That light greeting pierced the ambiguous yet fragile veil in the room.
Sansa Stark's body was stiff as a stone.
She still maintained the ambiguous posture of sitting on Lynn's chair armrest, her fingertips almost touching Lynn's lips.
Her pretty face, which had just been flushed with excitement and anticipation, was now drained of color, leaving only a pale white.
Shame, embarrassment, and the panic of being caught red-handed.
She felt like a thief caught stealing candy by the owner.
No, it was a thousand times worse than that.
Because the one who caught her was none other than...
Myrcella Baratheon.
The princess of House Baratheon who was about to rightfully become Lynn's wife.
And her nominal love rival.
Sansa's mind was blank; she didn't even dare to look at Myrcella's expression.
She could only remain stiff in that mortifying position, like an ostrich.
Myrcella, however, seemed not to have noticed this awkward scene.
The sweet smile on her face gradually stiffened.
Myrcella had originally intended to come and have a heart-to-heart with Lynn.
She wanted to advise Lynn not to have any more intimate contact with Cersei.
After all, Cersei's identity was rather special.
Ygritte was fine; after all, she had received a lot of care from Ygritte during her time in the North, and she understood her feelings for Lynn.
As for Arya, she already had an engagement; to be honest, she was actually the third party.
But one or two was acceptable.
What was the meaning of Sansa appearing now?
How many women did Lynn have in total?
This time, she was truly angry!
The kind that would never forgive Lynn!
Myrcella gently placed the fruit basket on the table, then elegantly lifted her skirt and performed an impeccable curtsy to the two of them.
Every movement was as if measured with a ruler, perfectly flawless.
"Miss Sansa, are you also here to report your work to Lord Lynn?"
Myrcella's voice was still like a clear morning stream, cool and pleasant to the ear.
But this pleasant voice, to Sansa's ears, was more grating than the most venomous mockery.
Report work?
Who would sit on a man's chair armrest and trace his lips with their fingers to report work?
Sansa's body trembled violently.
She abruptly stood up from the armrest, her movement so forceful that she almost knocked over the chair.
"I... I..."
Sansa opened her mouth, wanting to explain something.
But found her tongue tied, unable to utter a complete word.
"I... I suddenly remembered that there's still a ledger I haven't finished checking!"
Finally, Sansa almost incoherently squeezed out this sentence through clenched teeth.
She didn't even dare to look at Lynn again, simply grabbing an unimportant scroll of parchment from the table as if it were a life raft.
Then, she lifted her skirt and fled in disarray.
Her hurried and flustered back was completely different from the confident, somewhat girlishly naive appearance she had when she first entered.
"Bang!"
The door was slammed shut, completely cutting off all of Sansa's embarrassment and mortification.
Lynn stared blankly at the closed door.
Damn it!
No!
Sansa, you were the one who tested me first!
And when things went wrong, you ran away first?
What kind of situation is this!
It's over.
Lynn awkwardly shifted his gaze back.
Silence returned to the room.
Only Lynn and Myrcella remained.
And the faint, lingering scent of lemon cake in the air.
The smile on Myrcella's face quietly vanished the moment Sansa's figure disappeared behind the door.
She heavily placed the fruit basket on the table.
Then, she lifted her skirt and performed another perfect curtsy to Lynn.
"Lord Lynn."
Myrcella's voice was cold, and her face wore a forced, insincere smile.
Lynn looked at her, wisely remaining silent.
In fact... having been caught red-handed... he had nothing to say.
Let the storm come; this day was bound to arrive... He had long been mentally prepared.
Lynn could feel that the Myrcella before him was completely different from the princess who quietly read in the glass conservatory at Winterfell.
She was still that golden rose, but the edges of her petals had quietly grown fine, sharp ice thorns.
Myrcella straightened up and took a plump peach from the fruit basket.
The peach was perfectly ripe, its skin covered with fine fuzz, emitting an enticing sweet aroma.
Then, from a hidden compartment in the fruit basket, she took out a small, sharp silver fruit knife.
The hilt was inlaid with tiny emeralds, shimmering with a cold light in the candlelight.
Those were the customary utensils of House Lannister.
Myrcella did not sit down.
She stood in front of Lynn, her eyes downcast, and began to peel the peach.
Her movements were slow and steady.
The silver blade pressed against the peach's skin, making a shallow cut.
She wasn't peeling it.
She was meticulously stripping away the fuzzy skin, piece by piece, from the plump flesh.
Swish... The blade sliced through the skin, making a faint tearing sound.
Pale pink juice seeped out along the blade's path, looking much like freshly drawn blood from some creature.
The room was very quiet.
Only the monotonous sound of the peach skin being cut.
Lynn watched her slender, fair hands precisely control the sharp knife, each time slicing off only a tiny strip, and after each slice, she would stare at him in silent threat.
He suddenly had a strange illusion.
It seemed as if the knife wasn't peeling a peach.
But him.
Myrcella remained silent throughout.
There was no expression on her face.
That beautiful face, usually tinged with a hint of melancholy, was now as cold as Ned Stark.
The hands holding the knife were terrifyingly steady.
