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PART EIGHT ❦
"MEET ME AGAIN TONIGHT?" Malaena found scrawled on a piece of rolled parchment, tucked into her fresh linens.The penmanship was not familiar but she knew who had written the note immediately. Her lips curled as she thought of him sneaking into her chamber midday, trying his hardest to be discreet. It pleased her to imagine him taking soft, calculated steps down the long, winding hall, and then carefully opening the large wooden door without a creek, before bolting out.
Her handmaiden drew Malaena's steaming bath and the young woman contently emerged herself into the tub, letting the water loosen every muscle. Doreena delicately washed the brunette's long strands by hand, lulling Malaena into a drowsy, dreamlike state on the border of consciousness. Inside her head, she thought giddily about Jon, something that would have embarrassed her if she had been fully aware. Thankfully, for a moment she was not. Inside her bath, she was a young girl pining over a boy, she was normal for once.
In great detail, Malaena recalled the brooding boy's features: the dark, wispy curls and the long, structured face — and the eyes, so brown they could be mistaken for onyx, beautiful and deep. Then she had thought about some of the last words he had said to her the night before — I don't feel the need to be serious around you. Something that could have been insulting, as if she was somehow lesser than all the other noble ladies he had known. Yet, Malaena had not taken in that way at all — maybe that was her naïveté — she felt as if that meant he could let his guard down around her, a feat she had not seen many others achieve, Arya, of course, and Robb possibly. But the list was short, and somehow she had forced her way on to it.
"What are you thinking about, Lady Greyjoy?" Doreena looked down at her warmly. "You're unusually silent."
"Nothing," Malaena hummed, still lost in her thoughts. "Just nothing."
Malaena knew Doreena was too intelligent to believe her but the handmaiden said nothing of it, just slightly shaking her head with the hint of amusement on her worn face.
The elder woman brushed Malaena's hair, and intricately braiding it, before aiding Malaena into her night gown and out of the restricting day clothes. Afterwards, Malaena crawled into her feather bed, happily excusing her handmaiden, and patiently waiting for the witching hour — waiting for the noise inside the Winterfell's walls to fall to a mere murmur, with only the sounds of slumber to be heard.
Assured most had gone to bed, Malaena once again grabbed Jon's cloak and ventured out into the dead of the night.
It was a gloaming, starless sky that night. The only light was the moving glow of burning lamps that had been forgotten about, the lamps cast eerie shadows, and Malaena watched them with intrigue until she reached the stables as when she arrived, her attention was immediately elsewhere.
