type of time we on

men could threaten him with a million different words. call him a million names. do what they wished to him, it meant nothing. there were only a few scraps of honor he still bothered to fight for, if it could even be called that anymore. there was no honor in axell royce. he had buried it long ago, killed it alongside the impostor he once let the world believe was dead. perhaps it had rotted even before that.

something in him went still.

moments ago, he had been eager, almost amused by the game of getting under amir’s skin. now there was nothing. no anger. no aggression. just a sudden, hollow dark quiet. his face gave nothing away, but his eyes did. cold. sharp. empty. then they shifted, darkening like a predator when it finally decides to strike.

whatever restraint he’d been holding shattered.

his hand fisted into amir’s shirt, gripping hard enough to drag him close, fingers biting into cloth and flesh alike. his other fist followed without hesitation, swinging down and cracking against amir’s cheek with brutal speed. he usually held back in fights like this. let men think they knew his strength, let them grow comfortable in their ignorance. it was useful, letting them taste only a fraction of what he could do, saving the rest for when it mattered.

he didn’t give a shit about tactics now.

he wanted to break bone. to crush. to erase that smug look from amir manderly’s face. the sheer audacity of it of thinking he could speak to him like that, as if he had any right. it was a slight against him to think they were equals. it was enough to make axell see red beneath it all.

there was no bracing for the thunderous crack that was the feeling of the fist landing clean against his jaw; no matter how much he knew this situation would have ended up in violence, no matter how much he hardened his jaw to try and firm what was no doubt coming, there was nothing that would describe the feeling of one's jaw shattering. and shatter it did, because he heard it; a disgusting crack, and the sudden feeling of iron in his mouth - he did not need a mirror to know his blood had started to fall.

if his jaw was not entirely cracked by that first thunderous blow, he knew it would very soon be as the more blows came falling down.

it were as though he were beneath a continuous mountain avalanche with a pain that was white hot, each meeting of fist with jaw akin to that of an avalanche - the man towered over him, and he knew this would not end well for him. the pain was numbing at first, barely able to keep count or register how many blows were landing on him - all he knew was that, he could not fall on the floor. he could not give the man access to his head, and so, whilst amir manderly tried to land as much blows as he could on the man that would tower over him, his focus was on trying his hardest to ensure he remained on his feet. he would take the beating on his feet.

if he fell and axell royce decided to kick his head in, this would end with him asleep. the type of sleep men didn't wake up from.

a part of him churned at the thought of it, the situation he had found himself in - and then the reeling feeling of anger at knowing he had not done anything, he had only been doing his own thing when this giant cunt crossed his way. it was always axell royce who had been insistent on letting men know he was there: there was no avoiding the likes of this. what was the alternative? looking the other way and pretending he didn't know him? or worse, indulging and allowing it?

so his jaw would break and his face would look unrecognisable. but he needed to stay stood up. he needed to protect the back of his head. and somewhere in the sounds, and the blood that came from his mouth that was all he could taste, his upper cut finally landed - at the same time he spat in the man's face. stand up, stay up, was all he kept telling himself; but his vision was blurred. he was unable to stand up straight without leaning on the wall.

she had always ben bold and brash, and the way he delivered his words were much the same, almost daring someone to push back. "explains the beady eyes. pretty sure i've seen him blink sideways," she craned her neck to see if she could see tion peake, a lord she knew by sight, if not well enough to say hello to. "nothing wrong with turtles, though. they're cute." there was a flicker of defensiveness in her jest. amongst banners of stags and dragons and lions, she had a soft spot for the estermonts' little green turtle.

she still thought he was exaggerating, but she was also utterly sure that he'd keep his head under the water the full ten minutes before letting her prove him wrong, even if it left him blue in the face. the stubbornness in his voice was not for show, she thought. she was a strong swimmer herself, more of her time on estermont island spent in the sea than on dry land, and still, she'd never known anyone be able to hold their breath for so long. "let's do it," she said, and if her hand had not already been in his for dancing, she would have held it out for him to shake on it. "what do i get if i win?" she was only half-serious about the idea of prizes and forfeits, though she was curious as to what he would offer.

