"Well, I didn't mean me, necessarily. I'm not a writer or poet. But a poet certainly could, I would think," Oliver said.

"No, no, you don't get to escape that quickly. It is you that made the bold claim, and it is you that ought to stand by it… And look, you're already pulling such a troubled face. Fine then, I suppose I shall be merciful.

Two things, then, if you distil it all down – merely give me two topics that so dominate the minds of men," Asabel said, bulling ahead like a racehorse, cutting off any chance that Oliver might have had of worming his way out of it. He rather regretted his choice of words.

He thought back to the men that he'd known… What interested them? Greeves, it was coin, and women. For Judas, it was coin and women. For Dominus, it was the sword. For Verdant it was… What even was it? For Karesh, and Kaya, it was probably the spear, and perhaps girls… He'd caught them talking of such things once or twice, much to their embarrassment.

Jorah was as much an enigma as Verdant, so it was hard to say.

"Well, then," Oliver said, putting it together in his mind. "I suppose, if I had to reduce it all down to something, it would probably be fighting, and women."

"Ohhh?" The lioness in her showed, along with that devious canine tooth. She saw a weakness, and she pounced on it. "Could that be the rarest insight into the psyche of Oliver Patrick, I wonder? Is that truly all you think about?"

"Not me," Oliver corrected. "Men in general."

"But you no doubt speak from your own experience, do you not?" Asabel said, pressing the attack, thoroughly enjoying it. "To think that girls would be as important to you as fighting. I thought that was all you cared about. I was beginning to feel sorry for the girls nearest you."

"Again, that was men in general," Oliver said, putting the book back on the shelf and turning his back on her, refusing to engage further. There was only one seat in front of the fire – a broad leather-backed one, with a wide back for a man to recline in. He went to grab the seat from behind the desk instead. If he was to sit anywhere, it would be in front of the flames.@@novelbin@@

Whether a peasant in the heart of the Black Mountains, or a noble safely inside, Oliver still had not lost his appreciation for those animated flames.

"Borrrringgggg," Asabel complained like an indignant child. Only, the way she did it, she made it clear that she was putting on a show. Her sense of playfulness never left her even for a second. "Come, Oliver, do you fear for the question of girls so strongly? You were the one that brought it up, after all. You mean to tell me, being the young man that you are, there are no girls that interest you?

Not even Lasha Blackthorn, as pretty as she is?"

"None," Oliver said. "There. A seat. Sit by the fire, and stop trying to back me into the corner."

She sat as she was told. "I was right to send Lancelot away," she decided. "You would never dare to speak to a Princess like that if there were others that could hear you."

"Wouldn't I?" Oliver said, folding his arms across his chest, and finding a comfortable spot in his seat.

"Ah, I suppose that was a point poorly made," Asabel said. "Considering your reputation, I doubt that having Lancelot there would have stopped you."

"There you are, then," Oliver said. "Do you wish to write a written complaint?"

"No," Asabel decided, after a moment of thought. "Out of all the nobility, I think you might be the most forthright of them all, Ser Patrick. It is remarkably refreshing to be spoken to so directly, despite my station."

"A station that was increased in burden by my own weaknesses," Oliver noted, unable to hide the bitterness in voice.

"Ah," the laughter faded from Asabel's eyes. "It doesn't please anyone when you say it like that, Oliver. You should not attempt to take on the burden of my position. You weaken me when you insist on doing so."

Caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice, Oliver was forced to take a backward step. With a single comment, Oliver had dashed the playfulness from her eyes. She had a sore expression, as though she'd jabbed a recently stubbed toe, and could hardly stop the tears that were coming unbidden to her eyes. Indeed, in the firelight, her eyes seemed far more moist than they would otherwise be.

It alarmed Oliver to no end. He certainly hadn't set out to make a Princess cry. "Apologies…" He said quickly. "I didn't mean to offend you."

She shook her head. "You bear me no offence, Oliver," she assured him. "I am merely being silly."

Unsure of what to say, a silence built over the two of them, as they looked in the flames.

There came a knock at the door, as Thomas returned with their tea. "Come in," Asabel replied, adopting the authoritative voice of royalty, and sitting up straighter from within her chair. She remained like that for the entire duration of Thomas' stay, from the moment he set foot in the room, to the moment he placed the tray of teapots and cups on the table next to them, to the moment he left.

Then, when the door closed, she deflated like a balloon and her shoulders fell. She looked terribly weak.

"I wonder what it was like, back then," she said suddenly, her voice quiet enough to be lost over the crackle of the fire.

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"Back when?"

"For your father, and my Uncle. For Arthur and Dominus. What was it like, I wonder? Were they aware of the position they were in, and the ripples that they were causing? Or did it simply happen, as they chased after something?" Asabel asked.

"You mean, in the beginning?" Oliver said. "I assume towards the end they must have known, unless they'd kept their eyes closed…"