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The fire goes unnoticed until it has consumed everything. But you do remember the spark that began it all started with the briefest dance.
Thus far, the evening has been akin to every other dance you have attended. The candlelight has staved off the chill Spring breeze while keeping the room bright and cheerful to match the mood. The jovial music can be heard between the swells of conversation and the frequent pitch of laughter.
The halls of Ashford Meadow are beautiful. Dark wood and curved beams bring the rooms inward, offering a more inviting and intimate space. The Lord Ashford himself is a creature of comfort, and there are many benches and couches draped in blankets and cushions for people to gather and relax.
What usually functions as a grand dinning room has been cleared for the use of a dance hall. One to celebrate the coming year of harvest, and a new Season for the next eligible singles to step out into society. Tonight, however, is for everyone before the stress of presentations begin anew.
While your family stand to the sides, clustered together with friends and those with potential, you are on your third dance of the evening. Some young lawman struck up the nerve once your best friend’s brother had finally let you go from the first two. The young gentleman is not as lively as Lyonel Baratheon, but few could match the energy of a storm.
He stands to the side now, leaning close to your brother in similar suits of dark grey, him with a shock of yellow poking out of his breast pocket while your brother sports a pale blue handkerchief. Beside them are your two younger sisters, dressed in lilac and pearl dresses, with new gloves and shimmering beads sewn into their hair. They followed your lead, having been to many more events than them, and there is something endearing in the way they hop and hover in the crowd to catch sight of you dancing with the lawman.
He’s handsome in a way that your mother would approve of, but your father would still find lacking. Unlikely to be a candidate for your hand, you think. And then you realize that you cannot remember his name. You’re certain he introduced himself. But then again, wine and good cheer has warped your senses. A heat rises to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the coy grin he gives you as he makes a turn past you. Smoke and printing ink cling to his collar and the pale curls at his nape.
Mercifully, the dance ends early with a chorus of applause. The confusion doesn’t last long, not when the crowd begins pushing towards the sides of the room. You’re swept up in the movement and lose your dance partner in the commotion. Shoulders bump against yours, and one of the feathers your youngest sister had clipped in has wiggled loose. Before you can reach up to fix it, the Lord of the house clears his throat from the entrance.
“My friends,” Lord Ashford calls out with a smile stretched across his face. There’s something strained in his tone despite the cheer in his words. “I ask that you all join me in welcoming our esteemed guests to this humble gathering. I hope you make them feel as welcomed as you have always made my family and I feel all these years.”
Everyone gathered knows exactly who the esteemed guests are before Lord Ashford can utter another word.
Standing with his head held his and a kind but polite smile on his face, is Prince Baelor Targaryen. Mismatched eyes, a neatly trimmed beard and dark curls combed back from his face. A handsome face, you think, even the broken nose adds an odd charm to him – more human than prince. He’s dressed entirely in black, with silver accents and a shock of red at his collar – his house colours. Despite the dark colour palette, Prince Baelor still seems to shine with his warm smile and bright stare.
The same cannot be said for his brother. Prince Maekar is more aligned with the stories than his brother. Stone-faced and serious, his sharp features and pale hair lend to his inhuman looks; too handsome and other to feel real. The look of discomfort eases what should be off-putting, especially with him fidgeting under the gaze of so many.
No one says anything about how terse and lacklustre Prince Maekar’s introduction is compared to his brother’s. Everyone is too busy watching as the princes step forward, striding through the parted crowd as naturally as a river through rock.
The heat in your cheeks travels down your neck and you can feel the tips of your ears burning. This is the first time in your life that the princes have travelled this far North. And now they’re barely a few paces away and getting closer. The shuffle had pushed you to the front, and the slow realization that you’ll be within arms reach of such figures has your heart crawling to your throat.
Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar are here. They are real, corporeal, men made of flesh and blood. You can smell the mix of spice and oak that permeates their finely cut suits, a blend that you feel you are unlikely to forget. It is only by your mother’s incessant training on etiquette that your body remembers to curtsey while your mind reels.
The first step taken is a feather falling.
It falls with an unnatural weight: hapless and hopeless, and it takes an age to finally land. You feel each heartbeat it takes to wait out the fall, each trembling breath.
The next step is taken in a long moment of uncertainty.
You dare not rise from your curtsey. With your head lowered, you close your eyes in the hopes that the princes will simply pass you by. That this dance (and you do not realize what it is quite yet) is over before it can begin in earnest.
For one agonizing moment, the world seems to stop. Part of you expects (hopes, prays) that it is Maekar who is closest, if only so he could ignore the accessory and carry onwards. Whichever prince steps before you does not give you that mercy.
In that slowed moment, where all the noise seems to fade beneath the thudding of your heart, the figure halts before you. That lone, pale feather flutters at the footfall. Small and helpless; much like you are in these crawling seconds. Your head is still lowered as one of the princes reaches down. Long, slender fingers curl gently around it, taking care not to crease it.
The next step is in the form of a challenge.
Mismatched eyes meet yours when you raise your head. Opposites, but both kind and singularly focused on you.
“Yours, my lady.” Prince Baelor speaks in a way you have not heard from many other man. Soft, sure, warm like a hearth fire. He tilts the feather towards you, and smiles at your hesitation.
The next move is yours.
“Thank you, your Grace,” you manage around the dryness in your throat. The thrumming in your ears. You hold a gloved hand before you, and mismatched eyes follow the movement.
For his move, Prince Baelor lays the feather in your waiting hand and the heat from his skin prickles against your fingertips. Prince Baelor doesn’t release the feather right away.
“We can’t have such a lovely dove losing all her feathers.”
