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The news comes one morning, amidst an argument.
Several days have passed since the dance and Ashford Meadow, and predictably (unfortunately), all has returned to normal. Your days have been spent fulfilling social calls, tutoring your sisters and the local children, taking turns about the banks along the river with Lyanna.
She still has not forgiven you for switching yourself with her during a dance with your brother.
You argued that, since you have been nothing but caring and supportive in her quiet attraction to your brother, that you should be allowed to help where possible since you’ve promised not to complain or jest about her feelings. That, to Lyanna’s irritation, was decidedly reasonable. Then the moment quickly passed, thanks to her shifting mood that left nothing to linger on. It was a trait you wish you shared.
And one that you currently wish your family would share too.
Despite the return to normalcy, there is still talk of your brief encounter with the prince. Talk that your mother has had to navigate carefully. It would not do to boast to early of a potential situation, but it is also unlikely that anything would come of a small exchange during an otherwise eventual evening.
You and a prince? A foolish fantasy. A fantasy you did not envision late into the night as sleep eluded you.
What cannot elude you is the brewing stress on your mother’s face. She hides it well, at first. A downwards tick of her lip, a breath that is a little too forced, flattening her already neat skirts.
“Is something the matter, mother?” You try for nonchalance, not looking up from your book, hoping that whatever irks her isn’t troublesome enough for further comment.
As if you could be so lucky.
“Yes, actually, there is something the matter.” Both you and your brother, who has been reclining with his own book on the chaise in the corner, snap to attention. There is an ache in your shoulders from where you had been slouched over, now forced back and upright.
“What is it?” Rickard asks in a way that is supposed to feel gallant, but you see the act for what it is: appear as the helpful one and lessen the attack. You were only a second too late.
“The matter is that both of my eldest are already well ingrained in society and are yet to find matches.”
Ah.
This matter.
“The girls are now entering their first Season, for the love of mercy. Should they find matches before either of you...”
“Then surely it would be a cause of celebration. They are wonderful girls.”
“Rickard... you miss the point.” Your mother is on her feet now, flattening her skirts no longer a balm for her nerves. She paces on front of the fireplace that stands empty. Any heat comes from your mother’s tone. “How do you think it will look if my eldest children remain unmarried for another season? How would it reflect on those same girls you compliment so much?”
“Mother,” you begin with too much bite. This is a song sung over and over, and one that slowly brings your blood to a boil. “It is no simple matter-”
“Of course it is! It is yourselves that make this so difficult.” She turns from you to temper the bitterness in her voice. It does not work, and her next words come out cold and quiet. “Your father and I have been far too lenient with you. We have let you regin freely for too long.”
Something tired and mean stirs in the back of your mind. “You said we could choose our prospects as we liked, as long as you and father approved our reasons.”
“And you remain unmarried.”
It is a cold blow. But it is the truth, and is that not the worst part?
From the shift in her expression, a decision has been made. Both you and Rickard brace for its impact.
“I shall be the one to pick your suitors, who you will meet with, and if you do not choose one this season, your father and I shall make the decision.”
It feels like there is a lump of lead sinking in your gut at the same time your heart begins to crawl up your throat. Rickard is no better, clutching at the arm of the chaise with whitening knuckles.
“Mother,” he starts, failing at sounding reasonable.
Your mother holds up a hand. “No. I am not here to negotiate. As your parents, it is our duty to secure you suitable matches. We were lenient with you, as we could afford to be. Which, need I remind you; many people do not get that privilege. But this has gone on long enough.”
For a moment, you are left in silence. The drawing room has never felt so suffocating, but there is no leaving, not when your future is so precarious. Part of you, the loudest, angriest part, stands indignant. It is not bad enough that you are wholly dependant on your father, unable to secure employment for yourself. But now the one chance you had at deciding your future by deciding which man you would bind yourself, your care and your future to, has been stripped from you. A smaller part of you, one that is intrinsic to your being the ever-loyal child, folds. It folds in the face of duty and societal expectations; it folds to the fact that your mother was once where you are now.
