Strings of Silk / Aemond Targaryen

The Masters of Courtesy

I lifted my toes to the fire.

Lords and Holdfasts was in my lap. I would never have the presence of mind to read it, but it was good to have something to fiddle with.

Ser Deziel and I were to meet. Alone.

That is, except for Lark, who was to be chaperone, and was already whittling a piece of wood in the corner. I wished I knew if Deziel had requested the meeting himself, on the night of his arrival, or if it had been arranged by some other power. We had only exchanged a few gruff courtesies in that courtyard, and he had not even graced me with a smile. Ser Castos had more than made up for our silence, chattering between us, toasting the Queens and telling jokes so that the King broke into peals of laughter.

Deziel has freckles too, I had thought. But they had not relieved the severity of his face, the intense weight between us as we gaped at each other.

A knock. Lark's bald head shone as he looked up from his carving. We exchanged nervous smiles and he walked to the door. I set aside the book, brushed off my skirts, and rose. "Ser Deziel," he said, and my betrothed entered the room with a heavy gait.

He was looking at my feet, and my heartbeat rang in my ears as he lifted his eyes to mine. I curtsied with uncharacteristic elegance. Lark was here, and I could not fail him, though my throat constricted as I spoke. "Ser Deziel."

Deziel bowed, properly but rigidly. "Lady Marai," he said, with something of gravel in his voice. He had spoken so little to me that I hung on every word, seeking some hint of who he was, and what he intended.

"It is a fine evening." I said, finally. Lark did not look impressed, but he nodded. It was always acceptable to speak of the weather, when no other topic offered itself. Deziel grunted his agreement, looking more like an ox than ever.

"Be seated," I said. "Please." It was so odd to play the hostess. I felt as though I were acting in a farce.

He took the armchair across from me, and seemed to dwarf it with his large frame. His dark brown hair was cut rough over his forehead and cheeks, and it occurred to me that he was young, only a few years my elder. Nineteen, I recalled suddenly.

He jutted his jaw and looked toward the fire. His thick fingers tightened over the armrests. I willed him to speak, to break the agonizing silence, and yet I feared it.

I placed my hand on the book beside me. It was familiar now, and safe in that familiarity. I ran my fingers over its ridges. I would have to say something, anything, only the words would not form.

His eyes darted towards me, sharp and so dark I could not see his pupils. I recalled that his mother was a Dalt, from Southern Dorne, and that Ser Castos had been a child from an earlier marriage.

Ser Deziel rose stiffly, and next I knew he was hovering over me like some hulking shadow. I could see his large hands flex, and it took all my willpower not to flinch. I craned my head upward, slowly.

"Is that Lords and Holdfasts?" he asked quietly. I nodded. He took the book, and stepping back, sank back into his chair. He flicked through it, and a red flush appeared over his cheeks.

Ser Deziel looked at me, and smiled.

"I haven't seen this in years." His features softened. "My brother threw it in the river when we were little." He chuckled as he turned the pages.

"Look." He turned the book towards me. His voice was still raspy but there was a current of energy there, that made it more like the warbling of a brook than sand. "Here are the Blackmonts, with our sigil. A vulture holding a baby." I noted the accent of Dorne, almost like my mother's. He snorted, and shook his head. "A ridiculous crest, wouldn't you say?"