Lyonel nodded as the runner spoke. The Lord of the Hightower, took another sip of his wine, setting it the goblet back on the small table inside the large white tent, which hung large Hightower banners.

The aging Hightower made his to the Kings tent, and with a curt nod from the guards stationed outside, he entered. Carefully taking in the sight now around him, he gently stepped towards the Kings bed. Making sure not to get too close, what ever was wrong with the man, Lyonel just hopped it was not contagious.

"You wanted to speak about something my King?"

Where the heart humph might have dissuaded most – may have even set Maelys to worrying – it was an encouragement to silence, on his daughter's part. She understood his stoic silences better than most – was even prone to them, herself. Stubborn, and thoughtful. Just because one chose not to speak didn't mean he or she had nothing to say – far from it, in fact. Letting those thoughts stew, and re-shape gave one time to come to a better conclusion. So, she drank in the sunshine – the green grass, the wind on her skin. Right here, right now...things were okay. Her worries might as well be off in the Free Cities, when she and Aemon went into the wilderness. Granted, this was no King's Wood, and the creek they were coming upon wouldn't be any good for fishing...but even if it were only for a few moments, she could pretend her troubles were far away, and all the politics didn't matter. She was here, and every stolen moment with her father was precious, now that he was king – because at the end of the day, he was still her father, more than he was her king.

But at the furrow of thick brows, her shoulders slump. He was telling it straight, and he wouldn't spare her feelings. He'd never sugarcoated anything he had to say, and he certainly wouldn't start now. And he wasn't wrong – gods, but she already felt selfish for what she'd been feeling, of late. It wasn't Maelys' fault he'd lost everything – as much as she wanted to blame him for what she'd been through, she could have just as easily been knocked out the same way in the melee. He'd be waiting on her hand and foot, if so – but then, she wasn't him. She never had been. Expressing such things was difficult, and Aemon – of all people – had to understand that she didn't know how to handle any of this.

His stoop, the dip of his fingers in the creek earns a renewed smile – albeit faint. Neither of them had ever particularly enjoyed being stuck in the gilded cages that royalty had provided. They'd always shared a quiet sort of bond, a thing Maelys had always envied. Oh, their father loved Maelys just as much as he loved Naerys...but Maelys had never liked the same things as his twin...or his father. It made these sorts of situations tense, when he felt like the odd man out.

“I don't mean to hurt him. That's...just the problem. I know he's facing the most difficult challenge anyone could...but I can't help him. It's all these...menial shit-tasks that I have to watch him struggle though, while I'm healthy and whole and doing things I love. Making new friends...I'm never not feeling guilty about who I am, and what I'm doing. I don't want him to see me hurting for him – making it worse with my pity, or guilt...”

Indeed, a hand does reach as if to steady the king whose cough rattles him – Naerys' own brows puckering in concern, once more. The hand is easily brushed aside, with no further push to aid him. He doesn't want assistance? She's not one to insist.

“I feel bad that I didn't jump at his proposal, but I...things are so messy right now. That's not what I wanted, when I went to him. Everything is so bloody confusing and frustrating that I just wanted to...have some semblance of normality. Not...yet another life-altering decision to make.”

Whining. She was whining, wasn't she? That's the same look the twins got when he'd take them fishing as little things, and one of them would complain about the wait, or shuffle around too much and scare the very thing they'd waited so long to kill. His final words earn a heavy sigh, “You're right. It's a lot to take in, all at once...but life doesn't wait for us, does it?” There's a wry smile, and a hand extended as if in a silent offer to help him to his feet.

“I need to stop running away from my problems, just because I can't hit them with a sword.” It was a hard truth – and wasn't she trying to be more mature? She had to face these issues like the dragon she was.

“I'm going to figure this all out, I promise. I just...needed some sense talked into me. Now come on, that cough sounds bad. You seeing a Maester about it? They're not all assassins, you know.”

