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Harry was proud of himself as he lounged back on the blanket, supported by his elbows as his long legs crossed at the ankles. For good measure he ran confident fingers through his wheat-colored hair as to not impede his tantalizing view. It was entirely an idea of his own making to have the servants prepare a light mid-day meal for a short travel to the waterfall, surely a breathtaking sight to behold; the sounds of rushing water calming and serene while naught of the wetness touched them below in the deep valley. Tree branches swayed around them in gentle waves and birds chirped their songs while the sun peeked through white cotton clouds. There could not be a better day for a lovers picnic; or, rather, would-be lovers. The breeze was not strong enough to carry away their fruits from silver plates or their napkins of the finest linen, but it was enough to tousel the dark-brown hair of his companion as she bent to gracefully picked a blue wildflower several paces from their resting place. It was second nature to him now to appreciate the little ways, the slight movements she had about her. He has always been careless and selfish, but that was before Alayne Stone was introduced into his life. Her back was towards him and although her blue velvet dress did not cling as much as he wished, Harry could still appreciate her posterior and imagine the smooth alabaster skin underneath her skirts as he has hundreds of times before. What he did know of was her laughter, little peals of sweetness emitting from pale pink lips as she turned towards him, brushing her long locks from her pretty face. Her eyes were as blue as her gown - as Arryn blue as his own, he liked to think - but he knew they were deeper, richer, more tumultuous than his ever could be and holding secrets of which he was desperate to know as truths.Harry knew what she must think of him, a spoiled heir, next in line should the very sickly and now bed-ridden Robert Arryn die, the Young Falcon with little in his brain beyond a roll in the hay and fine clothing who was thrown into the possibility of achieving the highest title in the Vale by a stroke of dumb luck. It was true, no doubt, when he first arrived at the Eyrie months ago. Spoiled and bored and being pushed at Baelish's bastard in lieu to forgiving old debits, he had not made a very good first impression on Alayne Stone. Yet here they were, his mistake now rectified and the lovely, enchanting Alayne smiling down at him as she smelled the flower of her choosing. He envied that flower, how it was picked from a patch of many to be held by her slender hands. He knew them to be cool to the touch. On occasion she has allowed him to hold hers while in dance or stroll and he found the feel of her fingers entwining with his emitting a burning flame through his entire body that was never felt with Cissy or Saffron, even as he would thrust inside of them in a hurried lust. Where his past lovers' bodies held the assured promise of completion, Alayne's mere hands conveyed something much more intriguing and satisfying. Something to find only in a marriage bed.She takes his breath away when she drops to her knees beside him, waves of brown settling in streams, accentuating her small waist and tightly-bodiced bosom. Hiding his awe at her beauty he smiles and cocks an eyebrow as she wordlessly tucks the flower behind his ear. It is an almost girlish thing to do from someone who has always managed to be so reserved and distant even as she tempted him with flattery and beguilement. She has made it so he can see no other than her and he wants no other. Harry Hardyng always gets what he wants. Yet she has not yielded to him anything more than a chaste touch but it sets him aflame. His senses are alive; he can feel the caress of her fingertips and as always he second-guesses if she means to drag so slowly through his hair and down the side of his neck.Guilt is something new he feels along with frustration as he hears their fastidious chaperones in the near distance. Lord Royce heads the small party, the only man Harry truly trusts in the Vale. It is of his own request that they are here; a discreet distance away as to not disturb their time yet close enough to preserve Alayne's honor in case she is to be taken to wife by him. Or, rather, until the day that he indeed weds her. He feels all new emotions with Alayne and he knows he is a changed man. He knows the days of accepting fixed tourneys in his favor and careless tumblings of women are now over and he does not feel regret or loss but he does feel a newfound sense of propriety beyond the usual pretense of gallantry. He wishes there was music so he could have an excuse to touch her - so trained he was now to wait for permission for anything - but she shocks him by hiking up her skirts to