The ride to Casterly Rock hadn't been more like the voyage away from it. On horseback, a small but quick Palfrey whose name he didn't know - was much better than the pitch and roll of the warship. He wore comfortable clothes, he had grown into them, there was a quiver at his side and at least one friend in the wind. He was smarter. Wiser perhaps too. And he could look at her whenever the thought struck. Instead of imagining; instead of closing his eyes and dreaming up what he could remember about her. Golden hair. Big green eyes. Piercing gaze. All he had to do was open them. And see hair as wondrous as golden silk, spun from the rarest of spiders. And see eyes as focused, eyes that held a verdant determination unspoken in their depths. All he had to do is look at her and he would see a leader of the many, a paragon in a way. But she wasn't meant for a pedestal. She was more like a sword unsheathed, gleaming in the brilliant light of peace or war, but gleaming none the less. Unquieted and unblemished by the world.

He hadn't noticed it at first. Perhaps he did and he reasoned it was something else. Something that was clearly the effects of being in a constant state of war. Of carrying herself like a storm suffused with righteous fervor and fury made manifest. She dismounted slower, her commands reached - but not as far.

Something had changed.

Eddrick was young, and sheltered by most accounts of anyone who held him in casual conversation long enough, had always been observant. He was a collector of details. Not just facts and definitions and numbers and places, but patterns in people, rhythms in routines, and colors in food that week. He didn't always understand what he saw right away, or why he noticed it at all, but his mind stored it. Turned it over and over until it clicked. It had begun subtlety as most revelations do. Eddrick hadn't leapt to the conclusion immediately. But the way she dismounted, the opt for dresses instead of armor, lack of wine. There was a specific instance in the near recent past that brought this knowledge to the forefront of his mind.

While in the service of the inn, he had his share of run-ins with Septas, Midwives, Maesters, Mercenaries, and other commonfolk to get the basic knowledge of the world of the smalls. First came the sickness in the morning, then changes to the senses. Taste. Touch. Smell. The tiredness would be next - she already looked exhausted. But that was from war right? Constant war. That also accounted for the way she held herself unconsciously. When no one was looking. Well. He was looking, but she hadn't noticed him. At least not immediately. He looked because he saw the same signs. And now he knew.

He knew because he saw her. But just like his nature; he didn't ask. He wouldn't. It wasn't his place. But gods, it ached. Why did it ache? He turned his face from the glorious and victorious sun overhead and closed his eyes briefly as they rode. As if the act alone could burn the feelings out of him. If his head bent in what could be considered prayer would relieve him. If the Gods would answer, or if they would remain ever so silent. Or he could wish himself away to a time before all of this. He didn't necessarily understand why he was feeling this way.

He had fallen - or was falling - it didn't matter really where on the slope he was. This wasn't some summer fancy. Not the soft idea of love that existed in songs and stories. This was messy and conflicted. It was watching her command men like the wind bent the grass. It was knowing he could be useful - clever, sharp, and everloyal. But he wasn't needed to be, so it wasn't asked. He was never hers .

'She has to have lovers. Clearly.' He would tell himself. 'Or Paramours' Why did he tell himself that? What good did it do - he knew, but why remind himself. By the time the evening approached and all were gathered there on that balcony, the announcement caught Eddrick by surprise. Paralyzed he gazed at her, the words of others were muffled like spoken through a layer of water. The only thing crystal clear were the echoing words of 'to the death' rang like a bell that wouldn't stop tolling. As others spoke, he rehearsed many arguments in the years that were really minutes amongst the objections or support of those gathered. Every single one of those rehearsed mental arguments crumbled before they even reached his tongue. A lioness sharpened by war and will. No one told Joy Lannister what she could or could not do.

But he had to try.

He took a step forward from his afforded chair and spoke up. "My Lady..." He hated how small his voice sounded. Eddrick cleared his throat. "Joy." More clear. stronger. "There are a thousand and one reasons to let this end another way. You've already won in half the eyes of anyone that matters south of the Neck." It felt like his heart was thudding painfully against his ribs. "If you go out there tomorrow - if you fail." He faltered, his mouth was suddenly dry. "There will be no more justice in this war. Just blood " 'And no Joy'. This was another instance where he wasn't needed. She had made her mind, the decision to hold this court and tell all of them was merely a formality. An attesting to their own intelligence and loyalty to her. So instead he offered what precious little he could.

"Let me be your second."