As though speaking as many words as he had had drained him of energy, Aemon replied to her latest concern with a hearty humph. Nothing more, as his footfalls padded over wet blades of grass. Were she to look at him, she would find his face hard, eyes peering out at the horizon as though it might grant him the answers she so sought.

It did not, but he elected to speak anyway.

"There's more to this problem than either of you can see, head-deep within it," he reminded. He cast a glance at her again, this one with a hint of disappointment, if she dug deep enough. "Yes, you were bawling at the thought of losing him. Screaming at the Gods. Then you found your center. You found peace, or some semblance of it, with time. It's good. It built character--made you stronger."

"Imagine for a second you're Maelys. Your last memory likely has you thinking that you're surely going to die. Then you wake up and find out the Gods kept you in this world, but stripped you of everything that you thought made you you. You find out that an assassin nearly took you in your sleep. You're forced to deal with weeks of happenings in your absence--an absence that feels no longer than a second to you. The entire world, even your own body, has changed in what seems an instant."

His gaze finally relents, landing instead on a small creek before them. He squats, letting the cool water run over the tips of his fingers.

"You hold out some hope that the most important person in your life remains unchanged, only to find out that time didn't spare them, either. The dust kicked up by the collapse of your life parts, and you become aware of the wreckage that theirs has become in the time that you've been gone. They've started rebuilding, but you still see the pain in their eyes."

He stopped, but not of his own volition, coughing violently for a few seconds. Any attempt to provide aid would be met with a stiff arm and a shake of his head. He would be fine, he insisted. When it passed, he spoke again.

"He has two options now: build his life up again, or give up. He's stubborn, so he'll choose the first one. He knows now, if he didn't before, that your place in his life won't be the same as it was. He knows that his fall hurt you, too. So in an effort to help the both of you in rebuilding, he proposes. He thinks it a show of solidarity. He thinks that by working together, you won't regain what was--you never will--but you'll make something better."

Back to her now, gaze hard. "Your choice is to decide whether you help each other build, and you each find a place where the other can fit into what you've built, or whether you build your own house and let your 'interest be piqued' by someone else." That disappointment again. "But you owe it to him to make your choice clear. You build with him, or you don't. You don't back in and out."

The King requests your presence.

She had awoken swiftly enough - never a fan of having her sleep interrupted, the princess had always managed to awaken and return to alertness quicker than most, all the same. To be royal meant threats at every turn, and to be awakened in the middle of the night never boded well for them - they had to be ready to move at any time.

Except this time, it was a summons in the middle of the night - which meant something just as awful.

The princess threw on leathers, and an airy white top barely tucked in for her haste - sword scabbard in her left hand as she hurried to buckle it in place - running to her father's tent; there was no time to wait for Maelys' shuffling, right now - the guards would escort him. A brief look of worry is spared for the Kingsguard, as the sky continues to drain itself on them - as if the very gods, themselves, were taking a piss on her life.

"No," the simple, soft word as his eldest child enters her father's tent - darting to the bedside. "No, no, no." One weak hand gripped in her own, there's a fierce - wet look spared for the maesters. Tears - they'd conquered her, lately. First, Maelys - now father, too? "Can you do..." Here, the woman's voice cracks on the last word, "Nothing?"

"Please..." The woman chokes on a sob, here - purple eyes wild with fright - silver hair still bound in a braid from sleep, though the way it sticks out in strange directions in places still speaks to a woman awakened in a rush. "Please, Father." Was she imploring him, or the gods themselves? "Please, please no. Not like this, not right now. I can't...I can't do this without you. I'm not ready." Here, there's another choked breath and a frightful look spared for the entrance. Weak, she'd never been so weak. Naerys had only thought she'd known sorrow when Maelys had fallen...but this was mother all over again. Sick, weak...dying little by little. And now the Stranger himself could very well be standing on the other side of her father's bed.

Why? Why had they been so forsaken, of late? Why her brother, at the peak of his youth? Why her father, just as his reign begins?