her eyes rolled, but she was laughing still. "you wanted to get into the carnival spirit, no?" she asked him. "whole point is to look like a festival float. i've been working on my dress for it all year and still don't think i've got enough feathers." it was part of what she liked best about it, the fact that all things big and loud were celebrated.

he called her spark, and that snagged at her. her head tilted, brows shooting upward in question. it was not a term familiar to her, its meaning lost to her, whether mockery or jest or something else entirely, but he spoke it in a way that carried something warm with it, enough that it felt like a compliment. "spark?" she repeated eventually, curiosity slipping through into the lilt of her voice.

amir's voice softened, and that caught her off guard, her smirk giving way to something gentler, more attentive, in her expression. she could see the scene he described in vivid detail, despite the fact she had never been that far north, had never seen what it was she spoke about. to her, the sun was hot and heavy on her skin, nothing crisp about it. the way he spoke sounded like it was an entirely different entity, not the same thing that lit the skies of her home at all.

her head shook. "makes a man feel alive, maybe, but sounds like it would make me want to curl up and die." she had always hated the cold to an absurd degree. it made her miserable and agitated, snappier than usual, even in the mild winters greenstone boasted. there had been times where she had been in the riverlands, or gulltown, when snow had fallen, and even under piles of furs, she had felt the chill in her bones. what he spoke about sounded like more than a chill, but frost and ice, and above it all, the winter sun offering no refuge at all. "cold's not for me. i ain't made for it."

"nah, what use would a dragon egg be? i'd never hatch it, for a start." the grin was back on her face, at the mere prospect of hypothetical mischief. "same with the jewel. you couldn't wear it, could you? they'd recognise it and snatch it back. that's useless to me, too. but..." she lowered her voice, leaning in as though sharing a grand conspiracy. "you can do a lot with a man's seal. ain't just about stamping his ledgers, and by the time anybody figures it out you've already had your fun. and norbie grafton is harmless enough that he won't do anything but complain about it, and connected enough that people will trust anything that comes with his seal, even if it's complete bullshit," she explained.

amir lingered a moment longer than he probably should have, letting the warmth of the dance and the conversation settle around them. the music from the hall had softened into a distant hum, and the lantern light cast long, flickering shadows across the polished floor. he shifted his weight, subtly tugging at the cuff of his sleeve, though his eyes stayed on her. there was a pull, an urge to linger, to find some excuse to stay, but reason tugged in the opposite direction.

friends waited somewhere in the crowd, their laughter and voices calling him back to the other side of the hall. yet, the thought of leaving her here, even for a moment longer, carried an odd reluctance he didn’t quite name.

he cleared his throat, letting the words out cautiously, keeping them light even as the underlying weight of parting hovered. “well, spark,” he said, voice soft but steady, the nickname lingering between them like smoke from a candle, “i reckon it’s about time i find where my lot have wandered off to. don’t want to monopolise the evening more than i already have, not when you’ve got feathers to fuss over.” he straightened slightly, hands settling loosely at his sides, as though bracing for a departure he hadn’t yet made entirely. the corner of his mouth twitched into a grin, though it carried a faint edge of hesitation. he stepped a fraction back, giving her a little more space, though not too much, and inclined his head in a gentlemanly tilt.

“you’ve got a way of making a night interesting, estermont. didn’t think i’d end up laughing this much, nor feeling like the sea might be a bit less daunting after talking to you.” the words felt natural, even as a part of him wrestled with the thought of leaving. he didn’t want to admit, even to himself, that he might enjoy the unpredictability of her company more than he usually allowed. a seaman knew to always find the sea daunting; to put down ones guard was almost asking for fate to remind you in the cruelest of ways. his hand brushed briefly against the small of her back as it moved away from how they had danced, a polite, fleeting touch meant more for reassurance than anything else, and he let the moment hang.

