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born and raised and educated by the best and brightest her mother could bring to the red keep, myrcella had learned as much about the world as could be expected of a princess. she’d learned such pursuits as dancing and singing, sewing and painting, yes, but she’d learned her geography, too. as a young girl, her tutors and septas had made something of a game out of it, teaching her the names and words and sigils of each of the seven kingdoms’ bannermen. though she’d forgotten many of the finer details, this knowledge had come in handy many a times, when this lord or that lady visited the capital, or when her family traveled to casterly rock or storm’s end.

her education had proved largely beneficial during her weeks in highgarden; myrcella could identify most of the strangers she encountered based on the colors they wore, the embroidered sigils on their silks or the broaches pinning on cloaks. she found herself searching this man before her for any such identifying mark. finding no such thing, she frowned; it was not often that myrcella found herself off-guard, unprepared. the accent proved no more help, thickened with wine though it was, and so myrcella let out an imperceptible breath. if she could not place him, perhaps he could not identify her, dressed in green silks the color of her eyes, so different from the colors of either parents’ house. no, they were complete strangers to each other for the moment.

she could work with that.

the words startled her; it was rare for anyone to speak to her without the vale of politics, of courtesies and diplomacy. based merely on the man’s presence at the wedding and the freedom of movement implied by his hideout here in the gardens, myrcella figured he must be highborn. in a way, it was comforting, to hear someone speak freely, but she couldn’t shake the disconcerted feeling at his response. “to each their own, i suppose,” she mused, lips pursed in something like disdain. “it’s certainly an ideal setting for a royal wedding.”

anxious to change the subject to more neutral footing, myrcella quickly surveyed the belongings strewn around the man on the bench. spotting a book, she relaxed slightly, turning an inquisitive smile on him. “what is it you’re reading, my lord? this is a good place to bring a book - quiet, peaceful.” the irony that she was disrupting said peace was not lost on her, and she found herself drifting a foot or two further away from the stranger.

If only Harry had been paying more attention throughout the events throughout the past weeks, he would have known who she was.  But alas, he had not, and if had, he wasn’t sure his way of approaching her would change that much.  He would have still shared his negative opinion on the roses, but he might have tried to sound a bit more polite, a bit more proper.  But without knowing, his demeanor stayed the same, and anyone who would jest that with manners like his, he must have been raised in a whorehouse, would not be wrong.

Of course, he had been living among the splendor and wealth of Lords and Ladies since a little after his thirteenth name day but he did not feel at home within it, he had been raised poor, dirty and hungry.  This caused an outlook on many things that did not meld well with the outlooks of the people he had been forced to interact with over the course of the past few weeks.

After his first exploratory look to see who had tread upon his quiet, his eyes drifted back down to the work at hand: sharpening his blade.  As she spoke he continued the smooth and routine movements of dragging a blade against whet stone, always finding the motion soothing.  Something could be said that Harry was most at peace when preparing his weapons.  

“Here, Fleabottom, does it really matter where it happens?” He questioned with an almost imperceptible flick of the eyes up to his company.  “All that is cared about is that the wedding happens, that alliances are forged and the wealthy stay wealthy.”  They were words that should not be spoken to a stranger on whom he had no idea of their identity, of their politics or family.  But with the wine coating his tongue and filling his belly, and his general lack of politicking know-how, Harry found himself saying them anyways.

Stopping his movements on his blade, Harry nodded his head to the book, an offer, an attempt to let her know she’d be welcome to pick it up.  “The Nine Voyages.  Maester Mathis. ---The first book I learned to read.  A great way to escape the mundane tasks of every day life.”

Deciding it was his turn for questions, he finally raised his head to look at her, face to face.  “And what about you, m’lady?  What brings you out this far?  Lost or tryin’ to escape?”