[Phase 2] Mending Fences [Balon & Laena]

Laena was a complex bundle of happy, nervous, and excited on her way to see her brother face Ser Roland in the final. Honestly, she'd written his chances off when he faced Ser Daemon, yet he'd won.

He'd actually beaten The Warrior Reborn.

While defeating Ser Roland was far from a certainty, it was a definite possibility. Her heart swelled with pride at the thought.

So it was that when she heard a slight cough behind her, she turned and saw a man who'd she'd not been thinking of at all suddenly rush to dominate her thoughts.

But the memory that jumps to her mind isn't their last meeting, the picnic. No. Rather, it's the afternoon before. And her face flushes pink in response. "Balon..." She breathes.

Her eyes dance over him, assessing him. She sees his neatly-trimmed beard, clean nails, the coat of arms she'd designed for him, the sword hilt he'd made to represent her.

What face do I make?

Her etiquette lessons had failed to prepare her for this situation, so for a few moments, she simply looks a bit stunned. After those few moments, she collects herself, cooling down the burning in her cheeks, and wearing a neutral face.

Good appearance, good timing, good opening. He's taking this seriously, not as a given.

"Well, yes." She answers a question that nobody was asking. "I grant you some of my time." She imperiously allows. "Let us .." her eyes flick around, alighting briefly on her chaperone. "Let us find a quiet place we can talk without the subject matter hitting the gossip circles before we even reach the jousting grounds." A moment's hesitation, like she would let him lead them off, before she stiffens her shoulders and begins striding away from the thoroughfare, leading him to the edge of the wood, where the shadows would conceal their identities from a distance, they may be observed by her chaperone from far enough away that he won't be able to hear them, and they may rest their backs against the trees for support.

As she turns around to rest her back against a tree, she spares a glance for the mass of activity in the vast tourney field providing a background hum, and glances at the septon to make sure he's staying at an appropriate distance, before her gaze finally rests on Balon.

She opens her mouth slightly, before closing it firmly and folding her arms across her chest. Letting him speak his piece.

While she manages to keep her carefully neutral expression in place, her cheeks betray a pinkish hue when he mentions his newfound love of custard. Still, she waits for him to finish before responding.

When she does, there's a slight sigh, and a small look of disappointment. "I don't hate you. Even when I snapped at you and stormed off, I didn't hate you. Anger? Yes, definitely. But never hatred. To the best of my knowledge, you've never lied to me, nor betrayed me, merely kept secrets, and secrets are the foundation of any lasting relationship, since the alternatives are 'truth' and 'lies', and it's hard to judge which would be more damaging to a relationship.

"I very, very rarely say this, for it's even less frequently true, but the fault is predominantly mine. Know that the anger I felt towards you was also directed twofold at myself. There were gaps in my knowledge of you, and I deluded myself by painting in those gaps what I *wanted* to see, rather than what truly was. The deception was mine, not yours.

"I saw in you the next Lord Gorman. Not just a man skilled with the blade, and likely a good leader of men - you verified that belief at the Tactician's Tourney - but also a man with the kind of cunning mind that could, with guidance and experience, be a player in The Game.

"*That* was my mistake. And I *hate* being a fool.

"You knew full well how close I was to Lady Ashara. You knew full well what Ser Eoric did. You have a sister, so you could well imagine how you'd feel should she be brutally, senselessly murdered. You could well imagine how you'd feel towards ..." she grasps for an appropriate name "Lady Ysilla should she attend your sister's funeral solely for the purposes of insulting her. And not a little, either, nor accidentally. And then she saunters away, completely unpunished for her actions.

"Imagine that was all true, Balon. Imagine all that happened, then I, in conversation with you, talked about 'my dear friend Lady Ysilla'.

"There would be only two possible reasons: deep malice, or great incompetence. And malice is wildly out of character. So that leaves mind-boggling incompetence. *Sylvina* is probably smart enough to realise mentioning Lady Ysilla is a mistake in that circumstance.

"Yet that is precisely what you did.

"As I said, I don't hate you. I don't for one moment believe you did it out of malice. You did it because you lack the common sense and political cunning of a *child*.

