Something more

"I was having a particularly good dream when you're bickering woke me up. I was dreaming of Roz, and the warmth of her room in the brothel in the town. I was thinking about the warmth of something else too." You let the implication fill the space between you. As the realisation hits her, her young features are contorted in disgust and she spins to walk away.

"I know where the sewing kit is," you lie, "and I'm sure Father would not be too happy if he were to find that the gift he gave you - his Mother's own belongings - had been lost...".

She stopped in her tracks before you, her dress clinging to her youthful form. She turns to regard you.

"You wouldn't." She whispers.

"It sure would be a shame for him to hear from someone else. You know how he is about honour and the courage and need to 'do the right thing'."

She pauses. Her features showing that she is torn, between her sense of modesty, her sense of rightousness, and something else, something new. She's excited, but can't quite grasp it. This is new. A forceful, dominating Jon.

"Not here. Your bedchambers."