There was nothing I wanted more than to lead His Majesty's Kingsguard one day. Not an overnight achievement, but a goal, if any. The dream went back as far back as the idea to be a Knight did. If I was going to do it at all, I was not going to half-ass it. The need bled into my thoughts at the strangest times.

On one of my drunker evenings, amongst the brothers of the Guard, I imagined how Commander Elías would teach each and every one of them their trade. I considered how certain Blades learned differently than others. I thought about the discrepancies in all of our ages; how some had come from the old school of things, and how newer knights would come from another in the future. I had a plan for how I could gain everyone's respect, and a back up for that, should it fail. Every path was rooted in the Oath.

But that world; that fantasy, was hinged upon winning these games.

And the Knights' Games were not easy. They were archery, swords, and jousting back then, Dressage came many moons later. But more than sports, they were a test of all the senses, all at once. Of all a person's might, and though I was at the prime of my life, I was intimidated by my odds.

Why had I agreed to compete in such a competition with the stakes so high? Never had there been a Lord Commander that lost the Games! I reminded myself. I could be headed for self-destruction and for what?

These were the sorts of things I tortured myself with that night, lying on my cot. I had slung an arm behind my head, and I had planned to stare into Linen's mattress until I fell asleep. But this night; I would not find rest.

As the hour grew longer, the day, closer, I thought of less and less of anything, any idea, any question of the universe, until there was nothing left but her. It was only her.

What if someone saw it? The way she looked at me? I'd held her attention long enough, they could've.

What if it was Linen? He hadn't been far away.

Was Linen trustworthy enough not to endanger Her Majesty's honor? Would he humiliate her by telling the other men? By emphasizing 'Candy's' appeal? How it reached impossible heights of persuading even the Crown, the epitome of fidelity?

People looked at other people all the time. It didn't mean anything. It didn't make me special. I was not some delicacy; a desert or chocolate to be devoured within the hideaways of halls. Eliza should not have to suffer for my benefit, for Linen's loud mouth! He–!

...He had not actually sinned against the Queen, I had to remember. I had to keep from kicking the bottom of his bed.

And there was no telling that he had even picked up on what I had. If I were a fool, then he was... Well he was worse off, I would say.

I tossed, settling onto my side.

But what if it happened again? What if somebody saw it and told the King?

By sunrise, I was determined to ask Ser Dalton to reassign me. To find anyone else to take my stead; send Linen in my place if that's what it took. I could return to the roving patrol. That was where I should be anyway, and I did not wish to see Her Majesty. I was embarrassed by how flattered I'd let a pair of dark eyes make me feel. How silly I was for reliving the warmth of them all over me, all night.

The way her mouth had barely parted. The way she...

"A very bad idea," I hissed to myself. "Stupid fool."

On my way to Ser Dalton's counsel, I happened to catch the tail end of a man yelling. Concerned, I went towards the sound, finding my uncle sooner than I thought and outside the King's door.

I stitched my brow at him, but he stood statuesque at his perch, waiting for the argument to end.

There was a lady's voice, as well, but it was so whiny, so high pitched that—

"It's easy! Just stop doing it! Doing her!" she screamed.

Eliza.

"I am sorry, my love, but I am under a great deal of stress." His Majesty was calmer than she was.

"Oh, you're stressed? Are you? And what am I!?" she yelled. There was some rustling within the chamber.

"Is everything alright?" I asked, impatiently.

Dalton nodded. "Another day, my son."

"They don't sound happy?"

"It'll end shortly," he said, too sure. Too unfazed. "Been a while now. Go make a round. Things are fine here."

Suddenly there was a crash, the obvious display of smashing glass.

"Her Majesty!" I worried. My hand pressed to the guard of my sword by instinct, but Dalton smirked, rolling his neck against the wall.

"Steady on, boy." He barred my entry into the room. "It is not our place to interfere."

"It is entirely our place, what if he hurts her?"

His face changed. "Her?"

I thought somehow he had deciphered my concern, through that one, three lettered word, that he had endured the entirety of my concern, but it wasn't until I heard;

"Don't you touch me!"

from the Queen that I forsook caution and passed his defenses anyway. After the second clatter and the noise of furniture shifting across the floor, I made entry and I realized what he meant.

Eliza was heaving; she was distressed. Tears streaked down both her cheeks, and she held a piece of glass in her hand so tightly, it had bit into her fingers. Delicate drops blood filled random creases of her skin, dripping of it to the floor.

He meant her.

She was not in danger. She was the danger.

His Majesty was upset to see my dumb face. He took a deep breath, and he told me to get out; immediately calling for Ser Dalton to retrieve his Blade.

And Eliza...

Her lips quivered; her sobs grew.

We locked eyes, she dropped her glass, and I couldn't tear away from her, even as I was pulled out into the hall.

"I said are you daft, Gregor?" my uncle spat. His expression was no longer the indifference I had hated him for a moment ago, but one of fury. "You will be lucky if His Majesty did not catch your face!"

"Her hand?" I muttered, though how coherently I couldn't say.

"Get back to patrol. Pray he didn't recognize you or that he doesn't care to, and forget about her hands."

"Yes, Ser."

After an hour of mindless wandering, I retreated to the Library. I tried to busy myself with reading, selecting a book at random off the shelf. It was a book of sonnets, and all it did was convince me that I was, in truth, losing my mind, as every single vowel carved into the pages was clearly inspired by her face.

There could be no other muse for such poetry.

She came in to collect me close to another hour late, and neither of us spoke about the bandage that wrapped her fingers.

