⟪ Just as she had guessed, he all but inhales the meagre half over dinner that she meant to use for trading, and she does not mourn the opportunity the way she perhaps should. Smart it would have been to use it in the winning of a fresh, new ally, yet the relief of having him returned to her, alive and in one piece, for once bests such calculations. This is not the lavish meal he might choose for himself, nor is it the supper of wine and boar she had envisioned for their reunion – or, perhaps, for the hours after their reunion. None of it is as she had planned, and yet it is more: he is not dead. The thought keeps running through her, a feeling better than a steaming tub of water or a silken gown against her skin: he is not dead.

Perhaps that is why she does not chide him for the mannerless way in which he devours the meal. ⟫

Any moment in Pycelle's presence should be enough to cure you for a month.

⟪ The grandmaester was not without his uses, but she resents him all the same, and has more than once leaned over to her knightly brother, to make a mockery of the vile old fool under her breath. A rolling of her eyes accompanies her words. For all her fretting, her wondering if he is dead or alive, she is grateful in her way to know that his nature has not suffered some terrible new affliction – but it also means that she must once again ask herself which part of his he does most of his thinking with. ⟫

Have you made any allies of yet? ⟪ When he guides her away from the wall, she is happy to comply, for once not protesting the way he so openly claims her hand for his own. With no one to recognise them, the risk is a less present threat – though her knows those quick, darting glances. ⟫