Chapter 64

"Lady Malora," I started, keeping my voice as polite as I could manage. "It is a pleasure to see you again. The illusion was very impressive, I should say. Quite dramatic. I particularly admired the shadows."

"Don't," she said. Her voice was tight.

"I'm only being honest." I couldn't help myself. "The voice especially. Were you trying for menacing or merely hoarse? I couldn't quite tell."

"Don't."

I zipped up.

She was just as prickly as I remembered, and just as beautiful. Pale skin, dark hair long and lustrous cut through by a streak of silver as brilliant as a ray of moonlight. It made her look like something out of a fantasy novel.

The irony of the thought made me smile, and she must have taken it as mockery. Her eyes, a soft lilac that flirted with blue in the firelight, narrowed into slits. It was cute, really. Like an angry cat. Or tigress.

I had to remind myself that in this half-world of the glass candle, this kitten had claws. Arianne had told me in extensive detail just how expertly Malora could maneuver in this place. Getting injured here carried real-world consequences too, which made it all the more frightening.

Her face was still red, but the blush was beginning to work itself into something closer to anger. Or possibly mortification disguising itself as anger. She puffed out her cheeks and let out a breath.

"You were supposed to be frightened," she admitted.

"Was I?" I kept my tone light.

Pretending I hadn't had a moment of sheer terror at seeing the ten-foot distorted specter? Not above me. Not at all. I had a reputation to maintain.

"My apologies," I said. "I shall do my best to appear suitably frightened in the future. Should I tremble now, do you think? Or would a small whimper suffice?"

"Ser Galladon," she said sternly.

"Lady Malora," I replied amiably.

She was very easy to tease, and as a proud older brother, I couldn't help it.

We stared at each other across the desk.

She broke first. She drew in a long breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again the worst of the redness was beginning to recede. She had the look of a woman who had just decided to start over rather than blow up.

"I had thought a more imposing form would make this conversation easier." 

I gave her a look. "For you, perhaps."

"For both of us." Her mouth tightened. "It is easier to deliver unpleasant information when the recipient is too afraid to interrupt."

I doubled the look. How unsocial did she have to be for that to make any sense?

I nodded to where we were sitting in cozy, tufted leather chairs right beside a fireplace.

"A warm glass of milk and this exact situation sound much better to me than whatever that monstrosity was," I said. I settled more comfortably in my seat and extended a hand toward her. "But that is beside the point. You called for me, in a manner of speaking, and I'm here. Unpleasant information or not. Tell me what it is you wish of me, my lady."

She looked at me for a long moment. The last of the blush faded. What replaced it was something I had seen in her face before, in that brief meeting at the Quill and Tankard in Oldtown a year ago. The look of someone who held knowledge she was not sure how much of to share.

"You are sailing to Volantis," she said at last.

I raised an eyebrow. Should I be surprised the Mad Maid knew things she shouldn't? Then again, even ordinary spies might give her that information. I didn't mind confirming it.

"I am."

Her nose scrunched up. "You should be careful there."

"I had gathered as much, my lady. Prince Oberyn has been telling me the same thing for days."

"Prince Oberyn does not know what waits for you in Volantis." Her voice had gone quiet. The mockery had gone out of my own, replaced by attention. "I do."

I sat forward slightly. "Then tell me."

She studied me. I could feel her weighing what to say and what to withhold. It annoyed me some, but considering I did much the same with every single person I had ever spoken to in this world, I could not really blame her for it. I was as secretive as they came.

"The Temple of the Lord of Light," she said at last. "The temple of the Red God, R'hllor. Do not go inside it, ser. Not under any circumstances."

Huh.

That was it?

It sounded a lot like regular travel advice to my ears. Don't go into the fire god's main place of worship where the workforce is made up of religious zealots and slaves. Gee, thanks for the heads-up.

"Rest assured, Lady Malora,” I told her, not letting any of the sarcasm show. “I did not plan to do so."

Not after Melisandre's tricks in King's Landing.

She scoffed and shot me a withering glare. "Well, you would have."

"Oh." My voice took on a harsher tone. "Please tell me my future actions. I do love a prophecy."

"It's not a prophecy," she hissed. "We Hightowers..." She started, then shook her head. "Forget it. I've said my piece. This conversation is over."

"No," I said.

"No?" She seemed taken aback by such a simple word.

"No," I repeated.

Standing abruptly, I slapped both my hands against the wooden table that sat between us. She jumped at the cracking sound.

