【THE PRINCE AND THE LADY】

VAELOR HAD ONLY STEPPED ON GENAVENE'S FEET TWICE. "There is still some work to be done," She remarked, brushing his rigid hand away from her waist before taking it into her palm, "particularly with these boards."

The Prince stole away his hand, using it to rub at the back of his neck, his chin lifting slightly. As he shifted, from beneath his ruffled collar a patchwork of thin white lines made its appearance on his flesh, before disappearing beneath the fabric's surface as his hand returned to its rightful place at his side. There was a brief curl of his lips before they fell with his head.

"I would not call them boards." He crossed his arms, pouting as he glared down at his feet, which were covered in mis-matched stockings of red and black. Perfect would be his part as a glum jester.

"They are as stiff as them." She shrugged, "They are boards."

A flicker of a grin caught his lips and he sighed as he raised his head, "I concede, my lady." his gaze drifted to the pack of singers standing before the high table of the candle-lit hall, as they prepared another song for the ears of the court. "Would you like to dance another round?"

Genavene followed Vaelor's gaze to the high-table, only to be met by her father's eyes. Her shoulders stiffened and immediately she replied, "We had better not," she looked about the room, courtiers murmuring, weaving their little tales of intrigue, "people will start to talk."

There was a warmth that blew over her as she felt his eyes on her, "Should I dream that I will be seeing you..." he trailed off. They need not speak of it, not so publicly—they both knew what he implied by that.

"Sometime," She grazed his crimson-cloaked arm as she passed him by, whispering in his ear, "yes."

One of the Lannister twins appeared at her side soon after, whether the rapacious cub—Jason—or the keen lion—Tyland—she could never tell, and nor did she care enough to make an inquiry. Whoever it was would do well enough as a distraction until the end of the feast.

She had entertained herself with a Lannister once, she could again.

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As the birth of Queen Aemma's babe neared, most of her duties fell to the Princess. Thus, Rhaenyra was stuck hosting the court's ladies to chitter and chatter as they wove their favors for the upcoming tourney—a tourney which promised an heir to the throne from the royal loins of their king, a son who could displace the beast who loomed in the shadow of halls, waiting for the day he would sit the Iron Throne, ruling in the visage of the monstrous Maegor.

A man who could not hold a promise was not worth a kingship. He was not worth anything at all. Viserys was only king for his cock and it would be the same for Daemon. There would always be the calling for the true heir, but it would go unheard as long as there was not a sword between her legs.

Despite, or perhaps in spite of the inevitable truth that the Queen would never provide the throne with another wailing thing, the ladies talked on, gossip and wine their only solace.

Genavene could not help rolling her eyes at the whispers concerning Lady Elinor Stokeworth's condition. What does it matter? She thought, sprigs of rosemary falling into her palm as she wrung the herb along a line of string. So she weds Lord Massey's son and he claims it as his. That is that.

"Fool's talk." She grumbled as she rolled her shoulders back, settling into the gold cushion of the settee she lounged upon beside her sister. "A marriage made in scandal, as though such is not a tale as old and desolate as Valyria."

Alicent turned to Genavene, "I can hear you." she whispered.

"And? Am I not right?" Genavene arched her brow as she continued to look down at her stiff hands, continuing to mechanically string along rosemary and mint to a line, "She is secured, and he will have an heir as soon as the sun rises." she briefly glanced at Lady Elinor, who sat alone beneath a curved window, before she turned her gaze to her sister, "Whether or not the babe is his will not matter upon the birth."

With a light shake of her head, Alicent's brows furrowed. "What would the Gods say?"

"She is to be married and to be glad of it." Again, her eyes shifted to Lady Elinor in her loose gown, palms clutching her skirt, no favor in sight. "Were the Gods unjust, would they not allow her this mercy?"

Alicent held too much faith in the Gods, and as such at Genavene's words she quieted, returning to the making of her circlet.

Her words were lies, but at least they were pretty enough to convince her younger sister to stop pestering her with dreaded questions.

