Chapter 8: Dinner by Moonlight
The stone was cold and damp through the wool of her dress. Roslin didn’t care. She sat on a jagged tooth of basalt, watching the tide claw its way up the black shore, each wave a hissing retreat. She’d heard the dinner bell toll from the heights an hour ago. The thought of the smoky hall, the watching eyes of household knights, the empty chair beside Jace’s—it felt like a form of suffocation.
So she’d come here, to the island’s grim skirt. The air was a physical thing, thick with salt and the iron tang of wet rock. It suited her mood. She picked up a flat, grey stone and skipped it across a foaming inlet. It sank after two hops. Pathetic.
The crunch of boots on shingle came from behind. She knew the step. It was measured, heavy, purposeful. She didn’t turn.
Jace came to stand beside her rock, his shadow falling across her lap. He was still in his training leathers, a long coat thrown over them against the chill. He said nothing for a long moment, just stared out at the churning slate-grey sea.
“You missed the meal,” he said finally. His voice was neutral, stripped of the cold anger from the yard.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“The cook prepared peacock in saffron. Your favorite, according to your handmaid.”
“My appetite changed.”
He let out a slow breath, a faint cloud in the damp air. “Get up. You’ll catch a chill.”
“I like it here. It’s honest. Nothing pretty pretending to be something it’s not.” She threw another stone. It plopped miserably into a deep pool.
She expected an order. A command. The sharp tone he used for disobedient soldiers. Instead, he moved. He walked past her, down to where the water frothed over a flat shelf of rock. He bent, searching, his silver hair whipped by the wind. He selected a stone, tested its weight, and with a casual, wrist-flicking motion, sent it skimming across the dark water. One, two, three, four, five, six—it vanished into the gloom on the seventh kiss.
He didn’t look at her. “Your technique is awful. You’re throwing from your elbow, not your shoulder.”
A laugh, unexpected and sharp, escaped her. She pressed her lips together. He found another stone, walked back, and handed it to her. His fingers brushed hers. Cold. “Try again.”
She took it, stood, and imitated his posture. She threw. Four skips.
“Marginally less pathetic,” he conceded. He didn’t leave. He sat on a neighboring rock, a few feet away, and gazed at the horizon.
The silence stretched, but it was different now. Not just her brooding solitude. A shared, quiet space filled with the roar of the sea. After a while, she heard more footsteps. She turned to see two kitchen servants, wide-eyed and nervous, picking their way down the path. One carried a large covered tray, the other a folded fur blanket and a lit lantern.
Jace gave a slight nod. They set the tray on a dry, flat rock, spread the blanket near it, hooked the lantern on a jutting stone, and scurried back up the cliff path as if demons chased them.
He stood, opened the tray. The rich, spiced scent of peacock and warm bread cut through the brine. There were figs, cheese, two silver goblets, and a carafe of wine. He filled a plate and held it out to her.
Roslin stared. “You’re having dinner brought to the shore?”
“You said you weren’t hungry. I didn’t say I wasn’t.” He set the plate on the blanket and began filling one for himself.
Hesitantly, she slid from her perch and settled on the edge of the fur. The warmth was immediate, seeping through the wool. She took the plate. The food was still hot. She took a bite. It was delicious.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the waves their orchestra. The lantern light painted his sharp features in gold and shadow, softening the usual harsh lines. He looked younger. Tired.
“I thought you’d drag me back by my hair,” she said, tearing a piece of bread.
He didn’t look up from his plate. “Tempting,” he said, and the ghost of a smile, there and gone, flickered at the corner of his lips.
It felt like a victory, small and strange. She sipped her wine, emboldened. “Is this an apology? For this morning?”
“No.” He took a swallow from his own goblet. “This is logistical. A betrothed lady with lung fever is more trouble than a betrothed lady with a bruised pride. And you were right. It’s honest here.”
“You don’t like honest places.”
“I don’t like uncomfortable ones. They are often the same.” He leaned back, bracing himself on one arm, and looked at her. The violet of his eyes was almost black in the low light. “You unsettle things.”
“I didn’t mean to fall on you.”
“I’m not talking about the fall.” He said it quietly. “You ask questions. You look for things that aren’t there. You expect… more.”
“Is that wrong?”
“It’s dangerous.” He looked away, out to sea. “Expectations are cracks in the armor. They are where the blade gets in.”
“So you live without any? That sounds terribly lonely, Jace.”
The use of his nickname, not ‘my prince’, made his jaw tighten. But he didn’t correct her. “It’s safe.”
“Is it?” She pressed, the wine and the strange intimacy of their rocky dinner loosening her tongue. “You have a castle, a title, an army. You have a mistress, if the rumors are true. But you sit on a cold shore with a woman you didn’t want to marry because it’s easier than the hall. That doesn’t sound safe. It sounds like a retreat.”
His head snapped toward her, his eyes flashing. “You know nothing about what I want.”
“I know you haven’t sent me away. I know you’re here now.” She held his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. “That’s a piece of information. I’m good at reading people, remember?”
For a long, suspended moment, he was utterly still. The wind tore at them. Then, the fight seemed to drain out of him. He picked up the carafe and refilled her goblet, then his own. “You’re trouble, Roslin Tyrell.”
“So I’ve been told.”
They lapsed into silence again, but the air had changed once more. A wire stretched between them, taut and humming. He finished his wine and stood, brushing crumbs from his coat. “Come. It’s getting dark. The path is treacherous.”
She stood, folding the blanket. The servants would collect the rest. He took the lantern from its hook, holding it aloft. The path was narrow, winding up through fissures in the cliff. He walked ahead, lighting the way, but his steps were slower than his usual stride, measured to hers. When she slipped on a patch of loose scree, his hand shot back, finding her elbow, steadying her. He didn’t let go until the ground leveled.
At the postern gate that led to the family quarters, he stopped. The warm, noisy sounds of the keep spilled out from other courtyards. Here, it was quiet. He handed her the lantern.
“You should get inside,” he said.
“Jace.” The name came easier this time. “Thank you. For the dinner. For not dragging me.”
He looked at her, his face once more unreadable in the flickering light. But his voice, when he spoke, was low. “You skipped six times on your last throw. The stone was too light.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a smooth, dark, perfectly oval stone. He pressed it into her free hand. “Try this one tomorrow.”
He turned and walked away, his form swallowed by the deeper shadows of the corridor.
Roslin stood there, the stone warm from his pocket in her palm, the lantern light swaying. She replayed the conversation in her head—the taunts, the admissions, the fleeting smile. He hadn’t given an inch, not really. But he’d shown her a map of his walls. And he’d given her a stone to skip.
In her room, she placed the dark stone on her windowsill, next to a vase of dried sea lavender. She could still smell the salt on her skin, taste the spice of the peacock and the metallic tang of the wine. For the first time since arriving on Dragonstone, she didn’t feel like a hostage in a gilded cage. She felt like she was in a conversation. And it was a conversation she very much wanted to continue.