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He stopped. He stilled. Watching her. Standing in the open doorway, smiling, as he heard her hum the tune to that song.
'The Hammer and the Anvil.'
He felt his ears and cheeks burn, when her hums altered and she started to sing out those lyrics. He coughed, making his presence known, before she could get there.
She turned, opening her mouth to berate whoever had interrupted her song and her work. Not having much free time, as a servant to a Prince. But when she saw who stood there, a dark shadow, framed by the bright light of the barely-born morning sun. Her words fell to the floor, followed by her jaw and her eyes widened and stared at the heir to the throne. "Your Grace! You should not be here!" She stood, stepping towards where he stood, holding his hands clasped together in front of him, his cane in the middle, standing as straight as his cane that he leaned upon.
"So, this is where you hide?" he smiled over at her. Offering her his best regal smile, the one he used on all lessers, who he wished to put at their ease.
"Hiding, your Grace? It is early morn, only just light and I am yet to start my duties. If there is something that you needed, surely any passing servant could have been called, instead of coming to find me here…?"
"No!" he tapped his cane on the rough flags. "Another will not do for what I need to do! No! I rose early to specifically come and find you, before anyone could detain me, or ask me for some other trifle and delay my quest!"
"Your quest, your Grace?"
"Yes. I need to discuss something of import with you and I was told that your quarters were here, out of the way, in the basement. The personal servant of a Prince? Here!" he huffed. "This will not do!" He punctuated his last word with another tap of his cane.
"The quarters are adequate for my needs, your Grace. And to my rank, as a servant. I admit, though that the one thing that irks me is that there is not enough light to properly sew, but it is a bed to sleep in at night…" she shrugged. "May I ask what it is that you wanted to discuss with me? Something of import? Do you wish to replace me, your Grace?"
"No. You will not be replaced. And no, we will not discuss it here! But, tell me," he took a step forwards. "What do you do there?"
"Oh, um, here?"
"Yes. What do you work upon that needs more light?" He pointed at what she still gripped in her hands. Her knuckles white, matching the colour of whatever it was that she clung to.
"Ah. Oh… I was sewing, your Grace. Some of the blackwork around the cuff of this shirt has come loose. It is too well made to just be cast aside for want of a few loose stitches, so I am repairing it. The shirt is too good, the embroidery work is too good, for it to be placed in the poor box."
"The poor box?"
"It is where garments that are too worn or discarded are placed. To be donated to the needy."
"Ah. May I?" he pointed with his cane at her chambers. The one where he was already a step into.
"I cannot stop you, you are the heir to the King, you may tread where you wish, your Grace. But is it wise?"
He huffed and tapped his cane on the floor. "What do you mean?"
"You may enter here, my chambers, but is it wise, your Grace? Rumours? You should go back to your quarters and I will follow you there. There are many eyes and ears here, even if you cannot see them. All over the Keep. And they would relish such a tale as spying the heir to the iron throne in the chambers of a maid."
"You have the door to your chambers open. It is an invitation, is it not?"
"An invitation to the sunlight, your Grace. To gather as much light as I can, the window here is not as bright as I would wish it to be, especially this early in the morn, where the sun is still low and sluggish."
He took a step into her chambers.
"Can you not wait there at the doorway while I put my mending away, before we move elsewhere, as I suggested, to discuss what is needed?"
"I could," he agreed, as he took another step into her chambers.
"Please, your Grace, you will be seen!"
"Mayhaps you are correct. It is correct decorum," he nodded and took a step back and away. He moved to take another, to move out into the dim corridor that was full of dark shadows, but he halted when he espied a box on a small table. "But! I am the heir to the Iron Throne and I am seen every day, all day and rumours will start wherever I go or do not go! So!" He trod back into her room. Towards the box that he frowned at. It pulled at a frayed memory. One where he remembered sunshine and laughter and pale hands, small fingers opening the box and reaching inside it. A tattered memory where he remembered his large hands holding that very same box, as another passed it to him. He frowned at the box that sat there, its lid open, revealing a wealth of parchments within it. He allowed curiosity to draw him closer. Allowing the box to distract him away from his current quest.
"What is this box and what are these?" He allowed his fingers to touch the sheaves of parchment that sat in the box that called to him with bright laughter upon its carved lips.