"I deserve a better explanation than 'because I said so'," I said. "You called me here, tried to give me the fright of my life, failed to do so, and now expect me to take you at your word? I am not your plaything, Malora Hightower."

"You..." she sputtered. "I'm only trying to warn you!"

"For which I'm grateful," I said. "But I tire of these games. First you give me the candle with no explanation whatsoever. Then you help my sister escape whatever horror she found in this world. And then you write to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard asking about me. Speak plainly now. What is it you want of me?"

She looked up at me wide-eyed, mouth slightly ajar as if she could not believe someone would speak to her like that. I got the impression not many did, and she was quite unused to it.

Also, was that red flowing back into her cheeks?

"I..." she started, her voice slightly shaky. "I don't know."

"You're going to need to do better than that, my lady," I said.

She glared at me, but there was no heat to it.

"I don't know why you are... special," she said. "But you are."

I watched her for a moment. Then I sat back down and sighed.

She had gone from ten-foot monstrosity to mysterious Hightower maid to confused, helpless girl in a surprisingly short amount of time. I raked a hand over my hair. Maybe I had been harsher than I should have been.

I broke the silence with a joke. "My mother also calls me her special boy," I said. "But you've somehow made that sound like a curse."

She gave me a look. "Please don't compare me to your mother. I'm only two years older than you." She sounded annoyed now.

"And you know my age too?" I raised an eyebrow. "Your interest in me has turned quite intimate, my lady. Perhaps the offer of betrothal was real after all."

That got her jumping up from her seat, the chair scraping against the floorboards beneath her. She pointed an accusing finger at me.

"You..." she tried, her blush going nuclear. "You are terrible, Galladon Tarth! You're no true knight to torment a lady so."

I opened my hands, helpless as a lamb. "Blame your grand-uncle, my lady. He was the one who put the sword on my shoulder and said the words."

Her glare intensified. I chose not to back down, locking eyes with her. She managed a few seconds before she looked away, huffed, and sat back down with her arms crossed.

It did wonderful things to her chest, I couldn't help noticing.

"You're an impossible man," she said, still looking off to the side.

"Man, is it?" I allowed myself the smallest of smirks. "Last time you called me boy more than a few times. I'll take that as an improvement."

Her eyes flickered toward me, then down and up as if measuring me despite the table between us.

"I suppose you're much too tall to be called a boy now," she allowed, looking quickly away again.

"I remember being taller than you even back then.”

She let off a put-upon sigh and brought one hand up to massage her temple. "Why are we speaking about how tall you are?" she asked. "You wished to know why the warning, didn't you? Well. I dreamed of it. Or, I suppose, someone else did and made me see it as my own. It felt like a warning, so I—"

"Woah, woah, wait," I said, putting both hands up. "Slow down, Malora. You just said a lot there. You're a dreamer, then? And what do you mean someone put the dream in your mind? Which someone?"

My mind immediately went to the old voyeur in the trees.

"I'm not a dreamer," she said tightly, as if I had just insulted her and her mother and three generations back. I filed away her strange reaction but she just kept going. "And it was a woman, I think. In the dream, you walked inside the temple never to return. Or at least, it was not you who did. Something else looked out from your eyes. Something... something old."

She licked her lips, nervous, and looked down at her lap.

"When I woke up, I came to look into the candle and to try to make any sense of it. I didn't even know the dream happened in Volantis until I searched and found the temple there. And that's when I made a mistake."

"What mistake?" I asked.

"I went inside," she said simply. "I thought it would be safe to do so through the candle. Thought I knew how to protect myself. What a fool I was."

She swallowed, shaking her head as if she could not believe her own naivety. When she looked back up at me, her eyes held true fear in them.

"R'hllor is real," she said. "Whether it is a god or a demon or whatever you want to call it. And R'hllor guards his place of worship jealously."

My stomach twisted. Fuck me.

"What happened, my lady?" I asked.

"I..." she tried, her mouth opening and closing. "I can't explain it. One moment I was navigating these endless empty tunnels and chambers that sit beneath the main building. Then they had me. His priests. And a man with red flames tattooed on his face. I couldn't blink out of it. Couldn't wake from the candle. They meant to take me to... to Him. Deep into the bowels of the temple."

She drew a shaky breath.

"And the more we descended, the more I could feel it. A pressure. A hot, scorching pressure of something that wanted me. That wanted to burn itself into my very soul."

