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Chapter Text

then at once her face and spirit changed, for even dark Death noticed a weary sadness spreading through her veins, now changed to joy; who like the sun when held behind grey mist and rain, now showers down his light through clouds and shows his golden face
—The Metamorphoses, Ovid

The rich scent of pomegranates hung thick in the humid air, the fruits weighing down the branches of the old tree.

Diantha gazed at the grassy plain surrounding her; green, and wind-bent, stretching tall with wildflowers scattered in clusters of yellow, white, and violet. The old pomegranate tree was alone at the edge of the field, its crooked branches casting a patchwork of shade over the grass. Near its roots were daffodils, bright heads nodding in the breeze. Diantha found the sight amusing with its ironic symbolism.

Diantha drew in a deep breath and opened her book. She lowered herself onto the grass and settled against the rough, twisted bark.

The day was full of promise, and for a while she surrendered herself wholly to the words.

“I heard the footfall of the flower spring…”

Minutes had already gone by, and then there came the sound.

It wasn’t thunder—she knew what it sounded like, knew the smell of oncoming rain. Storm’s End had taught her so. The sound didn’t come from the sky, but from the heavy drumming of hooves striking the ground in beats. A horse breathing through its nostrils, and then a sharp, ringing neigh that cut across the quiet.

Diantha looked up, it was a black destrier approaching the field, broad-chested and upon it rode a man she recognized at once.

She stood quickly and dropped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

Prince Maekar of House Targaryen.

His riding clothes were dark and rich—deep crimson worked under layers of black leather and fitted belts, with a sword resting at his side. Silver hair framed a face made sterner by age rather than softened by it, and his beard pale in the sunlight. Mounted as he was, he seemed much larger; less a man and more a warrior.

He rode nearer but did not dismount, drawing the horse to a halt a few paces from the tree.

Diantha had to tilt her head back from where she was, under the low branches to meet him.

“Lost, are you?” he asked. The tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t warm either.

He was exactly as she remembered him.

Diantha smiled. “No, my prince. My husband and I are guests of Lord Grandison. They’ve gone hunting. I wandered until I came here.”

“I see.” His eyes were shadowed beneath his brows, and to her disappointment, she couldn’t quite make out their color. She had always liked his eyes. “But you’re at the border of Summerhall,” he added, in a matter-of-fact.

Diantha’s face colored a deep red hue. She looked around properly, the field rolled away in every direction, uninterrupted save for the solitary tree and the distant line of woods. There were no banners, no walls, and no signs that indicated Summerhall. Had she truly walked so far? “My apologies, Your Grace. I should—”

“I did not say you should leave.”

The words came sharp. His brow creased briefly, then eased again, and his gaze dropped to the book in her hands. Reading the title. “Were you searching for a pomegranate tree merely to read that?”

Diantha nodded rather shyly; if he knew the allegory of the pomegranate tree, then he knew the story.

His stare unsettled her. It always felt as if he was searching for something in her that she didn’t know how to give.

“A pity the fruit is not yet ripe.” He reached upward and turned one of the hanging pomegranates in his hand. Green, and smooth-skinned.

She had noticed them, of course. The reason she hadn’t picked one.

“Have you come here often?”

“No, my prince. We only arrived yesterday and—”

“Have you no guards?” he cuts in. “Does Lord Baratheon lack men enough to let his wife scamper off the countryside alone?”

She bit back a smile. “I do. My husband simply allows me to do as I please, and I am rather weary of seeing only stone walls while he gets all the fun.”

He frowned, and strangely, she was warmed by his attention. This casual conversation they don’t often share, at least not with him.

“And you’ve no horse?”

“I’m fond of walking, Your Grace, I like seeing new lands, the blossoming flowers. Things that grow where I’ve never seen them before.”

Especially after the year of the great spring sickness—when and where everyone has to be in their own homes for safety.

Moons spent behind walls and windows, and from her view, only ever seeing the raging seas and perpetual storms. 

The prince merely regarded her for a moment longer with that same unreadable expression.

She hadn’t seen him in so long, yet his face returned to her with bittersweet clarity—the severe line of his mouth, the loveliness of his lilac eyes, the silver of his silky hair, and the coldness he wore like armor. She wondered if she had remembered him faithfully, or if a year had made him grander in memory.

More…kind.

He cleared his throat. “Come again tomorrow, if you wish to see more of the fields. There are orchards farther in. More fruits other than pomegranates, ripe and ready to be consumed.”

His eyes lingered in scrutiny, roaming over her. “And dress more warmly. I’m surprised you’re not shivering.”

Diantha beamed and nodded far too eagerly. “Thank you, my prince.”

He gave no answer; he clicked his tongue and gathered the reins. The black destrier turned in one smooth motion.

Prince Maekar did not look back. But Diantha remained standing in the shade, watching the dark shape of horse and rider cross the field, and she watched, and watched until he became but a speck on the horizon.

Her heart was beating fast in her chest.

Some things, she thought, had not changed at all.

She had first met the prince on the Ashford tourney.

Her father was Warden of the South, and through this courtesy, she had been presented before the attending royal family.

She remembered everything—his lavender scent, his looming frame and most of all, his eyes.

His eyes were the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

She had wanted to look longer, but he had been frowning.

Always frowning.

Even later, during those moons she spent in King’s Landing for her twin sister’s wedding to the Heir, he had scarcely changed.

Prince Maekar wasn’t cruel.

Distant, a better term. Sometimes his lack of response was a dismissal enough, never warm to invite. When she tried speaking with him, she was often left feeling she had wasted his precious time.

She learned to stay away from his path, didn’t want to annoy him or earn his ire.

Though she still watched, and watched. At feasts, in courtyards, and in halls full of music and candlelights.

She was merely a staunch devotee, contented only in the presence of her deity.

