【CLOSER, CLOSER】

AND WHERE HAD THOSE BARRIERS GONE? Genavene wondered as she recalled the memory of how this... whatever it was, began.

With her chin propping her head up onto Vaelor's steadily rising chest, she observed his face, which was painted in shades of an easy calm. I wonder what I look like when I'm sleeping? It couldn't have been calm- not Vaelor's calm anyway. If calm had ever been a companion to her, she couldn't remember it, rather calm was to her, like that of a fair-weather friend, always making her question, 'when?'.

She had to get up. Too many things were happening today, and if she wanted to get through it without hassle, she had to leave this absurdly comfortable bed that had made room for her for the past five moons.

Her eyes wandered to the window, dotted with stars of the Seven. The sun hadn't yet risen, but it would soon. It always rose too soon when she was resting here.

A sigh left her as she rolled away from Vaelor's sleeping form, dragging the covers with her, even though unlike Vaelor, she had had the sense to retrieve her clothes from the previous night. She wasn't shivering, she didn't need it, and she wasn't trying to wake him, but for some reason unknown to her, the covers that she cloaked herself in comforted her.

As she stepped on the unforgivably frigid stone floor, she glanced over towards the now unlit fireplace- he must have put it out when I fell asleep- where the night had begun. His shirt laid dangerously close to the fireplace, how it hadn't burned in the night, she didn't know.

Genavene didn't have to walk past the two pillars that welcomed her into the small study that centered the room, she didn't have to then walk past the other set of pillars that led to the tiny sitting area, where the fireplace rested, she didn't have to grab the shirt and his breeches. She could've let him freeze in the early morning. It wouldn't kill him. But, that was needless cruelty.

Would she have done it for any other man? No. But that meant nothing, and either way she had good reason. He'd always been tender with her. Simple as that. Whatever they were, it was nothing more than her other... dalliances? Can I even call it that?

The fabric of his shirt was soft, cotton of some ridiculously refined kind, she supposed. Almost like the feel of a petal. A singular petal. It did marvelous for masking the truth, that Vaelor felt like a field of flowers- at least most of him did, his hands did not. His hands were more akin to rough stone, calloused and worn.

The sound of someone pawing against sheets, that familiar sensation of fabric rubbing against fabric caught her notice, she looked over her shoulder to see Vaelor, patting at her- no, this was his room, it was still his- pillow, his eyes still closed with his brows furrowed together in what made for a rather endearing portrait of confusion.

He didn't even seem to care that she'd stolen away the covers.

She couldn't lie to herself, a grin had curled over her lips at the sight, pathetic as it was.

The bed creaked as the half-asleep prince sat up in bed, and finally rubbed what remained of his exhaustion from his eyes. "Vena?" He called out, voice echoing off the stones. "Vena?"

Poor oaf, she thought, poor, blind oaf.

Vaelor didn't manage to spot Genavene for a few more seconds, and she didn't bother to help him. Seven Hells, she was standing in the center of the room, if he couldn't see her-

"Vena." The tired rasp in his voice softened as he finally caught sight of her. "I thought you'd gone."

What reason did he have to think that? She never left before sunrise. Never. The first time she nearly had, but he'd woken and told her she could stay, and so she had. She had, and she continued to stay.

"Your clothes." She said, approaching the bed before throwing both his shirt and breeches at him, one-handed, the other hand still busy holding the covers of his bed to her.

The clothes smacked him in the face, and a laugh slipped off her tongue. As they plopped onto the bed, he looked up at her, his brows knitting together, looking her over. "Are you cold?"

Am I cold? She nearly scoffed. If anyone was cold, it was him! He was the naked one, the one without an absurdly thick blanket to wrap around him! How are you not worrying about yourself!

But instead of yelling at him or questioning him, Genavene did something she didn't manage often, to be pleasant. "I'm perfectly fine, are you?"

"You're wearing a very thick blanket." He noted, ignoring her question. He looked her over again, focusing on the blanket, "It suits you."

Seven above, she swore silently as her eyebrows furrowed and she tried not to throw a hand upon her face, though she did sigh quietly in annoyance. "What?"