I did not even think about it.

I reached across the table and took one of her hands in mine. She jolted at the sudden contact, but she did not pull back.

"But it didn't, right?" I asked. "That's why you're here. And you're fine."

She nodded shakily. "Yes. It didn't. That woman came. The masked woman. The one I think sent me the dream in the first place. She fought off the priests somehow, then pulled me out of there. Called me a foolish girl to walk into such a place."

Masked woman.

"Quaithe," I said before I could stop myself.

Her hand gripped mine back suddenly. "You know her? You know her name?"

I sighed. I shouldn't have said that aloud.

"Yes," I said. "Though I doubt that is her real name. You could say we've met. Once. In similar circumstances to yours."

"Why is she so interested in you?" Malora asked. “Interested enough to make me dream of you?”

"Why are you so interested in me?" I shrugged, then smiled. "Perhaps I'm just an interesting man."

She scoffed and pulled her hand away. 

"Gods, but you have enough ego for a hundred men," she said. "Why must all minimally competent knights become so full of themselves?"

Ouch. I put a hand to my heart in mock hurt.

"Minimally competent? That's harsh," I said. "But I've yet to hear a good explanation as to why you gave me the glass candle in the first place. Or why you asked Ser Gerold about me. A man starts to wonder, you know."

"It's nothing like that," she said, lifting her nose into the air. "I gave you the candle because I saw you in it. And that you were coming to Oldtown. That's all."

I narrowed my eyes at her for a long moment, saying nothing at all until she clearly grew uncomfortable with the silence. She squirmed in her seat.

"What?" she asked, scowling. "Say something."

"I don't believe you," I said.

"What?" Her voice rose. "What do you mean you don't believe me?"

I shrugged again. "I don't believe you gave me such a priceless artifact just because you 'saw me in it'. There is a reason for it. I know there is."

I didn't, really. But the way her eyes widened just a tiny bit was all the answer I needed.

"And I'm hoping you'll tell me about it," I added.

She seemed to actually consider it for a second. Then her jaw tightened, and I saw in the way she crossed her arms before her—tighter and closer than before—that I would not be getting anything more out of her.

"And if I don't?" Her scowl grew fiercer, like a cornered animal. "Do you plan to slap the table until you get your way, ser?"

"No," I said. "Not at all, my lady. I hope you can forgive me for frightening you. And that you understand the circumstances had me quite on edge."

I don't think she had expected the apology. Her expression softened.

"I see," she said. She gave me a considerate look. "I suppose I can understand your reaction, given my less than ideal introduction."

"Look at us," I said. "Speaking like adults and forgiving each other. That's progress, I should think."

She snorted, and the first smile I had ever seen on her sneaked into her face. All white teeth and a single dimple on her right cheek.

Seven hells, but she was a beautiful woman.

I must have looked at her for too long.

"What?" she asked, blinking at me. "What is it?"

"Are you as pretty in real life," I asked, "or do you do something to appear so otherworldly beautiful in the candle world? I don’t quite recall."

"You are..." She sighed, her cheeks pink. "You are not what I expected, Galladon Tarth."

"So charming?"

She shook her head. "Not how I would put it. But no. I didn't expect you to know so much about..." She searched for words, failed, and just gestured around us. 

"About all this," she said. "The glass candles and dreams and magic."

Just as I opened my mouth to answer, I felt something on the edge of my consciousness. Like repeated taps against the back of my mind. Then I was not feeling it in my mind anymore, but on my face. Light slaps.

Shit. Codin.

He must be trying to wake me up.

Malora was studying me from across the table, waiting for me to say something. Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint the lady, and a man needs to know how to make a good impression in a short amount of time.

Standing from my chair, I stepped around the table and came closer to her. Once more I took her hand in mine. She reacted like a mouse caught in a trap, completely frozen.

“If there’s one thing I know for a fact, Malora Hightower, is that I know a lot more than you." I gave her my trademarked charming knight smile. "And should you ever ask politely, I might even tell you some of it."

Then I lightly brushed my lips against the back of her hand.

I watched her eyes go wide as plates, her cheeks blazing red. Only then did I finally let myself be pulled away from the room we were in. From the candle world itself, until I was waking back in my cabin in Lord Steffon's galleas, and had to reach up to stop Codin from slapping me one more time.

xxx

Volantis came into view at dawn on the fourth day out from Lys.

