【THE TOURNAMENT, WOEFUL IT WAS】

HE LOOKS LIKE A LOST PUP IN A FIELD OF STARVING WOLVES. Genavene mused to herself as she gazed down at the tiltyard, having found Vaelor easily in the line of opponents. He was the only one with a crooked helmet, but not the only one bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. Unfortunately, Daemon was there as well, and when Genavene saw him, her hand reached for that of Ceryse, her companion, handmaiden, and some claimed the bastard daughter of a lord of some means.

He cannot hurt you. Not from up here. She told herself as she squeezed Ceryse's hand till it bled white, and she seized it from Genavene's grasp. "I prefer not to lose my hand." She heard her grumble, as she clutched it, rubbing the color back into it.

Alicent was at her other side, and beside her was Rhaenyra, they gossiped quietly as girls their age, and Genavene's, were ought to do.

Gwayne, her elder brother, was in the field of jousters. He was a fair swordsman, certainly, in that she found no fault. She still bore a small scar under her jaw from the one time he'd allowed her to train with him. Rarely she'd seen her father enraged, and even then, not a care. However, jousting? It was a laughable idea to imagine Gwayne as anything more than a lousy jouster.

Resting her elbow on the arm of her chair, she anchored her chin in the palm of her hand. She sighed, what a bloody bore this will be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

"He's handsome." Ceryse remarked, nudging Genavene, pulling her from her thoughts. She gestured her head towards a knight from House Cole.

From her recollection on what Vaelor had read to her, they were from the Dornish Marches and a vassal to House Dondarrion. By her means, commonborn. Even if they had a claim to their own name.

"You can hardly see him." Genavene replied in turn. "Not with that helmet, at any rate." The helmet, which was awfully fashioned, in her opinion. Far too bulky for her taste, and she liked to think she wasn't very picky with size considering some men... "Nevertheless, I didn't think you liked men like that."

It was a prickly statement, precarious at best. If the wrong ears interpreted it, rumors may spread, and true they would be.

"No, I still prefer my suitors sweeter." Ceryse said with a small chuckle, "You however, still kneel to savory." A jab at Genavene, as she had with Ceryse. Again, if the wrong tone reached someone, it could risk not only her reputation, but her family's. Not that she cared much for her family, but for Alicent, being that she wore green daily, just to make a mockery of them.

She leaned in, whispering to Genavene as an easy grin curled her lips, "If you were wanting a change of taste..." she trailed off, leaving the drawled message in the air.

A gentle tease, nothing more.

She turned her head to her, shaking her head steadily, "The knight of House Cole would not suffice." She scoffed, turning her head back to the match below, muttering under her breath, "Scarcely noble enough."

"Though, perhaps..." Genavene glanced about the field, searching for the banners of House Vayne. Twin arms entwined on a field of green. She recalled. A sad family, that house. Rumor had it, the house had been cursed by the first lord's wife to always reap the misery that her husband had sowed in her heart. With the tales of some of the women and men of that house, Genavene wouldn't think for a moment it was untrue.

As she scanned the yard, she found not a sign of the house. A pity. From what she'd heard, the heir was quite handsome, dark hair like a raven's wing, and eyes of the blackest night.

While she had been occupied in her scouting for House Vayne, it seemed the mystery knight from House Cole had managed to unseat both Lord Boremund and Ser Borros Baratheon. Genavene shifted in her seat, her hand resting over Ceryse's as she looked down at the yard below, raising her brows. A fair match you might prove yet, mystery knight.

The crowd was roaring as Prince Daemon's turn about the yard came, up the line of opponents he strode, high and mighty. Some might have considered his stance frivolous, little more than a prancing peacock, but the crowd liked it. After all, they were just watching a show, and if anyone was going to give them a good one, of all people, it would be the Rogue Prince, who roamed in the cacophony of others misery, as much as others joy.

In the line-up of opponents, Vaelor sat on his horse- or, more hung to the side of the saddle and- Gods, is he praying? He certainly looked to be. Frankly, if Genavene were as poor a horseman as he was, she would. Even with how little the Seven knew her, she would put her trust in them for that single moment.

Though, she didn't know whether it was because she wouldn't want to be a poor horseman up against the likes of Daemon Targaryen, or because of Daemon Targaryen himself.