Despite this, despite knowing that the woman who has now taken your choice from you has had this done to her years ago, the bile in your bones does not fold.
For her credit, Lady Eldreeve does not flinch when you stand fast enough to send your book across the floor. “Mother, I will not be paraded about like some prized mount!”
Her hands find purchase on her own hips as your mother snaps back at you. “Then how else are you to secure a husband?”
“I’ll meet one at a dance.”
Your mother scoffs most impatiently. “And how many fine young men have you turned away or left to the wayside in favour of your friends? Or of that Baratheon boy?”
It is your turn to scoff. “Then I shall marry Mr Lyonel, he’ll be agreeable.”
“You most certainly will not.”
“Rickard, do not start when you yourself have no match to speak of.” Your brother has the good grace to shrink in the face of your mother’s ire. Before she can turn her anger back to you, the door swings open and Millesal and Vera burst in.
They’re giggling and clutching at each other as if to steady themselves. It would be endearing if you weren’t so worked up at the moment.
“Oh, good!” Vera begins.
“You’re here. We have news.”
“Girls…” Her voice is softer, tired and restrained, but the tone has shifted. The room no longer feels like it is suffocating you. “Now is not-”
“Oh please, please, it’s important!” Vera says and Millesal adds, “And it won’t take long, we promise.”
Your mother folds at their excitement, and you take the opportunity to turn from them all. You make for the window, hoping the cool morning breeze would calm your nerves. The sunlight outside is gentle, dappled across the garden between your mother’s flowerbeds. A few of the staff are already tending to their chores, a few with carts and livestock passing the main gate in the distance.
The proves distracting enough that Vera and Millesal’s squeals startle you.
“Can you believe it?” Millesal exclaims as Vera cheers, “The entire season! Both, twice the chances!”
“What?” The word tumbles from you without thought. It is not uncommon to lose oneself in the conversation once the two girls get going.
Your mother, bless her patience, steps in to explain. “According to the mail carrier, Summerhall has been opened.”
“They’ve already placed enough orders to keep the baker busy for the month.” Vera squeals.
“Who?”
“Who else?” Millesal huffs, impatient as ever.
“By Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar.” Your mother announces, giving her youngest a sharp look. The chitter from your sisters is gone in a breath.
The thing about hope, is that it does not take much. A flicker is enough to ignite it, to set things ablaze. You remember the heat of the hall, the warmth of the hand that brushed your gloved one. There was a feather, a dance, and a mismatched pair of eyes that studied you as if you were worth the interest. And with this talk of marriage?
The thought is stamped out as quickly as it begins. You are no child, and you are no fool. What you are is a Lady of a small but honourable house, not quite noble but not obsolete. Certainly not a match for royalty.
Your mother is kind enough to ignore the emotions warring on your face.
“It shall prove to make this season livelier,” she says, aiming for light and almost succeeding. “But we have other matters to focus on.”
“Surely it can wait for the next Season, it would do us a great deal more to win favour from such a family.” Rickard interjects. He almost sounds like your father.
“No.” Too bad for Rickard that your mother has spent decades with the actual man her son tries to emulate. “This is Vera and Millesal’s first Season out, and I won’t let it end with their elder siblings unwed.”
“Do you not think it would be in their best interest to focus on the girls first?” You ask. There is a soft spot for your sisters that the rest of your family cannot help but give in to. It is the weak spot that usually leans to your favour.
It does not work this time.
Your mother’s lips thin as she holds her hands in front of her like a lady in waiting. You ignore the way one hand clenches over the other.
“We have made our decision.”
“By taking away ours?”
“It has been four Seasons, and you remain in this house. You are incapable-”
“I am capable. But I do not see why you have decided to take my choice away!”
“My girl, what part of four Seasons do you not understand?”
“I do! I do understand but-” There is heat in your eyes and the telltale sting of tears at the corners. Even with your anger, you know that this is too much. With as much poise as you can manage, you stand straighter and present yourself as calmly as possible. “Forgive me, mother, but I am not myself right now. Might I be excused, I am not in the best of humours to listen.”