Standing at the rail of the galleas with Gerion beside me, we watched as the city slowly resolved itself out of the morning mist. The Rhoyne fed into the Summer Sea here through a great delta, and the city straddled both banks of the river where it widened toward the ocean. The Long Bridge ran across the water connecting the two halves, a structure so massive that I could see it clearly even from miles away.

"Gods," Gerion said quietly. "It's bigger than I imagined."

"I was about to say the same thing," I said.

I had thought King's Landing was a great city. I had even thought Tyrosh, with its black walls and its hill-climbing density, was a great city. Volantis put both of them to shame. It sprawled in a way that I had not realized medieval cities could sprawl. The buildings stretched on and on as we sailed closer, climbing the riverbanks in tiers, broken up by domes and spires and towers that rose against the sky in colors I had not expected. Reds, oranges, deep purples. The city looked like it had been painted rather than built.

At least double the size of King's Landing, I judged. Possibly closer to triple. My mind was thoroughly boggled.

A small fleet of Volantene war galleys came out to meet us as we approached the harbor. Long, sleek vessels with tigers and elephants painted on their hulls—the symbols of the two great political factions, I knew from my lessons with Maester Rowen. The galleys formed up as an honor escort and guided us in through the busy traffic of the harbor toward the deep berths reserved for foreign dignitaries or whoever was rich enough to pay for it. 

The reception at the docks made Tyrosh's welcome look modest. The Triarchs themselves were waiting for us. All three of them, Tigers and Elephants both, standing in their distinctive robes of office, surrounded by an honor guard of slave-soldiers in matched armor. A crier in a feathered headdress began his speech the moment Lord Steffon's foot touched Volantene soil, and the speech ran fully ten minutes before he was done. Trumpets. Drums. A choir of children singing in High Valyrian. A procession of slaves bearing gifts of gold, silks, perfumes, and jewels.

It was excessive. It was meant to be excessive, I realized. The Volantenes had not forgotten that they were the eldest daughter of Valyria, and they would remind every visitor of that fact through sheer overwhelming demonstration.

Lord Steffon bore it all with the patient gravity of a man who had stood through many such receptions. Beside him, Lady Cassana smiled in the right places and accepted the proper compliments in passable High Valyrian. Ser Oswell Whent stood behind them in his white cloak, silent and watchful as always.

Behind Lord Steffon, the rest of us did our best to look impressive. Gerion played the Lannister card with his hair and his charm. Oberyn was Oberyn—a Dornish prince did not need to put on airs anywhere. Lineage and titles-wise, I was certainly the least impressive person there, so I just stood at my full height and tried to look like a young knight worthy of having been brought along.

After the docks, we were escorted through the city in elaborate sedan chairs carried by slaves. The streets had been cleared for our passage and small crowds lined the route. People threw flower petals from balconies as we passed beneath them. Music played from courtyards we never saw. 

But as I noticed when we passed through a few intersections, it all seemed contained to the direct route we took, and I started to realize that this was all just a great show the Triarchs had paid for to suitably awe us, while the actual people of Volantis couldn’t care less if some lordlings from a far away land came knocking. 

Of course, later I would find out that these were not even the Triarchs but their literal body doubles, and that the three men themselves would not show up for a mere dignitary. If we were coming with representatives of the crown instead of the king himself, then they had to send their own not to lose face and appear weaker.

Eventually, we were carried across the Long Bridge, a structure wide enough it never felt as if we left solid ground, so big several carriages could drive abreast, and it was so thoroughly built up with shops and houses and even small temples that you could not see the river except through occasional gaps. A man could live his whole life on the Long Bridge without ever setting foot on either shore.

Eastern Volantis was a different city entirely. Older. Statelier. The streets here climbed steadily upward toward a wall I had already seen from a distance, and that wall grew more imposing the closer we came.

The Black Walls.

Like Tyrosh's walls, they were made of fused stone, dragon-built in the time of Old Valyria. But where Tyrosh's walls were thick at the base and brutal in their construction, the Black Walls were sheer and elegant. They rose two hundred feet straight up, perfectly smooth, gleaming in the sun like polished glass. Within them, only those of pure Valyrian descent were permitted to live. The Old Blood. The descendants of the freeholders who had ruled the world before the Doom.

We passed through a single great gate carved into the wall and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The Temple of the Lord of Light Malora had warned me against sat somewhere along the length of Black Walls, but we had thankfully not even gone near it in our procession. 