"Red. It suits you." He answered softly, his eyes flicking up to hers, "Matches your hair."

The hair you raked your hands through last night?

Again, she sighed, and she returned the covers to Vaelor, "Yes, well, I prefer green." She remarked, crossing her arms over her chest as a draft wandered through the room. She could feel the skirt of her nightgown nipping at her ankles.

There was a silence then, as she stood there, with only the cold to hold her. It wasn't anything discomforting, not to her at least. In fact, it was something she rather admired about this one, Vaelor. Silence with him wasn't as discomforting as it was with others. It wasn't like suffocating in a room full of people speaking, but you alone stood in the middle of it all with no one to talk to, no, this was just silence.

It was similar to calmness for her, in a way. It was only a matter of 'when' it might be broken. Because doubtless, it would. And when eventually it was by Vaelor pulling his shirt over his head, his already mussed hair becoming even more ruffled, the silence slipped away into nothing, as it always had been. There and gone.

"Do you want me to get your robe?" Vaelor asked, his eyes meeting her's briefly, before glancing around the room, already searching for the damned thing.

Genavene was the one standing, meanwhile he was still sitting on the bed, half-dressed. Wouldn't it just be more trouble for him? Either way, she was fine. A little frigid air never hurt anyone, even if on occasion she herself happened to be fairly dramatic about it.

Vaelor looked down, attempting to tie the laces securing the neck of his shirt with shaky hands. It's the tournament. She supposed. Vaelor Targaryen was no knight, yet he was participating in this godsforsaken tournament to celebrate the heir. The heir that doesn't yet breathe. She still couldn't fathom why he agreed to be a part of it when as far as she knew, he hadn't even practiced on a tiltyard before, and would begin shuddering the minute he was off the ground.

Seeing him try and fail to secure something so simple as a tie was pitiful, and so Genavene leaned forward, tugging the laces from him. "I don't need mothering." She muttered as she, without even looking at the laces, but gazing upon Vaelor, who was staring at her with parted lips, tied the strings. Not into a bow, she never seemed to manage that, but it would do for now. It wasn't like anyone other than her would be seeing it anyway.

He smiled gently, how she hated that smile. It made her feel like he was actually worth something, just as it made herself feel like she was worth something. That they both deserved more than they allowed themselves.

She handed him his breeches without a word, and for some unthinkable reason, as he put them on, she looked down. It wasn't anything she hadn't seen before. But she looked away anyway, as if it actually mattered somehow to see him that way.

"I believe it would be worrisome if I were your mother." His hands went to his knees as he stood up, again, his gaze scanned the room, before fixing upon a chair of crimson cloth, draped over by an emerald robe of- from Genavene's experience- far kinder fabric.

Turning to face where he ventured, her hands fell to her hips, and she offered, "Fathering, then."

As he retrieved her robe from the chair, he looked over his shoulder at her, brows knitted together, "Even worse."

The words dripped with the ichor of exasperation, and in those two, simple words, she also heard the silent, reprehensible question, 'why would you compare me to your father?'

And in her mind, she answered, isn't that who everyone is behind the curtain of decency? Wasn't everyone wanting for something more than they could have?

The King wanted a son, and so he fooled himself into believing he would have one. Not could, but would. He thought it to be a certainty.

Her father desired the realm to be under his thumb, and so he schemed, he betrayed, he outsmarted. Piece by piece, trial by trial. Her father would undermine the King himself if it were not the King's own favor keeping her father in power.

Her father, who was nothing but a second son of a vassal house. An old house. Everything compared to the Tyrells in lineage and history. But still, a vassal. Like the Tyrell's, her father needed to weave his vines of gilded thorns around those who could provide him what he wanted.

But he could not sit the throne, not now, and Genavene, in what little, childish foolishness still remained trapped within her, prayed to the Seven, that he never would. Because she knew her father, she knew him well.

And what did Vaelor want? At first, when this had all begun, she figured, some whore, as all men who feel powerless do. The few good men she'd known were always beasts by the end of things, and so it was only natural for her to guess, he is just like the others.

Yet, as the days passed, the weeks drew to a close, and moons overtook them, he still made her question it, even now, as his hands hovered over her shoulders, the smooth fabric of her robe barely a breath's inch away, hanging there in his hands.

