Aegon had spent the better part of the feast being discussed as though he were not sitting three feet away. Lords debated the future of the realm, ladies speculated over alliances, and somewhere between the third course and the musicians, someone had begun openly discussing what sort of wife Baela would make. It was enough to drive any man to drink. Unfortunately, Aegon had already tried that solution and by the time he slipped away from the hall and found her alone upon one of the sea-facing terraces, the irritation still lingered. "You've become very popular tonight," he remarks as he approaches, leaning casually against the stone railing beside her. The sunset paints the water below in shades of gold and crimson, though Aegon pays it little attention. "Lord Celtigar thinks you'll rule me within a year. Lady Redwyne is convinced you'll stab me before then. Personally, I think they're both giving me far too little credit." The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "Tell me honestly, Baela. Are you half as unhappy about this arrangement as everyone keeps expecting you to be, or are they all just disappointed you haven't tried to throw me off a balcony yet?" For once, there is something genuine beneath the teasing. The betrothal had been decided months ago, spoken into existence by kings and councils and mothers who believed themselves clever. Jacaerys would marry Helaena. Aegon would marry Baela. The realm would remain whole. How simple, how neat, and how very convenient. Yet the more people insisted upon telling him how he ought to feel about it, the more he found himself wondering what Baela actually thought. "Because if we're expected to spend the rest of our lives together," he continues, his voice lowering slightly, "I'd like to know whether I'm marrying someone who merely tolerates me or someone actively plotting my murder. It seems an important distinction." @saintspoetic