As long as I steered clear from it, I’d be fine. At least that’s what I’d been telling myself the whole way from the docks.

Inside the walls, it was a different world. The city became a garden. Wide avenues lined with cypresses. Mansions of pale marble set in their own grounds, with fountains and statuary and reflecting pools. Slaves everywhere, of course, but here the slaves were dressed in fine silks and wore collars of gold. They moved silently, eyes lowered, perfectly trained.

We were brought to the palace of Elephant Triarch Doniphos Paenymion, a sprawling estate that had been prepared for our delegation. Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana were given quarters that would have impressed kings. The rest of us were given suites that were nearly as fine, and the great welcome feast was that very night.

The hall was larger than any feast hall I had ever stood in. I imagined only the Hall of the Hundred Hearths in Harrenhal could ever match it in size alone. 

The marble floor stretched for what must have been a hundred yards. Pillars of veined green stone rose to a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of old Valyrian glory—dragons in flight, the Fourteen Flames, lords and ladies riding atop monsters. Three long tables ran the length of the chamber, set with gold and silver service. Hundreds of guests were already mingling when we arrived, and a hundred more slaves circulated among them with platters of food and pitchers of wine.

The Old Blood of Volantis had assembled to inspect us.

I had thought the magisters of Tyrosh had been numerous, but there were more wealthy nobles in this one room than I had seen in all of Tyrosh combined. Robes embroidered with gold thread. Rings, chains, brooches, headdresses. The wealth in this hall would have funded the Seven Kingdoms for a decade.

We were seated near the head of the central table, beside Triarch Paenymion himself and the other two, one Malaquo Maegyr, a Tiger, and Parquello Vaelaros, another Elephant. Lord Steffon spoke quietly with the Triarchs in High Valyrian. Lady Cassana made polite conversation with Paenymion’s wife. Ser Oswell stood behind them at parade rest, declining all offers of food or wine.

And after a dinner of nearly fifty courses was done, the rest of us were left to fend for ourselves.

Oberyn, as was his wont, already had his eyes on someone. I followed his gaze across the hall to where a striking woman stood near one of the side tables. She was perhaps thirty-five, tall and slim, with the silver-blonde hair and pale violet eyes of the Old Blood. She wore a deep blue gown that did flattering things to her figure, and a collar of sapphires that caught the light each time she breathed. She had been looking at Oberyn since the moment we entered the hall. Glaring at him, in fact.

"Ah," Oberyn said softly beside me. "If you will both excuse me. I see an old friend."

He left without waiting for response.

Gerion watched him go with a raised eyebrow. "Friend?"

"One of his daughters' mothers, I think," I said. "I remember hearing he had a child by an Old Blood noblewoman from Volantis. That must be her."

"Gods. He has children scattered across the known world."

"Three so far, I think.” I shrugged. “Maybe four now. All from different women too."

"Four." Gerion shook his head. "And here I am, struggling to manage the courting of one woman."

I clapped him on the shoulder. We watched Oberyn cross the hall toward the woman with that confident stride of his. The woman did not move to greet him. She simply waited until he reached her, and then said something to him with her face set in cold lines.

Oberyn smiled. 

The woman did not.

Oberyn said something else, and the woman's expression cracked, just for a moment. Whatever the prince had said had landed somewhere unexpected.

"He'll be busy for the night, I think," Gerion said.

"He picks them well, I'll give him that."

We turned back to our own end of the hall for no less than a minute before Gerion too was whisked away by a nobleman mentioning to have met his brother Tywin. That left me by myself for the first time that night, though I did not have to wait long.

A tall man, perhaps forty years old, with the long nose and aristocratic bearing of the Old Blood, approached me soon after Gerion left. His coloring was that of pure Valyria, silver hair, pale skin, eyes the color of amethysts. He wore robes of deep purple silk embroidered with thread of actual gold and rings glittered on each of his fingers. It looked quite gaudy, in my opinion.

But I did not care much about that considering who walked behind him. She could not have been older than nineteen years old, but she carried herself with the absolute certainty of a woman who had spent her entire life being told she was the most beautiful creature anyone had ever seen. And looking at her, I could not entirely blame the people who had told her so.

She was almost as tall as him and had the same coloring, but where on him the Valyrian features had grown long and harsh with age, on her they were perfect. Silver hair that fell past her shoulders in deliberate waves. Purple eyes so vivid they seemed almost to glow. Aristocratic cheekbones. A small nose. A mouth that looked carved by a sculptor who had been instructed to make the most kissable mouth possible and had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes.

