【PROLOGUE, vaelor.】

IT WAS NOT EVERY DAY A PRINCE WAS THROWN OFF HIS FEET BY A DRUNKEN LADY, often, Vaelor was the one tossing a woman off her footing. Not for any good and fair reason, nor even a salacious one, but simply because he could not find right-or-left when it came to the noble and archaic art that was dancing.

He, who—though Viserys would never allow him, for it would give the stonemasons no cause for work—could mold the entirety of Old Valyria from clay, he who could sew a dream into reality, or fashion a poem off the wilted petal of a rose, he who was so learned of art by the hand, that he had completely forgotten the artwork made by that of the feet.

As he sat on the cold stony floor of the Red Keep's great hall as fellow noblemen and ladies, his niece, brothers, and good-sister, stared his, Lady Redwyne's, and the supposed Interloper's way, his brows furrowed at the thought—how curious it is that one can be so utterly perfect in one instance, yet so terribly ignorant in another.

That was when he realized who it was that had made him fall before the entirety of the court. A lady well-known to court, for she had been there nearly a decade, yet one who had not been seen at court function in the past few moons—according to what Aemma had told him.

In truth, Vaelor had not taken much notice in the comings-and-goings of court; he hardly ever crept down from his tower for festivities, like those that took place that starless night. He had not intended to be summoned to the sullen affair—another celebration for an heir, who many whispered would never arrive.

Vaelor did not like the sound of murmurs, they haunted him on nights like this, when the world grew loud, and he only wished to be left alone by the spirits in the bleak black, but they kept coming—chasing after him, only relieving him of their claws once morning broke through the sky.

Yet, his dislike of those mumbled words that never seemed to reach his brother's ears were one's he himself, in all his fading optimism began to think true.

It had been at Aemma's urging he attended, he appeared at that celebration for her and no one else. She needed a friend, and he found himself the only one who understood that need.

As he was in attendance, so was Matthos Vayne, his greatest friend, his sole companion, and the one who got him into this mess in the first place, with wine spilling down his crimson doublet, bleeding through onto the fabric beneath, as Lady Redwyne wailed at the impropriety of the Hand's daughter, who had moments before barreled into the pair. Were it not for his darling friend's "encouragement" he would not be dancing with the elderly matriarch of House Redwyne, and instead would be at Aemma's side where he knew himself to be most needed.

The Hand's daughter, Lady Genavene—at least I can recall her name—had stood there a few moments, towering over him where he remained stuck to the floor. Droplets of wine stained the front of her emerald kirtle as it did his doublet. He supposed himself fortunate, the wine suited his garb unlike hers. Golden candlelight glinted along the flaming curls of her hair, her parted lips were trembling, and there, there was a second where a thought flickered in his rather-dull-at-present mind, is she alright?

Having a reason, he gathered the strength to stand, doing so with a groan—how long had his backside been rooted to the floor? His gaze flickered to the lady in emerald, and he tentatively reached out for her. He did not know why he sought out her touch, only that his cheeks were warm and head spinning. One could suppose it most likely from the fall he had taken, or... mayhaps it was like the stories he grew up reading, except instead of a lady's breath being caught in her lungs at the sight of a man on his knees, it was him undone by a lady standing.

The thought rushed away from him as he stepped forward, he had to make certain she was alright. Lady Redwyne kept on wailing, but her voice was muffled, the world growing silent as he grew nearer to the Hand's trembling daughter.

Before Vaelor could make his inquiry, Daemon materialized from the mass of blurred figures crowding the center of the floor, he bore the ghost of an ever-present smirk on his face and the gait of a man who thought himself deserving of everything.

His brother's pale hand grazed beneath the plumed sleeve of Lady Genavene's sullied dress, and it was then that the lady, once blinking into nothing like a lost doe, seized her wrist from his grasp. "Let me go!" She shouted, loud enough to echo on and on as she raced from the room, tearing at her garments.

She's not alright. He frowned, was it his fault? Maybe he should have merely taken Matthos's japes and stayed far from the floor of dancers. Had he not been in her way, she would have been fine. He nodded once, a second time, and then bid his farewells to Lady Redwyne before taking leave of the room. He had to make this right.

