veil of clothing.
In previous versions of this dream, she had the vest she'd worn during their bout. This time there was only the shirt, laces loose where they lay at the base of her throat. He reached for them. She lay unmoving, acquiescent while he traced the arc of a collarbone, tugged the knot free; while the fabric parted and the smooth, pale expanse of skin between her breasts was laid bare.
She wore no binding underneath. It was completely impractical for activity such as sparring…still, in his imagining it was possible. Possible that she had forgone it intentionally because she had wanted this - wanted him to slide his hands under her clothes and touch her.
Fingers curling into the loose linen he eased the shirt free from the waist of her trousers, hand dipping past both band and fastenings to graze the tender slope of her belly.
He watched her pupils widen, the rise of her chest stutter ever so slightly as her breath broke, and let his hand slip lower, down past the point at which he should have found the second layer of cloth and met nothing but warm skin.
No breastband was one thing. But no smalls? That definitely stretched the bounds of reality. Especially when wearing trousers like these - of a rougher cloth and a tighter fit. Wearing something so coarse against a place so sensitive surely would have caused discomfort. Yet he couldn't bring himself to do much more than acknowledge the absurdity before subsequently dismissing it.
She arched into his hand when he reached her, hot and silken and drenching his fingers, her whimpering sigh searing a path straight down his spine to gather and tighten in his groin.
"Arthur…"
His back and hips flexed instinctively, the muscle in his thighs bunching in response to the voice that was not there, the steady movement of his hand hitching once as he worked his cock. Ever so slightly he quickened the pace of his strokes, his head lolling back while he choked down a panting moan at the heady, wrenching rush of ecstasy. His other hand slammed hard against the frame of the cot to keep himself from cursing, or drowning; the clash of bone and wood loud and harsh and eliciting a flare of pain that he did not feel.
In the space of a second and with the unquestioned, formless logic of a dream he had stripped them both of clothing and moved to slip into the soft, searing heat of her.
In reality, she wouldn't have been ready to take him with so little time or preparation. He was not overlarge, but she was such a little thing and all he'd done was pet her once…yet in his mind this didn't matter. In his mind she was wet and wanting and as needy for him as he was for her, her body accepting the intrusion of his with eager welcome - knees rising to curl about his hips, one slender hand sliding up the line of his arm to grip his shoulder.
Ignoring the way his body seized in painful protest, he abandoned his task just long enough to bring his hand up to his mouth, wetting his palm with a swift, purposeful swipe of his tongue before resuming his rhythm. It eased the friction some, smoothed it. Yet much like the picture painted across the backs of his eyelids, it was little more than a pale, pathetic imitation.
It had been a long time, but he could remember what it felt like to be within a woman's body. Well enough to know how intensely unsatisfying this was. He couldn't feel her: not the shape nor texture nor warmth. He couldn't smell her, the notes of perfume or of sweat, or sex, couldn't taste the salt of her skin or the sweetness of her mouth. All he had was the limited, vastly incomplete visual.
The idea of inventing a false frame onto which to project the features of a real woman - this woman in particular - actively repelled him. So he kept to what things he did know, such as the way her complexion warmed with the flush and haze of pleasure, the knowledge that her nipples were near to the same shade of soft, rosy pink as her lips. Perhaps a shade or so darker after he'd traced them with a fingertip, or with his tongue.
The building coil of heat in his belly and bollocks clenched hard, gripping as tight and sure as his fist. Though not as tight as he wanted.
As she would have been.
He would have wanted to go slowly; pay close attention to every response she gave him and tailor to them. Savor them. He would have asked her what she needed of him. At this point in the fantasy, however, locked in the fog of sleeplessness and desperation, he was too far gone for that.
It was nothing near to the lovemaking he truly coveted. It was fucking - fast and dirty and rough. She was more than receptive to the sharp snap of his hips, the twist of his hand in her hair, coiling tight into the base of her braid to hold her head in place as he raked his teeth against the tender skin below her ear and licked away the sting.
Of course she was receptive. That was how he wanted her. Willing. Enthusiastic. Yet even despite this he found himself tapping into previous experiences, subconsciously mixing them with what he recalled - in vivid detail - of Visaera's own responses to touch to shape his imagined actions. He widened the space between his knees to bear more of his own weight. Gripping her by the backside, he lifted her lower body closer to his in order to change the angle of his thrusts as he once had for a partner that had been smaller, as she was. It was perhaps a bit crude, but it was serviceable, and he would be damned if he didn't exert the effort to ensure her satisfaction even in the sanctuary of his own head.
