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Out with the old, in with the new. It's Elia's new motto, to be repeated under her breath whenever the past threatens to rear its ugly head into her new life.
Old things that are out: her ex-husband, being angry at her ex-husband, being bitter about her ex-husband's total lack of shame for his infidelity when it was exposed, and the tiny treacherous voice in the back of her head that wonders once in a while if the divorce wasn't a bad decision after all.
New things that are in: a substantial divorce settlement, her new flower shop paid for by said divorce settlement, navigating shared custody with grace (at least in public), and cultivating a positive relationship with her husband's lover and now her own roommate.
From nine to six, six days a week, Elia tends her little shop. Her days are filled with taking orders, making elaborate arrangements, dealing with suppliers, and worrying about her babies.
The antsy urge hits hardest in the late afternoons. It's difficult being away from Aegon especially. She's always worried, always thinking about what he might be needing, what she might be missing. It had been the same with Rhaenys at that age, when they're a bundle of needs and vulnerabilities.
Maybe it would have been easier to stay, she catches herself thinking for a moment, I could have been home today, with them, before she shakes her head and pushes the thought away.
In with the new.
Instead of following her first instinct to close down the store, abandon her work for the day, and rush home, Elia takes a deep breath and pulls out her phone to text Lyanna.
How's everything going over there?
Two minutes later, her phone buzzes. It's a photo--a selfie--of Lyanna and Aegon, pressed cheek to cheek. Somehow she's gotten Aegon's fine, silvery hair to stand up in a slick mohawk, and put him in onesie that says in big bold letters, PUNK ROCK BABY. They both have their tongues out, and Lyanna has one hand thrown up in devil horns.
Corrupting the youth, I see, Elia replies.
The reply whizzes back almost instantaneously. Just call me Socrates! Then: Jon WOULD NOT let me touch his hair. lol. just started wailing woohoo.
As Elia is thinking of a response, the doorbell chimes. From her position between the peonies and the carnations, she can't see the person, but she can hear the footsteps still just inside the door.
She doesn't have so many walk-ins, at least before five, when the husbands get out of work and spontaneously decide to bring something nice home to their wives. A guilty conscience, she thinks sometimes, and then feels bad for thinking of it. She has no actual reason to believe that, and besides, it's not like there's any real parallel to be had with her and Rhaegar--he hadn't surprised her with flowers ever, not once, not when they'd been courting and not when he was having the affair. No guilty conscience to assuage, she supposes. The thought doesn't really hurt, not like it used to, and even then it was the lack of any shame or self-consciousness on his part that hurt the worst.
From around the enormous central display in the entrance to the shop, Elia catches a glimpse of her customer. The top of his head, to be exact--honey gold hair and a strip of pale brown skin beneath. She ducks around to greet him.
And stops in her tracks.
He doesn't see her, but she recognizes him, though she hasn't seen him in almost a year.
His presence here threatens her carefully cultivated equilibrium. She takes the long way round the displays back to the counter, and it gives her time to put on her face and think of something to say. Anything to say.
"Hi, Arthur!" she says with her best smile, the one she wore to social functions and fundraisers. She calls out before he's noticed her. "Are you here for Ned? He's out on a delivery right now." Do the words come out too quickly? She can't tell.
Pushing up his sunglasses, Arthur blinks slowly at her. "I'm not here for Ned."
Elia's smile fixes. "What can I help you with, then?" she chirps.
In all their days of quiet companionship--they were both shadows, she'd joked to him once, Rhaegar's shadows, following him around, bodyguard and wife--she's never seen him look nervous. This can't really be a coincidence, can it? Surely he didn't walk into her shop by accident, she thinks, though she grows less certain by the second.
"I, ah." He comes up to the counter, raps his knuckles against it. "I came to . . . buy some flowers."
His deep blue eyes are fixed on a point just over her shoulder. It gets under her skin, makes her feel restless and frustrated.
“I assume that’s why you’re in a flower shop, yes.”
She rarely lets her sharp thoughts become sharp words now, too focused on positivity, but Arthur doesn’t look too surprised. On the contrary, his eyes finally meet hers, and one side of his mouth twitches. It’s the same gesture he would make when they were at large functions, and he was the only outlet for her annoyances and petty grievances, a still statue. It was a game, sometimes, to see how long it would take her to make him smile.
“For Ashara,” he clarifies, clearing his throat. “She received a job offer from Rhoyne-Yronwood.”
“I know. She told me.” Elia’s smile is proud. Rhoyne-Yronwood is one of the best law firms in the city. “A congratulations bouquet, then?”
“Yes, if you will. Something . . . custom? I’m afraid I don’t know anything about flowers.”
Composing the bouquet gives her something to ponder that isn’t other possible reasons for Arthur’s presence, for which she is grateful. She wanders around the refrigerated stock room in the back, selecting several items and tucking them into the crook of her arm, and returns to Arthur, pulling out a vase from beneath the counter.