"You should not, your Grace. They are—"
He pulled one piece of parchment out and glanced at it. "These are written in my hand!" he frowned at the piece that he held. Recognising the black inky marks.
"They are, your Grace."
He read the words. Recognising them too. "I thought that I had burned these!"
"Some are a little charred, your Grace."
"Why are these letters here! Why do you have them!" he pointed his cane at her, glaring, frowning.
"I rescued them from the possession of a predecessor of mine… They were attempting to sell them."
"Sell them?"
"They are in your hand and contain some are rather candid and… ah… personal details, your Grace."
"Again, why do you have them, why keep them, why not get that box back to me?"
"The box is mine, your Grace," she answered. Evading his question with a smile.
"It is…?" His words frowned down at her.
"Yes, your Grace."
"But what about the contents!" he huffed.
"You wished to burn them. I wished to preserve them, your Grace."
"Why!" he shouted out.
"The words, letters and poems, they are beautiful, your Grace. Too good to burn…" She paused to allow room for his huff. "I wished to preserve them, in the hope that you would want them back one day. When you have remembered their importance."
"I wrote them for my wife, at least, that is what I was told, when I was handed them! But I do not remember doing so! And she is dead, so why keep them! There is no use to that, when she is no longer here to read them to! I did not remember her, or the writing of these, when father presented them to me, so I threw them in the fire! There is no importance to them! But that box! That is not hers! That was not the box that they were in when my father gave them to me!"
"No, as I said, the box is mine. The letters, its contents, are separate. Does the box cause you to recall something else, your Grace?"
"I… Mayhaps…" He tried to pull at that tattered, scattered memory, trying to piece together the strands of it and the box and the sweet laughter that he heard from the person who held the box out to him. "Where did you find that box!"
"I bought the box from a different seller than the one who sold me those letters, but in the same market. Mayhaps you should read some of the letters, instead of burning them. From the snippets that I read, your love for your wife bursts forth from the words, your Grace…"
"I am told that I did love her. But… She is gone! And so are most of my memories of her. Figs… I now know that those were her favourite… And I remember that she had hair the colour of a summer sunset and…"
"Do you recall something else, your Grace?" she shifted from her window seat, placing her mending down and took a step towards him.
He frowned and reached for the flapping pennant of something that waved in his head. He reached and missed, then stretched his large hand out once more, reaching further, stretching further out and this time, he caught its winnowing tail. As he grasped the auburn pennant, his eyes grew wide and he sucked in a breath.
"Your Grace, are you well?"
"Jena… I remember…" He paused, closing his eyes, catching hold of a feeling, a whisper of a promise of a memory. He released his cane, doing as the whisper told him, leaning his cane against his body, doing as the promise directed him. He caught his own hand and moved his fingers, stroking his thumb.
"I… I remember… Jena… The way she held my large hand in hers," he paused, releasing his hand and opening his eyes. Raising his hand up, watching how his long fingers, the fingers that ordinarily disowned him, stretch and flex, twisting his hand, observing its back then its palm, staring down at it, feeling and seeing the whisper and the promise stroke his hand, as he moved it.
"She… She ever loved to take up my larger hand up in hers, touching each knuckle, each scar, cradling my hand, a hand that has… killed… Holding my hand as if it were the most precious thing ever. She was gentle, kind…" his hand moved to fist itself and the pennant snapped and snatched itself out of his grip. "But she is gone!"
"She is there, within your words, if you read them…" she smiled up at him, stepping towards him.
"If I read them, then she will only die again, once I am finished!" He shook his head.
"They will not die… The letters… They are yours, they are hers. And they are here merely to keep them out of other's hands, while waiting for you to claim them and her, back."
He huffed. "My injury blurs the scraps of memories I may have had of Jena. She is a ghost to me! She is almost gone… She had faded away, far before this," he waved a hand at his head. "I think that I might remember some things of my past, of her, but she is surrounded by mist and shadows and gloom!"
"Mayhaps because she left you a while ago? Before…" she paused, not allowing herself to say what he could not either. "I cannot recall my own mother's face. She died when I was very young, when my younger brother was born."
"Do you miss her?"
"I do. As I said, I cannot remember her face… But it is… gone… I do remember how she always wore a scent of lavender though. It was ever around her, wherever she went, so whenever I smell that, I am reminded of her, even if I cannot see her face anymore. But then there is this," she moved back to the window seat and raised the shirt and her needle, holding it up to Baelor. "She taught me how to sew, so she lives on in my knowledge of that skill, just as your wife and your love for her lives on within those letters."