"This isn't a matter of me being of 'the fairer sex' - *anyone* would be angered by what you did, though those who fear you may hide their reaction. Imagine if you spoke to Bittersteel about your 'dear friend Bloodraven', and you'll get pretty much the same kind of response, if he believed you were serious.

"You have the talent to be a great knight, Ser Balon, if you can avoid the infamy of becoming known as a blackguard. But it is now clear to me that you will struggle to even be a mediocre lord, should you attain such a position."

She'd opened her mouth to respond confidently, then Balon throws in that last line about her mother, and she just freezes, suddenly unsure.

Rather than fear, as he loomed over her in a dominant position, she flashed back to the last time he was in such a position, and her cheeks flush pink again. She responds softly, still off-balance from his last barb. "That was not my intent. My anger was real. My answer was blunt and honest. But if you want and are able to prove me wrong, by which I mean prove me right originally, I would be .. impressed."

She licks her lips nervously for a few moments before answering. "You missed another obvious possibility: maybe I just said it because you hurt me, so I tried to hurt you back, as I'm a vindictive bitch even to those close to me." From her tone, even she's not sure if that's true.

"I was taught how to read a man. How to seduce a man. How to read political currents. How to suppress my feelings. I was never taught how to *handle* feelings for a man. Are you right? Is ... is this *fear*?" She's frowning. "Am .. Am I *running away*?" She seems to be asking herself, rather than him, but no answers are forthcoming. It's clear, even to Balon, that his barb about her mother cut deep, leaving the usually-confident and assured young woman confused and unsure.

---

Not much in the way of answers in this post, so if your response is short, that's fine, but I thought I'd give you the chance to take advantage of my uncertain state, since you hit one of my weak spots pretty well.

Once he'd mentioned 'love' Laena's eyes grow wide and skittish, like a fawn in the middle of a clearing having just seen a hunter, arrow pulled back and ready, aimed right at her. Her eyes dart around, and she licks her lips, trying to spot a flaw in his logic. But he'd greatly angered her, and yet not for one moment had she considered revenge. Nor was she holding that anger against him.

Try as she might to find fault, his logic seemed sound.

How did it come to this?

"You, ah, I mean I, well, it's..." She chuckles awkwardly and looks down. "All those elocution lessons, and suddenly I don't know what to say."

Without looking up, she continues to fidget. "You may be right. I suspect you're right. Both about my ... my feelings, and my difficulties thereof.

"But I'm also right that it's not exactly the sign of a functional relationship that I worry if you're going to kill one or more of my kin any time you're in a tourney with them." Her last conversation with Trystane coming immediately to mind.

"And .. your reputation is such that I will undoubtedly be asked if I have lost my mind should I let my .. my feelings be widely known. And even aside from that, last I heard, there is still that rift in your family meaning you cannot m- make an honest woman of me. Not that I'd expect you to become close, but having a family that at odds makes us Targaryens feel you're trying to compete with us. Next thing we know, you Blackbrairs will be lamenting the 'good old days' when you could solve 90% of your problems with dragonfire." She chuckles slightly at her weak joke.

"And I seem to recall that, even though I - as a well-spoken Great Bastard - would then support you and your cause, and in terms of status, I stand significantly above you, even your own *mother* was against this."

Laena complies with the request to close her eyes, and bites back the automatic retort that she does not *do* 'vulnerable'. The lie would be a little too blatant given current circumstances.

She listens carefully and silently to the scenarios he outlines. She opens her mouth to answer, hesitates, closes it again, frowns, and opens her eyes before finally answering. "You're asking me if I want to love and be loved. If I want a loving and patient husband who'll help give me strong sons and cunning daughters."

Her eyes flicker about a bit, analysing the situation from every angle she can think of. "Yes." She ultimately answers simply, like there was no real alternative. "But that answer's near-meaningless. Were you to ask pretty much any lady, save the most ambitious and those who particularly hate you, the same question, they'd likely give the same answer. We ladies are trained from a very early age to not hope for a happy, loving marriage - we will marry who our lord dictates. It's only a very, very lucky few - female heirs, and me and my sisters predominantly - to whom that dream has any real chance of being anything but that. But most of us have that dream, locked away in our hearts.

