she had known he was a bastard from name. but at the time of meeting three years ago, seraphina had no clue of his parentage. in truth, it had not occurred to her to look further. in her memory, he was near perfect, whether that was the truth or a version of it that grew rosy upon each revisit, she kept that day and night locked safe in her heart’s vault. the memory of drinking in the presence of someone who made her feel seen in body and mind.
sera first saw him in the crowds the morning of the tourney, a good ways away. this man whose very presence demanded attention, whom lord and ladies alike gravitated around. he held himself proud, with such self-assurance and bravado. he had an ease and this grin like they privy to a joke you'd grasp only once the conversation shifts to the next topic. the complete opposite to how seraphina learned to exist, to make herself imperceptible, to strip herself of human qualities and wants. she envied him, craving just a bit of that light. so she approached and he drew her out of herself, those knowing eyes paired with a wit that made their conversations both a dance and duel, never a dull moment. an evening that stirred something deep in her soul (as utterly pathetic as it was). sera had told herself in years passed it was her own folly, the romanization of a single evening dalliance that became a self-soothing fairytale.
but the news strikes him in a way that makes her heart clench. the people she had been with in oldtown, there was shared laughter, attraction and even care, but the expectations were clear. her vow to the faith, regardless if she remained pure of body, was lifelong. her father's one of seven till his last breath or hers, whichever predated the other. and taliesin was experienced. not to say, she doubted his honor. no, never that. the thought never even occurred that he would abandon her if he had been aware. perhaps a foolish assumption given well... men and precedent.
how could sera explain without cruelty that he was not even part of her consideration when the realization finally came that she had been with child. the progeny in her belly was not a babe that would be a person but evidence that she had broken her sole purpose. a third blow to the shattering ideals in the wake of posey and orland's death. "i did not... do not think that you would have shrank responsibility. i simply... how to say..." gods be good, it was furthermore utterly embarrassing to reveal how little she knew of the world back then, how little still. "my sister died barely a moon after we met. when i returned to oldtown, then orland, he..." the worlds spill from her, a desperate attempt to reassure because she sees that she's hurt him, didn't think she had the right nor power to do so. "when he died so soon after, i thought it was stress or grief. i didn't pay any mind to my own body and besides how could i have known, i'd never—"
seraphina fiddles with the ribbon the scroll. "you were not my first but you were the first where i had to consider the aftermath, which i didn't because..." i didn't know what i didn't know. she wasn't even the one who saw the signs. sera suspected as any sane young woman would question but lyanna had taken one close look at her...
the linchpin upon which her already wavering faith shattered. the illusionary prophecy of her father’s wild conspiracies and preaching. taliesin marked the happiest memory and she kept him there, preserved, to visit in the privacy of her mind, unpolluted by the world. her brows furrow as he continues. we may have gotten somewhere.
no. not if perceon hightower had his way and he always did. taliesin swiped the scroll back and there's a voice in the furthest depths of her mind that imagines it. if the babe came to term, a life shared with taliesin, somewhere far from oldtown and the kingsmoot. oh. in another life, that would have been so very lovely to have gotten somewhere, to be a something to one another.
she had come to him, ironically, in the most honest version of herself. dark curls free at her shoulders, septa's coif discarded at the bottom of her wardrobe, unburdened by the paranoia that her father had spies in every room since was away from oldtown (a naive notion upon further reflection, her father had eyes everywhere). he hadn't met seraphina, the maiden, a septa, nor sera or sephie, the version of herself she's curated to keep the love of her siblings whose opinions actually mattered to her.
it wasn't until highgarden with posey's nurturing and falyn's sisterhood where she'd gotten to meet herself, explore her tastes, likes and dislikes, to experiment with the idea that not every word out of her lips had to be carefully crafted. it hurts that taliesin rejects it. to distill it down to a bed of lies when seraphina knows she is a prevaricator, has done it for her entire life out of survival, but with taliesin, she'd given him the most unfiltered version of herself, painstakingly raw. it hurts even more that a beautiful fib that made her feel whole has in turn driven a stake between them. and he mocks her by waving this fucking scroll—
sera reaches out, one hand grabbing his wrist and the other ripping the scroll from his grasp and slamming down on the table behind her. "that is not fair!" she shoots back, harsher than she ought to but her eyes have begun to sting. "you don't understand." seraphina defiantly tilts her chin up and wills back that hightower mask that he keeps throwing in her face. if he wants lady hightower, f i n e .
she drops her grip on him, swallows the lump in her throat, and dabs the bottom of her lashes to wipe teardrops before they can take shape. she summons old conditioning that she slips into with ease, retreating back into a blank expression and measured tone to take just enough responsibility to end an exchange and find shelter somewhere alone. she straightens up her back. "i apologize, ser. it was my mistake. i ought to have been more considerate and it was improper of me to have misrepresented myself." not the actual apologies she wishes to say but those words die upon her tongue. she hadn't meant for her honesty to strike at an old wound, to have delivered the news of a potential babe so indelicately without concern for his station and dredge up clear complications from taliesin's own experiences. but she only manages the heart of it, and says, "i'm sorry to disappoint."