Had this not been just a meager dream, she might have rewarded him with a moan, husky and honey sweet as her words had been with the exertion in the wake of swordplay. He might have felt the pulse of her body around him. His mind was not equipped to give him either.
What it did offer was slender arms winding around him. One hand curled into the hair at his nape with a soft scrape of nails while the other splayed across the small of his back as if to urge him deeper. And may the gods cast him into everlasting damnation, but he would have given his very soul in that moment to be with her. To have the strong grip of her legs around his waist and the restless slide of her hands across his skin, her breathless, keening sounds in his ear, the strain of pleasure in her face, the tight, sweet pull of her cunt…
The tension splintered into a white-hot flare. His chest heaved, and he came with a final hard, agonizing stroke, spilling across his own stomach and down over the back of his hand with a violent, wracking shudder.
Immediately he wrenched the hand away, harshly cutting off the impulse to work himself through, to prolong the rippling, bleeding rush of pleasure even as his body whined for it. Refusing to reward the action any further than he had already.
He tasted copper on his tongue, noted a dull pain at the inside of his lower lip, though he didn't recall sinking his teeth into it. He had been too deep in the throes of ecstasy to feel the sting. A realization which stunned him somewhat.
He didn't remember the last time release had torn through him like that - so forcefully. If it ever had.
Perhaps for the first time in Arthur's life he thought he might have some grasp as to why poets of old had referred to the peak of climax as the little death. His limbs were weak, his heart pounding as if to break clean through his ribs, and he was having a hell of a time catching his breath back. In truth he couldn't be completely certain a part of his soul hadn't left his body.
He tried to focus on calming the ragged working of his lungs as he forced himself to move, to reach for the basket of used clothing and linens for the cloth he had used to wash before bed and set about cleaning up. The cotton was not coarse, yet it seemed so to his overly sensitive skin. Though he was perhaps a bit harsher than he might have been when wiping down his stomach and the insides of his thighs, the beginnings of regret curling in his gut alongside the swiftly fading euphoria.
He should not have done this. He had known full well that he shouldn't - that it would only serve to complicate the situation. And he had done so anyway. Like the complete and utter fucking fool that he was.
What had he expected to come of it…an end to the distraction? Relief? Had his desire for Visaera been merely a physical thing, perhaps this might have been the result, but lust alone had never been enough to sway him much, even in his youth.
It was no mere coincidence that he had first noticed the draw toward her when she held a sword, when faced with the mind keen beyond courtly machination and the energy which so complimented his own. It was no coincidence that she was willful and self-reliant, that she was constant, passionate, and clever. Or that she loved their prince as he did. She might be a beauty, but it was these other traits which took that beauty and made her so accursedly irresistible.
He had no blessed idea how he was going to be able to look at her now, to spend even a few scant minutes in her presence without thinking of…this. Or of how much better it would have been had he been inside her.
Even this small, passing acknowledgment stoked the heat lingering in his blood, causing his cock to give a faint twitch of interest before it had even fully softened, and Arthur wasn't sure whether to laugh or to curse himself hoarse. For the love of the Maiden's mercy, he was a grown man. Yet here he was - little better than a randy boy half his age.
Tossing the soiled cloth aside he leaned back, raking his hands through his hair and across his scalp as his back met the mattress with a twinge of complaint.
He was so damn tired. Yet if any part of him had hoped to find some uninterrupted rest upon giving in, it had proven in vain. The lethargy he'd sought was nowhere to be found. He was well awake now, and powerless to prevent his mind from returning to the woman with whom he was so thoroughly besotted…or from slipping inevitably back into carnal places.
He could still feel it - the heat in his veins, in his gut, twisted and tight as the sinew of a bowstring. There was a tremor in his hands as he scrubbed them over his face, the layer of new beard there scraping his palms. His heartbeat was still thundering in his temples and throat. Between his thighs. Momentarily sated though it might have been, it was clear that his body still wanted her. More fiercely perhaps than it had before. He might have thought himself a right shameful cad for it had he not glimpsed the looks she had cast in his direction on more than one occasion. Looks which hinted that she might wish he hadn't been forced to leave her that night.
His weary, sordid brain seized eagerly upon the thought: picturing her bracing against his pauldron and lifting herself to straddle him, letting the insubstantial skirt fall back about her hips.