No; we passed silently through the castle halls, and eventually outside through the garden blossoms.

We got into the carriage and we went to town. The whole time she stared out the window and she made no effort to even acknowledge I was there.

I wanted to say something spectacular. I remember sitting, lying in wait, damning the sea between us. The court. The class. Her wedding vows.

In Ísfjall, she went into the seamstress. There were apparently twenty dresses she had ordered, all varying in stages of completion. Eliza was very nice to the woman working her order, but there was no life, no animation in the melody she gave. A rehearsed performance.

"I see. Does this come in a blush?" she asked.

The woman nodded. "I would love to show you. Wait here, Your Majesty."

The clerk ducked into the furthest part of the shoppe and I watched my Queen root around, picking at various strips of ribbons, matching them to the embroidery of one here and there.

By God, she said; "Which do you prefer?"

The question confused me. "Me? You should be asking Miss Cory. I am no authority in the latest fashion."

She grunted. "Here I am, trying to make an effort to break this awful silence, and you refuse to answer me?" Her face darkened. "An authority in fashion," she scoffed. "I just want you to speak to me."

"I... I am speaking to you?" I sang. "But I know nothing of fabrics and color schemes. I would be better off on any topic but that."

"If I wanted Cory's opinion, I would have asked Cory."

"I apologize for offending—"

"Stop. Apologizing." Her hands met the table top, both peaked in perfect, irritated, mountains.

The attendant was still attempting to reach something on a higher shelf. It gave me a moment to think, but the only words coming to mind were the offensive 'I'm sorrys' she didn't want to hear.

"Fine. I'll simplify. Green? Or blue?" she tried.

"...Green," I said. I paused. "I like the flowers on it."

"Flowers," she groaned. "Flowers he calls them. They're roses."

"...I do know what a rose is, Your Majesty. Do you think I don't?"

She closed her eyes; her hands sank flat onto the paneled wood. "You don't feel they are better than other flowers? Different?"

"Your Majesty," I started.

"The garden," she said. I stepped closer to be sure I'd hear her. "Those roses were a gift. From my beloved husband, His Majesty."

"Romantic then."

"If you followed our courtship as closely as any other citizen, then you'll know my maiden name is Rós, and roses are the Rós sigil. Yes?" Her eyes opened and she ran a nail down one of the dress' seams. "Yet. Everyone calls me an Eisson mare. 'Wild things,' they say. I'm sure you heard it this morning, too. But I'm not a mare. It's just a name. I'm a rose."

I didn't speak.

"He said; 'they could never outshine your beauty, my love.' They were intended to be romantic, yes. A wedding gift."

"Kind words," I added.

"Kind lies," she frowned. "Perhaps the roses have not bested me yet, but every other lady this side of Áire will have by the time I'm thirty."

"That could never be true," I said, recklessly.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye, wandering into a thought she was trying to connect to the other. "Delicate things. They only live a short time. Soft skin, pretty to the onlooker, even, but they will bleed you if you're not careful."

"...Are we still speaking of flowers?" I asked.

"Roses," she said, but then didn't answer. "Nasty, temperamental things. Hard to manage." Her vowels deepened; darkened.

I wet my lips, feigning offense to keep us grounded. "If you liked the blue one, you could've just disagreed with me," I cracked.

Her eyes lit, barely, with the awareness that I had attempted to make a joke, and when she accepted it, she let it infect her with a slow grin. "You think I like the blue?" She groaned. "Now you insult me. Alright then. What about this?" There was a lift in her spirit and she moved along to the next garment. "What of this pattern but in pink?"

"You've already asked for that. That's what we're waiting on; is it not?"

Eliza bobbed. "Yes. But that wasn't the question."

"The question was... What do I think of it? In pink?"

She waited, coy again.

"I think... that if you like pink, you should get it."

"Do you like it?" she asked. "Would you like it? On me?"

A smoother, more confident flirt, would've said something, anything at all, but I... did not. Eliza discarded the error with a shaky breath.

"I'm wearing some of these gowns to the tourney. I'd like to stand out," she said.

I wanted to tell her she could never blend in. But... she had to carry the conversation for the both of us.

"It is customary for the Queen to spectate each event. I am rather fond of Archery, I dare say. My father was an expert marksman. Would you say you enjoy the sport?"

"I..."

"Good Lord, Ser. You said any other topic. Fine. I am sorry for my conduct this morning. Please forgive me for it. Please do not think of me as–"

"Here you are, my Queen," the woman helping her returned, presenting her with the lighter shade of silk.

Eliza's mask appeared; she came alive with a very pleased smile, and then I wasn't aware if she was sincere or not. I studied her, to be sure.

"This is lovely," she sang. "I do believe I should prefer it, if it's not too much trouble? I don't think blue works with my complexion."

"I dare say I am to agree with you, if it's not too awful to say. It's too cool. Shall I strike the cooler schemes from your list of orders, or would you like to review them individually?"

"Individually. I hate to be difficult, but sometimes new things can surprise you."

"Of course." The woman waved towards the dressing screen. "Let's start with all the blues, then we will get them out of the way, and we shall still have them in time in case we need to make any specific orders of fabric, yes?"

"Perfect, thank you, Miss Daphne."

"You know my name?" she perked.

"Of course I know your name, dear. Names are so very important. Isn't that right, Ser Elías?"

I nodded.

"Don't mind him," she told Daphne. "He is often the silent sentry. Thank you for your patience, I will never forget your kindness."

"Oh!" Daphne beamed, happy. "And you for yours!"

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