"My wife. Her face… It is gone… She is gone. I know that I should miss her, I know I should, I do, I am told that we loved each other well, but I cannot remember how I felt about her! Those words, in those parchments," he pointed at the box. "I read them, when father gave them back to me and they made no sense! I did not know her, or mine own words! Those words were as much of a stranger to me as my wife!"
"And that hurt?"
"Yes!"
"So you wanted them burned. Out of—"
"Frustration! Anger! Yes! Both! I read them and felt like I was intruding upon someone else's thoughts and feelings! That it was not her, or me there! I did not know them… I do not know her, or my own self!"
"Will you try something, if I aid you, your Grace?" she asked, smiling up at his deep, dark frown.
"What would you attempt?"
"Something that might aid you to link those," she pointed at the contents of the box, "and the man who wrote them for the woman he loved."
"Do it!" he offered a quick, short nod. Gritting his teeth, grabbing his cane with both hands.
"Pick up something that you wrote to her, from that box, any one will do and close your eyes, your Grace."
He glared at her and kept his hands tightly clenched.
"Please. I mean you no harm. There is no sorcery within me. No thoughts or deeds of mine will ever harm you. I only seek to aid you. Remember my vow. Please, close your eyes, your Grace and trust me. Allow me to choose a parchment for you."
He nodded and closed his eyes. His brows creased, when he heard the rustle of parchments.
"Be still. Here…" she brushed her fingers along the dark ink of the piece of writing that she had chosen from the wooden box. "Take hold of this letter and raise it up to your nose." She waited until he did as she bid. "Now breathe, your Grace. In and out. Do you remember something?"
Something caught his attention. A banner. A pennant. No. White flowers that waved from a tree, a branch on a tree, a branch laden with bright fruits. The branch waved in the breeze and its zinging, singing zesty scent flared his nostrils. "I remember…" Gentle laughter and a touch that had him stroking the fingers of one of his hands with those of his other. "I remember… my hand and… Jena… how she always wore a scent of… of citrus… Lemons! Yes! That scent! It was ever around her. Yes! I know this! I remember! I knew it already, but…" He fell silent, remembering a black walled castle, a lemon grove there and two hands clasped together, one large and scarred, one small and gentle.
"Hold onto those memories, your Grace and listen. Listen to me. Remember that scent. And try to recall the touch of your wife's hand upon yours."
His right hand twitched, where it held the piece of parchment and his left, where it rested upon his cane, in front of where he stood, gripped his cane, while the scent of yellow citrus fruits played around his mind, flaring his nostrils.
"Remember how your wife worshipped your hand and you. Remember her touch. Remember what you felt when she held your hand. Remember how she made you feel content. Remember that feeling. Keep your eyes closed and listen…" She paused and took a breath, watching his face, seeing him smile. She read the words from the piece of parchment that he held. One that she had read over and over and new by rote. Her favourite. She read aloud the poem that was written upon the piece of parchment that he held. Blushing at the feelings entwined within the words that she had been allowed to peek at. She spoke forth the words and the love that was burnished into the ink of their creation.
"I know you
I feel you
I know your touch
You know mine
We sit here,
beneath the lemon zest
Beneath your lightning walls
And you breach mine. "
He listened.
He remembered.
"You taste me
As I taste you
You taste of the delights we sit beneath
You taste of love
And tell me I taste the same to you
We live and love and will be together here
Beneath the trees of our memories
Forever entwined like the white flowers above us."
He spoke the last line of the poem in time with her and opened his eyes when both her and he fell silent.
"I wrote those words… I remember… That is… I wrote that… They are… my words…"
"Yes, your Grace, yes. You remember?"
"Yes! I do! But… How!"
"The scent. The touch. The feelings. Those words. They are all linked together. You need to remember those small things, the little, unconsequential things and the rope all are tied to can be pulled and sometimes the rest will follow. Drawn out by those other things." She trod closer to him, stepping nearer. Drawn to him by the light that sparkled in his bright eyes and within his shining smile. Having to fist her hands to stop herself and her impulses from reaching out to touch his face and his joy. It would be an imposition. An intrusion. So she halted a step away from him. Wondering what he was doing, when she saw him frowning down at the darkwood box that all the pieces of parchment nestled and where the inked words nuzzled each other and slept a content sleep. Dreaming their shining dreams that were a bright beacon of a past love and a lost life.
