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CHAPTER THREE. ━━━━━━━━━ Her heart wasn't supposed to break for an almost lover. ━━━━━━━━━
ASTORIA IS A BEAUTY. That is what everyone has always whispered. She is the pride of her family, destined for great things.
The gods had given her the beauty she had prayed for in her youth, but it comes with a price. Her parents hopes of a grand betrothal weigh heavy on her shoulders. The Pentoshi knows very well that they would never truly force her into something unwanted but should she not be able to find a husband herself, then they would intervene.
Astoria stands on her balcony and smiles as the warm breeze rustles her skirts, city bells clanging in the distance. It's still chillier than she'd like, it's certainly no Pentos, but the morning of Prince Rhaegar's name day has dawned bright, with the glowing sun visible through the high scuttling clouds.
There is a faint knock on the door of her chambers. She closes the shutters and swiftly turns to answer it.
"How may I help you, Ser Arthur?" she greets the knight. His white armor sparkles in the light from the windows behind her, his violet eyes burning into the woman.
"Princess Elia has sent me to escort you down to the tourney grounds, my lady," he replies with a small smile. The vapid, blushing servant girls make it no secret what they think of the lilting accent he'd never managed to lose.
"Sometimes she is too considerate for her own good. Shall we go then?" Astoria grins brightly to the man before her.
The Kingsguard offers her his arm and she lets him lead her from her chamber. The fabric of her dress is tight across her chest and then flies freely around her curves. It is the colour of the morning sky and something Ashara had gifted her with. She arrived just a fortnight ago, making the castle seem warmer.
After walking in comfortable silence for some minutes, Astoria finally gathers the courage to speak to him. "I thought you'd ride the tourney in the afternoon."
"I do," he nods. "But my duty lies with the royal family as well, my lady."
"There is no need for formalities, I believe. Please call me Astoria," she insists, not knowing why her heart is pounding so fast.
"Then it is Arthur for you," he offers in return.
"Arthur," she says, and marvels. It is the first time she has said it, not in whispers, and not in jest, and not in the low voices of a gossip. For that second, it feels a magnificent thing, to say his name as if she has a right to, as if it is hers, in some part, to say the name and end it on a breath.