The warmth was like a murmur, something there, just barely, if only she searched for it, and she had, without realizing. She had sought it, from somewhere deep inside, a thief, as she always had been.

Without being told, she moved her arms into the sleeves, Vaelor helped guide it along, ever the adventurer. His breath skimmed against the shell of her ear, a chill traveled up her spine, though she was encircled in this comfortable heat, she felt so frozen, she felt like a statue, standing there, forced into place. A place she had put herself in.

The world around her was trembling and she didn't know why.

And when his hands wrapped around her waist- "What are you doing?" Genavene's gaze held firm over her shoulder, she didn't hear the words as they left her, just knew they'd been said. His hands hovered, not on her, but not away from her either. They laid in the perfect balance of what could remain comfortable bliss or fracture into terror, and that felt too fragile to ignore.

Vaelor wouldn't hurt me. She knew that. That was one of the few sureties of it all. If he ever hurt her, it wouldn't be intentional. Perhaps, that was why she couldn't trust him, even still. He cared too easily, he was too foolish for the likes of herself, he was too good.

The ribbon of her robe rested between his fingers, "Returning the favor." He muttered, using that tense tone she'd grown to learn he always used when he was focused on something. She stiffened. There was always that uneasiness, even in the gentle. Again, the question of 'when?' bloomed in her mind. When will this end? Because it would. Affairs like this always did. Whether terribly or otherwise.

Always she disappeared from their lives, evaporating into nothing. She became the ghost, wandering the halls of their minds, haunting the men. They ignored her, yes. Pretended that it had no effect. Pretended that it never mattered, because it never did. Yet there was always that same, incessant wanting, and always they would come back to that desperate place, and always with someone new.

Genavene already knew she'd spent too long with Vaelor. But warmth still emanated from his flesh, as it did his words. How he could weave entire legacies from a page with his words, whereas if she attempted to read something from a page, the words swirled into a mess of soup, and she ended up with her mind a puddle of misery, just because she tried. He didn't even have to try.

Of course he didn't. He was a prince. A spoiled, little, whiny, begging, prince.

But he's not any of those things, is he? No, no he wasn't at all. But he was still a prince. He was still a Targaryen, even if he balked to ride on dragonback. He was still another man. Just another man.

As he tied the ribbon of her robe, quiet words brushed past the shell of her ear, "Are you leaving?"

"Yes." She replied, trying to find some sense. Some sense to this, this utter insanity. She felt his fingers working gently on the ribbon, kindly, kindly, she pondered if it was all he knew.

"It's early." He said as the first loop of the bow was formed. He drew a breath, because of course forming a bow was strenuous work compared to the night before.

The second loop formed, then the tie, the assurance that it would stay, unlike so many other things. "I know." I know. She told herself, she knew, because she did, she had to.

It was early and she was an early bird, so she attempted as those of her kind ought, she tried to fly away from it all. To escape. Because if night were to fall once again, no sooner would she perish.

When the bow was good and made, Vaelor's hands paused, again hovering. Just the bare breath there. Then, he pulled them away, as if they had done nothing at all and had never once even made a notion towards her.

However, they remained like trees rooted to their places. Just there. Simply there. In the space of the other. "Would I be a complete idiot to ask for your favor during the tourney?" She heard Vaelor ask, and for a fraction of a second, Genavene thought she'd heard hope bleeding into his voice.

What is this? She swallowed. "What would my father think?" She questioned in reply, stepping forward, and then turning around so sharply, you could hear the glide of her slipper against the floor like a knife on stone. Nothing. This is nothing.

His brows raised, eyelids fluttering. His lips parted, a scant breath leaving him, and Genavene never thought she'd seen a man look so pathetic. "I'll-'' He paused, clearing his throat, "I'll ask for Lady Redwyne's." He remarked, and she noticed him attempting to pull at his lips, trying to fixture a smile upon his face, but it fell before it even had time to manifest.

Maybe he would've been able to make a great joke of it if he were more of a fool.