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Vaelor followed the sound of rustled clothing down the staircase into a shadowy corridor, where the only light that glimpsed through the thin, curved windows was that of pale stars. Along the tiled stones he discovered the remnants of a torn sleeve, gently speckled with crimson wine, then a stomacher with three great splotches of the same color, and then another sleeve, the seams fraying. All of these things he folded over his arm, keeping them safe for the lady in the event she regretted her choice.

All the while, Lady Genavene remained a misty figure ahead in the dark, getting farther and farther away, her footfalls softening to the sound of a rock hopping along water. To not lose sight of her, he began to stride toward her—not run, for he always seemed to grow flushed and wheezy when he ran, his heart hammering to the point its thumping reached his ears, so fervently he could not fixture any other sound but his heart pounding and breath coming out short.

Another corner was turned, the arched opening to the Godswood offering a glimpse of gentle moonlight. "My lady," Vaelor gasped out, as his free hand grasped at his chest. Gods be good, this may be my end! "my lady, please." Please do not run, I will keel over.

It might be a pleasant end—dying before a pretty lady—but still an end, and either way he did not believe it would be so kind to the lady, dying in front of her and leaving her with the memory. Perhaps she would blame herself for his death as he did with the wine she had spilt. He frowned, but his eyes did not leave her, lest she vanish from his sight forever.

Fiery curls, dampened by the darkness fell over her shoulder as she turned to gaze at him, eyes not-so-sharp, but just pointed enough to drive into his very soul. They glimmered, and he could not help feeling his heart—which had not slowed since he had stopped walking—clench. "What do you want?" She asked, her voice almost ghostly in its coldness.

His mind was rambling on and on, and he could not stop staring into her, even if she grew blurred as his thoughts flew by, what to say, what to say. It seemed so plain, yet the words were so far from his tongue. I want to help. Yet the words felt too ordinary, not enough, but they were bare and true, unornamented and unhidden, as he would eventually reply in a voice so quiet he only hoped she heard him, "Would you like some help with your dress?"

What he wanted was of little consequence as he found himself wanting for nothing in the moment, and even if he were, was it even worth speaking?

She turned to face him as a strap from her half-open kirtle slipped from her shoulder, she shook her head, perhaps in disbelief before repeating as she folded her arms, "What do you want?"

It felt cruel to laugh following the embarrassing situation that had proceeded, but the smallest of one slipped past Vaelor's lips, "Must I want for anything but to offer my apology?" it seemed almost doltish to imagine he could want for anything else.

A trinket around her throat caught in the soft light, as she chuckled, much louder than he. What erupted from her throat was more suitable for one boasting, "Oh, so you are a sweetheart?" she drawled, voice teasing and sweet and so hypnotic he could not tell whether or not she was laughing at him or merely laughing for the sake of the effect.

Then she took a step and suddenly she was falling. Never one to wish a lady harm, he reached for her, closing the distance as he caught her, her giggles now a hollow echo. She was warm, and he was cold, so very cold, a chill had seeped into his bones years ago and he had never rid himself of it, but she was warm.

She was all the fire he had never held.

"Are you alright?" He asked softly, palm hovering over her head, where it laid crooked beneath his chin. His eyes darted around for a moment before he went further, "I can send for someone to help you to your chambers?" or he could help her himself if she did not wish to risk talk, but he left that notion silent.

Her hands grazed his chest as she pushed herself away from him, "I'm as bright as a daisy." she replied all too easily, words languid, somehow elegant in their slurred laziness. "You-" She poked the dragon pin latched to his doublet, "you wanted to help me with my dress?"

She smiled, and oh, how a chill went up his spine as her lips curled. "Your dress?" His brows creased before he swallowed, blinking, "Yes. Forgive me-"

"Another apology from a prince?" Again, she was cackling, and again, he could not tell at whose expense, although this time her words carried a hint of mocking in their enunciation. "How unfortunate I must be!"

Lifting his arm that carried her discarded garments, he cleared his throat, "If you would not like my help," he tipped his head to her partially unpinned kirtle, "would you like these, or should I have them returned to you on the morrow?"

"Did I say I did not want your help?" She asked, raising a brow. Before he could respond, she shook her head and continued, "No, I do not believe I did."

"Well then," His throat seemed to liken itself to a Dornish desert in Lady Genavene's presence, and as such he paused to clear his throat once more, "how can I be of service?"