“Yellow roses, of course, for her achievement. Alstroemeria for prosperity and good fortune.” The pink-orange tinges on the edges of the alstroemeria petals complement the roses nicely, she thinks critically. “Fennel, for praise.” The tiny flowers make a lovely contrast. “Oak leaves for strength . . . and some ivy for ambition, of course,” she finishes, slanting a glance at Arthur just in time to see that sideways smile again before it disappears.
She turns the vase toward him, giving him a better view of the arrangement. “What do you think?”
“It looks very nice.” Arthur, on the other hand, has that baffled look people—usually men—often get on their faces when faced with the foreign language of flowers. “Do all those flowers really mean all these different things?”
Elia giggles, then covers her mouth for her transgression. Don’t laugh at customers, she chides herself. Arthur looks startled, then smiles tentatively.
“Yes, they really do. Would you like it delivered? Ned can do it on his way home.”
“I’d rather take them with me. I’m taking her out for dinner tonight. A surprise.”
Elia ties the bouquet with a yellow ribbon and wraps it in a sleeve of plastic. “Ever the gentleman, I see.”
Pause. “Not always. Not as much as I’d like.”
For a moment she thinks he’s going to say something else. His lips part. He looks hesitant. But then the moment passes, and he’s paying and smiling and leaving, and even though the encounter is over, something feels unfinished.
* * *
“I don’t know. It was strange.” Elia munches on a tortilla chip covered in melted cheese and black olives. It’s nachos-and-boxed-wine night, an irregular affair in the Martell-Stark household. Between two women working opposite shifts and three children between them, they rarely have time to sit down together. But they both have this Saturday night off, and the kids have been put down. For how long, who knows, but Elia relishes the chance to talk to a grown-up for once. As much as Lyanna counts as a grown-up.
“Bad-strange or good-strange?”
Elia shrugs and wiggles a hand. “Just strange-strange? I don’t know. I’m trying to put that all behind me, and not really think about it, and then he shows up . . .”
“You said he was Ashara’s brother, right? He’s still in your social orbit or whatever,” Lyanna points out.
“That’s true. It’s just—it was so out of the blue, but I’m not sure it was an accident? And I don’t know what to make of that. For all I know, he’s checking up on me for Rhaegar. It's been a week and I still don't know what to make of it.”
“Ask Ashara.” Lyanna dips her own bean-and-salsa-covered chip in the common sour cream; Elia wrinkles her nose.
“I could.” She doesn’t want to, though. That’s why she’s here talking to Lyanna instead of her best friend. Or, God forbid, Oberyn, who would probably torture Arthur's reasons out of him. “I just don’t want to put her in the middle of anything awkward or difficult.”
Lyanna hums, her mouth full. In the lull of conversation, Elia pulls out her phone and logs into the back end of her store’s online ordering system to see what arrangements she’ll need to put together tomorrow. The orders are listed by recipient’s last name. One catches her eye.
Martell, Elia.
Her next chip pauses halfway to her mouth.
Carefully she scrolls over to the buyer’s name, her heart picking up pace in anticipation or anxiety or both.
Dayne, Arthur.
“Um,” she says out loud. Too loudly. Lyanna looks over, curiosity piqued. Elia’s words spill out in a rush. “He’s sending me flowers. Through my own shop!”
“Wait, really? Ooooh, he likes you. That’s why he stopped by. Let me guess—a dozen sexy red roses?”
Elia stares at the order. Violet hyacinths, white tulips. “No. It’s the apology bouquet.” She makes a noise of outrage.
Right then, Jon begins fussing. Lyanna groans. "Something must have touched his hair," she grumbles, standing and brushing nacho dust from her yoga pants.
"Have fun with that," says Elia, barely looking up from her phone. While Lyanna takes care of Jon, Elia makes alterations to the order. Specifically, she changes the receiving address, and adds a card with a customized message.
Flowers are an accompaniment to a sincere message, not a substitute for one. If you have something to say to me, I would much prefer you say it to my face.
* * *
To his credit, he comes in the next day after the delivery, just before the shop closes.
"You were right." His deep voice carries across the shop.
He hasn't even taken his sunglasses off yet. Elia remains pointedly silent until he pushes them to perch on the top of his head.
"I came to apologize," he says carefully, formally.
"Whatever for?" Elia's tone is falsely bright. When they weren't talking about the past, she decided she was fine; but this is not what she signed up for.
Arthur's frown is troubled. So serious. Ashara always teased him for it, and Elia too. Elia doesn't feel much in the mood for it now.
"I didn't do . . . everything I could have done."
"You did enough," Elia says shortly. It was Arthur who leaked the news of the affair to Ashara . . . four months after it began. She thought she was grateful; now she finds herself unexpectedly angry about the delay. She doesn't want to feel angry, though. That's why she doesn't want to think about these things. It's much easier to slide into professional mode. In with the new, in with the new, in with the new.
"It still wasn't right." Doggedly determined.
She decides to throw him a lifeline, if it will get him out of her shop more quickly. "He was your boss. And your friend. It's not like I don't . . . It's not like I don't understand."
