Arianne is still sleeping when the sky begins to lighten. He finds it amusing that she doesn't rise with her sigil.
Their trysts are restricted to the night, the shadows, and Arys wishes they could be like this under the Dornish sun. She is the sun - scorching, overwhelming, blinding. She would despise the Reach, but Arys wonders how she'd fare at Old Oak, where the tapestries depict the conflicts between their homelands.
He loves waking up next to her. When they are like this, he can pretend they are man and wife. He can pretend that the white cloak on the floor is only a cloak. He can pretend that honor and duty are nothing but words.
It wouldn't be so terrible, he thinks, his hand brushing along one smooth shoulder. They could live in secret, raising Myrcella as their own. No longer would they live under the shadow of the Iron Throne, but somewhere warm, somewhere safe. This queen plot of hers is a risky one, but he allows himself a few moments to dream of a life like that.
Arianne rolls toward him, her eyes open wide. She raises an eyebrow.
"You're staring, ser."
He smiles. "I am."
"It takes hours for me to coax a smile from you."
"Yes," he admits. "But I can't help myself, my lady."
She smiles. "No, you can't."
Arianne reaches for him, her curly hair spilling down to curtain his face. She smells of wine and orchids. He loves Myrcella, he loves the cloak, but mornings like these make him love his Dornish princess more than both.