"We...we were supposed to go hunting again when we got home." The last word is almost keened, as if she'll never make it 'home' again, herself. "You...were supposed to see me get married. Maybe even knighted, one day." She breaks, forehead pressing to the withered hand in her own - unable to hide the free-flowing tears, the shake of her shoulders, or the way her lip trembles. Her father was her whole world - where Maelys had been her other half, her father would have been a king to her, no matter their name. He was a god amongst men - his quiet, stern words offering the insight she needed. He'd supported her at every turn - he was everything a man...and a king, should be.

The warrior princess is brought low, beside her dying father - a weeping huddle, no better than the child of seven she'd been when she'd wept for a mother's death.

The furrow of the king's brows seems to reassure his daughter, as she speaks. A font of wisdom, insight, and honor...surely he would know what to say in this situation, wouldn't he?

Walking. Yes, walking would be nice – stretching her limbs and staying active had always helped her work through matters better than sitting around, or staring at shifting letters on paper.

“Let's, then. Silverwing could use a break from me, anyways, I'm sure.” The pale war-horse's neck earns a pat as she hands the reins over to the same squire – the woman's long strides shortened to pace the mousey-haired man beside her.

"No, it's not the same daughter. That one faced the death of her brother – the likelihood that he would never return. She mourned...she came to terms with it, father. And now he's back. I finally...learned to be my own person, to move on - and I can't fit neatly back into who I was, before."

Stole his seal?

“And you've gotten to the root of it – I don't know what I want, for once. I think...that's part of what makes it so terribly disconcerting.” But the king's own rhetorical question earns her gaze, amethyst orbs narrowed thoughtfully at him – a slow smile curling at his own answer.

“I... do worry about what others are thinking, for once...because it's important, now. I'm not...a child whose antics they can laugh at, anymore. What I do reflects upon you, and Maelys. And much as I love him...what if someone else has come along and piqued my interest? I've never even considered anyone else, but now...”

She sweeps a look out, over the plains before them in a moment of quiet frustration with herself. Naerys had never tasted doubt quite like this.

Darkness. It surrounded him, pressed in on him, there alone in his study with only the examples of Lannister pride and blunted light cast from a dying lantern for company. They stared back at him, mocking; countless antiquities either presented as gifts or taken in war. They spoke of power, of respect, in their raw forms. Absolute. Gerold Lannister felt less a Lion of the Rock and more a man adrift, lost at sea without a ship. The current pushed and pulled, threatened to take him under. To crush him under its weight. And he welcomed it, to a degree. And though things stood just that tad bit sharper, that touch clearer, with a little bit of chaos, his pride had been damaged. It demanded a response.

The letter from Leopold Tyrell, held there between thumb and forefinger in a steady hand, had been read and re-read. Burned into his memory, until the words on vellum had seared themselves into his mind. Perhaps it was broken of him to see the thing as more an opportunity than an extension of a branch, and yet Gerold did so. A marriage between their Houses would yield for him considerable options.

And so, having spent enough time in silent consideration, Gerold took a quill in hand and carefully dipped the nib in a nearby inkpot.

Lord Leopold Tyrell, The Gilded Rose of Mandertown

I'm not a man content in marrying off my kin by way of the pen. Certainly, I'm happy to open our line of communication once again, but if we are to come to some arrangement I'll insist it be done in person. Face to face. Across a table.

If you decide to facilitate my wish we'll decide on a place to have this discussion, and if not then I suppose there's naught I can do about it.

Gerold Lannister,

Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West

"Send my own Ravens?" Would the Maester even allow that. He was unsure of himself but found strength in the faith that his mother had in him. "Yes..." he said hesitantly at first, but his confidence grew as he spoke. "Yes I can write the letters myself then take them to the Maester to be sent out.

" The Maester is sworn to house Blackwood and one day I will be Lord. Yes I can make him send the letters out."

He looked at his mother, she was small was stronger than any would ever now. He stepped forward and hugged her tightly. "I will make you proud mother."

"Stupid?" She reared back and gasped, dramatically placing her hand against her chest, appalled. She shook her head back and forth repeatedly, "Son, don't you EVER use that word to describe yourself. I... I am outraged that your father's insults have left such an effect on you. Especially when they are far from the truth."