It’s a step forward you would never have dreamed of him taking. A step towards you but still giving you enough space to back away.
The next move is yours, with the prince still smiling politely at you. He seems to be enjoying the effect his comment has made on you. There’s something teasing in the tilt of his smile. It must be the wine, you think later, that makes you bold enough to smile back in the same fashion.
“It’s very kind of you, your Grace, to care about one feather. Especially as it is my only one.”
His answering grin tells you that that was the right step.
The feather is soft and almost ticklish as Prince Baelor swipes it back and forth across your hand. He watches it for a moment longer, contemplating. You see the moment he makes his mind up, and a new heat rises to your cheeks at the look in his eyes.
“Then perhaps I should hold on to this, to keep it safe. Would my Lady entrust such a task to me?”
A turn that is unexpected, but you have not faltered so far.
“I believe you capable, your Grace. I entrust its safekeeping to you.”
“You honour me, my Lady.”
When Prince Baelor bows to you, several gasps and whispers circle from behind. But they’re nothing compared to the thrill of seeing the King’s heir bowing so formally to you. Your answering curtsey is deeper this time to hide the widening smile on your heated face.
He is swept away by the time you’ve righted yourself. Just in time for a firm hand to find its way to your arm and drag you from the small crowd that gathers around you. There’s no chance to look at who has you until you’re pulled through the thick of the crowd and into the hallway which is, mercifully, much quieter.
Beside you, out of breath and scowling, is your brother Rickard. He’s older by a year and could be your twin if his face hadn’t shed the softness of youth. Now he is a young man with a haughty bravado and middling facial hair.
“What do you think you are doing?” He scolds like it is his duty, but he could never manage the ease with which your father handles authority. The Lord Eldreeve would certainly never pull you away with such a firm grip. It would only take a look. But Rickard is not Lord Eldreeve, and you are not cowed by him.
“I am being tugged along like some unruly beast by the unruliest of all.” You manage to wrest your arm from his grip.
“Not with me, fool, but with the prince.”
“He approached me.”
“You dropped your feather before him.”
“It fell of its own accord.”
“Oh, I’m sure it did.”
“I have no idea what you’re implying, idiot, but-”
A squeal of your name interrupts. Both you and your brother turn to see your sisters Vera and Millesal bustling towards you. Their joy is infectious, and even Rickard’s anger is banked for the moment.
They speak so quickly and over one another that you can only make out small pieces:
“Did you really speak – did Prince Baleor say? That feather – oh the feather – what a smart trick – I had pinned it right – thing you didn’t. Did he ask – will you dance with him? Are you – think mother would die if – father would have to let you – please tell us if you’re courting – imagine our sister courting – he certainly would – way he was looking at - you have to accept-”
“Girls, enough, enough,” Rickard interjects, his temper suddenly softer, almost playful. “You speak in circles and I am turned about enough as it is. No one is courting anyone. The prince was just kind enough to help our dear sister.”
“I was sure I clipped the feather in properly!” Vera cries before Millesal exclaims, “He kept the feather though! Surely that means he intends to talk again.”
There’s a cloud of irritation crossing your brother’s face at the possibility, so you interject before the girls notice. “And it would be an honour if he does. However, I’m sure he’ll be busy talking to many of the lords here, not I.”
“Yes,” Rickard joins. “Very busy. And the princes will most likely leave before the Season begins proper.”
For their sake, you hope so. You cannot imagine how many ladies and their mothers’ would be calling upon such fine suitors, your mother included. If they did stay for the season, there would be a great many more gatherings and dances, possibly even a tourney if the town could be rallied fast enough. But since they aren’t staying, you push the notion of such things firmly from your mind.
Instead of lingering on such fancies, you spend the rest of the evening swapping between conversation and dancing. At one point, you manage to drag your brother for a dance, only to switch with Lyanna Baratheon at the last second, which has your best friend bright red.
Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar stay at the top of the hall by the fireplace, conversing with Lord Ashford and several other Lords who pass by long enough to talk at respectable length. Even your father, a large man built like a labourer who carries himself like a gentleman, stands before the princes for a while. Your mother is at his side the entire time, smiling and prodding your father before he can say something terse and cold.
You try to focus on the evening, the laughter that comes easily when talking with Lyanna, or the steps of each dance that has you spinning across the floor. Taking care of your sisters also proves less effective as a distraction from what has your heart fluttering and ears burning.
Every time you look toward the princes, Prince Baelor is already staring at you. He looks at you with a strange mixture of amusement, warmth, curiosity and something that you can’t tell is some form of anger or not. But each time he catches you catching him, all he does is give you a polite smile and a small nod before he rejoins the conversation around him.
It’s maddening.
As the night wears on, nothing more comes of it. Prince Baelor remains at the front of the room while you flit about amongst the crowd. There is no clear next step, only a pattern that repeats over and again. Never closing the gap but always pulled back enough to remember it’s there.
Later, on the journey home with your sisters asleep either side of you in the carriage, do you remember. Prince Baelor has your feather. Surely he had rid himself of it by now. A simple hair piece that could go to any young lady.
But then you recall Millesal’s words from earlier, and that little spark of hope sits warmly in your chest.
It is foolish, you think, spurred on by wine and the thrill of an enjoyable night. Come morning, all will be back to the norm, and such a thought will be gone from your mind. It is just a feather.
You rest your head upon Vera’s where it lays against your shoulder. The ride is smooth enough that the rocking back and forth has you at ease before you realize. A thought drifts in your mind as sleep begins to take you: the warmth of a hearth fire and a pair of eyes, one dark, one bright, following you across the room.