TH

That morning, the sky of Porto Real was covered by thin clouds, and a white light crossed the high windows of the fortress, spreading pale reflections on the stone floor. Stella held a wooden box against her chest as she crossed one of the corridors that connected the royal rooms to the old tapestry hall. Inside the box there were silk lines from Lys. Navy blue. Aged gold. Ivory. Baelor Targaryen had sent the fabrics the previous week, accompanied by an absurdly short letter. For your studio. It was exactly the kind of gift he gave her since the wedding. Fabrics. Laces. Mother-of-pearl buttons. Stones without lapping that, according to him, “seemed to match his dresses”. Baelor never said much. He just stroked his hair, asked if he was eating right and told some servant to take more materials to the studio. It turned the corner of the corridor, then it stopped. Steps. Male. Her body reacted before her mind could reason. Her fingers squeezed the box hard. Her shoulders stiffened. Breathing became short. She knew those steps. She knew the rhythm. The weight. The way the boots touched the stone. Aerion. He appeared across the corridor wearing a black gibbon embroidered with red threads, his silver hair pinned back and a lazy smile that never reached his eyes. - Sister. Stella lowered her head. - Brother. He approached slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. - Aren’t you going to greet me properly? She tried to get through him. Aerion held his wrist, strong enough to hurt her and leave a mark on her pale skin. He tilted his head slightly. - You always tremble. Stella remained motionless. The wooden box slipped from her arms and fell to the ground. The silk reels spread down the corridor like small colorful rivers. Aerion looked at them and laughed softly. - Still playing seamstress? She tried to bend down. He held a lock of her hair. The fingers slowly curled the silver threads. Stella closed her eyes.