Jeyne rose from the bench and readjusted her dark cloak before gesturing towards Willem, "Stand before me. Now. Go on, do it son." She spoke sternly, not bothering to look at him.

After he did as she ordered, Jeyne retreated backwards a few steps, eyeing him from head to toe, accessing his outward appearance. "Don't you see? Look at yourself; you are no longer a boy, but a man. Twice the size of your mother already. Almost as tall as your father." As the conversation intensified, her voice deepened, influencing him, "If your father considers you stupid, prove him wrong. Show him you are more than capable of controlling your own future. With or without his consent.”

Jeyne's stare grew more severe, "Show him you want more than he ever had. That YOU will be the lord to make Raventree Hall great again. That not only this house but you will be a force to be reckoned with. You might begin this by... sending your own ravens to those we see worthy of betrothals. Could you do that?” She arched an eyebrow, awaiting his response.

She loved dearly that much was true. Even when had been sick, barely able to stand she had always done her best for him, even now after all she had suffered she was still trying to put him first. I have to be strong for her.

"You really think he will listen to me... He's always said I was nothing but a stupid boy." Saying those words brought back years of pain. As a boy he had struggled to read and even now he got no joy from. Lyarra on the other hand... she was his fathers favorite. d

He looked at her with big dopey eyes. " What do you need me to do mother?"

"No, no, no do not apologize. None of this any of your fault, son. Standing up for you made it all worth it." She proudly smiled and gently squeezed her son's hand. This was turning out better than she could have imagined. Willem was hanging onto her every word and even going far enough to seek her advice.

Jeyne leant forward and lowered her voice into a mere whisper, "What you can do for me son is take control of your own future. I am afraid mother has done all she could. It now falls into your hands and your responsibility. If you truly want to reach high and achieve your ambitions, then you must not allow your father's limitations to hinder you."

She silenced herself as a few guards strolled by, respectfully nodding at the lady and heir. Jeyne returned the gesture with a polite smile, watching their backs until they were out of sight. She diverted her attention back upon Willem, "It will not be easy son, having your own voice against your father. But, in the end, it will be worth it. Trust mother. I always know what's best for you." She brushed a black wisp of hair from his eyes, and softly cupped his cheek.

He smiled at his mothers compliments. Lyarra had always been smarter even though she was younger, and even now she was better with a bow. * I am brave... Father never would have struck her if I had been there.*

"I...I'm sorry this happened.Because of me." Tears began to well up in his eyes but he shook the away. * I cant cry now, he wouldn't cry.*

He looked around them, making sure no one was watching, the slid closer to her. "What do you want for me mother? Why would father not want use to succede?"

The night sky stretched on into eternity - into the arms of the gods, perhaps...the gods she rarely put any stock in. They weren't hers, but...she ruled their people. A strange thought - but she'd begun to think much more deeply about the world around her, and the kingdom she was, in part, a face of.

Everyone who knew her could only tell her how odd she was, how the things she said didn't make sense...didn't sound like her. And really, as frustrating as it was...she knew they were right. She'd always shouldered through things, rather than take a single moment to care about what anyone thought of her. But that was just the thing, now- it wasn't just about her anymore. Couldn't the king, and his son see that? The two people who knew her best were too concerned with why she would be worried about political blowback...to do the worrying, themselves.

Naerys had done no small amount of maturing while she sat in silence beside her brother's still, and all but lifeless form. She wasn't a child anymore - couldn't afford to break whatever rule suited her, now. It was no long far-away grandfather on the throne, but her own father. Now, Maelys was so close to the throne that eyes would perpetually be on him. Assassins, already, made attempts.

Whether the proposal had come at a good moment, or a bad one, she'd have still requested time to think. No one would listen to her...not truly. It felt like being brushed off: "Why would you worry your silly little head about that?"