He reached out and touched the darkwood box that more pieces of his past lay within. He closed the lid, trapping his memories inside so that they could not run from him, so they could not bolt and escape him again. Then he ran his long fingers over the flowers that covered the lid. He peered down at the design. Small white flowers smiled up at him, depicted with mother-of-pearl and gold inlay. He breathed in and the lemon grove was gone.
His fingers ran over the smaller white flowers that were depicted upon the lid of the box. They had a different scent. Not citrus. The petals were more elongated, not rounded like lemon blossom. There was a stronger scent here, a floral one. One that plagued him. Night and day. One that tickled his memories. A loose, frayed, flapping ribbon, waiting to be snatched and caught, yet every time he reached for it, it laughed at him and whipped itself out of his reach. Jasmine. The box was carved with Jasmine blooms. His nostrils flared and were filled with their heady scent. He stroked the dark wooden box, the pearl flowers and he closed his eyes. A bedchamber, in darkness, golden hair, the kiss of a touch of a kiss. A boat, a small skiff, floating upon sparkling water.
Laughter…? Mine? Yes. But there is another's. Whose?
Green eyes sparkled like the sea and laughed with him.
Jasmine… Jasmine!
He reached out and stretched his fingers and—
"Your Grace?"
He opened his eyes and blinked as a pair of bright green eyes started back at him. He sucked a breath in.
Jasmine.
He watched her tuck a lock of escaped dark hair back beneath her veil. He took another breath and shook his head.
No. It is not her who I reached for. It cannot be, her hair is different.
"Is aught amiss, your Grace?"
He shook his head, trying to disentangle himself from the white, floral ribbons that were wrapped around him. "Yes… No… I…" He swallowed and took a breath. Did I…? Did I write all of these letters?"
"Yes, your Grace."
"To my wife…?"
"Not all. There is one poem in there that is not to your wife… It was gifted to another."
The floral ribbons taunted him and tickled his nose, trying to tease something more out of him. Pushing and pulling him back to something, someone, himself, he saw himself, his smile, but smiling at who, at what? A sound. Merriment. Laughter. The white ribbon showed him the sound of bright laughter. High laughter. Laced around his smile and his own deep laughter and joy.
Jena? No.
"Who?" he whispered.
"That owl is back, your Grace…?"
He frowned at her, yet his frown smoothed itself and his eyes widened, as she laughed her merry laugh and it echoed that of the sound in his head, the one wrapped around with the small, white flowers.
"Words to another…?" he whispered. Struggling with his voice, as the laughter and the ragged white ribbon and the scent of small white flowers overwhelmed him.
"Yes, your Grace."
"Will you ever tell me who that poem was for? Or is it as your family are? An enigma that I am to solve."
"We made a bargain around my parentage, did we not?"
"Mmm…" he gruffed.
"And that poem is wrapped around that too, so yes, it is part of the same thing."
"But… Jasmine…? There is yet another unanswered question! Why do you lace my bedding with that scent? The same scent that you wear too!"
"That is yet another part of the same thing. It is all there for you to recall, your Grace. And once you unlock that, I can show you that poem, that other piece of parchment and answer all of your questions."
"Why not tell me now!"
"Because I would be accused of placing falsities in your head. I can lead you, as I did with your wife and the poem you wrote for her. That is tangible evidence, your name and hers are there, in your own handwriting, that you recognised, without me prompting you to do so. But I dare not do anything more without proof, or I would be… I would be sent away…" She swallowed, trying to leash her jittery voice, to calm it, to still her nerves. "And I do not wish for that to happen, your Grace."
He stared at her. Seeing her. Watching how she clung to the shirt, the mending that she had been doing when he had walked in on her.
Mending that shirt, as she mends others, those young lads who now serve me... And myself too… he mused to himself.
He watched her look down, saw her swipe at her cheek with her long, pale fingers, hearing her sniff. He nodded. "I understand. I have already been accused of sorcery, with my healing, when I should not have lived. Father searches for that Maester, but to no avail so far…"
"And it is ever easier for a woman to be accused of witchery…"
"You will not be sent away," he offered her a finality. One that had her looking up at him and smiling. There was no laughter, no bright noises, but he saw joy there. Such that was hidden by the determined press together of his lips and his regal nod.
