The following day arrived with a softness that seemed almost deliberate, as though the universe itself had decided to grant Aria a reprieve from nerves. The sun filtered gently through high windows, scattering patterns of light across the drawing room where the tea table had been arranged with meticulous care. Silver trays gleamed, porcelain cups rested on lace mats, and a tiered stand held delicate pastries that looked almost too pretty to touch.
Aria smoothed her dress for what felt like the hundredth time, silently reminding herself to breathe. This was not just any tea—this was her first real conversation with Henry's mother, and despite the warmth she had shown the night before, Aria could not quite silence the little voice in her head whispering that this was some kind of unspoken test.
The door opened softly, and there she was—Mrs.Lannister, Henry's mother, graceful in a pale silk gown that seemed to float when she moved. Her smile reached her eyes, dispelling some of the tension that had built up in Aria's chest.
"Aria," she greeted warmly, extending both hands in a gesture that surprised her with its intimacy. "I'm so glad you accepted my invitation. Please, sit. I have been looking forward to this."
"So have I," Aria admitted, her voice quieter than she intended. She allowed herself to be guided to the table, where a porcelain teapot already steamed gently.
Fiona Lannister poured with practiced ease, her movements elegant but unpretentious. "Chamomile and rose. It's soothing for the nerves, don't you think? Though I imagine you don't need it—you held yourself remarkably well last night."
Aria laughed softly, though she felt heat creep into her cheeks. "I was terrified, actually. I just tried very hard not to show it."
"That is precisely what impressed me," the older woman said, passing her a cup. "Grace under pressure is a rare gift." She tilted her head, studying Aria for a long moment. "I can see why Henry…" She paused delicately, then smiled again. "Why Henry looks at you the way he does."
Aria's heart stumbled at the implication, but before she could respond, Mrs. Lannister continued.
"You must forgive me if I'm forward, but as his mother I cannot help but notice. When he was a boy, Henry had this habit of hiding his feelings behind a very serious face. You would never know he was delighted, unless you caught the tiniest flicker in his eyes. I remember once, when he was about seven, we brought home a stray dog. He insisted it stay in the stables because he didn't want anyone to know how much he adored it. Yet I would find him sneaking food scraps at night, whispering to the animal as if it were his closest confidant."
Aria laughed, the image so vivid she could almost see it. "That sounds exactly like him. He tries so hard to look composed, but you can tell when something matters to him. His eyes give him away."
"Ah," Mrs. Lannister said knowingly, "so you've noticed too." She lifted her own cup, sipping thoughtfully. "Tell me, Aria—what do you think of my son?"
The directness of the question made Aria nearly spill her tea. She set the cup down quickly, gathering herself. "Henry is… complicated. At first, I thought he was distant, perhaps even cold. But then… I realized it was only because he feels so deeply. He carries the weight of responsibility everywhere he goes, but beneath that, there is kindness. And… he makes me laugh, which I didn't expect."
Lady Lannister's smile softened into something that resembled quiet relief. "You've seen past the armor, then. That is good. He needs someone who can."
Silence settled between them for a moment, not awkward, but reflective. The ticking of a nearby clock filled the pause, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves from the garden outside.
"Do you know," Mrs. Lannister said suddenly, "when Henry was a child, he used to bring me wildflowers. Not from the garden, mind you—no, he would venture into the fields and return covered in mud, his little hands clutching the most bedraggled bundle of weeds you've ever seen. But to him, they were treasures. He would say, 'Mother, I found this just for you.'"
Aria's chest warmed at the story. "That's beautiful."
"He doesn't do that anymore," the older woman mused. "He grew into the man the world demanded, not the boy who picked flowers. But sometimes… sometimes I catch glimpses of him still. I think perhaps with you, that boy might come alive again."
Aria lowered her gaze to her teacup, touched more deeply than she had expected. "I hope so. Because the man he is now… is remarkable. But I can see that he deserves to feel lighter, too."
Mrs. Lannister chuckled softly, reaching for a pastry. "My dear, you speak as though you've known him all your life."
"It feels like I have," Aria admitted, surprising herself with her own honesty.
For a while, they spoke of simpler things—the music Henry once tried to play (apparently, his attempt at violin had ended with broken strings and a very cross instructor), the trouble he had caused climbing trees far too high, the way he had secretly read novels under his covers by candlelight. Aria found herself laughing more than she had in weeks, her nerves dissolving into genuine warmth.
At one point, Mrs. Lannister leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Between you and me, Henry's first attempt at poetry was dreadful. He was ten, and he wrote about a girl in his class. It began with, 'Your hair is like fire, but it smells of smoke.'"
Aria nearly choked on her tea, laughter spilling freely. "Oh no."
"Yes!" his mother giggled, eyes sparkling. "He was heartbroken when she laughed at him. But I told him, 'Even the greatest poets must start somewhere.' He never quite forgave me for saving that scrap of paper, though."
They laughed together until their eyes watered, and in that shared mirth, Aria felt something shift. This wasn't an interrogation, nor a test. This was connection.
When their laughter faded, Mrs. Lannister studied her again, but this time with unmistakable tenderness. "You know, Aria, I don't say this lightly. I've met many women—some dazzling, some ambitious, some eager to be part of this family for all the wrong reasons. But with you, I see something different. You are not dazzled by titles or expectations. You see Henry, the man, not the Lannister heir. That means more to me than I can express."
Aria swallowed, her throat tight. "That's because he lets me see him. And that is… a gift I don't take for granted."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The sun shifted higher, casting golden light across the table. A bird chirped somewhere beyond the open window.
Finally, Mrs. Lannister eached across, placing her hand gently over Aria's. "Thank you, for being who you are with him. I think… you might be exactly what he has always needed."
Emotion welled in Aria's chest, and though words threatened to escape, she held them back, letting the silence speak instead. She gave a small, grateful smile.
They finished their tea with lighter conversation—favorite books, travel stories, the little indulgences that made life sweet. Mrs. Lannister confessed her fondness for candied violets; Aria admitted her weakness for chocolate soufflé. They spoke of gardens, of music, even of silly superstitions about fortune told in tea leaves.
By the time the afternoon sun dipped low enough to cast long shadows across the carpet, Aria realized hours had passed without her noticing. The nerves that had once gripped her had vanished, replaced with something altogether different—an unexpected sense of belonging.
As she rose to leave, Mrs. Lannister accompanied her to the door. "I hope this will not be the last time we share tea, Aria."
"I would love that," Aria replied sincerely.
"Good. Then let us call this the beginning, not the end."
And with a final warm embrace, Aria stepped out into the fading daylight, her heart light, her spirit steady. She knew tomorrow would bring its own challenges, its own uncertainties. But today had given her something invaluable: acceptance, and perhaps even the beginnings of a bond that could shape the future.