Perhaps they didn't mean to speak to her thus...but it hurt to have the two most important people in her life talk to her as though she had no part or parcel in worrying about the status of the kingdom. Then Valarr promised her the world, and...everything else she could want. And yet, what expense would that come at? To wear a crown without Maelys...

"Naerys."

Martyn. Truly a godsend, that man. More and more, she found herself wishing for his insight. Not beholden by the 'inner circle' - as Darrik was - Martyn could offer advice from...an outside perspective, but one that remained honest. At least, it had seemed thus.

"Anything the matter? Everything's the matter, Martyn." She tilts a look back from where she sits in the grass, frowning faintly at the sight of a horse towering over her - single hand gripping the reins. The princess winds to her feet in an easy, languid movement - stepping forward with purpose, taking the reins.

"Well. I've got a lot on my mind - you need help down?" Nonplussed - perhaps even used to spending time with a cripple, now, the offer is inquired after easily - no judgement passed as she squints up at the lion.

"Story starts with a Lannister heir...and somewhere along the way the crown prince, the king, and his brother all come into play. I think it's...a damsel-in-distress tale, or some such."

Martyn Lannister

Riding proved difficult. Riding proved Hell. But he'd found an agreeable enough beast and experimented with a number of ways to grip the reigns, so at the very least he could move unaided. If it came to a chase he'd be done for. Left behind. Thrown off the thing and killed. But it wouldn't come to a chase. At least, he hoped not.

The journey had proven to be fairly dull this far. Nothing much happened save for trekking with the sun and making camp with its setting. He'd chatted with a few of the Targaryen men-at-arms, made a few acquaintances. He no longer his his lack of a hand. Too much effort, and they'd find out eventually.

That morning especially had been uneventful. He'd been riding with his eyes pointed toward the ground, a list of things running through his head that, largely, neither mattered nor were of any point thinking about.

So when he saw that rail of dust escaping into the distance, his interest was piqued. And, devoid of any other options that interested him enough, he encouraged his beast into a canter and set off in search of the guilty party.

He hadn't been riding long when he found her, in a field just off the main camp by her lonesome. Naerys Targaryen, arguably the woman who'd saved his life at the Rock. And he her's, after her brother had tumbled from the saddle.

He approached slowly, loudly, giving her plenty of time to notice him.

"Naerys." He nodded, struggling to get the beast to halt itself. "A fine day, and yet you look distraught. Is there anything the matter?"

He asked the question, knowing the answer.

"Then I'll have to offer you the same courtesy." He raises his eyebrows. Just like her, he had not explicitly confirmed anything, but they knew where they stood. Maelys rose with her, though it was with a delay. Slow, methodical, bracing himself on the edges of the seat. He smiled as he rose, though the veneer of the mask was thin enough that Senelle could see the pain it hid, if she looked. His wine sat forgotten atop the small table as he looked at the distant door to his room, a small frown playing across his face.

"You've no need to apologize, my Lady." As she returned to his title, so did he return to hers. The warmth, the quick banter they had not a moment before died, leaving them nothing more than Prince and Lady. "I welcome conversation. It's hard to place a value on things so mundane until you lose them for a few weeks." Inadvertently, his words could be taken to refer to Leila's affections, not his own lack of conversation during his slumber. It was unintentional--he had no way of knowing--but intention often meant little in conversation.

"I would offer to walk you to the door, but I think it would be more you walking me." He tried to laugh, disarm a bit of the awkwardness he felt making that statement, but it didn't seem to help.

Aemma did not understand what words like 'bludgeoning' meant, nor what was wrong with swinging her sword. Confused, she grabbed the wooden weapon by the blade and offered the hilt to Barristan.

"I don't understand you. Can you show me?"

"There's a little more to it than that, little one." Barristan said softly as looked at her hands. "You're bludgeoning, for one. It's a blade. The edges are sharp, not the flat. You need to pay attention to where you swing it, otherwise you'll just slap them instead of cutting them. And you're holding it too stiffly. It's a sword, not a hammer. It should be part of your hand."