She had been bare underneath then. He had seen just enough to know. Had his arm tightened around her, it would have been to press tender, naked flesh to the metal of his armor.
For the first time since, he permitted himself to wonder whether his kisses had aroused her, whether he would have found her hot and slick had he reached to slide his hand between her legs - whether he would have withdrawn it to find the leather of his glove glistening with the evidence of her desire for him. Though in truth, he wasn't at all confident he would have possessed the willpower to remove his hand even for the relishment of such a sight. Had she allowed him to touch her, he would not have stopped until either she ordered him to or she had come apart upon his fingers.
Stomach muscles contracted with a greedy clench so sharp that it nearly winded him, the sudden pulse of need heavy in his groin. He winced, pressing the knuckles of a fist into his stomach as though to counter the gnawing urgency there, or else to bid the fresh, jutting stiffness in his cock to subside.
Hell and fucking damnation…this was misery. Utter, wretched, endless misery.
Frustration built the growl in his throat. Willpower forced it back down.
He supposed it was no less than he deserved. He had made his choice - had all but torn the wall down with his own hands, stone by blasted stone. The word for passion came from language describing suffering, after all, and he could think of no more fitting punishment than to burn himself to ash.
There was no strength left in him to fight it, and so he didn't attempt to. Resigned, half hating himself, he folded to the tangle of image and sensation and let it take him.
NOTES:
This chapter comes to you a few hours early due to the fact that I am home from work because if I do anything other than sit or lay down my body is convinced that vomiting is imminent. But so long as I'm not too animated with my typing I'm good. So...silver lining.
Neither coffee nor tea were a thing in medieval Europe due to the state (or lack thereof) of widespread trade from the continents/countries from whence said things originate. As the distance and geography is very different in this fantasy world, and because we see ships from Braavos and Pentos frequently enough to hint it - I imagine trade routes were established across the narrow sea way back, and tea might be an import from somewhere in Essos. I also know very little about tea culture, so what you read is me trying to shape what research I had the patience to do. Apologies for any erros or idiosyncrasies.
(Red tea, so far as I've found, is not a thing and a product of my brain.)
Fun fact: there is a piece of fanart which based Gerold Hightower on Jeremy Irons and the instant I saw it I accepted it as headcanon IMMEDIATELY. Talk about a somewhat unassuming but commanding presence. Finding a period-appropriate way to account for his famous lifelong smoker voice was tricky and I don't think it's actually physically possible, but I don't care.
I didn't actually plan for the first scene to go the way it did. It was meant to be much shorter - essentially just the first half - but while thinking over some of the future events, and some of the past events, it occurred to me that having this small interaction with Ser Gerold actually accomplishes a couple things. The mindset I give the Kingsguard here might be a bit iffy. I definitely don't think most of the various generations of them would be so chill or so practical about it, but I think it's pretty much agreed that the group active immediately pre-Rebellion was unusually great in a lot of ways. I don't think Ser Gerold or Ser Barristan genuinely approve of Visaera fighting, but I do think they trust Arthur and Lewyn enough to take their advice on it. From the show's implication, it may be slightly more common for women to learn to fight in Dorne, or at least it's not actively frowned upon.
Moving on.
A few chapters back when we saw Visaera engage in a bit of self-care (that's what we're calling it now), my plan was not to have Arthur do the same. I don't remember how exactly it came about, but in discussion with my bestie, it was determined that said suffering should be mutual (equal opportunity masturbation!). And to be honest, even with his scruples about it, it makes much more sense for him to resort to whatever it might take to regain a mastery of what feels uncontrollable. Not that it's having the desired affect. Poor babies.
I have a line in there referring to the Maiden, who canonically really only presides over girls and unmarried women (usually young because...culture norms), but for some reason my automatic instinct is also to link her to sex and desire. I don't know why, but the reason I don't fight it is because I feel like those things are often kept separate from girls to keep them "pure" until marriage, and even after, so I subconsciously made it this...aspect that was originally hers upon the founding of the Faith, but which isn't talked about much anymore because we can't have that. I dunno. Not a big thing, but there it is.
I'm going to apologize in advance because I suspect the wait for the next update is going to be longer than I'd prefer. Real life might end up having something to do with it. But primarily, the scenes coming up are, as I've planned them, on the longer side and very important. I'm hoping the wait will be worth it.
As always, thank you so very much for reading and for all your support!
Until next time - be well.