In a strange way, he had only Lucion to thank for it.

Lucion. Daeron perks up at the sight of him. He has been waiting, though nothing in his posture would betray it as such. Carelessly propped against the stone of the corridor leading toward the Kingsguard's chambers, he holds himself as a man with nothing urgent to attend to. A man who's worries have a habit of crushing themselves before he can so much as dirty his boot. Spine lengthens as he pushes himself off the wall, unhurried even as he claims ground.

He positions himself as a simple obstruction between Lucion and the door, as if doing so means nothing at all.

Lucion tries to pass once, and Daeron shifts just enough to deny him. On the second attempt, his face works itself into a perplexed amusement. His shoulders lift and then fall. Ah well, they seem to say.

Daeron has never been above such games.

"Little brother," he says lightly.

Once, the distinction had meant nothing at all between them. A technicality of minutes, nothing more. But those minutes had eventually turned to years, developing their own language. Inheritence. Betrayal. Exile.

Still, he says it as he always has. As if the word brother is not a blade that cuts even as it is drawn, not seeming to know who it is meant to wound.

"Do you so easily forget your own blood?"

little brother.

a fucking insult. it lands exactly as daeron intends it to, a blade disguised as familiarity, but lucion gives him nothing in return. if there is one thing the kingsguard taught him that might have served him well at castamere, it is how to bury feeling so deeply it calcifies.

he stares at his brother without expression, gaze flat and deadened by long practice. six years ago, anger would have risen easily. now there is only exhaustion sharpened into contempt.

and still daeron does not move.

of course he doesn’t.

he always did enjoy forcing lucion to stand still and endure him.

slowly, lucion draws a breath through his nose, jaw tightening once before settling again.

Ronnel shook his head as he buried his hands into his palms. How could things have gone so terribly wrong?? For the past hour, in the presence of no one else but his personal guard, he had raged and rained curses upon Cassian, blaming the knight for everything that had transpired. And then he had dreamed up of possible scenarios in which he could annul the marriage and punish the Dornishman for what he had done. And then how to punish Aemma. Next came the memory of Rhaenys death and that made him cry quietly for awhile as grief returned momentarily and overwhelmed him.

Eventually, sadness and even more troubling thoughts invaded his mind. How could his cherished daughter, his bright-eyed princess do this to him?? To their family? Was it partly his fault? Had he made too many grave mistakes in his role as a father this past several years that Aemma turned out this way?

Hearing someone cough quietly behind him, he instantly assumed it his valet finally coming to aid him. "Arnolf, could you possibly please find some ice in this god-forsaken place? I think I may have a black eye courtesy of that damn Dayne."

She studies her husband from a few steps away, tilting her head to the side a fraction as she considers the discoloration beginning to form around his eye. Not as bad as she'd worried it would be, but still a noticeable wound. Her chest tightens for him.

"May I?"

Eleana had broken away from the rest of the crowd after arguing with Aenyx again. True, she was engaged with pranking the Crown Prince out of marrying Arianne until he could not stand the Martells any longer, but that did not mean he had to start a full blown argument.

She muttered as she wove through the bazaar. It was bussy enough from her brother's wedding that nobody would spare her a second glance.

Eleana eventually went to sidestep a stranger before skidding to a stop once she caught their face. "Um.." The Princess squeaked out "Please do not tell my mother I was out"

instead he moved ahead through one of the archways over the bazaar and stepped neatly into her path, the nearby torchlight catching warm against tanned skin and dark silk as he folded his hands loosely behind his back.

his smile came easily, touched with quiet amusement.

“provided you help me choose a gift for my sister, your grace, i believe i can be persuaded to keep your disappearance a secret,” he said with a slight, playful incline of his head.

his gaze settled on her face for a moment longer, observant without becoming invasive.

“it has been far too long since we last spoke,” he continued, gentler now. “and unless i am mistaken, that wrinkle between your brows suggests you are in need of either wine, fresh air, or someone willing to listen politely while you complain.”

he offered her his arm with effortless ease.

“come,” trystane said warmly. “walk with me and tell me what has you looking so troubled.”