Her eyes fell to her kirtle, fingers lingering on the edge of the pale-lit silk, "Help me out of this," there came a small tilt to her lips as she lifted her eyes to peer at him, "would you?"

It was hardly proper, but seeing as she had torn away her stomacher and sleeves, and it was somewhat wetted by wine, he may as well, but not without precaution, he thought, glancing about for any shadowy figures that tarried in the near-darkness, whether real or mere tricks of the mind.

When he uncovered nothing but the wind, moon, and stars, he set upon his task, gingerly plucking at the pins that held her kirtle in place. "Have you done this for anyone else, my prince?" The lady asked with a voice of smooth amber.

His cheeks flushed, fingers quickening in their movement, "No, my lady." he replied swiftly, ever-quiet. The last pin glided from its place, lucent beneath the moon's gaze. The tiny metal thorn pricked him as her kirtle fell open, easing off her shoulders as she rolled them with a sigh.

Vaelor pressed his ring finger to his thumb, trying to stem the speckling of blood dribbling out. Meanwhile, Lady Genavene remarked as she drifted on her feet, "Nearly free. Would you like to help me with my other clothes?" her hands ventured to her hips.

Her other clothes? His mouth dropped open, "I do not think that is..." he wanted to say proper but propriety had been tossed out the window the moment he followed her down a blackened hall, gathering her soiled clothes, found her, and unpinned her from her kirtle.

Turning his face to the ceiling, he prayed to the Old Gods, the New, those once worshipped in the Valyrian Freehold—he called upon all the Gods he could, even Boash who had not been worshipped in millennia. There is a rot growing in my mind, please let me go.

Then, he beckoned her to turn, waiting for her to draw aside her curls. When she did, he went to his work, ever a diligent servant to this lady, who was not his, who would never be his, yet still he played her slave, for what else was there to do when one had defied expectation, when one had been befuddled and weary, when there was something in his heart, crawling, clawing, it scratched at his soul. He had bled for her, when her pin had pricked him. The sharp little things remained kept in his grasp, for where else could they go?

Where else could he go but this moment?

The corset went with a flop against the floor, his hands hovered at her waist near the ties keeping her underskirts in place, "Would you like me to free you of these?" He asked gently, silently inquiring the divine of a similar question, Could the Gods free my heart?

Genavene nodded, it was so subtle he would have missed it were he not waiting at her side. It was so imperceptible, he had to be sure. "Can you tell me?"

They were so close that when she turned to regard him, their noses brushed. When had I grown so near? Had it been when he freed her from her corset, or after, maybe before? He began to muddle out, "I am-"

"You may." She spoke with another little, almost indiscernible nod.

Sorry.

His heart did not stop stuttering after that, nor did he.

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It is hardly ever the intention of a prince like Vaelor to undress a lady beneath a moonlit sky, in a frigid hall, where anyone could bear witness and proclaim the act worthy of the court's gossip-mongers. For a man like Vaelor, it is never the intention, nor preferred method of getting to know a lady. Albeit, he did not know many ladies besides those in his family, and he had a subtle suspicion that were he to approach any other lady in a similar position, they would strike him hard across the face, propriety be damned.

However, that is not what occurred with Lady Genavene. No, once she was relieved of all but her shift, smallclothes, stockings, and a tiny, golden, seven-pointed-star that hung around her neck, she had let him accompany her back to her rooms, gave him her sodden clothes and whispered that he, "Leave them to the flames." and in return, he gave her his doublet.

He recalled how her hands had clutched the ruined thing, her brows furrowing together. It was not until a slight frown overcame the tense curiosity of her lips that he reasoned, "For warmth."
Gazing at him, she muttered, "Oh, I see." and then she had called for her handmaiden and shut the door in his face.

It had blown against him like an unintended insult—giving her that doublet. She had all the comforts afforded to her with her place as the Hand's eldest daughter, and he was a prince he did not need to rectify anything. Even so, there was still that biting need to make amends of this madness, yet all he could think of was to give her a doublet ravaged by the wine she had spilt, a mirror to her gown.

I would have been better doing that. He thought now, sitting at his desk, a needle held tight between his fingers, glinting in the dimming candlelight. My shirt was not as thick, but it was not stained, either.

It was a lapse in judgement that he had given her the crimson garb, and he would make up for it. He would fashion her a gown fit to the tastes of a queen, if that is what it took to be pardoned for his own foolishness.