The world around them continued to sputter on, driven with the renewed fervor of women's most salacious tales. Lady Ceira sat chief among the gossip-mongers, tittering on about her darling sons, Lord Jason and Ser Tyland, and how one of them would soon be tampered down by the chains of marriage to a lady of the south.

At the realization, her head rose from where it had laid, buried in the work of her haphazardly fashioned favor. This caught her notice, given her history with the Lannister twins. It was a pity she could never recall which it was she had once tasted.

By his pawing, she might have assumed Jason, but as he did naught but purr, she could also have made a case for Tyland. Whichever one she had the luxury of wasting her time with, had done little to satisfy her until she turned him belly-up. In the end, it did not matter. Affairs of that nature never could.

Nevertheless, it was still her duty as a woman to forewarn this potential bride of her husband's potential misgivings.

On she painted a smile, one she hoped would appear bright and true as the sun as she asked her question, "And to whom is the lucky lady, my dear Lady Ceira?"

The chuckle Genavene received was indulgent, Lady Ceira clutched at the golden chain of her necklace, the rubies hanging from it rattled, "Oh, I am afraid my son would not dare that I speak of it before it is properly announced."

She settled her circlet into Alicent's lap, patting her sister's hand, a silent query of, "Would you take care of this for me?" passing between them.

Rosemary sprigs and mint leaves fell briskly to the floor as Genavene brushed off her skirts, standing from her seat, "Is it a lady of the Reach? Why," she placed a hand over her heart, feigning a giggle, "as a lady of the Reach myself, I would be most fortunate to attain the favor of one of your ever-gallant sons."

The honeyed tone she took on was enough to make any knowledgeable lady roll her eyes. Lady Ceira simply continued in her laughter, "Oh! Oh! My dear Lady Genavene, I could never refute the loyalty I hold for my sons."

"As would any lioness to her cubs," Genavene approached the Lannister woman, hands clasped primly together, the picture of modesty. She resisted a quirk of her lips at a thought, I may even fool the Gods. She swallowed, her hands untangling as one slithered to the arm of Lady Ceira's chair of crimson velvet. "I am only curious. It is a fault of my youth."

Youth had fled from her long ago.

Other noblewomen looked on, some with brows raised, others with hands over their mouths, obscuring conversation. It was precisely proper to pry, but Genavene was Otto Hightower's daughter. It was expected of her to be his little secret-keeper.

Little. For the pettier things, the more frivolous, that which was unworthy of his genuine interest, merely information that may be useful at a later time and place.

In a way such a meaningless thing was like a daughter. Something useful but only at a certain time and place. When everything played out just as you planned and there you could shove forth the doll that would bring your further influence, she may not be your entry into the game, but she would be your uncredited making.

A sly voice overcame her thoughts, "And what of your admirers, Lady Genavene?" She turned, hand leaving the arm of Lady Ceira's chair. How one's mind clutters. Standing behind where Alicent sat on the gold settee was Rhaenyra, finally relieved of acknowledging every one of the ladies present. "There has been talk."

"Talk." She mused.

The Princess looked down, arms swinging, before she circled around the settee, plopping down into Genavene's prior place of resting. "Of you and my uncle?"

Oh. "Prince Daemon is not to my-" She was unfortunately cut off before she could finish with 'tastes'.

"Vaelor." Rhaenyra clarified, smiling in a way that one in Genavene's predicament might find menacing. Except the menacing smile was coming from a relatively harmless fourteen-year-old.

If it were a few ladies gawking as Genavene accosted Lady Ceira with her questioning, now all the ladies within the Princess' chamber stared.

A deep breath was taken before she found a reply she deemed fair enough, "Princess, forgive me, but is it so wise to speak so boldly of another's affection? Words are so readily spun," she glanced at Lady Elinor before returning her eyes to Rhaenyra, "you heard wrong."