It had been almost four hours since she had left the last place she took shelter in and she was still riding as fast and hard as the wind. The Northern gale was far more fiercer and bitingly colder than she had anticipated and Myrcella felt frozen to the bone as she spurred on Tempest to go on even faster in order to reach their destination quicker. The North was a harsh hostess and for a moment, Myrcella wondered how long it would take for her to acclimate to the weather. She had to do so if she was to survive the rest of her life here.

Upon finally sighting the gates of Winterfell, Myrcella finally let out a breath of great relief, finally slowly down her beloved courser. The Durrandon was bone-tired, famished and shaking slightly from the wintry cold. Despite this, she maintained as composed as she could as she told the sentries that she was the bride of Maeric Stark and lied smoothly that he was expecting her. Whilst waiting for the guards to report to their ruling lord to seek permission to let her in, Myrcella prayed hard that Maeric would not be too upset at turning up completely unannounced and would hear her out. Thankfully, the ruling lord Stark was as kind as she had hoped and she was ushered in to meet with him, clinging onto her small luggage she had packed. As she stood before him, she shredded off her heavy and wet cloak and gratefully handed it off to the servant. Wrapping her arms around her shivering body as an attempt to warm herself up for the gown she had purchased in the Vale was still not warm enough to protect her from the freezing coldness of the North, Myrcella then parted her lips she had believed have gotten half-numb from the cold and spoke as calmly and in a rather pleading tone, rare for her to be sure, " May I please have a private word with you, my lord?"

it is even more of a shock when she arrives half-frozen and alone, carrying only a single bag.

when she makes her request, maeric rises from his chair and looks to the men gathered around the room.

“you heard the lady,” he says. “that will be all for tonight. there should be food in the hall for supper; please, help yourselves. we will take this up again tomorrow morning.”

his gaze shifts, darker now, to the dockworker.

“you will not leave winterfell until i say so. a room will be made ready for you.”

the others file out at once, leaving only his maester behind.

“if you would, have a room prepared for lady myrcella as well,” maeric says, his tone quieter now. “and clothing, a meal, a bath - hot, if it can be managed. assign a servant to her until she chooses her own household. thank you.”

the maester nods and slips away, the door closing softly behind him.

alone at last, maeric takes his cloak from the chair near his desk and places it over her shoulders, careful despite the urgency still written into him. then he gestures toward the seat nearest the fire.

“i wasn’t expecting you,” he says, settling opposite her and studying her face with clear concern. “certainly not alone.”

his eyes move over her once more, taking in the cold, the exhaustion, the way she has come to him with so little. his brow tightens.

“what happened? are you alright?”

 Not to mention he didn’t have Cloudsong with him. Without the pale dragon at his side, he felt strangely diminished. As though some invisible shield had been stripped away. Vulnerable. Alone.

 Yet his stay amongst the Tullys had granted him a reprieve he had sorely needed. Riverrun had been freedom in a way the Eyrie never could be. There had been no suffocating expectations there, no endless eyes measuring him against duty, honour and legacy. For once, he had not been needed. He had swam in the cool blue rivers, drunk deep cups of wine beneath willow trees, and lounged through long afternoons with books of poetry resting open upon his lap. There had been laughter too. Warmer beds. Fleeting pleasures shared beneath moonlight that asked nothing of him beyond the moment itself. 

And gods, he had been happy. Happier than he had been in years.

Aemma had been entirely right. It had never truly been about supporting Oswyck, or baby Violet. In truth, he had wished to flee. From the Vale. From his father. From the crushing weight that came with the title he would one day inherit. But now it was time to return. Despite it all, he was still Lord heir of the Vale of Arryn. 

As Aenar stepped from his chamber, fastening the clasp at his sleeve, movement caught the corner of his eye. A lady stood waiting in the corridor.

There was Ceryse Massey. No. Ceryse Arryn. His Stepmother. 

He still wasn’t used to that. Nor did he trust her. There was something not quite right about her. A feeling deep in his gut that refused to shake. At first he had wondered if it was merely resentment toward the woman who had replaced his mother in the halls of his home. Maybe it still was. Maybe there was nothing more to her. 

“Well, I was about to- ” he began, before the words died upon his lips. His pale blue eyes lingered upon her face, studying it carefully.  You will never learn anything if you keep running He thought. 