The last she saw him was at a banquet. He had been speaking with some highborn lady. There was a circulating rumor that there was to be another betrothal arranged for him.

Diantha never learned whether it was true. But she recalled feeling oddly gloomy that night.

Two days later she departed for Storm’s End. She had been quietly betrothed to Ser Lyonel of House Baratheon. He wasn't Lord by then. His father was one of the few who had perished during the great spring sickness, and Ser Lyonel became lord.

And Diantha became Lady of the Stormlands.

“You’re smiling so wide, my heart.” Lyonel quips beside her. His hand settled at her waist. “And what fortune has earned me the sight?”

Diantha blinked out of her reverie, but her smile didn’t vanish; instead, she turned toward him. “I am happy to be out of—”

She stopped, internally cringing at herself. “Forgive me. Never mind.”

“Storm’s End?” he chuckled, “Do not apologize. I oftentimes feel the same.”

His mouth curved in that familiar smirk and then came the wink. “Our home’s a bit drab, isn’t it?”

He was a good man, and sometimes, she thought she didn't deserve him.

“My lord husband,” she asked after quite a deliberation, “will you be hunting again on the morrow?”

“Yes.” He stretched his shoulders. “I thought, perhaps peacocks. Would you like that? We could have the feathers made into a fan for you.”

Diantha didn't want that. Such beautiful creatures to have a grim fate, but she didn't say anything else other than a question, “I would like to go out again, in the field yonder. Is that alright?”

“As long as you’re smiling again.”

She saw him waiting by the pomegranate tree.

He was standing, hands clasped behind his back. A perfect posture, the perfect prince in her storybooks.

Diantha waved a hand. “Good day, Your Grace.”

He answered with a curt nod, but Diantha was pleased. An acknowledgment from him is better than anything else.

Prince Maekar turned and led her to the grassy path. She followed until she reached the destrier and halted, a gasp escaping her mouth. He noticed and regarded her in his inscrutable gaze. “If we walk,” he slowly said, “we shall be sweating before we reach our destination.”

Diantha looked at the horse, then at him.

Diantha was afraid of being atop a horse. She had never mastered the skill to ride one, she had tried as a child and disliked the certainty of falling.

She swallowed, and perhaps her hesitation showed because he shifted, and his eyes were warm…almost thoughtful. “Do not worry,” he said. “I’ll hold you tight.”

“Like your life depended on it?” soon as the words escaped her, the blush spread along her cheeks and onto her neck.

Oh, fiddlesticks!

But he smiled. Is that truly a smile? Yes! The faintest tilt at one corner of his mouth.

“Like my life depended on it,” he said with a grave solemnity that Diantha felt warm all over.

Deciding to push her luck, she asked him again. “Will you at least introduce me?”

He sighed, but there it was again—that hidden thing behind his typical sternness. “Lady Diantha,” he said with measured patience, resting one hand on the horse’s neck, “This is…Caraxes.”

To her delight, she thought she saw the slightest color rise along his cheeks.

Diantha dipped into a curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you, Mighty Caraxes.”

The destrier lowered its great head and nudged the air between them.

When she looked back, Prince Maekar had already extended his hand. She placed hers in it.

His grip was firm as he helped her mount.
She settled before him, and a moment later he swung into the saddle behind her in one practiced movement.

There was propriety in the arrangement, necessity more than anything else, but she became aware of everything.

The leather creak of the saddle. Prince Maekar sat behind, reins gathered in both hands as they passed along either side of her that she could feel the occasional brush of his arms at her sides whenever Caraxes moved.

Diantha fixed her eyes ahead.

She wouldn’t think about how close he was. Wouldn’t notice his cloak stirring in the wind.

She wouldn’t notice the scent of leather, steel, and lavender.

Her heart, traitorous thing, ignored her entirely.

She began to hum softly under her breath. An old tune. So he wouldn’t hear her heart.

Or perhaps she would hear something other than herself.

~

Summerhall’s orchards were filled with colors, life and sweet-smelling scents.

Rows of fruit trees; oranges, lemons, apricots, figs, and peaches bowed their branches low; and farther, many pomegranate groves awaiting their season.

Diantha understood why Death was obsessed with Spring.

They walked slowly, she and the prince. Mostly she talked. Her voice filled the spaces in between, while his arrived quieter and cooler, his brief replies.

She asked after his children. Of Prince Daeron she knew a little more—they had exchanged letters, and he was in the capital now. Egg, was still squiring for Ser Duncan. Princess Daella remained in Summerhall under the instruction of a septa.

Diantha pictured a small silver-haired girl wandering these same orchards.

She was curious, so curious that she asked, “And of the Lady?”

“Lady, what?”

“The Lady of Summerhall.”

“She’s been dead for ten years.”

Diantha faltered in her steps. “Oh. You never remarried? I had heard…there were talks of your betrothal.”

He was scowling, and she almost regretted asking, but she was…relieved.

“No,” a pause. “Conflict of interest.”

“Oh.” Then because she had always been ruined by curiosity— “Why?”

“Do you often ask questions you ought not?”

“…Sometimes.”

He was quiet for so long she thought she had overstepped, but he answered anyway, “It is rather complicated.”

That was all.

They reached a wider clearing.

Several baskets were at the foot of the trees, and up ahead was a wooden gazebo veiled in climbing roses. Inside was a round table and cushioned benches.

She gathered oranges first, testing their weight before placing them into the basket, then peaches, and apricots. She giggled to herself upon discovering figs and selected only the ripest.

Her skirts brushed the grass.

For a little while she forgot she was a lady.

Forgot she was being watched.

She turned with a lemon in hand. “Do you come here often, my prince?”

“When time allows.”

He remained where she had left him in the clearing. Hands behind his back, watching.

She wondered whether he usually walked here alone, or whether Daella came running through the rows, whether he sat in the gazebo with his daughter.