She nods. She nods because she understands. Because she recognizes her own words and tone that has stopped many arguments from escalating within her own marriage. It is a testament to her kindness and care that she backs down as quickly as you do.
“Fine. Away with you, child. We shall try again tomorrow.”
There is no point in staying.
You have made for the door before Rickard can open his mouth with his opinion. Vera and Millesal have the good grace not to try. None of the staff linger or call as you rush past them, heading straight for the backdoor.
Mercifully, no one is in the back garden at present, so no one stops you as you continue to stride away from the house and off towards the woods that stand a few kilometres from the stonewall fenceline.
The gravel path from the house turns to a worn track in the grass where you and your siblings would normally trek along. The open field is easy enough to cross, and the breeze isn’t cold enough to warrant a coat. Mud and grass stains will be an issue for later.
Among the beech and oak trees, with a few hawthorn and hazel, it is easier to let loose your temper. It is easier to breathe, and the birds don’t seem to mind the way you stomp over the dried dirt and fallen branches. You follow a well-worn path to a small stream, no more than two metres across, and follow the gentle flow downwards.
The water twists and curls around the rocks and debris beneath the surface. There is a gentle babble and the sound of birdsong above the quiet breeze. For now, in this quiet forest as the sun continues to rise, it is just you and the stream and the trees and the ease of being alone.
It is a long while before you notice the person several metres ahead of you.
You startle at the sight.
A tall man, with a lithe build beneath his grey tailcoat. It is a fine coat to match the black and silver embroidered waistcoat beneath. His pants and boots are also dark in colour, leaving only the collar of his shirt the brightest part of the outfit. He has foregone a hat, opting to let his dark hair flutter in the breeze. You are close enough to watch recognition glide over the unease of his face, the suspicion in his mismatched eyes melting into mirth.
Prince Baelor smiles at the sight of you.
“My Lady, a wonder to find another soul out here.”
“Your Highness!” There is no hiding the alarm in your voice. You curtsey quickly, ignoring the heat of embarrassment as it spreads across your face. “Forgive me, I did not see you. I thought it was only me.”
He strides closer with an ease of a man at leisure. No airs or graces about him as he removes his gloves to take your hand in his. Prince Baelor bows like he is at court, not in some rural forest next to a young Lady of little standing. His eyes are still warm when he looks at you.
“I thought the same. But it is a stroke of luck to find such fine company here, of all places.”
You can still feel the roughened texture of his hand as he lets you go. The lingering warmth of his skin is matched only by the growing heat in your face. He smells of ink and cedar, and you realize only after the scent has been swept away in the breeze that you are…quite close. Close enough that you can see a streak of purple in his blue eye, the small ink stain on his jaw, the few grey hairs at his temples shining in the sunlight.
“I believe I did not properly introduce myself,” he says warmly.
“I know who you are.” The sound your hand makes as it slaps across your mouth is loud enough to drown out your gasp. You begin to apologize but the prince is already laughing.
“Peace, my Lady, there is no need for apologies. I understand that I am not an obscure man, but manners matter regardless of who is involved. I am Prince Baelor Targaryen, son of King Daeron, heir to the throne and Hand of the King.”
He says it like he is listing his lessons. Simple, manageable things that one can hold. The idea that one man can still stand beneath the weight of such titles leaves you baffled. It takes you a moment to remember that it is only proper to introduce yourself. And you do, cringing slightly at how brief and easy your introduction is.
That is until he repeats your name. It’s slow and measured and cradled like he’s enjoying saying it. The heat from your face sinks lower at the timbre of his voice. You pray that whatever look has crossed your face has not given you away. That would be the end of you, surely.
“And what has you out here in the woods, my Lady?” He turns and begins to walk along the stream; his shoulders still tilted towards you. Following him comes instinctively.
“I was in need of some air.”
“Oh?”
“I-” Was angry, flustered, indignant over losing the one choice you thought you had. “There was a disagreement, and I thought it best to remove myself for the time being.”