His brows furrowed and a small sigh escaped him as he scratched absently at the back of his neck. “I can spare a moment for your indulgences,” he relented at last, though the caution in his voice remained plain. Then he folded his arms across his chest. “Well then… what is it you wished to speak to me of?”

aemma’s hostility was obvious; emotional enough to confront directly. aenar’s distance was quiet and cold and left her with very few reasons to actually engage him. likely what he preferred. but she didn't.

still, ceryse kept her posture composed, shoulders straight, her expression warm enough to avoid turning the exchange immediately adversarial.

“i have had very little opportunity to speak with you since arriving in the vale,” she began evenly. “and unless i am greatly mistaken, our first conversation was… less productive than any of us might have hoped. i would prefer to correct that now.”

her gaze lifted fully to his then, steady and attentive, giving him every opportunity to dismiss her if he wished. when he did not immediately do so, she continued.

“i would rather we speak plainly with one another.” her gloved hands folded loosely before her, controlled and elegant even now. “if we are to share a home for the foreseeable future, i see little value in concealing resentment.”

there was no accusation in her tone. if anything, it sounded almost tired.

“you do not like me,” she said simply. “that much has become fairly clear.” a slight tilt of her head followed. “what i would like to understand is why. if you have concerns about me, about my marriage, about my place in this house… i would rather hear them honestly than continue guessing at them in silence.”

all aemma could wonder was if her father had truly known who he was marrying. did he know about the past her brother spoke of that she did not? was he oblivious to how the two acted around one another? sure she should have been handing over her duties to ceryse now that she was ruling lady but she was possessive and maybe being a bit childish with the way she was doing things. though she did not say these things outloud to her. deciding best to bit her cheek as she listened to her speak about not wanting to get her father involved.

"and i here i was thinking you did not notice." she said as she made a jab. the Arryn figured if anything this might be the time to say it all. with aenar gone to the riverlands, feeling like her cousins where on her father's side, and her aunt busy with her own family; maybe for the first time she felt alone. just her and he dragon. cassian was too far away and it was as if she had no one else to turn to.

“i am not marrying your father expecting love,” she says at last, the words gentle but earnest. her gloved hands settle together in her lap, fingers loosely intertwined. “not the sort of love he shared with the princess, at any rate. i would never insult either of them by pretending otherwise.”

her voice remains calm, and thoughtful rather than defensive.

“it was my brother who first proposed the match. to your father as well as to me. the intention was to strengthen ties between our houses, formalize existing loyalties, create stability. those are the foundations most noble marriages are built upon.”

her gaze drops briefly to her clasped hands, and she absently smooths one thumb across the silk of her glove as a loosened curl slips free beside her cheek.

“but your father has been extraordinarily kind to me,” she continues more quietly. “far kinder than he was ever obligated to be. and i hope, in return, that i can offer him something worthwhile - help in managing the household, companionship when he wishes for it, support in matters that burden him.” the faintest smile touches her lips then, restrained and tinged with something almost wistful. “peace, perhaps.”

she lifts her eyes back to aemma.

“i think you were very fortunate to grow up watching two people who truly loved one another. most of us are not given that example.” there is no bitterness in the statement, only honesty. “for most people of our stations, marriage is about duty, security, and politics. survival.”

a brief silence follows before she adds, softer still: “but i do hope that, in time, i might become something good for this family. even if it is not the same thing your mother once was. i'm not asking you to like me, but i would appreciate it if you'd give me a chance to prove myself. i've left behind everything i know and love in the south to make this work. that includes earning your approval.”

The faintest hint of amusement touched her lips then, subtle but real. Her gaze lingered briefly upon the other woman, taking in the ease with which she carried herself - the unhurried confidence, the familiarity that suggested neither discomfort nor uncertainty.

“I take it you have traveled here before?” she asked, smoothing one gloved thumb absently across the other. “You seem remarkably at ease for someone so recently arrived.”

“it has all unfolded so quickly,” she admitted after a moment, her voice quieter now beneath the echo of the halls. “one day i had resigned myself to being an obligation no one particularly wished to claim, and the next i was being escorted north to marry the lord of the eyrie.” a faint breath escaped her, not quite a laugh. “i am still attempting to catch up with my own life.”

her fingers tightened lightly around janna’s arm as they began ascending the stairs.