Was he so lonely that he brought her here—someone he didn’t usually speak to, and in the past had only referred to her as ‘girl’? She thought this was rather sad.

Although she was grateful he had considered her at all.

“To think,” he remarked, nodding toward the basket, eyeing her book, “for someone who loves poems and stories, that is what you chose to read.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Did he not rape and abduct the flower girl?”

“In some versions. But I prefer another telling, here he saw her, loved her, carried her away—love leapt in such a hurry!” She smiled down at the fruit, imagining it as the blood-red pomegranate. “In time, she loved him in return. She became queen in her own right, he treated her as his equal. And among all the gods, he never strayed from her.”

Lilac eyes bore into hers. Dark and intense despite the color in them. “Will you read me that so I may understand the romantic notion you made it out to be?”

Her elation arrived too quickly to conceal. “Yes!” she lowered her hands, and remembered her grace. “Of course, my prince, if it pleases you.”

“‘Tis simply to prove you wrong.”

“If you say so, my prince.”

~

Diantha was beginning to discover something she had never predicted.

Prince Maekar could engage in a conversation without his biting remarks.

What unsettled her most wasn’t that he spoke to her, but that he listened. He humored her ramblings and questions and little observations with an attention she was entirely unaccustomed to receiving from him.

In the past, he was elusive. He had shunned her plenty of times.

She had thought he disliked her sister’s marriage to his brother, and by extension had found little use for her presence or her company.

But now, he was…pleasant.

He even asked things in return.

Diantha was happy that every small thing he revealed about himself left her strangely unsteady. Her legs were restless. Her cheeks ached from smiling.

She learned that he used to paint portraits of faces and scenery; some were hung in the halls of King’s Landing, and she wondered whether she had passed them without ever knowing. She learned he liked sweets; this revelation came simply because she caught him selecting mangoes with suspicious care, pressing and smelling the fruit before choosing the ripest. His favorite dessert was honeyfingers.

She learned that he liked watching and listening to performers and bards with old instruments and newer songs, and that he was one of the patrons who funded independent artists for their craft.

That surprised her most. She had sung many times in the king’s hall whenever merrymaking was called for. She remembered seeing him once; he had been frowning. She had looked away immediately, embarrassed and convinced she must have sounded dreadful.

Perhaps he disliked her voice, and she wasn’t very good.

“There is a song you always sing,” he noted. “I rather liked it.”

Her eyes widened, taken aback. “Oh, thank you, my prince.”

“Sing it for me, will you?”

“You need not flatter me, Your Grace.” Her fingers tightened in her lap. “I do not think…”

I do not think you mean it—but she did not say it.

“Come now. You sing for everyone, but not for me?”

She looked at him skeptically, searching for mockery, and for signs of his amusement. But he only sat there in front of her, a bit too relaxed. Waiting.

Diantha exhaled, and then softly—she sang.

“…whisper fairy stories 'til they're real,
Wonder how the night can make us feel,
Loving living more with love to stay,
Long past sadness that was in our way…”

Her eyes were downcast. She did not dare watch him, she feared disappointment, or worse, indifference. She watched the table, her eyes tracing the fine embroidery of the cloth.

She saw movement, and she was startled to see his hand had come upward, resting under her chin. Lifting her face so that her gaze returned to him.

He was smiling. That rare, lovely smile.

“I do not think I ever said this, but I do listen whenever you sing. Your voice is lilting, distinct from the others. It used to aggravate me, because I knew it was you.”

She stopped her singing, she was…she didn’t know what to feel. To say.

Her thoughts scattered.

“When I stopped hearing you, I might as well be deaf.” He pulled his hand away, the loss of his touch affected her in that strange way. “It is an honor to hear you sing again.”

~

That night, her husband trailed his lips to her neck, sucking and kissing, his hands roamed all over her body, squeezing and fondling.

She turned her head to look at the candlelight, staring at the flames.

She was mildly disappointed to not smell any traces of lavender on him.

The next day, in the same vicinity and in the comfort of the gazebo, they argued about enduring love in certain stories—well, he argued against them. Saying there was no such thing.

Diantha was mostly beaming and listening to his arguments.

“So you tell me,” he declared, “this Odysseus fellow was away from home for twenty years, and his wife never married again, only for us to later learn that this fellow had fucked other women.”

“They were an enchantress and a nymph,” Diantha gently corrected. “He was coerced.”

“I daresay he enjoyed it.”

“Mayhaps he did, mayhaps he did not. But his wife welcomed him anyway because she trusted him.”

“She is a fool too,” He scoffed. “All these love stories of yours are quite foolish. They prey upon women like you. Imagine accepting someone still even after they turn into a beast, or their lover was ‘coerced’ by a witch.”

“That is love, Your Grace. Admit impediments; love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.” She sighed dreamily. “O no, it is an ever-fixed mark.”

He looked at her again. Whenever he did, Diantha was fidgeting her fingers together.

“And I suppose that is why you chose him, is it not? Despite his whoring.”

There was cruelty in the way he said it.

Cruel in his knowing.

Diantha’s smile dropped, she looked down at her hands. She blinked fast, unwilling to form the tears. She would not cry.

She would not.

“I…” He breathed out. “Apologies. That was tactless of me.”

She didn’t think she had ever heard him apologize before, to her or to anyone. Not even to his brother—whom he regarded in the highest esteem.

She nodded meekly. Then, as if wanting to defend herself— “He made me laugh. I never had to strive for his affection.”

“Why would you?” He knitted his brows. “You are a beautiful woman. Men would strive for yours.”

Diantha looked away, his first compliment under these circumstances. How sad. How pitiful.

“Well…” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “I did not want theirs, Your Grace.”

“Ahhh, I see. Only Lyonel Baratheon has ever won your favor.”

He said her husband’s name with an acerbity into it. Or perhaps she only imagined she heard it.