It had been several moons since the celebration announcing the Queen's pregnancy, and though she had noticed Vaelor at court it had not meant anything. He was a prince, the court was his little kingdom. Court was his place, his station. She did not understand why people seemed to marvel whenever he asked her for a dance at a ball or when he forwent all propriety and sat beside her at a feast. It was nothing special, and his dancing was worse.

If there was anything to gossip about, it was what occurred behind closed doors. But the courtiers were a sluggishly greedy people, who had little patience for listening in the dark, nor the intrigue to peer behind a curtain. They fed themselves with the agony of the mystery, for once it was gone there was nothing left to care about.

Before the Princess could say another word, Genavene repeated, "You heard wrong." and snatched her nearly-finished favor from Alicent's hands, before promptly flopping down in the crevice set between the princess and her sister, pushing the pair apart. "Now, may we please find a more meaningful topic of conversation?"

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Who would have thought that digging a wooden blade into the side of a prince's neck could relieve a person of all the troubles that had blackened their day? Such a revelation may have been Genavene's damnation were she not already doomed to the flames of the Seven Hells. Nevertheless, there she stood, oak sword in hand, pressed into the crevice where her Prince's shoulder met his throat, heart humming a steady thrum.

Vaelor brandished a similarly carved weapon, it laid limp at his side. "How can you be so certain I will not be left with a splinter lodged in my flesh?" He asked, craning his neck so as to avoid the ever-dull side of her blade.

The sword left where it had lodged within the crook of his neck as Genavene groaned, "You will be if you do not practice!"

Come the next morning there would be a tourney in honor of an heir that did not yet exist. For whatever reason, Vaelor had decided to participate instead of being perched quietly and safely in the royal box with the rest of his family. Whatever the reasoning was did not matter. As Genavene preferred him alive as opposed to dead or seriously injured, she had offered her tutelage.

Fighting was nothing if not a more violent cousin to dance, and she had taught him enough in that to keep him from constantly stepping on her feet these last few moons, she supposed she could give the wingless dragon a sword and teach him enough to keep him out of the air.

He rubbed a hand over his face, before gesturing with that same palm as he questioned, "Do you believe you could learn me in one singular night?"

A single night? No. Surprisingly, she was not that full of herself to think such madness was possible. She had only been taught so much from growing up as her brother's practice dummy, after all.

"I could teach you some, if you would stop fooling yourself into thinking you cannot learn anything." She firmly told him, grasping the back of a crimson brocade chair.

His gaze fell to the side as his free hand covered his mouth, "I am a fool, am I not?" he muttered with a small chuckle before he offered her that trembling hand, "Shall we go again, my lady?"

She raised a brow, lips curling, "You will not give up?"

He shook his head, his wry smile mirroring hers as he remarked, "I turn belly-up on enough nights.

At that he earned a jab from her sword. He was lucky the blade was only wood, for she struck the heart, and the only injury that could come from it was that of digging herself deeper. Into him, his world—she found herself inhabiting every moment. There was something and that something was trying to bury her alive.

The stony floor was cold beneath her bare feet, each step like a knife in her heel. "Focus on your balance." She told him, stepping aside as he made an uneasy swipe at her, her nightdress nipping at her ankles, "That's what matters."

Genavene would have preferred to be burned in the way of the Targaryens. To become a mist, to become nothing. A being that no one could touch, no one could revile, no one could maim. Someone who had been something. Not someone who was. To be not as someone who had to be. The present was daunting, and hence the future haunting, but she knew her death would be calming.

Blade lingering over her heart, he swallowed and murmured, "What if I hurt you?" they had already gone over that a thousand times and still he fretted over it in the way of a mother, "What if a splinter were to get caught and- and spread infection?"

In response, she groaned. All this talk of splinters! They were only slivers of wood. What harm could little chips of wood do to her?

But she supposed his fear was a noble one, and so soothed him, "You could not hurt me."

"I could not." He said quietly, repeating the sentiment, "I could never."

When Vaelor's sword gently struck her in the heart, there were no thoughts, no words, nothing from her. There was no blood, for his stick was a toy—it was all pretend. A game, the same as love or lust or—not this.

