In the bathroom, white steam was rising from the hot water in the pool, and the candles on the candlesticks illuminated the entire room.
Redd placed Mesalia on the marble steps by the pool and began to take off her clothes.
Mesalia sat on the steps, with her hands behind her back, looking up at him, with a lazy, contented smile on her face that seemed to say "come on".
The white dress on her body glowed softly in the candlelight, her hair was scattered on her shoulders, and her eyes were as bright as two golden-brown gems.
"Your Highness," her voice was as soft as she was talking in her sleep, "Tell me, can I be pregnant with your child?"
Redd's hand paused.
He looked at her, at the unbelievably beautiful face in the candlelight, at the eyes that were as bright as burning flames, at the slightly swollen belly - a life once took root there, but failed to grow, and finally flowed away with the blood.
He was silent for a moment, then bent down and placed a feather-light kiss on her forehead.
"Maybe." he said.
Mesalia closed her eyes and felt the warmth of his lips. The kiss was very light, so light that she could hardly feel it, but her eyes turned slightly red at this moment.
Maybe.
One word. Not "can", not "can't", not "will", not "won't". Just "maybe".
A little better than "can't", a little worse than "can", like an answer hanging in mid-air, which is neither heaven nor hell, and which makes people neither dare to be happy nor to despair.
She opened her eyes, and the red water vapor had receded from her eyes. Her eyes were still bright, still burning with fire, firm and unwilling to admit defeat.
"Then try a few more times." She said, with an almost pleading tone in her voice that she didn't realize she had.
Redd said no more. He walked down the steps and walked into the warm water, which was up to his waist.
He stretched out his hand and pulled Mesalia down the steps, into the water, and into his arms.
Her body relaxed the moment it came into contact with the hot water, like a piece of ice thrown into the fire, melting bit by bit from the outside to the inside.
She pressed her face against his chest, listened to his heartbeat, felt his breathing, and found the most comfortable position in his arms, curling up like a cat that had finally found a home.
She put her hand on his chest, and her fingers drew invisible patterns on his skin. Her eyes were half closed, and her eyelashes cast a fan-shaped, shallow shadow in the candlelight.
"Your Highness," her voice was so soft that it seemed like it was coming from a very far away place, "You will keep me forever, right?"
Redd didn't answer. He stroked her back slowly and step by step, as if comforting a frightened cat.
Mesalia didn't ask any more questions. She closed her eyes and buried herself deeper into his arms, feeling his body temperature, his heartbeat, and everything about him.
She knew she might never get the answer to that question. But she didn't care anymore.
Because she knows that in this world, some things don't need answers, they just need to be done. Some questions don't need answers, they just need to be proven.
She removed her hands from his chest, slid into the water, stayed on his waist for a moment, and then continued down.
Redd's breathing became heavier the moment her fingers touched him.
The corners of Mesalia's mouth were slightly raised, and her smile looked particularly charming and attractive in the reflection of the water.
"The hot water," her voice was as soft as telling a secret, "Isn't cold yet."
The candle on the candlestick burned short again, and the firelight jumped a little, casting the shadows of the two people on the opposite wall, entangled together, like a vague, ambiguous, and unclear ink painting.
In the corridor outside the bathroom, the maid who had been hiding in the corner finally stood up straight, rubbed her numb legs, and walked further away lightly.
She stood on the high ground of the castle, looking at the sparkling Blackwater Bay illuminated by the moonlight in the distance.
The night wind blew from the sea, carrying a salty smell and a faint, heartbeat-like noise coming from the direction of King's Landing in the distance.
In her mind, Messaria's slightly red eyes appeared, and the words that the queen casually said, light but as heavy as a thousand pounds.
Helper.
She shuddered, tightened her cloak, turned around and walked deeper into the castle.
Behind him, in the direction of the bathroom, there was the sound of water gurgling, mixed with a chuckle, a thin sound that made people blush and their hearts beat.
Those sounds echoed in the empty corridors, filtered by the walls and door frames, and eventually turned into a vague, ambiguous, and unexplainable background sound, like ancient and mysterious songs coming from the deep sea.
No one knows what that voice is saying.
Only water knows.
When Rhaenyra took off from Dragonstone, the night was getting darker, and the lights of Dragonstone's castle gradually faded away behind her, eventually shrinking into a blur of orange light spots and being swallowed up by the night.
Syrax's wings spread out under the starlight, and the wingtips crossed the edge of the clouds, bringing up a piece of fine ice crystal that shimmered like diamond powder.
The night wind blew from the east, the biting cold penetrated her cloak and leather armor, and penetrated into the gaps between her bones.
But she did not slow down, nor let Syrax fly lower, nor did she find a cloud to take shelter from the wind.
She allowed the cold wind to numb her face, freeze her fingers to death, and blow her hair into a flag that roared in the night sky.
Because she needs to wake up.
The words of Redd were still replaying in her mind - that promise that was as easy as throwing a chess piece at random.
"This is my promise to you. Not to your father, not to Iron Throne, not to Seven Kingdoms. It's to you."
She tried to find a flaw in that sentence, a gap through which she could relieve herself of the burden.
Would a Dragon King who conquered nine Free Citiess, killed Daemon and Tormund, and made Dorne surrender with just one letter, would he give up the entire Westeros for a woman?
Her reason told her repeatedly that she would not, but her instincts - those that had been honed in countless court battles and were sharper than her clear mind - whispered in her ears: Maybe he will not give up for you, but he will give up for your son.
Her marriage to Redd was like a dry river bed. There were still gullies and traces washed out by the original flood on the river bed, but the river had flowed away, leaving only the cracked soil that had been bleached white by the sun, and a few half-dead withered grasses waiting to die.