Diantha neither corrected him nor answered.

After that, there was silence.

They looked everywhere but at each other.

And that day, Diantha returned to Grandview Keep earlier than she had intended.

She had not expected him to return the next day.

Truthfully, she had hoped to read in the shade of the pomegranate tree, and think.

She was worried that he was here to finally forbid her on his land.

But as she came nearer, she saw a blanket on the grass and a basket.

“Hello, Your Grace,” she greeted.

“I thought you might not wish to return to the orchards with…” He paused, gestured at the spread. “This is for you, at least you will be comfortable, and your dress will not be dirtied. I picked the fruits you’d like.”

Diantha blinked. “You didn’t have to do this, my prince.”

“But I wanted to.”

There was no point in declining, and he looked rather restless. Diantha was compassionate, after all. “Alright, thank you.”

She slipped off her slippers and stepped onto the blanket. The wool was warm and soft. The prince was still there, standing, and he looked unsure…like he was waiting.

“Are you quite busy, my prince?”

“No. I, too, am rather weary of seeing stone walls.”

Diantha couldn’t help the giggle bursting from her mouth. “Then stay awhile. This blanket is large for two, and they say two is better than one.”

He sat, and stay he did.

He kept his boots on, and he was beside her, a slim width between them. This wasn’t wrong; she was not a maiden anymore, she’s a married woman, and he was merely accompanying her.

They were kin by marriage, he is her good brother. They were only relishing this peace on his land.

She tells herself this, as she was aware of him; of his leather, of his lavender and steel, and the coolness of the breeze did nothing to quell the heat radiating from him.

~

“Why haven’t you visited King’s Landing? Your sister is there.”

“Certain duties kept me away. Have you been visiting since the travel ban was lifted?”

“Yes, even though your sister mostly argues with me.”

“If she argues with you, then you are probably doing something that makes her want to argue with you.”

“Probably.”

Diantha picked at the skin on her fingers. “My prince, if you don’t mind me asking, which if you do, you may ignore it…” She looked down. Here it goes. “You have not remarried…was it because a love like the first would never compare to the next?”

Foolishly, she wanted to know. And he would know. His late wife had been his first love, he had carried her memory for years.

Would Diantha be the same? Would she spend her life haunted by a face that was not her husband’s?

Would she always be terrible?

Would she always feel terrible?

Prince Maekar hummed, the sound reverberating from his chest.

Diantha warily peered at him—so far, he wasn’t frowning.

He leaned back into his hands, palms pressed into the blanket, one knee bent while the other stretched out. His face tilted slightly, and the shade with filtering light from the sky, softened the severity she had always associated with him.

He looked peaceful.

“Yes,” he answered, and her hope deflated.

“And no,” he added, and she was fully intrigued.

He caught a loose lock of her hair. He twirled it around his finger. Diantha looked first at his hand, then at his face, and then his hand again.

She couldn't pick which to stare at.

“I had years to mourn Dyanna. Years of remembering her…but that did not mean my heart closed.” he scowled as if recollecting a particular bitter memory. “The lady arranged for me…she had already been promised elsewhere.”

Diantha gasped. “Oh no.”

She felt sorry for him. He had tried and had let someone in, but it was too late. Whoever she was, she was quite lucky to have his affections. There was hope after all. Grief was not forever. Perhaps if given days, enough years, she could learn to open her own heart too.

Perhaps she could eventually give that love to her husband.

“It’s her loss, my prince.”

“No.” His attention was somewhere distant. “It is mine.”

~

Lord Grandison had a large family.

By large, it meant he had a wife and three mistresses who were all, somehow, on amicable terms with one another.

They bore him children too. So many children that the extra tables had been drawn in and pressed together to fit everyone.

The hall was noisy with laughter, cups knocking on wood, children darting between chairs and servants weaving through the crowd. Lyonel was among his men, loud as ever, trading crude jokes with their host.

Meanwhile, a little girl had claimed Diantha’s lap and was insisting she eat her string beans.

In Diantha’s arms slept a babe of four moons, warm and heavy, occasionally nuzzling in sleep.

Even through all the noise, she heard Lady Grandison. “You are very good with children, Lady Baratheon.”

Diantha looked down at the babe and smiled. “Their hearts are a wonder.”

Her hand moved gently over the child’s tiny hair. She wanted a child of her own too. She prayed for it. But it wasn’t her time yet.

It wasn’t for lack of trying either. Lyonel was healthy and vigorous and had never hidden his intentions, and Diantha received them; his touches, his kisses, all of his attentions, even when she was tired, even when she did not feel like it, because that was her duty. Because she was his wife.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she looked up. Her husband’s blue eyes. He grinned at her broadly, with wine on his breath. “Look how beautiful my lady wife is!”

Several heads turned, Lyonel raised his cup. “Our departure is near and I must say to you, my good lord—we shall double the amount of children you have!”

Lord Grandison roared with laughter; his men followed, and so did Lyonel.

Diantha wasn’t embarrassed. She had grown accustomed to her husband’s boasting. To his coarse humor, to his fondness for wine.

She counted herself fortunate that he never raised a hand to her.

Lady Grandison looked at her with sympathy; she thought Diantha was flustered, her face said so.

What made her so, as she pondered, was that her afternoons with the prince would soon come to an end. 

They didn’t constantly talk.

Contrary to what Diantha dreamed of before all this—that if she were ever alone with him, she would scramble to fill every silence, but most hours passed quietly.

She would read, and he would sit beside her, leaning against the rough bark with his eyes half-lidded.

Sometimes she wondered if he was sleeping. But then she would pause in the middle of a page and find him opening his eyes.

Watching her. So she continued with a blush furiously coloring her cheeks.

Sometimes she read aloud of stories, poems and passages she liked.

Sometimes she explained things he didn’t ask to be explained.