He scouted the men before him with the eyes of a prowling beast- at least Genavene imagined him to be, as she couldn't see with his face turned away from her view. The banners of House Targaryen flowed with the gentle wind, graceful as a dragon's flight, they rapped quietly against the stone, awaiting.

Daemon pointed his lance toward Gwayne.

Her brother. Genavene's brother.

How dare he? She gripped the arms of her chair as the announcer bellowed out, "For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King!" tighter her grasp grew, until the wood began to creak beneath her fingertips.

Her eyes drew to Alicent, whose hand had raised to her mouth, a worrisome glint in her eyes that Genavene wouldn't doubt she shared. The Princess had already taken one of Alicent's hands, and Genavene stole the other for herself.

The warmth found in touch, the simple knowledge that someone is there, that there's something to hold onto, she'd learnt long ago, there was no better comfort than that. Whether it be physical, or merely mental. It'd drawn her from the cliffs of madness a thousand times, and would do so till the end of her days, of that she was certain.

The drums announcing the start of the round sounded and Genavene found her knuckles losing their color, bleeding white. What if Gwayne wins? Daemon would never accept defeat, no, he'd call for a rematch by combat, and Gwayne, as fair a swordsman as he was, would end up dead in the cold ground- if there was a body left to be buried.

Gwayne claimed his lance as he rounded the tilt, trying to aim his lance toward the Prince. The attempt proved futile, as Daemon's lance shot out at one of the legs of Gwayne's horse. Gwayne fell forward, clattering to the ground, off his horse, like a sack of grain thrown off a balcony. The force of the blow was so powerful, his helmet was knocked clean off.

There was a ringing, a resounding sound. That sort of sound that only one can hear, and only because that person has been thrown into a state of shock, Genavene. Her grasp on Alicent's hand faltered as she cupped a hand to her mouth. She swallowed, that sound, that ringing. It was all she could muster the courage to hear, everything else was muffled, she imagined it like a shimmery net thrown over it all. Blurring all around her. Masking it, locking it away from herself.

He'll be alright. She told herself, and she managed to repeat it aloud, "He'll be alright."

As her brother's bloodied face was shown to the crowd, there was a slow clapping, still slightly blurred to her ears. To her, the clapping felt uncertain, the crowd unsure of themselves. Perhaps they felt empathy towards her brother? She didn't think such.

With his next round in sight, Prince Daemon approached the royal box, lance leaning up towards it.

Rhaenyra rushed forth, and the dutiful companion she was, Alicent followed. Genavene accompanied them, in her mind, a guardian of sorts. Behind her she could vaguely feel the presence of Ceryse, hovering.

The moment she saw the smug expression that painted the Prince's face as she neared the railing, she seized her sister's hand. She's here. She's safe. She took a small breath. I'm safe.

"Nicely done, Uncle." Rhaenyra congratulated as she peered over the railing.

With a voice that had the quality of ashen embers, Daemon replied, "Thank you, princess." Genavene would deny the chill that ran up her spine at his voice- his sickeningly proud-of-himself voice. And there crept the urge to take his lance and shove it down his throat, if only she wouldn't be immediately killed for the act, and if only the Prince deserved such a mercy.

"Now, I'm fairly certain, I can win these games, Lady Alicent," He paused to point his lance toward her sister, "having your favor would all but assure it."

Her favor? If thoughts could laugh, her's were. Her favor? It was a mocking laugh- this petty boy of a man, who could not take 'no' for an answer simply because he had never been told so before- before that night. That disgusting night, that she dared not name or think of because if she did...

She far more preferred his brother anyway. His unmarried brother. His brother who treated women as- as holy relics rather than some turkey leg or the other, to scarf down to the bone before throwing away!

Alicent's hand fell away from Genavene's as she went to retrieve her circlet for the Prince. For those scarce seconds she had to stand there, she feigned a smile for the beast. It'd been a game for them since the first moment, and had stayed that way, though in the year it had grown all the more dire.

The taunt of the previous match was not lost on Genavene. It was as much a mockery against Genavene's house as her vowing to wear only green. And this? This made her clench her fist

As she had to grin, worrying her lips weary at this poor, poor excuse of a prince, she had to force herself to look upon his visage- his gaze, his gaze that was making eyes at her sister. Those eyes, at her younger sister. Eyes she recognized, for at times that gaze had fallen upon her from Vaelor, though gentler- and at times... At times from Daemon.