“but he has been… gentler with me than he ever needed to be,” she continued carefully, as though the admission itself required handling. “considerate, patient.” the words sounded faintly like she was still testing their shape. “there is comfort in that. more than i expected. and in the end that's all i can ask for, isn't it? safety. i can live with just that, happily.”

she glanced ahead rather than at janna directly, gaze following the winding stair upward.

“the rest will simply require time, i think. households are delicate things. people become attached to old rhythms.” a small pause. “and to old ghosts. there was an incident just last night that i could use your guidance with.”

For once, they were in agreement, finding calmness in the fire burning. Yet Qoren only sees the fire’s harshness and the life it gives. Rebirth; he hopes in new beginnings with his wedding. Even he knows it is childish to think it, let alone hope. But he still does, mostly for his bride’s sake.

Their whispers can only do so much. It was their actions that set them apart. And he knew Trystane was a man of action - but not an unwelcome face here.

The prince wants to laugh at the other’s brazen words, but months of speaking pleasantries with those he wanted to shout at have made his voice hoarse. Nothing spills out except for a brief corner of lips twitching.

His gaze lingers at the scene below them. The people that lingered were not only his people, but his enemies. They were brought into his home so easily with talk of a wedding, but for how long would it remain peaceful?

trystane did a visible double take at the accusation, his brows lifting high in delighted surprise before a laugh slipped easily from him.

“little vipers?” he echoed, warm amusement threading through the words as he waved the prince toward the seat beside him. “gods, i believe that may be the most direct thing i’ve ever heard leave your mouth. i’m honored to witness it.”

he watched him settle with the easy attentiveness of someone long accustomed to studying people beneath their surfaces, dark eyes glinting amber in the firelight as he lazily swirled the wine in his goblet.

“now tell me,” he continued, grin sharpening slightly at the edges, “what terrible offense did these little vipers commit to drive you fleeing for sanctuary beside an aging bastard with questionable manners?”

his gaze flicked briefly toward the celebrations below before returning to qoren.

trystane hummed softly in agreement, amusement flickering in the firelit reflection of his dark eyes as he took another slow sip of wine.

“all part of the performance,” he said easily. “likely some poor soul from farther north discovering, too late, what dornish heat does to crowded halls and heavy fabrics.”

his gaze lingered on his companion for a thoughtful moment before he reached back toward the small table beside him, pouring a second cup with unhurried grace. he offered it across the space between them.

“if we were not skilled at pretending, i suspect half the realm would already be at one another’s throats or dead on the ground instead of gathered around overflowing tables discussing a marriage that somehow concerns all of us and none of us at once.”

a faint smile touched the corner of his mouth as he inclined his head politely, motioning toward the empty chair opposite him.

"I know what me swearing loyalty means, I was forced to bend the knee to Torrhen Bolton therefore I have not truly sworn loyalty to a house of my own volition," he admitted, having never truthfully told others of what Torrhen had made him due growing up.

"I may not have solid evidence but I know Torrhen, my lord, I know what he is capable of doing. He is not going to be happy simply being lord of Dreadfort and the best family to target is yours. If he is capable of using his younger brother as a scapegoat to get out of joining the military than he is capable of trying to incite something far greater than we may be aware of. I need you to believe me, my lord, I come truthfully wanting to help the Stark Family"

“i am well aware of your brother’s capacity for harm,” he says with a small inclination of his head. “that is not in question.”

his tone remains calm, but there is a quiet firmness beneath it now - the steady pressure of a man accustomed to drawing truth from silence.

“but i need specifics, my lord,” he continues. “men do not come to me offering their swords against their brothers without reason, and i cannot believe you chose this moment at random.”

for the first time since the conversation began, his expression softens slightly. the smile that touches his mouth is faint, but genuine enough in its intent; an attempt to ease the younger man’s nerves.

“i believe that you are sincere,” he says. “you have my word on that.”

his gaze stays fixed on him, steady and expectant.

“but sincerity alone is not enough for me to act. so be direct with me.” a brief pause follows. “what, precisely, are you accusing the lord bolton of?”