He was forced to turn away from where she wiped at her face, discomforted by her reaction. A distraction was chosen. A task. The decoration upon the lid of the closed, wooden box offered up a test. He accepted and stretched his large, long fingers out towards it. He grit his teeth, as his fingers rested on the lid. Pressing, testing his mangled touch, he closed his eyes and tried to feel for the pearl white petals, testing himself. Allowing his touch to linger longer than should be necessary for his unharmed unmarked, unwounded younger self. Attempting to see if his wooden fingers could feel for what he knew would be the fine borders between the exquisite marquetry and the wood. Smiling at the tingled sensation, as he was able to feel the difference between the cool pearl and the warm wood. He nodded again and moved his fingers away, leaning upon his cane once more. "That box, its contents, get that back to my chambers. Get yourself back to my chambers!"
"Yes, your Grace. And… The reason you came looking for me?"
"Ah! Yes! Come! We may walk and talk!"
"If you could please wait a short while… I just need to finish fixing three stitches on this shirt…"
He nodded. "Whose shirt is it? One of the boys you placed in my chambers, or an… acquaintance of yours?"
"It is one of your shirts, your Grace."
"Mine…? Are there no seamstresses to do that work instead of you?"
"There are. But they would just make you another and consign this to the poor box. And it is too well made for that. The stitching is too fine. This was not made by a royal seamstress…?"
"Jena…?"
"It is customary for a wife to make their husband's shirts, is it not?"
"It is." He frowned at her words, his brows furrowing, at those words that did not answer his question, but asked him another instead.
"There. I am done!" She folded the shirt and placed it upon the table. The box was opened and a piece of folded parchment was taken out of the hardwood box and pocketed, then the lid was closed and locked and the mended shirt was placed on top. Both box and shirt were collected up in her arms and she followed him out of her chambers. Locking the door behind her, then she turned towards him. "Where do we go, your Grace?"
"Through the gardens. They are at their most pleasing this time of morn, early, when no-one is about."
"Except for us servants, your Grace," she spoke, while ducking around the flock of busy servants in the bustling corridor. Noting how everyone halted and bowed or curtseyed, eyes downcast, backs to the walls, as the Prince passed, then bumped into her, offering her either smirks, glares or frowns, as she followed in Baelor's wake.
They exited the servant's block and she had to walk fast, skipping a few steps, to keep up with his long strides, as he led her across the courtyard. The stuffy, busy air cooled as soon as they entered the gardens of the Red Keep. The air cooled and the noise and bustle of a busy morning was forgotten behind the lush greenery and the quiet gravel paths that they trod. Their feet crunched upon the paths and were the only sounds now. The air had a floral cloak to it, with a saline tang as ribbon to tie it.
"Your Grace?" She paused, stilling, when he stopped and turned to face her.
"Why are you here?"
"You said that we should walk and talk and—"
"No, here here! Why here! As a servant, my cupbearer, now my chief servant, why are you here?"
"I am where I am needed, your Grace."
He huffed. "Why the Sept? Are you a natural-born daughter?"
"No. My parents were wed. To each other."
"Why do you aid me, offer me remedies, pluck at my memories and pull me from being a ghost?"
"If I aid the Prince, I aid the Kingdoms and thus myself."
"You are an enigma."
"I am?"
"Yes. An annoying one! Come! You may walk alongside me. We walk and talk!"
"Thank you, your Grace."
"The boys who you have placed as my servants. Where do they come from? They do not speak with the polished tongue of my usual servants," he asked, glancing at her, as they strode along together.
"There is a house that the Seven aids, below the Street of Silk, in Flea Bottom. It is where whores go when they can no longer ply their trade, either through old age, or disfigurement, or through the natural outcome of their work, where they did not take precautions. The boys are such 'natural outcomes'."
"They are whore's bastards?" He halted and turned to face her.
"Yes, your Grace."
"Does anyone know that you place whoresons in my chambers!" he hissed out.
She shrugged. "No-one asked and I told no-one. They are competent boys, are they not?"
"They are. I have taken two to train as squires. They have already proven their worth on the training grounds, beating to a pulp the others there, the sons of Knights or Lords wishing to advance their family's standing."