“i suppose i’ll see you again at some point,” he added, voice lighter now, almost casual, as though he were trying to convince himself as much as her; and yet, his mind was working in overdrive trying to ensure he connect a way to make sure he did see her again. he took a slow breath, finally straightening, and his grin softened into something warmer, more genuine but still carrying that mischievous hint. “so enjoy the peace, don’t go turning the whole night into a festival without me, alright?” he gave a final, courteous nod, and though part of him wanted to linger, to tease some more or find some pretext to stay, he stepped back and let the motion of the crowd carry him away.

yet, in the quiet corner of his mind, a small, stubborn thought persisted: they would meet again. it was inevitable, though he didn’t voice it, letting the certainty remain an unspoken tether between them. with a final glance over his shoulder, he allowed himself a fleeting, crooked grin, the sort that promised mischief and trouble in equal measure. then he moved, weaving into the crowd, leaving her standing there with just enough space between them to make the memory of his presence linger.

her head tilted, eyes narrowing as she examined the side of his neck intently. for a moment, she was silent, before speaking again. "i don't see any gills." she pointed out. it did not matter how confident he was when he said it, nor how sincere he seemed. she was utterly convinced he was not being entirely truthful with it. "you're taking the piss out of me. even if you said seven minutes, i might have believed you, but ten? no way." were they near water, not standing in a westerlands ballroom, she would have demanded he attempt it then and there, but for the moment, he was saved from the feat.

gaze flicked from neck to face, still studying, but this time, mapping his features. "ain't nothing wrong with my glitter," she protested, look of mock-outrage crossing her face. "but no, i think we can do better for you. blues and greens, maybe. scales on the temple? with a little estermont turtle on your cheek so everyone knows who the artist was." as much as she was joking, there was something about it she was enjoying imagining, the idea of marking him in colours of her own making.

it was impossible not to notice the slight shift in him when she spoke his name, like the moment ripples faded from a pond after a stone had been thrown in it happening in an instant instead of a gradual fade. it didn't feel like a bad thing, but it stirred a flicker of self-awareness in her all the same, something that made her clear her throat and give a tiny nod of acknowledgement to his thanks.

she'd been looking at him a beat too long, and so she lowered her gaze for the moment, more to collect herself than because it was awkward or uncomfortable. it was only then that she fully registered how close they were to each other, the warmth that was blooming in her chest when they danced, the weight of his hand upon her hip. it might have meant nothing at all - she danced with people all the time, and so must he, but there was something that felt different to her. this was the kind of conversation she knew would be dissected with her friends, one she would recount every detail of when they had parted ways for the night.

there was a sort of pride that reared up in her at the sight of his grin, a satisfaction that it was her words that caused it. "well, obviously. most of you northmen don't know the feeling of sun on your face." she pointed out. "'s'different at greenstone. air's too thick to be sleeping with the window closed, especially if there's a storm on the way." and yet, she loved it with all her heart. "besides, you could just invite me to white harbour, you know. no need to be turning yourself into a block of ice to get me running north," she was teasing him again now, shaking off the previous moment of quiet with something playful and light.

"you calling me a thief?" she asked, all cheeky mirth despite the flicker of unease that shifted in her chest at his careless assessment of valyrians. it would have been impossible to tell just by looking at her, the darkest of indigo hues in her eyes impossible to make out under golden candlelight, no strands of silver woven into her braided hair, but the valyrian blood was in her veins nonetheless. it wasn't the moment to dive into the identity politics of it all though, and so she pushed the thoughts from her mind, letting her face screw up in thought while she considered his question. "house trant's tequila would be nice. or no, wait," her expression suddenly changed to one of mischief. "i want someone's private seal," she finally replied. "nobody too important, not a hand or a king or anything, just someone that it would be funny to mess around sending fake letters from. maybe norbie grafton."

amir laughed when she called his words noble, head dipping in mock solemnity before he lifted his hands like a man under accusation. “a line of troublemakers? nah, see, that’s propaganda. the peakes been spreading that for centuries, trust me. thousand years back they made up a whole saga about us meddling too much, forced us out the reach, and now look—me and tion peake practically family. can’t hold a good grudge forever, can you?” he was grinning when he said it, already amused by the idea of how much it’d wind tion up if he heard him rewriting history in front of a lady. the manderlys had never been shy of reinvention, and if the story fit the joke, he’d wear it proudly.