This thing with no name, this terror and agony, it was worse than present and future, more horrible than the unchanged, what-had-already-been, and there it bubbled in her blood.

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The night came and went, into the vast sea of the past, but the last of the stars had yet to die in the sky when Genavene awoke in the Prince's bed, cloaked in a thick blanket of red fur, his arm draped around her, head notched into the crook of her neck.

His breath was warm and steady against her throat, it did not hitch or quicken, it flowed. Have I ever been so peaceful? She wondered as she rolled over to get a look at him. In the hazy, early morning light, she could only make out so much as she squinted her eyes.

There was a calmness painting his features, a solemnity that had taken hold sometime between reading and the two of them falling asleep. What do I look like when I am sleeping? It could not be anything like Vaelor. Tranquility had never been a companion to her as it had him, rather it was more of a fair-weather friend, always making her question, 'when?'.

The pale purple sky of early morning was fading into the reddish pink of dawn, tiny rays of soft sunlight had started to peek through the seven-pointed stars dotting the window. She had to get up, leave the little fantasy she had carved for herself within the night, nestled in someone's arms—that she was more, and that whatever this was, meant more.

Their noses brushed for a moment before she rolled over with a sigh—it was a curse to leave such a cozy bed, with a lover who held her in that dear way one might cradle a dying flower, too afraid to lose such beauty, unwilling to let go.

Even so, he was a prince. Abandoning the prince was a mercy. A prince could only ever offer her comfort in the darkest of nights, and even then—would he always?

Shaking the thoughts away—there was no time for that—she took his arm from around her, placing it at his side. She could have sworn she heard a whimper as she stood, dragging the fur along with her, wrapping it around herself as her safety.

It was her sole protection from the elements, as most mornings spent there went.

She noted a book of history laying discarded by her bedside. He must have placed that there when I fell asleep. She glanced to the unlit fireplace, where their wooden swords lay forgotten on the floor, and where their night had truly begun. He must have taken care of that, too.

Before the fireplace rested Vaelor's shirt, the snowy white like a stain against the reddened floor. So near was it to the hearth, she could not figure out how it had not caught aflame. Not so far from it was her nightgown, hanging off the back of a chair with an emerald robe—her robe, he had made it for her. Sometimes she forgot. She preferred to forget.

It would have been a needless cruelty to allow the Prince to freeze in the early morning cold, so while she was not required, nor expected, she ventured past the set of pillars that circled the center of his chamber—his little workshop—and found her way to the two chairs that sat in front of the fireplace. First, she retrieved her clothes, letting the fur fall from her so that she could slip on her nightgown. Then, she bent to the floor, grabbing his shirt and breeches. The only thing she dared not take was his smallclothes.

As she buttoned the front of her nightdress, she found herself thinking, would I have done this for any other man? The answer came easy, no. However, as much as it hardened her heart to admit it, Vaelor was different. He was tender.

After a night together it was almost as if he had never laid a hand to her, that he had never even dreamed it, sometimes afterward she would ask, "Are you a ghost?"

His reply? "If you wish."

If only he was.

Her hand grazed over the fabric of his shirt, spun-cotton. Almost the shirt of a peasant were it not for how gentle it was against the skin, almost like the petal of a flower, a singular petal. What little it does to hide the truth. She looked over her shoulder at the sleeping prince, who's brows were now furrowed as he sluggishly patted at the deserted space she had previously occupied. He is an entire field, his flowers bloom bright.

That feeling again, the ache. Want. Being wanted. She studied his fingers, burying in the silk sheets, searching for something, someone, her.

A want, however, was something so readily tossed aside. One day she would be. Whether it be when he inevitably wed or for some other reason of lesser importance. She had to remember that. She had too.

So why did she smile when he mumbled out in that yawning rasp of his as he awoke, "Vena?" he pawed at the sheets, the void she had left. "Vena?" His eyes did not open, his brows remained knitted together in an endearing portrait of confusion.