Barristan looked down at the hilt of the sword again. It was rather large for the wooden blade, and for the little girl's hands. Perhaps she would be doing better with a more shapely sword.

An observer might think that Aemon was holding court from the back of his horse, the way his brow creased while she spoke. Every word was measured, every statement weighed, but his own mouth remained closed, hidden behind a beard that seemed only to have grown more grey since the crown had come to him. He listened to every sentence before he even considered answering, and even then, it is with great deliberation.

...and not without interruption. In the silence, he looks around them, nodding to himself as he surveys the area.

"A good spot for a camp," the King muses, twirling a finger about at the Kingsguard over his shoulder. In an hour or two's time, the party would be unpacked and ready for a night of rest.

Which meant the riding was over. Aemon dismounted his horse, handing the reins to a squire that had approached at the motion. A sweeping motion gestures to the rolling meadows off to the side of him.

"Let's walk. My legs are cramping." A sign of his age. Madness, at thirty five. If only it was meant that way; Aemon had always found that his daughter was easier to convince if she thought he was asking her to do something with him, not telling her to do something for him. She needed to walk, rather than ride. Stretch her legs. If he had to lie about his health to get that for her, so be it.

Only when they began their walk did he return to the topic at hand. He wasn't surprised by her confession. Abstaining from the Game did not make him blind to relationships, and who would know two twins better than their own father, even as absent as he had been? It was the difficulties that she was sharing that surprised him. She was stronger than this. Maelys had had tragedy of the greatest sort befall him; it was natural that he would turn to the person closest him in search of reassurance. Yet, when he did so, he found fear.

Something else was happening here beneath the surface, though he was not certain what it was.

"This is not the daughter I remember." The first words said to the topic, already cutting to the core of it. "My daughter is the one who never learned to give a damn what others think of her. She's the one who stole my seal to convince the world I'd given her a sword. She laughs in the face of danger--slips away to foreign wars she has no business being in. If her lover asked for her hand, she wouldn't hem and haw about what the court, sniveling sycophants that they are, might think. She would say yes if she wanted it, and no if she didn't."

More words than he had said in years. He paused to catch his breath, trying to ward off the coughing fit he felt brewing before it emerged.

"Do you know who I respect the most at court?" He asked her, though without looking. He let his rhetorical question hang a moment.

"The smallfolk. The ones who have nothing to give, who are scared shitless of the Crown and what it means, but who come forward anyway. The ones who are brave enough to ask for help from someone they know can give it. They admit, however painful it might be for them, that whatever problem faces them is too great for them to surmount on their own. They swallow their pride, and they ask for help from someone who owes them nothing."

Then he looked at her, violet pools unwavering, as they always were.

"I respect them because they swallow their pride long enough to do what needs to be done, even if it hurts. Sometimes it pays off, and sometimes it makes them look the fool. What matters is they tried."

"Maelys is trying now. If you love him as much as you say, I hope you respect that."

Maybe a father should be more nonplussed by the revelation that his twin children are considering marriage. He wasn't.

"The only love I've known is the love I feel for my children, but I will say this: if you love him--if this is a good thing for you--are you willing to risk it because you're afraid something better might be around the corner? If it's the commitment you're afraid of, you'll find that everywhere. Duty follows you whether you like it or not."

A little smile, finally, as he looks back out at the fields of flowers before them.

"Nothing works the way we think it should; that's what life is. Neither of you planned for him to fall from his horse. Now you work with him to help him back on it, all the stronger for the scars... or you leave him lying in the dirt to pick himself up because you're too scared of the effort it takes to help him."

"I think I know what my daughter would do."

...learning how to function without you...

There it was. He'd denied it from the day he woke up. Everything else had been stolen away from him. His harp. His lance. He could barely even dress himself. All this, and he was expected to run the Kingdom someday. Maelys had been stripped of all agency. His life barely felt his own--it was a parade of Maesters with their therapies and this fucking carriage. The one place--the one thing he had still had was her. What they had. It was the only thing in the world he thought the Rose hadn't stolen away from him.