Sometimes she gestured with her hands and laughed at lines that amused her, and she thought, perhaps, he liked it—not because he said so.

Prince Maekar was not generous with words. But every now and then, there would appear that small smile on his lips.

She would read slower whenever she saw it. Stretching chapters, stretching their daytime.

Sometimes she wanted to ask him things—things she had no right to ask.

Whether he felt alone in that large castle of his. Or was silence something he enjoyed or merely endured?

Or does he still feel lonely beside her?

But she never asked.

She didn’t want to break whatever this was. She didn’t want to name it.

She feared that once named, it would vanish.

Diantha kept reading.

~

She had bitten into a tangerine when she felt him move.

Prince Maekar had leaned forward, his thumb brushed beneath her mouth. Clearing the juice that had dripped down her chin.

By the time she understood the gesture, he had given her space again.

But his thumb remained coated with citrus.

She watched.

Watched him place his thumb into his mouth. Watched his tongue dart to taste.

Her throat felt dry. Her heart was running fast.

“Sweet,” he simply said.

~

She knew it was still early, but the sky was leaning into gray. She smelled the tell-tale scent of rain.

“Diantha.” His finger was rolling her curl again. It has become his habit. “Do not come tomorrow. It will rain.”

She supposed he knew these lands better.
He had lived in the Stormlands for too long. Diantha still struggled to understand the weather here, but she knew the sight of an impending storm.

He was right. There would be rain.

She held her book, “If so, we leave the day after. I want you to keep this, please take care of it. My mother’s lettering is written at the end.”

He looked confused but accepted it. “But why?”

“So I have a reason for us to meet again.”

“You do not need a reason, Diantha.”
His confusion turned to a softer expression, this one she didn’t know. “You are welcome here. You are—”

“Lady of the Stormlands. I cannot leave without my husband.” She smiled a sad smile.

She noticed his jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened that she couldn't see the lilac in them. But he said nothing.

“It was a pleasure to see half of Summerhall, my prince. It is more than I ever imagined.”

~

Every time she prepared to leave, he always asked if he should escort her back to Grandview Keep.

And every time, she refused.

Four hundred and twenty steps—she had said to him. That was what she always reassured him. Only four hundred and twenty steps. 

She would have walked farther, and much farther, because it meant reaching the border of Summerhall.

Usually, before she disappeared into the distance—she always turned back, she would wave and call out to him, “Goodbye! Parting is such sweet sorrow!”

But this time, she didn’t turn, didn’t wave.

She didn’t say anything.

Because Diantha feared that if she made a habit of saying goodbye, one day she would familiarize herself too much with it.

~

Thunder rolled in heavy, guttural crashes that shook the very foundations of the Keep.

But the thunder here was pale in comparison to the storms that battered her husband’s castle by the sea.

She used to startle at every crack of it. At the sudden violence of sound.

It arrived without warning, but a year spent in Storm’s End had changed her.

Now she hardly stirred, and on nights, when the rain was vicious and the sea answered in kind, the sound of thunder had become her lullaby.

“My heart,” Lyonel was positioned between her legs, his broad, muscular shoulders blocking out the candlelight of the room. “I have been neglecting you, haven't I? With all this hunting and reveling.”

“‘Tis fine, my lord.”

His dark beard brushed her inner thighs as he buried his face deep into her heat. She lay back on the pillows, her hair splayed out like a bloodstain across the sheets. Diantha sighed slowly.

His tongue lashed out to find her nub. He began to lick her in long, unhurried strokes, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub before sucking it firmly into his mouth. The sensation was over-stimulating, her hands sought the softness of the mattress.

When she closed her eyes, she sees the pomegranate tree in her mind. She sees the blanket and the basket.

She sees her Prince Maekar.

She gasped, as Lyonel continued to eat her cunt, he slid two thick fingers deep inside her. She returned to the chambers and her husband.

He pumped his fingers in and out with a steady, urging rhythm, stretching her walls and hitting that spot with every thrust.

Diantha gripped the sheets with her hands, her knuckles turning white as she bunched the fabric into tight fists. She closed her eyes again, and it was Prince Maekar who was between her legs.

Prince Maekar who was consuming her with his mouth.

Prince Maekar who called her by her name. Not Lady Baratheon, not Lady Diantha.

Diantha.

She could hear him in her mind, his voice; the rich cadence. His velvety intonations.

Diantha, Diantha, Diantha—his tongue swiping her wet folds up and down.

“My P—!” she opened her eyes again and inwardly panicked.

Lyonel didn't notice her or the slip-up. He was making slurping sounds with her cunt to even hear her.

The intensity of her pleasure and the shifting image of him, she brought her hands up to her face, pressing her palms hard against her mouth to muffle her moans.

She was shaking, her thighs trembling.
She didn't want to scream, she didn't want to mispronounce again, but the feeling of his rough tongue flickering her was almost too much to bear.

“Husband—!” Yes, that was safe.

Remember, Diantha.

Husband.

The combination of the penetration and the relentless suction on her clit sent her spiraling. Lyonel began to lap at her faster, his fingers curled inside her, hooking upward.

“Oh, my! Oh—husband!”

She heard her Prince Maekar saying her name again and again.

Diantha, Diantha, Diantha.

The pressure built into an unbearable coil of heat. She let out a muffled shriek into her hands, her body stiffening as a forceful orgasm ripped through her.

Diantha came hard to the sensation of his tongue. She shuddered, her grip on the sheets loosening. She was breathless and spent, while her husband continued to lick the sweet, overflowing cream from her soaking hole.

Diantha felt shame.

Diantha shouldn’t think of him.

Diantha has a husband. He gives her pleasure. He gives her anything she wants.

Lyonel is her husband. He is a lord.

He wasn't her prince.

Diantha should burn in the Seven Hells.