He didn't even seem to care that she'd stolen away the covers, the furs hung over her arm with his shirt and breeches.

As he rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes, he used one hand and lifted himself up. The bedframe groaned—what agony it had been put through those past moons. "Vena?" He called once more, this time the word strained, almost croaked.

Genavene stood in the center of his room and still he could not seem to find her amongst the clutter. Seven Hells. She thought, deciding then to speak up, "I am right here, my prince."

His gaze found hers, the rigidness in his shoulders slackened, and he gave her smile that was ever-light, a subtle touch at the curve of his lips as he muttered out, "I thought you had gone."

It would have been in her best interest to leave, but had she ever? No. Never before sunrise. She had tried that once, but he woke up and told her she could stay if she wanted. So that night she had, and she continued to stay even after five moons since their first.

That one had been slightly special. Not for her, but for him. Their first had been his first. Maybe that was why he had attached himself to her so ardently. Lust confused for love.

Do not think about it. She took a deep breath before she began to approach the bed, "Your clothes." she tossed Vaelor the shirt and breeches, they smacked him in the face and off his tongue slipped a laugh like sunlight.

"Are you cold?" He asked as the garments plopped onto the bed in his lap, glancing at her sideways, his eyes squinting.

Am I cold? She nearly scoffed. If anyone was cold, it was him! He was the naked one, the one without any furs! How are you not worrying about yourself?

However, she did not scold him—on further reflection she had realized the absence of furs was her fault and so were the disappearance of his clothes from his body—instead, she managed the one thing she hardly ever could, being pleasant. "I'm perfectly fine, are you?"

"The blanket over your arm..." He murmured, ignoring her question as he studied the furs, before he looked her over again, "It suits you."

Seven above, she swore to herself as she pinched her nose in exasperation. "What?"

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

Her hair.

The hair he could not seem to stop raking his hands through during their nights, mumbling sweetness into the curls.

No. She would not dream. The night had gone, the day was crowning and she had a tourney to attend, as did he. "Yes, well, I prefer green." She remarked as she placed the furs down beside Vaelor. He was shivering.

What have you dreamed? Genavene hovered a palm over his shoulder, before stealing it away as a draft wandered through the room, crossing her arms over her chest.

Were it not for her stubbornness she would have taken her robe from off the chair, but that garb for here. For this. It may have been hers, but he had made it. Not a gown or an embroidered piece of ribbon—a robe, something far more intimate.

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 looking directly at the back of the chair the damned thing hung from.

Goose pimples pricked her flesh and she rubbed her arm to soothe them, "You are half-naked and sitting, I am clothed and standing." she remarked, noting that he would be of more trouble to him than a gift to her. She could survive for a few moments without proper cover.

Vaelor nodded before he looked down, shaking hands attempting to tie the laces that secured the neck of his shirt. The tournament, she thought, the tourney for an heir who had not yet breathed. She still could not comprehend why he agreed to participate. Vaelor Targaryen was no knight, as much as he tried. As soon as he mounted his steed, he would be quivering and there was no help for it.

Bearing witness to his struggle of securing something so simple as a tie lodged a dart of pity in Genavene's heart. She swallowed before leaning forward, tugging the laces from his moist palms, keeping her eyes on him. "I do not require mothering." She told him while he stared at her with parted lips.

She did not have the skill to tie the strings in a bow, but she managed better than the prince, who continued to gape at her as she handed him his breeches wordlessly.

Then came that most loathed, gentle grin of his. Agonized not because it was twisted or terrible or imperfect in any way, but because it made her feel like he was actually worth something, and that she might also be worth something. That they both deserved more than they allowed themselves.

As he did not have his smallclothes, he did not pull on his breeches. At least her prince practised some decency, and luckily for him, his shirt reached a little above his knees, which his hands promptly went to as he stood up, "I believe it would be worrisome if I were your mother." he said before he brushed past her, approaching the crimson-clothed chair where the robe of emerald velvet lay draped.

She turned then, hands venturing to her hips as she watched him and offered, "Fathering, then."