Gods, she was praying to the Seven above- deities who hardly knew her- she was praying to them for strength. Strength to not grimace nor scowl, nor do or say anything unseemly of any nature whatsoever.

And by some will that had to indeed be of the Seven, she managed it, just as she had the night King Viserys and Queen Aemma announced the reason they were all sitting watching the tourney that day.

When Alicent made her way back to give the Prince her favor, Genavene held her hand out, beckoning her with that forced smile. Pleasantries. She reminded herself, her hand resting on her sister's shoulder as Alicent dropped the circlet upon Daemon's lance and told him, "Good luck, my prince." I want to carve his head from his neck. She held her smile, lips aching from the effort. Pleasantries.

The grin was making her feel like a doll on display, she could not wear it for much longer, in fact, Genavene didn't believe she could remain in the box much longer. Not with Daemon playing, and certainly not with what had happened with Gwayne.

But where was her safety, where did it rest, waiting to cradle her?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The thought had led her to the opening of a tent of black and crimson, just outside the tiltyard, on a field blooming with tents, a rainbow of color.

"See to my brother." She told Ceryse. In some way, her guise that she had left the royal box to tend to Gwayne before the next round had to be true.

As her companion left her side, she drew the flaps of the black and crimson tent, revealing a Vaelor with disheveled hair, a crumpled shirt, anchoring himself against a table's edge.

"You are in desperate need of a squire." Genavene remarked as she stepped within the cocoon of Targaryen colors.

Vaelor's head slowly raised. She wondered, if she were anyone else, would he have jumped.

He offered her teary eyes and a weak smile. Surprisingly, she discovered her heart fluttering, if only for a second. For her, it was enough.

"Aemma?" She questioned softly.

"Aemma." He quietly confirmed, punctuating the reply with a firm nod.

Genavene stepped near as Vaelor straightened himself, "I fear this will be the last time." he sniffled, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes. "The last time."

She hesitated, before reaching to fix his shirt. "The last time?" She asked, furrowing her brows as she untied the hurried knot at his neck. Why was it that she was always fixing his shirts? Then again, she had ruined quite a few as well... Mayhaps it's my repentance? She pondered as she tied the knot neater.

"I am either a dreamer or a madman, and neither are things I'd prefer." He muttered, eyes scanning her face. "Maybe both."

As her hands drifted to the hem, softening the crinkles. "A rambling madman seems more your trade than a prince." She said in jest, a warm chuckle blooming from her chest.

Vaelor shook his head, stepping back from her. "No, no- you don't see, you don't understand." He began flailing his hands, gesturing wildly, like that of what she thought to be a true madman. "In my sleep, things call to me- things I will not dare give a name, lest they prove true." He implored, words falling from his tongue, a desperate plea for something.

She sought out one of his hands, "Vaelor, are you well?" She queried, speaking not his title, but his name. At this moment, titles were better damned. Distance was better damned. Certainly there was a need for such things between them. Barriers. But they'd fallen away under the shadow of the crimson light being reflected down on them. With no one to see, not even themselves- because no matter what, in the end, they would need to forget about this. Whatever it was.

And all else melted away as his hands cupped the sides of her face, and she stared at those tearful eyes, glittering like water set upon by the brightest of suns. She could herself in them, but didn't wish to give herself the time of day.

"Bewildered?" He said quietly as his forehead nearly touched her's. One of his hands wandered from her cheek to her shoulder, rubbing his thumb in circles. "Perplexed?" He let out a small, dry laugh, "On tenterhooks?"

"Tenterhooks?" She repeated, for once in her life, equally quiet.

"Yes, my lady." He said, voice light as a feather, his gaze softening. "Tenterhooks."

His breath, like a warm fire on her skin. An uncountable amount of times she'd felt it, but today, standing there so close to him, she'd known it. To know was far more intimate than to feel, and maybe, she figured, that was why with a sharp intake of her own breath she moved back, letting the walls fall into place, fickle as they were. She glanced at his rings, one gold carved with a Lannister lion, the other silver carved with a Stark direwolf. Gifts from some event or the other. Vaelor's hands returned to his sides, before he began to fiddle with the small trinkets.