Diantha seized Lyonel by his shoulder. Her hands were shaking, her heart was beating too fast, too guilty.

“Lyonel, let me pleasure you.”

He was taken aback, she rarely spoke his name. She used his bewilderment to lay him down, she looked frantic, and her hair a chaos, but he was hard, so stiff in her hand.

She plunged into him. She was slick, and she rode him, and rode him.

“Am I good, Lyonel?” Am I forgiven?

He groaned, “Gods, you’re good.”

The drizzle hit her face.

Her dress was heavy around her legs and difficult to walk in. Mud caked her boots and scattered at the hem of her skirts.

Diantha persisted, she kept walking; she wouldn't rest until she reached those four hundred and twenty steps.

She regretted not saying goodbye.

She didn’t know when they would meet again. Perhaps moons, another turn of the year.

Perhaps never.

She knew he wouldn’t be there. But Diantha thought she would say her goodbye to the pomegranate tree instead.

She will pour her sorrows into it. Her shame, her secret, the entirety of her she would leave them tangled in its roots until, one day, they ripened into fruit.

And someone would eat that fruit, and she will be absolved from her wrongdoings.

Her sins.

She had lost count of the steps because he was there.

Waiting by the pomegranate tree, equally drenched.

For a moment, she only stared.

Rainwater had darkened his already dark clothes. His silver hair clung damply against his temples.

She moved first, and he did too. They crossed the distance together. Water splashed under their feet, Diantha stumbled when her soaked hem dragged her ankles—but Prince Maekar caught her. His hands closed around her forearms and steadied her.

“What are you doing here?” she called over the downpour.

“Because I knew you would come.”

Diantha didn’t feel cold.

She felt warm. Warmed by seeing him, warmed by his touch.

“You foolish girl, you’ll fall ill.” But there was no reproach in it.

He was sad. She recognized this tone. He used it when speaking of his faraway children. When speaking of Prince Rhaegel.

When speaking of Summerhall.

Diantha, perhaps, was feverish. Perhaps rain had washed sense from her, or she was tired of being careful.

But she became brave. “I have to tell you something. I cannot rest until I say my goodbye.”

His grip tightened. “No. There is no goodbye.”

“But I must!” Her eyes stung.

Rain.

Was it, truly?

She shook her head. “I must!”

Words she had folded and hidden and buried for many a moon pressed painfully inside her ribs.

She looked at him, at his beautiful face.
At the face she had committed deep inside her mind through seasons and marriage and distance.

“My prince—I have always watched you. My heart is not mine! I have always loved—”

Without warning, he moved. His hand shot out, gripping her waist with a strength that yanked her body flush against his. She gasped, the sound swallowed instantly as he crashed his lips onto hers.

Diantha kept her eyes open, afraid that if she closed them, she would miss out on this dream. The kind one feels upon learning a door one never intended to open had not been locked after all.

But this was real, wasn’t it?

His long silver eyelashes had droplets of rain that made his lashes clump together.

She felt his beard on her face. She felt his mouth on hers. His lips.

She felt the rain still raging on her head and body.

And the feeling of him pulling away.

“I have your heart, you have mine,” he said.

He tugged her at him again and kissed her again.

It wasn't a delicate kiss; it was a hungry, desperate claim. He tasted of wine, his beard scraping her skin, adding a rough friction that sent a jolt straight to her core.

She whimpered into his mouth, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her chest crushing against his. The pressure was intoxicating. He groaned, a low vibration she felt in her own lungs, as his tongue pushed deep into her mouth, claiming every inch of her.

This was supposed to be her first kiss was like, he was supposed to be her first. 

To be kissed by fire.

~

They only parted because the rain had become unbearable.

Water streamed down their faces and soaked through every layer. They looked nothing like a high Lord and Lady.

And they laughed because of this too. Their voices blurred together with the downpour.

This was so very like the love stories she read.

The confessions and running after the one you loved.

The foolishness.

Perhaps he had thought of it too, the foolishness of kissing in the rain. Foolish enough to want.

They were very foolish.

“Come with me to Summerhall.” His hands grasped her waist. “Come with me, for one day more.”

His forehead rested on hers.

“I will send a messenger to tell Grandison you were caught in the rain. That I saw you, and you do not feel well.”

His eyes searched hers.

“Please. Come with me, stay for the night,” he pleaded as he nuzzled his face on the curve of her neck.

Didn’t he know he need not plead? She would have followed if he had simply asked.

~

Caraxes had all but galloped straight to the castle.

This time Diantha was behind her prince.
Her arms circled him, clutching tightly so she wouldn’t fall to the speed.

One of his hands held the reins, the other over hers where her palm felt the beat of his heart.

Summerhall’s gardens were brilliant despite the rain; flowerbeds damped by water, climbing vines, and more orchards disappearing into mist.

Everything was alive, and when she crossed inside the castle—Summerhall was vast and grand.

Richly furnished and adorned, and subdued.

Dark covers draped over chairs and tables. Crimson carpets and old tapestries lined the walls in faded grandeur. Heavy curtains dimmed the windows.

There were no flower arrangements.

Merely old and cold beauty.

For all the life outside, inside felt almost lonely.

Is this why he spent the days outside with her?

Her thoughts were disrupted by her prince’s shrilling orders of hot baths and dry clothing, and more wood for fires.

His voice echoed through the hall with effortless authority. She wondered too if the dress for her would be from his late wife. This didn’t bother her. Diantha was too warm-hearted.

Too rain-drunk. Too happy.

Too in love.

The commotion had made a little girl run into the hall.

Daella spotted Diantha immediately, followed by a hurrying Septa; she ran forward and threw her arms around her. “Lady Diantha!”

Diantha laughed. “Oh, sweetling—”
She tried to embrace her back but stopped. “I am sorry, you’ll get wet.”

“Daella.” He had crossed his arms. “Let Lady Diantha go. She must dry first.”