"Even worse," He tossed a glance over his shoulder, the fabric of the robe now clutched between his fingers.

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

In her mind, she answered, isn't that who everyone is beneath the cloak of civility? 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, in his head, he knew it.

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 Tyrells, her father needed to weave his vines of gilded thorns around those who could provide him what he wanted, so his poisonous blooms could bear fruit.

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.

Vaelor may not have been her father, but he had to want something. When this all had begun between them she had figured, some whore, as all men who feel powerless do. The few good men she had 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 left her without much of an answer.

The robe hung in his hands, poised over her shoulders. Smooth fabric grazed her back, the warmth a murmur against her flesh, something there, just barely, if only she searched for it, and suddenly, without acknowledging it she had, stealing away her comfort like a thief, and without being told, she moved her arms into the sleeves, and as Vaelor helped guide her along, a feeling of tenderness blossoming somewhere deep inside her.

A chill slithered up her spine and took a bite out of her solace as his breath skimmed the shell of her ear, and despite being encircled in that comforting heat, she felt as though the floor beneath her was seeping into her bones, hardening her to freezing stone, forcing her to bear the guise of a statue.

There were tremors infiltrating her precious world, why must her mind shudder so?

Genavene did not hear the words she had said as they left her, only knew something had been said as Vaelor's hands were left hovering around her waist. 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 would not have been intentional. Perhaps, that was why she could not trust him. He cared too easily, he was too foolish for the likes of herself, he was too good.

It would be the death of him, that goodness. Men had been slaughtered for less.

The ribbon of her robe rested steady between his fingers, "May I do as you have done for me?" he quietly inquired as he held his eyes to hers. She stiffened. There was always that uneasiness, even in the gentle. Again, the question of 'when?' echoed in her head. 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 by the time she had answered, "You may." but this warmth emanated from his flesh, as it permeated his words, spilling liquid gold into her ear, it ate away the infected stone, this care.

How her prince did not seem to disappear in the morning light, she could never understand. In the dark, off his tongue he could weave myths, entire lineages of history, as he read to her, and she laid her head against his chest and listened. When she attempted to read the same as him, the page swirled into a mess of soup, and her mind fractured into a puddle of misery. He never said a word to it, and simply plucked whatever story it was from her hands and began reading himself.

Mayhaps pity lies behind his mask.

Vaelor Targaryen was a prince. A prince could never be something real, nor could a lord or a knight. 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." Genavene replied, prim as a lady, because she was a lady, and as a lady, she wore a similar armor of deceit, or had, before it turned to ash in his chambers. How horrifying it was to know that her laughter, her smiles, all of it was true.

There had to be some sense to this. She felt his fingers working gently on the ribbon, kindly, kindly, she pondered if it could be all he knew. If he was as real as he felt.

"It's early." He mentioned as he formed the first loop of the bow, while she watched over her shoulder as he glimpsed towards the window, the sun on the horizon.

The second loop formed, then the tie, the assurance that it would stay, unlike this prince. She nodded, "I know."

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.

With the bow well-and-made, Vaelor's hands lingered over her stomach, fingertips brushing lightly against the velvet, before dropping to his sides so quick she might have believed she had burnt him.

The two of them stood there, two trees, with their feet embedded in stone. Perhaps we have tangled our roots.

She had continued to peer at him over her shoulder, her prince who grew nearer by the night. He was staring at the ground, his blonde curls falling into his face, with his nose scrunched, and his hands in fists. Not tight fists, but loose. Do you think the same as I?

His eyes flicked to hers, she saw his throat bob as he swallowed, and then he cleared his throat as he raised his head, "May I ask for your favor during the tourney?" he questioned, running a hand through his hair.

Was that hope in his voice? It could not have been. It could not, it never could be.

No, no, this was nothing. They were nothing.

Genavene's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, stressing, "What would my father think?" she paused as she stumbled back before righting herself. "People are whispering, and if they are, then so are my father's rats. My favor could be seen as-" She broke off, gesturing as she let out a breath of exasperation, "as an acknowledgement and- and a pledge!"