"It is clear in my mind-" He spun his hand in the air, gesturing as he stared down, "the outcome of all of this." He shuddered, facing back up, "I dare not say it in full, lest it prove true, but this will be the last time." The lingering taste of thunder in his words was not hidden, in fact all of him seemed rather unmasked in that moment. If Genavene herself was like that, she'd find herself unseemly, so unseemly she might die.

But this was Vaelor Targaryen. And she was Genavene Hightower. Were it anyone else, he would be made a mockery. She knew, perhaps, that she should feel honored to be such a trusted friend of a prince. So why was her heart telling her it was frightened?

A hand ran through his hair, "Truly, it makes me wonder, how much life is there left for myself?" He questioned himself. "Or, how much good is there left?" This however, he didn't ask of himself, rather how she saw it, was that he was pleading with the world. "It is selfish to think, I know- I can't help it." He shook his head, tears again beginning to prick the corners of his eyes.

"Vaelor." She breathed, searching for something, something within herself to calm the both of them, because her mind was screaming at her about how foolish he was being. It would not ebb from her mind. He had no clue of the future, only mindless babbles created by some feverish sorcery, conjured by his own head. In her eyes, he had little cause to worry.

Yet, she could see a fracture of her own mourning in his eyes. Mourning for her mother. That ire she held steadily floated away at that realization, but nevertheless loomed. A warning of something she couldn't comprehend.

"I'm afraid, Vena." He admitted, despite having already revealed it with the shivering and the tears. "I'm afraid, and princes aren't supposed to be afraid- knights aren't, but I am, that means something!" His words felt like he was demanding something from the world this time, instead of asking. He wanted an answer. He wanted anything to console him. "If Aemma dies, Rhaenyra will have lost her mother and I- I will have lost..." He trailed off, his shoulders wilting as he let out a sigh, cupping a hand to his mouth.

He knew better than to hide his sorrow from her, even if it made her stiffen to see.

Vaelor's hand dropped. "If she dies-" His voice broke with a sob, he pointed off somewhere- maybe in the direction of the Red Keep, she couldn't tell in here, and she didn't think he could either, even with the desperation evidently driving him to it. "If she dies- I will have no place here, but at Rhaenyra's side to mourn." He made no mention of the child Aemma carried, none at all. She wondered if it was because he didn't care for it, or that he couldn't, he wouldn't let himself.

"Rhaenyra will overcome it." He said, voice assured before drooping again into that territory of more dire certainty, "I won't."

For the first time since 'this' began, she heard herself in his voice. Another person I've plagued. She chastised herself. Another person whose sun I drowned out to shadows.

Death was inevitable, it wasn't her fault, in her depths, she knew that. But for some reason, her heart strained, and she wished it was her fault. She wished there was someone to blame for the pain Vaelor was experiencing, and she wished it would be over quick.

Mere months it had been since her own mother died and Genavene could hear herself so terrifyingly clear, saying those words about her and Alicent. That she would never recover, but Alicent would, because Alicent was stronger than she was. Alicent was kinder, brighter, better than she was. She was a rare being that deserved only good things.

And her depths, where all truth in her seemed to make itself at home, she asked herself, Isn't Vaelor? If not always, then at this moment?

From a pocket in the skirt of her gown she retrieved a handkerchief. The walls gave way, the barriers fell. Barely permissible curtains cloaked them, and she reached her hand out, offering that handkerchief. White as snow.

She couldn't give him the peace he desired, so a symbol of it would have to suffice.

When his hand encircled hers, there came that warmth again. That tenderness a person like her did not deserve. A wariness crept within her, but she shoved it aside. Let me be. She told herself. Let me enjoy this.

There was nothing she felt she could do to deserve it, but at least she could savor it.

A step closer, Vaelor drew nearer.

Another step, and Genavene was drawing close.

They returned to having their foreheads pressed together, the solace they found in each other, pulling their hearts into a slow rhythm.

And that was when she heard it, those soft words, so feeble, she almost thought she hadn't heard them at all, indeed, she swore, she imagined them for how ludicrous they sounded, the murmur drifting off the tongue of Prince Vaelor Targaryen, "Marry me."

Thus, the thorns crept in.