She too exchanges a smile, something warm but— it feels anything but genuine. As much as I would like to (which means not much) trust that Aunt Nymeria's a fully genuine being, I feel that I cannot. She's too dark, too hidden behind her callous eyes and skull mask. My curiosity does not subside, is not fed by her presence— instead it grows and I strain to understand her inner workings. I seek every twitch of every muscle, every hesitation in her voice, the shift of her tone as she speaks. But they are a rarity that I cannot fathom, and that— that— makes me furious. 

The air about her is quiet, still. Like the world holds its breath in wait for what more she will do, a walking mystery that it is eager to figure out. I too would like to solve this mystery, to unlock the key to such a reticent mind— in some ways I wished to achieve such glory as that, to be a riddle, an eternal question with no answer. A cryptic king, a ruler shrouded in secrecy. 

Her weight shifts as I take another sweep over her body, our (near) identical markings catching me, halting my progress. Where the teeth of hers ran jagged all the way, I had a chance few canines protruding from the mask of white. She held age, grace and fragile silence upon her blank brow, and I— I had only arrogance and a big fat mouth (I'm in no shape to be king, not yet).  

She doesn't answer right away— and when she does, it isn't the answer I'd hoped for. What I wanted was not what I got, exchanged unwillingly for a question on her behalf. Her smile has fled, replaced by a cocked brow of questioning. I straighten up, raise my chin and look at my sooty kin without fear, without regret in my tone. "Yes, I'm sure." I did not speak falsely, or with a quivering voice the way I had when I'd asked Mother about Volterra. No— I stood my ground and even as Nymeria questioned my motives and my confidence in this curiosity, I held still. I would not let anything she says deter me from learning about him, about what he's done (more like who he's done, am I right?), what he has failed to accomplish. If he is a prideful man or one who is content on staying hushed, if he is a warlord or a preacher of peace. 

She sighs as her tail swipes along her flank, my eyes darting to the movement and then to the exhale of air from her lips. I swished my tail in response, my insides buzzing as I tried to maintain my stillness. I felt muscles in my shoulders twitch with unease at the lack of movement, jittery and itching for something more than this state of uncomfortable still. This is almost as bad as my meeting with that mare— the one who told me her birth was a necessary event (I didn't like her, she was full of it). "Well, what would you like to know?"