She looked more like a portrait than a person.

"You must be Ser Galladon Tarth," the man said, as if to confirm. "I am Nyessos Vhassar, of the Old Blood of Volantis. May I present my daughter, Elyssa."

I bowed as was proper. "Lord Vhassar. Lady Elyssa. The honor is mine."

Elyssa Vhassar dipped into a curtsy so practiced it looked like choreography. Her eyes did not leave my face the entire time.

"Ser Galladon," she said, straightening. Her voice was lower than I had expected. "I have heard much about you. Some of it might even be true."

I raised an eyebrow. I didn’t think my reputation had grown so grand for the Volantene to have heard even whispers of it. Had they simply done their homework as to who was accompanying Lord Steffon in this journey, or was this something else>

Outwardly, I simply smiled and said, "I find that to be the usual ratio."

Her father inclined his head to me, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then drifted off toward another conversation across the hall. He did not even glance back at his daughter, as if she had been delivered and now the rest was up to her. If only I could figure out what the rest was meant to be.

Elyssa looked at me. There was something in her gaze I had not seen in many young women's faces, like the calm, deliberate assessment of a buyer at a market evaluating livestock. Then her expression shifted to something prettier, and she gave me a small, inviting smile.

"Would you care to dance, ser?"

I had been planning to invite her, but she had beaten me to it. I bowed again.

"I would be honored, my lady."

I offered her my arm. She took it with practiced grace, and we made our way toward the center of the hall where a small space had been left clear for dancing. Musicians played a slow, formal Volantene tune that I did not know, but the steps were not so different from a Westerosi reel. We managed.

She was light in my arms. Her hand on my shoulder was perfectly placed. She knew exactly how close to stand, how to follow without ever seeming to follow, how to move so that the gown she wore swirled in the most flattering way at every turn.

She was very, very good at this.

"Tell me, Ser Galladon," she said when we had made our first full turn around the dance space. "Does Prince Rhaegar look anything like you?"

I almost missed a step. "Why do you ask, my lady?"

"Because if he does," she said, with that small inviting smile still in place, "then marrying him will not be such a bore after all."

I stared at her for a moment.

I had been at this for nearly a month now, diplomatic dances, magisters' daughters, polite inquiries about the prince and his preferences. None of them had been so direct.

"My lady," I said carefully, "should you be so open with me about your intentions?"

"Why should I not?" she asked, the smile sharpening. She was tall enough that she could almost look me in the eye without tilting her head up. "It is what you are here for, no? Or what your Lord Baratheon is here for. The same thing in the end. The dragon king wants a Valyrian bride for his son. My family is among the oldest blood in Volantis. I am also the most fetching of the candidates you will see, and the richest. I will be queen, Ser Galladon. You should best get acquainted with the idea."

"Huh," I managed. It was all I could muster. 

Was this what Malora meant when she talked about my ego?

Elyssa laughed lightly at my expression. The laugh was musical and perfect, like everything else about her. She had probably practiced it too.

"Come now, ser. Do not look so scandalized. You Westerosi are so secretive about everything. We Old Blood prefer to speak plainly when there is business to be done. It saves so much time."

"I'm beginning to see that," I said.

We continued the dance. She moved gracefully through the next turn, smiling at me the whole way.

"Well?" she asked, her eyes never leaving mine. "You never did answer my question. Is the prince anything like you, Ser Galladon?"

I considered how to answer.

"He is certainly prettier," I said at last, "though smaller in size."

She sniffed delicately. "Pity."

"Why pity?" I asked.

Her smile turned vulpine. There was no other word for it. The pretty mask slipped, just for an instant, and something else looked out from behind it. Something hungry.

"Because I enjoy being thrown around," she said, low enough that only I could hear. "Help me marry the prince, Ser Galladon, and I might even let you."

She winked at me. And when the dance came to a close, she stepped back into a perfect curtsy, the inviting smile back in place as though it had never wavered.

I bowed in return. My mouth had gone slightly dry.

She turned and walked away from me, her hips swaying in a manner that managed to be perfectly modest in its movement and entirely indecent in its effect. I watched her go for a moment longer than I should have, then turned away myself and tried to process what just happened.

In the end, all I came up with was that Prince Rhaegar didn’t stand a chance. If this Valyrian Cersei Lannister became queen, the Seven Kingdoms were well and truly fucked.