Matthos, his greatest friend and the individual who had thrust him forth into the wrinkled hands of Lady Redwyne, causing this entire affair, coughed. It was the sole sound to fill the tower of his bedchamber.

"Do you like this Lady Genavene?" Matthos queried.

Vaelor's eyes briefly glanced over his friend, whose head was tilted in a way that made his curls droop sideways, a sliver of a smile had drawn on his face. His arms were crossed, he stood firm on the stones. How can he stand like that? He was a vassal to a vassal, Vaelor was a prince, and he could not stand without his knees trembling.

"I helped her to her rooms." Vaelor muttered, cheeks warm as he squinted his eyes, threading gold through a field of emerald. "That is all."

Mirth clung to his friend's laughter, flowing through it like gold, "But she was fair?" again, Vaelor looked up at him as Matthos popped a grape into his mouth, then held out the bowl to Vaelor, "Like yours truly?"

With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, Vaelor returned to his task. "Your pride will be the death of you."

Matthos gave a shrug, "Twas the undoing of my wife, but..." he fell silent, as his eyes fell to the floor. His head rose, his mouth opened, then down again it went, and he stood there for a few moments repeating those motions, head rising, mouth opening, head down, mouthed closed, until he took a deep breath and at last spoke, "I do not know what will be the death of me. Faith?" A rueful chuckle slipped past his lips as he tapped his chin, "Mayhaps loyalty, but I have hardly ever been-"

"You have been good to me." Vaelor told him, breaking off the impending tirade into lunacy. "A true friend." Always, his heart sung.

His voice turned from mournful to sweet, as off his tongue slid, "And is Lady Genavene a true friend?"

There, the mask returned to its place, fixed to his friend's face like armor. When could they talk about it without him cowering away behind this skin of arrogant ease? He fought to suppress a groan, why must it be this way? Why could Matthos not speak of it? Yes, it must have been harrowing, but did he not understand that Vaelor had no heart but one to mourn with him?

As a plop sounded, something from his desk falling onto the ground, his thoughts broke from him. I am sewing. He reminded himself, looking down at the fabric in his hands, thumb circling the soft silk. I am sewing a gown for Lady Genavene. He set the half-made dress atop his desk as he knelt to the stones to retrieve whatever had dropped from its place, safe within the sanctuary of his oak desk.

Clay. A glint of a smile unfurled on his face. Of course it had been clay. He took the glob of malformed mush into his hands, cradling it like one might a baby bird. You might make a pleasant bird, actually. He twisted his hand, glimpsing at the indents embedded into the clay. "I think I have an idea for Aemma's babe." Lifting himself from the floor, he held up the clay as though it were something holy, "A mobile."

But he had time to make the mobile, and therefore set the mush back into its place at the edge of his desk, though not so close this time as to fall off once more. Making it right with Lady Genavene came first.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

It was not his best work. Rhaenyra and Aemma had worn his more lavish creations. This had been rushed in his haste to cease this gnawing at his spine, the chill the wrung up it when he thought of giving it to her—would she ask for his help putting it on?

No, no, he allowed a small laugh at his insanity as he stood at the closed door to her chambers. That was a moment, it did not mean forever.

The lady revealed herself as she opened the door, minutes after he had first knocked. He noticed her hair, undone, an even brighter red in the morning light. All the fire I have ever held. She was fumbling with the silver clasp of her blue-green dressing gown.

When she realized it was him, her eyes widened, breath hitching. He must have seemed like a madman to be at her door after a fortnight of absence, no mumbled words to each other, no brief sightings nor recognitions about court, nothing. Nothing had occurred between them since that night, and nothing much had happened prior. It should not have mattered so dearly, yet Vaelor felt on the edge of a knife's blade, palms sweating, fingers quivering, and all on her thought, her memory. It had bled in his mind, poisoning him.

"My prince," She said, breathless as she fixed into place a wide grin, all teeth, no gentleness in sight, "why have you come?"

He nodded to the dress slung over his right arm and with all the softness she lacked, he answered, "I wanted to give you this."

Tentatively, she took it from him, the silk slithering like a snake from his grasp, her eyes focused on the garment. "Daisies." She whispered, touching the neck of the gown, where he had embroidered golden daisies, little suns poking out of the green. Her fingers travelled along the softness, grazing over the golden embellished lumps.