Daella looked between them and brightened. “How long will you stay?”

“Until the storm clears, sweetling.”

“Daella.” Impatient, he truly was.

Diantha touched the girl’s cheek. “I shall see you as soon as I am warm. I promise, sweetling.”

~

She was escorted by a serving girl who looked no older than herself.

Diantha followed, and his footsteps indicated he was following her.

The girl opened a door and stepped aside to what Diantha assumed was to be her room.

Her prince didn’t let her enter, his hand closed gently around her, and without a word, he led her farther down the corridor.

He opened another set of doors.

His chambers. She knew it because the room carried his scent.

Lavender, musk, and steel.

He directed her into an adjoining bathing room where a great silver tub had already been prepared. Steam curled into the air, and she learned how cold she truly was.

She moved to loosen her wet cloak, but his fingers were already at the fastening on her back.

He helped free her from the heavy layers. His hands worked deftly. “You still wear your father’s colors.”

“Yellow looks dreadful on me.”

He smiled at that.

One by one, he discarded the portions of her dress; from the corset, the outer skirts, chemise, and her underthings.

Every piece was on the floor, until Diantha was bare.

She was aware of herself standing there.

Aware of being seen.

He looked at her with such intensity that she wished to know what he saw.

Whether she looked as she felt.

Did she look pleasing? 

Prince Maekar helped her into the water.

She sighed as the heat enveloped her skin. She had always preferred hot baths.

Then, he disrobed himself, his fingers were fast, and he was watching her watching him.

He was glorious as he was naked.

He was much paler than her, the silver hair all over his body shimmered in the light, and his build was broad and strong, with old scars everywhere.

Diantha looked and looked—at his torso, the patch of silver on his groin, his shaft that earned her flush, his long limbs and everything that was him.

Her eyes devoured him.

He was divine. Her perfect Prince.

He entered the tub opposite her, with his added weight, water rippled and splashed onto the floor.

They sat facing one another, legs intertwined, neither speaking.

Noticed things that only in bareness one would see.

The signs of years, his long and small scars. A life lived.

Was he noticing things about her too?

Shortly, they helped one another wash away the rain and mud.

They took their time.

She traced his scars with her fingertips, and he traced the freckles on her skin. They both touched each other—the kind of caress that was born not solely from wanting, but from being known.

Pure and silent.

This was much holier than praying in a Sept.

~

Diantha was wearing a flowing light green satin dress with fine embroidery of flowers spiraling along the hems and sleeves. The stitching was delicate and neat, little blossoms threaded in blue and pink.

The rain hadn't quelled; the breeze was biting, and she put a white fleece robe over her.

She didn’t ask whom these clothes belonged to.

She had written a letter to her husband explaining her situation, supporting her prince’s claim, and assuring him that once the storm cleared, she would return.

While she was writing, her prince scowled at the parchment. He didn’t want to write a letter to her husband, but she insisted.

She knew Lyonel would worry. If she didn’t send word, he would likely ride here himself. That would make everything infinitely worse.

It took hours for her hair to dry.

During those hours, Prince Maekar would trail kisses on the sides of her neck, to her shoulder, and to her arms.

He did not go beyond that. He was respectful.

Evenfall came, and they had dinner together.

Diantha wanted them to sit closer rather than following proper table customs, and they did.

It was only the three of them—Diantha,
Daella, and Prince Maekar.

It was an ordinary family taking supper.

Diantha had never felt so full in her life.

~

Of course, they were careful in Daella’s presence.

They barely touched.

Prince Maekar kept his hands clasped behind his back.

Diantha occupied herself with a book because Daella kept demanding that she read all the stories she had apparently missed.

It was just as well. Because if she did not keep her hands and mind active, they would simply seek him out.

Daella had called her “Lady Baratheon,” just once. After that, she was harshly reprimanded by the Prince and told she should call her Lady Diantha.

Diantha was fairly uneasy at that.

She didn’t wish to erase what they truly were. She thought her prince would understand that even with their shared sentiments, there would always remain boundaries.

Especially in how they appeared before others.

She supposed she would let him have this, only for the moment.

~

Night found her tucking Daella into bed after the young girl had fallen asleep while Diantha was reading to her.

She pulled the blanket higher over her and brushed loose strands from her face. Diantha looked at her sleeping face, and quietly left the room.

Once they were alone again, her prince continued kissing her. He kissed her as if he had held himself back the whole evening, and he did.

She had believed he would be a great kisser in her earlier fantasies of him; he seemed the sort of man who would know. He would know where to place his hands.

He would know how to make a woman breathless—and that was what Diantha was now. Breathless.

The kiss was not a tentative plea but a conquest.

It was deep and hungry. Teeth clashing. She moaned into his mouth, her hands clutching at his tunic, pulling him closer until there was no air left between them. She would want to die like this.

He groaned, his fingers digging deeper into her cheeks to ensure she felt every ounce of his passion. Prince Maekar devoured her, his tongue sliding her in a wet dance.

He shifted his hold, one hand sliding from her jaw to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in her curls to pull her face tighter against his, while the other hand remained firm on her neck, pulsing with the beat of her own racing heart.

Diantha melted under him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Every time she tried to pull away for a sliver of air, he followed her, his lips chasing hers, refusing to let the connection break. His beard tickled her skin, a soft friction, an opposition to their wild kissing.

And then Dianta felt him. A hardness pressing in her abdomen.

She thought about what would happen. Was this too fast? Was this too soon?

In her mind came the unbidden image of her husband. Her Lyonel.

“What is it?” Prince Maekar quietly asked.

Only then did she realize they had stopped kissing. He was staring at her, concern plain in his face.

Lost was she in her incessant thoughts.

“I…” She didn’t know how to phrase it. “Would you like to copulate?”