"That is a good thing?" she asked.
"It is. For me and them. For the other squires, not so much. I need good men around me, even if they are just boys."
"Even if they are whore's bastards?"
"Even so. Now, come!" He turned away from her smile and continued on his way. Leading her along the path, treading through the garden, until they reached some narrow steps. Descending down them, until they reached a small area at the wall with a wide view that overlooked the Bay below them.
"Look," he pointed towards where the Blackwater Rush met the Bay, towards the harbour, between where they stood as observers and the fishmarket.
"Ships… They're building ships…? Oh… I overheard you and your brother talking…"
"I know you did. Highborns like to think of servants as part of the castle, the keep, the furnishings, expendable, not there, not listening and seeing. My uncle knows better. You are the one hundred eyes to his one. There is a war brewing. He knows this, from what his eyes tell him. As do you, from what your ears tell you. And there. In the royal shipyards. There is evidence for it."
"Why are you telling me this, your Grace?"
"To give you a chance, a choice. I will be sailing with the fleet, as will my brother Maekar. The hammer and the anvil go to war at sea. Except that this time we will both be hammers. Our uncle will bring his army, his ravens, overland. He will be the anvil we will crush our enemy against."
"And your father, the King?"
"He will be here, protected by our sons. He knows this city the best out of all of us. He knows how to fight in his own way. With laws and Maesters. This is where one of your choices lies. To stay here, to be my father's castellan. To look after him, as you do me. I have spoken to him about you. He has agreed to what I propose."
"You said that I had a choice."
"You do. You can choose to go back to the Sept, to take your vow, or to go back to your family, when I leave."
"And what if I choose something else?"
"What else is there? Has your Knight changed his mind? Do you go back to him and he to you? Does he take you away from me?"
"The young boys I placed with you, those you have taken on as squires, will you take them with you?"
"I will. Yes," he nodded.
She nodded. "I rode once, with my chosen one, as he went to fight. He chose duty and I chose to follow him. We chose each other."
"Yet he abandoned you! I do not like this Knight of yours! I am not yet up to the standard that I would like, with a sword, but give me his name and I will have him brought before me and I will make him rue his choices! Even if it is just with my cane! Will you give me his name!" he growled out.
"When do you leave, your Grace?"
"Ha! You avoid yet another of my questions!" he huffed. Yet he relented in pushing her further, when he saw how she stood there, the sea breeze ruffling her veil and the wisps of dark hair that ever escaped from their cover. The breeze played with her escaped hair, teasing them free, forcing her to push them back, to hide herself from him. He watched her and he held back from pushing at her, when he saw how her sea green eyes glistened, as she gazed down at the busy shipyards. He knew that if he asked her, she would give the same excuse he would, for his own blurred vision. He would say that the salt had irritated his eyes, that it was nothing else, nothing unwise or irrational.
He turned from her and forced his foolish gaze to frown down at the skeletons of warships that grew beneath them. The skeleton of a fleet that would carry him away from King's Landing. And her.
"I have been told that all of the ships will be ready to sail in four moons. So you have time aplenty to make your choice."
"Thank you, your Grace. I think that we should head back now. Your brother will be looking for you."
"Yes…" Baelor squinted up at the waking sun, as it stretched its limbs and gathered itself up, readying itself, girding itself for the long climb up to the zenith of its reign, at the top of the skies. "It is almost time for Maekar's morning revenge session in my chambers! He does so love to push at me, as if I am a young squire once more! Which I suppose that I am," he huffed. "But it does not do to show any weakness! I must be as fit as I can be and as adept as I can be, with a sword, by the time that we sail! We no longer have the threat of dragons to keep the peace! Which is why we are forced to sail and fight to crush this enemy who would bring chaos to the Kingdoms and threatens our rule!"
"He cares for you, your Grace, your brother. As you care for him. As you care for your father's Kingdoms, as no one else here does."
"Yes… Come. We should get back to my chambers! Oh and you will pack your belongings up. I will see to you getting better chambers, with more sunlight! And closer to mine, in Maegors."
"Is that wise, your Grace?" she asked, one slender eyebrow raised at his suggestion.
"Probably not," he shrugged, before he turned from the skeletons of the ships that were being fleshed and strode back towards where his chambers lay.