"I don't think Rhaegar really has friends," Arthur says quietly, and in his eyes she sees the same disappointment and disillusionment she used to see in the mirror. It's not at all what she expected to hear.
Elia takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a cleansing rush. "You came all the way here to apologize?"
"You were more my friend than he ever was."
Her eyes prickle. Years of living with Rhaegar has made every sincere gesture and statement a painful surprise.
"I'm going to close up her in a few minutes," she announces.
Arthur's shoulders and spine straighten, and she can practically see him retreating into his professional persona. "Of course. I'll . . ."
"I could use a ride home, if it's not too much of an inconvenience," she adds.
He smiles, and something swoops low in her stomach.
* * *
"It's not that I've never thought about it, but . . . not for real, you know?" Elia bounces Aegon on her knee. "He's always just been one of the guys who . . . when you're married, you know, you think about the guys you meet whom you can't be with because you're married, and you think about how they're not an option anymore. Just idly, not seriously."
"Okay," Lyanna's gray eyes are wide and Elia remembers, no, she doesn't know, she's never been married. "Are you gonna go out with him? Is this a thing?"
"It's not a thing. I don't know if he even . . . I don't know if I even." Elia snorts, and Aegon responds with an encouraging gurgle. "Clearly I'm firing on all cylinders today."
It's been almost a month since the botched attempt at an apology. He's come in three more times, each visit longer than the last. Ostensibly there's a reason for each of them, a purchase to make. Allyria receives get-well flowers. Mother's Day comes and goes, and Arthur's mother is well accessorized with flowers. Arianne Martell is getting engaged. On their own, each would be legitimate. Together they look a little . . . not suspicious, exactly. But pretty suspicious, yeah. After the second visit, she told him he could place orders online, wanting to know what his response would be. He'd only said that he was hopeless at the internet. Which, to be fair, was exactly what Ashara said about him all the time.
Still. Suspicious.
Lyanna looks sympathetic, but before she can say anything, the doorbell rings. Lyanna runs from her position in the kitchen to answer the doorbell while Elia plays pattycake with her son and listens to Rhaenys describe her latest drawing at the table.
"It's for you," Lyanna says, and in the loudest stage-whisper Elia has ever heard, adds, "It's him, and he has a bunch of roses. I'll give you some privacy." Before she can protest, Aegon is scooped out of her lap and into Lyanna's arms. The child thief grins over her shoulder and disappears into one of the bedrooms. Elia spitefully resolves to drink the last glass of wine.
"Arthur! Hi!" Her shirt has pizza sauce on it, she notes despairingly. Arthur is, of course, impeccably if plainly dressed, as always.
"Was that--" He cranes his neck.
"Lyanna Stark. Yep."
"Ashara told me you were . . . I didn't believe it." She's gotten used to the shock and confusion that accompanies this revelation, but there's a layer of admiration in his gaze that throws her . . . and makes her spine tingle, just a little.
"Come in, come in."
He steps inside the cramped foyer of her apartment. There are, in fact, a dozen roses in the crook of his arm, half red and half white. Red is romantic love, of course, and white often for marriage or sometimes new beginnings. She wonders if he knows that, if the florist told him.
"Are those for me?" she asks.
"They are. I wanted to see you."
Elia checks the back of the card. "Flowers . . . from my competitor, this time. Very thoughtful, Arthur."
Arthur looks embarrassed. "Elia . . ."
"I'm just teasing you," she assures him.
A tiny, dark-haired cannonball collides with Arthur's shins. The cannonball is carrying a piece of paper and wearing a plastic crown. "I'm Princess Rhaenys," she announces, with as much pomp as a four-year-old can possess. "And this is my castle!" She holds up her drawing for inspection.
However Elia is expecting Arthur to respond, it's not to kneel on the tile with a grave expression, take Rhaenys's free hand in his much larger one, and press a kiss to the back of it. "Princess Rhaenys, it's lovely to meet you. I am at your service."
"Are you my loyal knight?" Rhaenys demands eagerly.
"Until death, my lady," he assures her.
Rhaenys whoops and runs into the living room, where she runs around in circles, apparently too excited to reply directly.
"Sorry," Elia whispers.
Shaking his head, Arthur rises. They're still in the foyer; his closeness sets her heart pounding. "I'm not very good with kids."
"I'd say you're just fine. Arthur . . . what are you doing here?"
His expression resolves, like a knight about to face down a fearsome dragon. Ser Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning. She would laugh, if butterflies weren't swarming in her belly.
"I came to ask if you wanted to go out to dinner with me."
"To dinner? With you? Tonight?" She does not squeak.
Arthur frowns. "You're busy. I should have thought ahead."
"Yes, it's pizza night. You could . . ." Elia hesitates. "You could stay. If you wanted."
"Is that what you want?" he asks with a sidelong glance.
She considers. I don't know, she'd said to Lyanna, but it's not quite true. She does know; she's only afraid. It's the same fear she felt when she first considered filing for divorce. The fear of everything changing.
That pushes her forward. "Yes. Stay." She takes the roses from his hands. "And I'll find a vase for these."