Instead, he sighed as he planted himself down on the edge of his bed, hands pressed firmly to his knees. "Today's going to be a day, isn't it?" She could hear him mutter, face leaning towards the floor, glaring at it like it were some beast ready to eat him alive. He'd be so lucky.

Vaelor was a dragon terrified of heights and he was going to be participating in a tournament of all things. What will kill him first? Genavene thought, the nervousness or the horse? She didn't care to think about whoever he'd face on the tiltyard, he probably wouldn't even make it out there.

"You're worried about the tourney?" She questioned, stepping toward him. She could offer him that comfort still, some vague closeness. Nothing like when the night cloaks them, where their touch became such nature to them, they almost became each other's world. This closeness was easy, but in truth hardly a comfort at all.

"No." He croaked out, looking up at Genavene, "I'm worried about Aemma." He didn't bother to use her title. "How much more heartache can she take? I don't understand how my brother thinks he can." For some reason that felt like it had a double meaning and she didn't know what it was, nor why. "What of Aemma? What of her feelings?" He let out a shudder. Genavene at least knew what that meant. Vaelor had been there to see every one of the Queen's babes but Rhaenyra die before their time. He'd bared witness to the pain, the wailing, all of it. This would be the first time he'd be free of the Keep as she labored. "She is the bearer, shouldn't she have more of a say?"

She drew a breath, glancing to the window where the foreboding shadow of the sun began to loom, the light painting the sky a pinkish hue. "A bold statement." She noted, her eyes flitting back to him as she tilted her head, "Some might say treasonous."

A dry laugh poured from him, "I've already committed treason with the Hand's daughter." scarce regret stained his tongue. He sounded almost parched.

An echo casted along the floor with each step Genavene took, daring to draw nearer, if only for a tease. "And she's committed treason with you."

They were two souls unalike, but at least this they could admit bonded them. Though Vaelor didn't originally have the knack of treacherous nature, Genavene did. She feared some of it had seeped into him, a bitter poison.

She continued to approach, despite her earlier apprehension, as she did so, his head raised so that he could meet her eyes. "To be fair, I was the imbecile who fell for it."

Genavene did the courtesy of leaning so that he didn't have to strain his neck. "To be fair, I took a page out of your aunt's book." She noted. Viserra's to be exact. Genavene's favorite of the Targaryens, only second in her heart to Saera, naturally. Who would deny a cold woman a warm bed? Apparently Vaelor. The first few times.

First he'd given her a blanket and allowed her to sleep, second he fashioned a robe for her, and again let her sleep, the third time, the third time was the charmed one.

"I was still the imbecile." He implored, pausing to gulp as her hands found their way to his knees, hands clasping over his, "I still am."

A smile beamed across her lips. Gods, I'm nearly as proud as a Lannister. She chuckled, warm by the fire before her, "I'm glad I can make such an intelligent man feel like a fool."

Genavene's nose brushed against his, Vaelor met it with a small nudge. Affectionate, that was all. But affection could so easily be twisted with desire, with lust.

Vaelor shook his head, remarking, "You don't think I'm intelligent."

Again, she could feel his breath on her skin, but this time, most importantly, it fell upon her lips. His air, from his lips, floating down upon her's. She wouldn't linger in that smoke, she wouldn't let it cloud her mind.

"You're right." She said as she quickly stood upright, her hands leaving him, in fact, to ensure she wouldn't touch him again, she forced her hands together in what she hoped he wouldn't notice was a vice-grip. "But you're interesting, I admit."

"I'm honored to entertain you." He replied, voice now sounding like a fraying thread, some mixture of confusion, desperation and something else coming undone as it slips past his lips. "I suppose you'll be leaving, then?" His gaze caught her and a strand of hair fell in his face. She resisted tucking it back into place.

"As always, my prince." There it was, that slip back into formality. That tiny, miniscule thing that shouldn't have mattered, but it did, because without it, there was no certainty to what they were. Nothing. Before the formality, there was that question of 'what?' with the formality, there was stability, even if it meant there were barriers.

For Genavene, those barriers meant safety. Those barriers were what comforted her, because those barriers meant that she didn't have to care, and she swore she didn't.

Genavene Hightower could care less for Vaelor Targaryen. That was just the way of things.