she sat, unmoving, as though carved from alabaster as golden hues seemed to slice through the stained glass and bask them all in what was the illumination of truth itself. his voice, clipped and sharp, sliced through the air, but it was the space between his words that cut deeper. the quiet disbelief, the stifled betrayal—those were the blades that did not miss. only, in this strange half light of the crackling hearth, there was the silent dawning realisation that his time at court had slowly begun to make some shift within him; for he sounded more like their father and their brother than he ever could know.
the fire’s light flickered, grasping for her shadow, but she refused to be drawn into its dance. she remained poised, regal, once the very picture of serenity across the entirety of the six realms, and in the end what a lie that was.
“is it not your duty? as a man? as my kin?" she exhaled, slow and deliberate, before lifting her gaze to him - a rebuttal, this is the way it always ended up going between them when conversations became this tense. the fire cast gold against the sharp edges of his face, illuminating the tension in his jaw, the quiet rage he fought to suppress - and her words sounded almost demanding. she had seen it before, would see it again—rage born of wounded pride, of expectations unfulfilled, of a truth he could not stomach. “it is the duty of the prince of fair isle to defend the realm. considering how you have made a name for yourself across the sea, it seems to me that you quite enjoyed doing so.” in their years apart, where each time they would see one another it would be with more quiet glances, noting the changes in their height and trying to fill in the gaps.
she watched the flicker in his expression, the way his throat bobbed as though he were swallowing something bitter. something hateful, as though it were poisoning his throat by him refusing to let it pass his lips - the thought almost made her grimace, for she dreaded whatever it was he wanted to say. “...what did you think i should have done?” her voice did not rise, nor did it falter; it remained smooth, like the sea before a storm - and yet, it was clear she had finally snapped.
“should i have wedded a brat of a boy with a name grander than his spine? a tully turncloak? should i have waited for my life to be decided while you had yours handed to you, stamped and sealed in the blood of ironborn the moment you came of age?” guinevere did not entirely realise her voice was raising with each question she asked, emphasis placed each time she uttered the word you. her fingers curled slightly, pressing into the richness of the velvet she wore. a hand came to rest over her mouth as he continued, and she found herself resisting the urge to pick at her own scabs, or let out an exasperated laugh - instead, she merely ran her hand through her unruly, unkept golden mane. “why do you only think of what i have done wrong? do you love the sound of your own voice when it comes to this? do you enjoy holding my mistakes like coin in your palm, turning them over and over?"
there was a pause then as she stood, and it was her who began to shout first. her voice rose, shrill and uncharacteristic - foreign sounding from her tongue, and yet, it seemed to slither from it all the same. and the question she asked, was heard by any who stood beyond the doors. "are you not tired of throwing it all in my face each moment you can?"
but it was a mistake. she knew that. she had known it long before rowan had been put in the ground, before his body had cooled and they dressed her in black, before the mountain men had even gotten to him. she had felt it in her bones, in the quiet hours of the night when he had been gone to fight some battle or another, and she had sat alone, waiting. it had been foolish—childish, even. a fantasy, some desperate, girlish yearning for a love that might sweep her away, something to cling to when the weight of it all threatened to drown her. she had thought she could be someone else. that running away with him, making a scandal of herself, would be worth it. that there would be life, fire—something real, something bright.
but it had not been bright. it had been a slow, suffocating dimness. the realisation had come sooner than she had expected, a cold and bitter thing she could not swallow down. she did not look away from arron. did not soften. did not falter. “you think i do not know i was wrong?” her voice was a thread pulled taut, straining with the words that had been repeated time and time again, and secrets of years and years. “i know, arron. i know i made a mistake. i know i ruined myself—i ruined us. i thought—” she bit back the words, swallowing them down. “i foolishly thought it would be something it never was. and i hate that i cannot wish it undone, not without wishing jasper undone. and gods know, he is the only thing i have ever done right.” the air between them hung heavy, laden with everything unsaid, everything they could not undo. her chest felt hollow, a vast, aching space where the truth now lingered.
she wondered if he could see it—if he saw her as something fragile, something splintered beyond repair. perhaps he did. perhaps he always had. she took a step forward, the distance between them narrowing until the fire’s warmth mingled with the heat of her breath. the mask she had worn so carefully, the serene, unflinching facade, it wavered—cracked. her voice, so controlled, now frayed at the edges. the weight of his silence hung between them like a drawn bowstring, ready to snap.
“what do you need of me, arron?” she whispered, her voice tremulous, as if the question itself pained her. “what do you need? for me to beg for your forgiveness?”