straddle him. In reaction he sits up, his flower falling from his ear and forgotten as he pulls her close to his chest. He thanks the Gods that he had already discarded his tunic and all he has is a simple shirt to separate his body from hers. Even though he cannot decipher much beneath her layers he can still feel all and the heat courses through him like a flame. The air is cool and blowing gently around him but he is burning, heated, and he wants more. He is a beggar and she is the Lady and he must wait for her. She is close, her breath on his face smelling like the raspberries they nibbled on and the wine they sipped, her scented hair of lavender tickling him as stray tresses teased his face. One hand deviates from his firm hold around her waist to swipe away the stands and his fingers reach up to touch the crown of her head where a slight shimmer of red shines under the sun's rays. It is not enough for a careless man to see but Harry drinks in all of her while he can, becoming something of a lovesick fool who now notices everything about his heart's desire, including the true color of her hair. His fingers hesitate too long and his gaze tears away from her hair to her eyes, eyes widening in realization. He means to reassure her with words but before he can, she takes his opening mouth as perhaps a different kind of offering and she leans in for a kiss, her lips soft and supple against his. It is hesitant, shy, void of any seduction and it only intensifies the burning inside of him. It tightens, takes hold, grips him and he feels as if a fever has overtaken him, but he does not break the kiss, for it is the sweetest he's experienced. He fights the urge to press harder, demand more, he keeps his mouth gentle, respectful and slow, savoring the tenderness while his hands cup her alabaster face. It is she that flings her arms around his neck, her fingers clutching into his hair, nails digging into his scalp almost painfully but he craves it. She encompasses him and draws him in and he doesn't care who she is; bastard, servant, lady, princess, queen, none of it matters. She kisses him fiercely and he matches her, their breath becoming labored. He is no greenboy when it comes to this interaction between man and woman but he gasps into her mouth when she presses in even closer. He wants to flip her over and drag her down underneath him. Too many nights have passed with him lying frustrated in bed, denying himself relief with some insignificant wench because this slip of a girl has possessed him, intrigued him.Her lips pull away only to seek out his neck and he cannot resist truly knowing if she wants him the way he wants her now and he is nearly beyond any sense of decorum as her lips and tongue assault his neck as her hands make her way down his chest to the top lace of his breeches. In a heartbeat his hands hoist her skirts up, smoothing over her bottom only protected by a thin layer of delicate smallclothes. There is nothing delicate about his hand slipping up underneath the leg of the silken material and he wastes no time swiping his fingers down between her legs, letting out a satisfied groan when he touched the silky down of her maiden's place and the dampness of her folds. She felt on fire, burning just as the same as he. She gasped against his neck and he wanted more, much more, but she braced herself against him and hurriedly, almost clumsily pushed away from him, trying to catch her breath as she stood up. It was the first time he has seen her so unpoised and ungraceful as she set about adjusting her clothing, her head bent and cheeks flushed. He knew he should be as contrite as she was ashamed but he could not pretend. He was tired of all the pretending and it needed to end. Before he could say a word, Alayne smoothed down her hair, avoiding his gaze as she executed a perfect curtsy before turning on her heel and walking towards the small chaperoning party just beyond the trees, leaving him with nothing but the soothing sound of Alyssa's Tears in contrast to the hammering of his heart and the burning of lust flaming through his entire body. Though, it was not all lust that inflamed him, was it? Could he possibly be in love for the first time in his life? She was right to leave him this way. She deserved nothing less than a Lord husband who would revere her enough to leave her a maiden until their wedding night.Sighing, Harry stood, his boots stepping carelessly over the blanket. His eye fell on the blue flower she had picked and he swept it up, standing at his full height, bringing it to his nose. It was fragrant but faint. The slight wetness of her arousal on his fingers intermixed with the floral for an intoxicating scent. It burned him more than all of his fantasies of her combined."Lady Sansa," he whispers, smiling a knowing, sensual grin before tucking the stem behind his ear.