What her father would do with that... would he dare wed her to a dragon? He had shown his hand for such ideas once. It only nearly destroyed him, whereas she laid ruined, a forgotten feast of a foreign beast.

Vaelor rescued her from the thoughts that now brought tears to corners of her eyes, as he said with the softest voice she had ever known, "I shall ask for Lady Redwyne's then." and the corners of his lips twitched, not nearly a smile, but good enough.

There was no question voiced regarding the wetness gathering in Genavene's eyes. Enough men had made their ganders. Yet, of all men, why did it have to be him? How could it have been him? Were she feeling braver, she may have thanked him for it.

Leaning down, he awkwardly took hold of his smallclothes, slipping them on as she looked toward the floor, tapping her fingers against her waist, ghosting past where his hands had once rested. "Will you be alright today?" She asked him, "During the tourney?"

He shrugged, stepping into his breeches, "I have no intention of winning, I only mean to..." he trailed off, shaking his head.

"Make merry?" She jested as she patted the tears from her eyes.

His lips turned, and this time the grin remained, gentle, barely there, but present as he answered, "To make someone merry, I suppose. Yes." but the words rung bittersweet. "Aemma will like to hear that I have at least tried to make something of myself."

That smile that she had so cherished vanished, and there was something she knew he was refusing to voice, what everyone but the king seemed to wonder, when will the queen be no longer?

"You worry." By Genavene's recollection, he would have been little more than a toddling thing when Aemma wed his brother. He had grown up with the Queen, and as such grown close to her. It was the natural way of things.

"How can I not?" The Prince said as he approached the bed, footfalls an echo across the stones before he sat down, "The Queen has seen strife these last few years, I cannot help thinking..." he trailed off as a shudder left his throat, he rubbed a hand over his mouth, "I cannot help thinking, how much longer can she take?" his lips fluttered around stringed fragments of words that were left unsaid until he took a deep breath, "How much further heartache can she withstand? She is the bearer, should she not have more of a say?"

"A bold statement." She looked to the window, crossing her arms as she observed the rays of sunlight now streaming through. "Some might call it 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.

There, as she glared at the rising sun, there was a rattling in her skull, she has committed treason with you. It should not have mattered, she had been the perpetrator of so-called treason before, but in her heart there was the foreboding sensation of something sinking—a dagger, perhaps?

With the sun and the silence came the reckoning that her presence within Vaelor's chambers had been well overspent. Finally, after however long, she looked to him, "As always, my prince, I fear I must go." she had hoped to proclaim it with an air of indifference, and maybe that was how he heard it, but there was a mellowing at the edge of each word, the foretelling of melancholy.

"Farewell and good morrow," He said then, the strength in his voice once more fraying like a thread as the words rolled off his tongue, "my lady Genavene."

The return to formality came easier as she said the always fatal words, "Farewell, my prince." from them came the reminder that he was a prince, and she a lady. He was the King's brother, and she was the Hand's daughter. There was no true love that could grow from such stations, they would always be wanting, and if not them, her father, if not him, someone.

The truth was, as much as she liked Vaelor, Genavene Hightower could never be fooled into loving a prince, nor a dragon, ever again.

【A/N】

So, this was long. Longer than expected. I'm not mad about it, I think it sets up shenanigans pretty well for the most part. Also I wanted to give some meat to the dynamics between Genavene & Alicent and Genavene & Rhaenyra which I hadn't really done before.

Some things have been directly copy-pasted from the original chapter that had been uploaded because I liked them, some things reworded because I liked the idea, but I felt it would be better to rearrange it, and basically the entire first three parts are new!

Also yes, this is where I confirm Vaelor wears THE slutty-period-drama-blouses™ . No I swear it wasn't because I was watching Bridgerton while writing the majority of this that I say that.

I hope you lovely readers enjoyed it, let me know your thoughts/theories/what-have-you in the comments, I love to see them <33