"The only difference between me and those other ladies is that I do at least accept that most of what you say is quite possible." A small smile. "Except that part about the joke. I think you'll struggle to be that funny."

Laena closes her eyes again, and, after a moment's consideration, decides to test the answer a different way. She mentally substitutes in Ser Sebaston Rowan in Balon's place - a capable and chivalrous knight from a prestigious family.

A stress-relieving joke would be pleasant, regardless of source or circumstance. So, he 'passes' there.

But having a child with him? He's not a *bad* choice for a father, she supposes, but the idea doesn't particularly excite her - Rowan stock just doesn't seem so consistently strong as Blackbriar stock.

Finally what would his pride in her mean to her? Not much. She can't imagine him seeing her as doing more than her duty. He'd feel pride as a reflection of his potency, rather than anything really to do with her. Again, she's just not excited over the idea.

She's *been* married to a generic, well-meaning, interchangeable knight. And it was awful.

For all his flaws, Balon is ... different enough that he *does* excite her in those scenarios.

She opens her eyes, and takes a long, unsteady breath before answering softly. "Ignoring the rest of the world. In isolation. Just the two of us? ...Yes. I .. love you, and want to be loved by you." Her mouth snaps shut like a part of her wants to bite those words back into her mouth already.

Laena gives a tolerant smile, and shakes her head. "I am not simply going to fall into bed with you every time you flutter your eyelashes at me and say 'please'." She softly speaks, so the Septon definitely can't overhear. "This .. relationship we have has *serious* issues, whatever our personal feelings may be, and we are *not* going to solve them through sex!" She finishes with a hiss. "We need to sit down and have a calm, rational discussion, as chivalrous knight and virtuous lady."

*

"Ohyes! Ohyes! Yes! Fill up your whore, you filthy blackguard! Yes!" She feels Balon releasing deep inside of her core, and finally, finally, doesn't hold back her instincts, dragging her nails painfully down his back. The addition of pain to his expression of ecstasy atop her is enough to tip her over the edge to her own release.

They both collapse onto his bed in his room, and he rolls off her to avoid crushing her with his bulk. As they both take a few moments to catch their breath, her eyes pass over her discarded disguise she used to get here, scattered carelessly between the door and the bed; and she takes a look towards the covered window and the night sky outside, and sends a quick prayer to whichever of the Seven may be listening that the servants of her camp heed her orders that she is sick and grumpy this night, and is not to be disturbed under any circumstances.

---

Just an OOC note for any readers that the transition here was agreed upon via message.

"There is a bare minimum that needs- that *you* need to accomplish.

"Firstly, my brother, Aerion. I could declare for the Iron Throne tomorrow, and in public, he'd support me even then. In private, he'd call me a lunatic and try and convince me to take it back, but he will always, always support me. However, what that means is that I will always listen to him, for I know with absolute certainty that he will be speaking with what he sees as my best interests in mind. If you want to make sure I don't falter, you need to make sure he sees your best side." She idly strokes a hand down his chest. "Like I do." She frowns. "Though not exactly like I do." She hurriedly clarifies. "But, you know, enough that he doesn't want to have me committed for my sanity when he learns about us. ... Make sure he at least vaguely likes you before you mention anything about wanting to have sex with me.

"Secondly, you need a way to deal with your aunt. Marrying for love is very, very rarely allowed for people in your position. On top of that, as far as I am aware, at the moment, she would deny you marrying anyone out of antipathy. I have to admit, I do not have a solid plan to help you there.

"I'd very much like to not be disowned by the Starkwoods. But hopefully, so long as you don't do anything more to outrage them, while they *may* not turn up to the wedding, I hope at least they will not disown me, without any further action required. So long as my brother's there to give me away, you're there to accept me, and there's a Septon there to make it official, I guess I don't actually *need* anything more than that." She's doing a rather poor job of hiding her melancholy over the thought of such an empty wedding.

"Because of your reputation, I am going to lose a *lot* of friends when this becomes public knowledge." She muses quietly, wallowing in her melancholy.