He hoped she liked it—at least that she liked it.

"I can always make another if it does not suit you, my lady." He rolled his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling along an old scar as he stared at the fabric, "Or, if you so loathe my own hand I could-"

She cut him off with an incredulous chuckle, "You made this by your own hand?" her brows knitted together as she tilted her head, scrutinizing him, "You are a prince, am I not right?"

How could a sarcastic remark sound so... so charming, so lovely, and utterly mystifying. How could he already be half lost to a lady he had not spoken to but a few words weeks ago? Is it because she had infected him? No, she was too much of a mystery to be an affliction. Not yet.

"I used the gown from the feast as a guide for this... It may not be exact." He admitted, hand now caressing his shoulder through his doublet of teal, which was almost exact in color to her dressing gown, but for a shade of difference. Maybe this is all that is between us? A shade of difference.

After this, she may become a ghost to him again, and he to her, and he would be forced to pretend that the fire in her hair was not haunting him, that she was not tormenting his nights, an everlasting presence at every corner of his mind, making a prison for him, solely by her echo.

One night, one singular night. He wanted to make something right and he was incapable of recalling what, for what reason had there been? She had never asked this of him. He did not need to do it, and yet he did. He did, and it was his bewitchment.

Bewitchment. The gnawing relieved itself of him at this realization, I have been bewitched.

A thousand moments had gone by since she last spoke, mayhaps she would not say another word at all? Perhaps she was bewildered by his useless attempt at kindling something from his curiosity. It was deranged—he was deranged. If she slammed the door in his face, he would not fault her for it.

In the end, it was Genavene who broke the spell his mind had wrought on him by way of over-thinking, by saying, "It's more than any other prince would afford me." and there was the specter of a grin, upturning her lips, "Thank you."

At the sound of a babe's cry, she glanced over her shoulder, Vaelor glimpsed her handmaiden cradling a child, her hand rubbing his back, "Forgive me, that would be my handmaid's little..." She paused, grimacing before she reached for the sour word, "creature." before again she paused, and then her smile returned, "He does little else but weep."

Ah. He had heard of the boy, the whispers that spoke of him as her brother's bastard, the wonders of why she took such interest in the boy—she must be a saint—he recalled once hearing uttered. It was one of the few gracious things he could remember having heard of her.

The lady before him in her dressing gown and nightdress, with her hair unraveled, was no saint, but nor was she a monster. Like all at court, she was human. His family were the very same, even if some dreamed of being Gods.

His thoughts were a flurry, and he was staring, mouth opened some. There were words he could have spoken, but none seemed particularly worthy of her. Do you like the dress? They were dull, idiotic words, barely strung along sentences ill-worthy of saying to anyone. Did I get the color right? However, what more was there to say? Is there anything that could be done better?

"Are you well, my prince?" Lady Genavene asked, leaning against her doorway, her head resting atop her shoulder.

Like a puppet, he spoke on her whim, "Not entirely."

Daemon would call him a sop, Viserys might snicker, but it was so easy being led by her word, having her tug him along by his strings.

Like he had with her clothes that night, she slung the gown over her arm, before taking a step closer, inching up on her tip-toes. "I cannot bid myself to forsake you if you are not feeling well." The tips of their noses briefly touched, "Would you like to come inside? We could break our fast together, my Ceryse has only just set it out."

"I could not possibly intrude." He was blushing, he could feel it, the warmth seeping into his flesh. Again, his hand went to his neck, feeling for the thin line where he had once broken through his skin and pressing down.

She scoffed, "There is more than enough."

"What about-" Once more their noses nudged and he was silenced.

"Ceryse is discreet." Her eyes were that of a serpent, glimmering with a hint of sickeningly sweet persuasion.

"I-" What more was there to say? It's not as though she were offering anything more than a moment together, and though this was a second moment, it was still only that. A moment. "I could, I suppose."

The lady dropped from her tip-toes, taking his arm, "Come then," she patted his arm, "before I am deprived of my sustenance any longer and chastise you for denying my favor." and thus he let himself be ushered into her chambers.

Vaelor would not leave those rooms until the sky had darkened, no moon in sight, telling of a time when no one else crept about. The owls were hooting, crickets chirping, and he was as rested as he had ever been.