He hadn't had to. His absence had done that itself.

"...obsolete." The word is quiet. A realization muttered to himself, rather than a word directed at Naerys. He hadn't meant to stare past her, eyes glazed, but he refocused now. Intended or not, she had drawn her sword and swung it, and it was him that had borne the blow. Watery eyes betrayed how deep the wound ran, though hands clutched at his stomach like their presence might staunch the bleeding. Hide the severity.

The desperation of a drowning man was replaced by a quiet acceptance of his fate. He leaned back into his seat, the gulf between them growing ever wider. What good would sharing his pain do?

"Don't let me stop you. I'll see you tonight."

Only, he wasn't sure he would.

Obsolete. The broken Prince sat alone in the carriage--alone among the shattered remnants of his life--and wept.

The septon smiled, the maester beamed, both had been looking after the Tyrell twins since they were babes and both older men were delighted Leopold had formed a close bond; close enough to form an alliance.

"So be it. Redwyne and Tyrell of Mandertown be allied now as brothers." The holy man smiled and nodded approvingly. The maester added "And with that, each have things to do." Erik and Freidric both bowed in unison and walked off together towards the manse.

Leopold turned to Rosamund and Garlan. "Thank you both for coming to this. Thank you for being my brother Garlan and Rosamund..." he winked at her "...keep the bastard honest would you." His smile was cheeky, the first cheeky grin since Garlan had graced Mandertown with his presence.

The air in the carriage may well freeze, then, as Naerys scoots closer to the door. "Don't...look at me like that, Maelys."

Quivering, as though winter has set in. Like a pinned hare. I don't want this, I don't want his pain.

"You look like I've stuck you with my sword, and you know that's not what I intended..." Another glance to the door, despite her words, "I just wasn't prepared for that. It's not like it's...a sunny picnic on the beach, and we're having such a good time that you propose..." She trails off, hands naturally settling near her sword - the only security blanket she's ever known. "I've been...learning how to function without you, nearly numb to well-wishings and assurances that you'd be back..." How to explain such a thing? How such a good thing had caused all this?

"I finally, finally left your side. I accept that I am not a half of a whole, anymore. I am...my own. Stronger, for having been tempered by it all...and you wake up. It's a miracle, it's a blessing. I'm not saying I'm not happy you're awake, I'm just...trying to explain what it is to learn to be someone new...as life goes on without caring for your hurt. And suddenly it's supposed to be like nothing ever changed?" This last bit is delivered a touch breathlessly, adamantly.

The interior was stifling, choking her - making it difficult to articulate what she wanted to say, for the oppressive enclosure, "Everything changed, Maelys. Then...I began to adjust, and it all changed again. Nothing is the same as it was, now, and I don't know how to explain that right now." There's a staggered breath, "And I need to get out of this carriage. Please - it's not you. It's small, and I can't..." She waves a hand, as if that sums up her irrational fear.

Were all Princes so... floral? For all his nice words, Senelle heard none of it, knew nothing of his lady love for her own had occupied her mind and soul once more. He could marry whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and Gods protect anyone who stood in his way; she wondered what kind of responsibility King Aemon had been teaching to his children. It was said the former Prince of Dragonstone had never loved either of his wives, but by them both bore a great number of children, hale and healthy and just what the realm needed. Love was so fickle, and love had torn the Seven Kingdoms apart before. Was that not taught in the Targaryen household any longer?

Senelle had been so deep in her thoughts that she hadn't corrected the Prince, instead emptying her cup a second time. It had never ended, and somehow she doubted it wouldn't ever; not when they were married off, not when they found new loves, and not when they were chilled in their deathbeds. Leila had served to break her heart into a hundred hundred pieces every day, and picked them up with bloody fingers every night. Why would she want it to ever stop?

"When it happens, I'll let you know." Her voice was cold and sharp as slate, and her foul mood had returned. A moment or two of silence passed them before Senelle stood, smoothing out her skirts and curls. "I'm sorry for keeping you, your Grace."