She peeled one peach for a full fifteen minutes.
Heaven knows how she managed to 'execute' a peach for so long.
When the last piece of skin was completely peeled off and fell onto the table, the peach was already mangled and gruesome.
Myrcella gently placed the silver knife, stained with juice, onto a plate.
Then, she held the 'tortured' peach and offered it to Lynn.
"Lord Lynn,"
Myrcella finally spoke, her voice still calm and unruffled.
"Please partake."
Lynn looked at the peach.
Then he looked at Myrcella's hollow green eyes.
After a moment of hesitation, he reached out and took it.
He actually dared to take it!
Myrcella's gaze instantly became dangerous.
The fruit flesh was cold and sticky.
Lynn took a bite.
It was very sweet.
Sickeningly sweet, a sweetness that made one uneasy.
"How does it taste?"
Myrcella asked softly.
"Very good."
Lynn replied.
"That's good then."
Myrcella nodded.
Then, from a basin nearby, she slowly and meticulously washed her fingers, gradually removing the sticky juice that clung to them.
"Lord Lynn."
As Myrcella washed, she looked at her reflection in the water.
"Our wedding is about to begin."
"I know."
"As your future wife, there are some things I believe I should clarify with you in person beforehand."
Myrcella dried her hands with a clean linen cloth.
She finally looked up, meeting Lynn's gaze.
In those green eyes, there was no longer any pretense, only the purest warning.
"What you do outside, how many 'good students' like Miss Stark you have, I can't control, nor do I want to.
"After all, I'm just a pawn used by House Baratheon to exchange for benefits, am I not?"
Her words were cold and hard.
"However,"
Myrcella took a step forward, the sweet scent of a maiden mixed with a dangerous sense of oppression, washing over him.
"I hope you remember one thing."
"From now until the wedding is over, I don't want to hear any inappropriate rumors about you."
"I don't want to become the biggest joke in King's Landing while also becoming the laughingstock of the Seven Kingdoms."
"I don't care if you truly care for me, but I care very much about my own dignity and that of House Baratheon."
She looked at Lynn, speaking each word clearly and distinctly.
"So, for the next three days, please control your'students,' and control yourself."
"Please don't cause me any trouble."
Having said that, Myrcella didn't bother to stay another second.
She again lifted her skirt, performed an impeccable curtsy, then turned and elegantly left the room.
The door was gently closed, the sound so faint it was almost inaudible, completely separating the world.
In the room, only Lynn remained, and the 'tortured' peach.
Lynn looked at the mangled fruit flesh, then at the door.
With a bitter smile, he finally tossed the peach into the brazier.
Flames licked the sweet flesh, making a sizzling sound, and the air was instantly filled with a strange, caramel-like sweetness.
It's over; this time, he's really messed up.
However, this was also his true nature, and he hadn't intended to keep it a secret forever.
One day they would all have to face it; there was no escaping it... He still had to find a way to appease her.
Myrcella was probably truly angry... The walk down the corridor back to her own room felt like the longest journey she had ever taken in her life.
Every corner, every pillar, seemed like a silent observer, scrutinizing her with their voiceless gaze.
The maids, seeing her, respectfully curtsied.
She merely nodded slightly, her face still wearing the proper and distant smile of a princess.
But no one knew that beneath that mask of a smile lay a volcano about to erupt.
"Bang!"
The door was slammed shut.
The loud noise startled the maid guarding outside the door.
Inside the room, the perfect mask maintained by a smile finally shattered at that moment.
Myrcella's chest heaved violently.
"Lynn!"
"You damn it!"
The usually demure Myrcella began to curse!
She walked quickly to the dressing table.
Looking at her pale, beautiful, yet utterly unfamiliar face in the mirror.
Those green eyes were just like her mother's.
At this thought, the unseemly scene from last night rushed back into her mind.
The suppressed sobs, the humiliated posture, the sticky sounds... and Sansa Stark.
That foolish woman who always pretended to be innocent and pure!
How dare she... How could she dare!
A torrent of disgust, shame, jealousy, and rage instantly overwhelmed Myrcella's last shred of sanity.
She grabbed the heavy comb her mother had given her, made of solid silver and inlaid with emeralds, from the dressing table.
Then, with all her might, she smashed it fiercely at her reflection in the mirror!
"Clang!"
A deafening, ear-splitting crash.
The ornate silver-framed, carved bronze mirror shattered in response.
But this was not enough!
Far from enough!
Myrcella, as if mad, swept all the items on the dressing table onto the floor!
Clatter! Bang!
Expensive perfume bottles from Lys, jewelry boxes holding Dornish pearls, ivory carvings from Pentos... all items symbolizing her noble status and refined life became sacrifices to her raging anger at this moment.
The sound of breaking glass, the clinking of ceramics, the snapping of wood, intertwined in the silent room.
"Your Highness?"
From outside the door came the maid's voice, filled with alarm and concern.
The sounds in the room abruptly ceased.
Myrcella's movements froze.
She stood in the center of the mess, her chest still heaving violently.
In her beautiful green eyes, the unextinguished flames of madness still burned.
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