Prince Baelor nods along, brows creased and his mouth turned down. “If it helps you, I am willing to listen. However, I will not force you to face such ill feelings again if you do not wish.”
“That is kind of you, your Highness. But I will have to take you up on the latter, I am not yet ready to face those thoughts.”
“Of course, my Lady.”
It should worry you, you think, to be alone in the woods with a man. A prince, but still a man. If anyone were to stumble upon you, unchaperoned and very much alone, you could swiftly wave any freedom your parents allowed you goodbye.
But as quickly as the thought comes, it is overtaken with the belief that it is ridiculous to be wary of such a man. Stories from the capital city paint this man as noble and polite, well-mannered and respectful to all he meets. And there is in the way that he glances at you that is inviting and open that pushes any suspicion or worry from your mind.
“Then perhaps,” he begins, voice gentle and polite. “Would you be open to speaking on other matters? Ones less emotionally charged, mind you.”
You look up at him, at the way he tilts his head in question, at the creases around his eyes and mouth that can only be attributed to some level of pleasure. The creases deepen as he smiles at your agreement.
He asks you endless questions, coaxing answers and clarifications from you with such ease time slips away from you. You don’t notice the bends in the stream or the angle of the sun. Step after step. Question, answer, question, laughter, until you realize that you have come to the edge of the forest. Then you both turn and head back, never once faltering in the rhythm that has been set.
There is talk of family, about your sisters and how everyone seems to soften around them. How, unspoken, the rest of the family has decided to bend over backwards to keep their naivety and joy unharmed. How your brother is the opposite and that, much to your chagrin, you and he are too similar to ever be close.
Prince Baelor speaks of his own family. No so much his father, but certainly of his mother. The fondness and calm that overcomes him when mentioning the Queen tells you that, like his looks, his affections favour her.
His brothers are another tale. He talks little of Aerys or Rhaegel, that they are mild in manner and that he cares for them. Prince Maekar is a different story.
“It is strange,” he says at one point, hands behind his back and a little lost in thought. “I never thought I would be so close to the youngest of my brothers. He and I are not entirely dissimilar, but the differences would normally keep others apart. And yet, I enjoy his company a great deal.” He looks to you across the stream, something calculative before it softens. “Not unlike you and Lord Rickard, I think.”
A laugh escapes you, breathless and surprised. “You speak as if you know him.”
“I did meet him at the gathering the other night. He was very much a balance of both parents. He asked for your feather.”
“He did not.”
The look on your face earns you a low chuckle. “Very much so. He said he would take it and return it you.”
“I can’t believe he did that. He hasn’t even returned it yet.”
“That is because I did not give it to him.”
That stops you. Prince Baelor continues for a few more steps before turning to face you. With his shoulders relaxed and his hands held behind his back, the prince looks the picture of a man at leisure. There is no confusion or questioning look on his face. He is simply waiting for you.
“You did not give it to him?”
“I did not.”
“Why?”
“I was charged with its care, and I would hate to disappoint the Lady who chose me.”
He carries on, leaving you for a moment with your thoughts. Thoughts that are too quick and flittering to handle. The racing of your pulse is no help either. He keeps his pace slow until you can reign yourself in and follow. By some kind mercy (his mercy, you realize later), the conversation veers towards easier topics: hobbies, history, the upcoming events of the Season. You ask if he and his brother are truly staying for the Season, and Prince Baelor laughs at how quick news can spread in such a small community. You note that he and his brother are not obscure enough to be excluded from the gossip mill.
By the time he has walked you back to the pathway to your home, the conversation has left you pleasantly spent, but with a quiet wanting that refuses to ease. He bids you farewell and good luck with whatever it is you must face at home.
In truth, you had forgotten why you were upset, and still, you cannot bring yourself to feel unease with the prince present. Even after you turn from him, after you have wandered all the way back to the fenceline, it is difficult to care weather or not your mother is still upset, or that your future is no longer yours to control.
All you can think of is the warm voice that puppeteered answers and conversations from you, and eyes that seemed to commandeer your entire focus.
The wanting, quiet and unbidden, does not cease. And you cannot find it within yourself to care.