A breathy chuckle escaped him. “I would do more than copulate, but…” his knuckles brushed her cheek. “I know you will be fighting with yourself.”

“No, I want to—”

“You want to, Diantha.” His tone was gentle. Seldom used. “But this is too fast for you. You have a soft heart, a conscious mind. I understand.”

He kissed her forehead. “I will never force you. And besides, I did not ask you to spend the night here for only that. I rather enjoy your presence, if you haven’t noticed.”

Diantha beamed at him, showing her teeth and dimples. Behind his usual stoicism, there was humor. A lightness in his usual reticence.

Prince Maekar carried her to his bed and laid her down. His bed was soft, and it smelled like him. Lavender.

He removed his tunic and laid beside her. His arm snaked around her waist and drew her closer until she was flushed against him.

His face found its place on her neck again.

She couldn’t help but ask, “What do I smell like?”

“Rose, of course. Jasmine, and…” he grumbled, “I don’t know these things, Diantha. Seven Hells…You smell like the first week of spring, and bunny fur, and of…well, if a rainbow had a smell.”

Diantha burst out a giggle, “I like it.”

“Recite me your favorite poem,” he crooned, tightening his hold on her.

The hearth fire crackled low. The drapes had been left partly open and through the windows she could see flashes of lightning and raindrops collected on the glass.

The candles burned low; the whole room was warm.

Diantha laid there, thinking of the fire, of the storm outside, of his warmth, his breath on her neck—she thought this simplicity felt unreal.

This belonging. Something from her most cherished dreams.

Everything was perfect.

And Diantha recited her favorite poem, and then she recited it again, and as she reached the end for the second time—he was already asleep.

Diantha recited it again, this time in a hush. 

“Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow…”

Diantha awoke at the break of dawn.

There was no sunlight, just that stillness before morning fully arrived.

Everything was quiet, and the quietness of it horrified her.

Because it meant the storm had passed, and she would have to return.

Return to her reality. Return to her truth.

She lay still for a while and looked at her sleeping prince. His arms were still around her. She contemplated whether he feared she would disappear if he didn’t hold her tightly, the same way she feared it too.

A curtain of silver hair had fallen across his face. She tucked it away, and her fingers didn’t leave. They lingered along his temple, to his cheek. To the line of his jaw.

He looked peaceful, younger and less burdened.

He was a mortal and he was beautiful.

Later, this serenity of theirs would be gone.

His warmth, and his Summerhall, and she would be gone too.

The thought hollowed her, so she allowed herself this respite.

As the first thin ray of sunlight slipped through the window and touched his face, and quietly, so quietly she was unsure if she truly said it, she whispered.

“I love you.”

~

She hadn’t even broken her fast when she heard a rumble from outside.

It wasn’t the thunder or the storm; it was their Lord.

High atop his destrier, was her husband.
He had come to fetch her.

Her husband’s men moved about the courtyard.

Diantha stepped back from the window. She turned and met the solid frame of Prince Maekar. He returned to his dark robes and darker expression.

“He is waiting, I—” Abruptly, she embraced him.

She took a deep breath, foolishly thinking she could preserve his scent with her.

His arms wrapped her in solace, in this sadness. “Not a goodbye, Diantha.”

“Not a goodbye.” She nodded.

Her heart was light and unbearably heavy all at once.

She pulled away, and his hand caught hers. He pressed something into her palm.

It was a ring.

It was delicate, suited to a woman’s finger; gold and dazzling. It had an insignia, the figure of a dragon's head, and above it sat a small sun in raised detail, its rays reaching outward like a crown.

“You keep it. It’s for the Lady of Summerhall.”

Diantha soundly gasped, “Oh, no! I couldn't take it. Please.” She pushed the ring back to him.

But he closed her fingers over it again and moved her hand away.

“It is to reassure you that we shall meet again.” A small smile appeared. His rare smile for her. “I have your precious book, and you have my Summerhall.”

Her eyes welled with tears. She stood on her tiptoes. And kissed him, and kissed him again, and kissed him again, and again, and again.

Small kisses, quick kisses, heartfelt kisses.

She gave him ten more, and more—and to her, that wasn't enough for all the days they would spend apart.

~

Diantha tried to walk as calmly as she could.

Lyonel was smiling already, arms stretched to greet her.

Guilt washed over her anew that she felt it gnawing at her skin.

“My heart, are you feeling well?” His hand came to her face, feeling for an illness she didn’t have.

“Yes, my lord husband. I merely needed rest.”

The sun and the beauty of the gardens around were deceiving; she felt hideous inside.

“Thank you, Your Grace, for keeping her safe.” Lyonel addressed her prince, who was several paces away. “A wanderer she is, my sweet wife.”

Diantha didn’t turn to look at him, she feared she would betray her emotions.

Her prince didn’t answer, and that was to be expected.

Lyonel removed his cloak, yellow and black, and draped it over her shoulders. Unexpectedly, he pulled her and kissed her. Her eyes widened, men nearby whistled.

“A night without you is a cold one, my heart.”

Diantha followed as he led her to the carriage. Her knees felt weak, her breathing was shallow.

Step, and step. She climbed the raised ladder, and then—his voice. “Lord Baratheon.”

She stopped, Lyonel turned.

“You forget there are other wanderers in the land, less sweet, more inconspicuous, and one day, another may see her, and carry her away. She may not return to you.”

Her face burned.

Lyonel laughed loudly. “Duly noted! It is a good thing you have found her then.”

Lyonel leaned, and he muttered to her, “A crude jest, if you ask me. And the man even dressed you in his dead wife’s clothes.”

Diantha looked down at the sleeves. At the ring hidden from sight.

Perhaps it was nothing more than a jest, but Diantha could only sit in silence as the carriage bore her away, each mile making Summerhall feel less like a place and more like something she had dreamed.

And her days with the Prince were nothing more than a figment of her daydreams.