"besides, the peakes be descended from turtles. they basically reptiles, they should've been the ones to go north." he spoke utter nonsense with such confidence, loudly; almost as though he were hoping tion peake would hear him. "but lord peake was secretly with the gardener king."

he leaned in when she started eyeing his neck, gaze sharp as hers, though his mouth tugged into a scoff when she spoke of gills. “are you calling me a liar?” he asked, matching her tone so precisely it was almost an imitation. the laugh came right after, though the offence was feigned only halfway—there was pride wrapped up in that claim, and he wasn’t about to let her walk away thinking he’d bluffed. “i said ten minutes, estermont. ten. if you’re still doubting me, i’ll prove it. next time we’re by water, you set the hourglass, and you’ll see me come up fresh as anything. won’t even be out of breath. i don’t play games when it comes to the sea.” there was a note of stubbornness in the words, that streak of northern bloody-mindedness he carried like armour, though his eyes were bright with the thrill of being challenged.

when she started on about face paint and turtles, his grin stretched wider, all teeth and disbelief. “nah, you’re moving mad now. a turtle on my face? that’s your idea of an improvement? you’re lucky you’re the artist, because anyone else talking about painting me up like some festival float, i’d be walking. but you—” he tilted his head at her, eyes narrowing slightly with that teasing glint, “—you get a pass, spark." spark: a playful, affectionate term in white harbour for someone who catches your attention.

the mention of the sun had him pausing a beat, his grip light but steady at her hip as he steered them through another turn. “winter sun’s not the same as yours,” he said, voice softer, almost thoughtful. “it’s crisp. it hits different. air’s thin, sky’s clear, and for once the cold don’t matter. you stand out there on the harbour wall, wind biting, and that light touches your face—it feels like it’s cutting straight through you, in a good way. beautiful thing, that. makes a man feel alive.” the memory was vivid in his chest, enough to sober him briefly, though the grin found its way back soon enough when she teased about visiting.

he placed his hand on his chest, almost teasingly. "shit touches my soul."

and then she asked if he was calling her a thief, and amir blinked, not quite following the weight in her tone. “a thief? you?” he laughed again, shaking his head, shoulders loose with ease. he did not understand what she meant by that - because amir manderly did not realise, nor know, that the estermonts were of valyrian lineage themselves. “i never said that. but funny how you jumped there so quick—what you telling me, estermont? got sticky fingers when nobody’s looking?” he didn’t know what thread she was tugging at, and he didn’t care to chase it. she was playing, and so was he.

her answer about grafton’s seal had him whistling low, though, eyebrows lifting in mock-shock. “norbie grafton? that’s what you want to do with your one chance? gods, the man'll show up to collect it claiming the seal was promised to him a thousand years ago and charge your ass interest. and here i was thinking you’d say some crown jewel or dragon egg, something wild. you’re moving reckless with the paperwork instead.” his laugh came from deep in his chest, shaking his shoulders, but he didn’t let the moment slip without turning it back on her. “me? i’m not stealing nothing. borrowing, maybe. there’s a difference.” his grin sharpened as he leaned closer, letting the words brush just above her ear.

axell chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that rumbled low in his chest. the response was expected—amir always bit back, always had something to say, even if it was laced with irritation. that was what made this so fun.

“you wound me, manderly,” axell drawled, swirling the wine in his goblet as he finally took a slow sip. his eyes never left amir, watching, assessing. axell always thought he had always been quick to temper, easy to rile up. “no warm welcome? no gratitude for an old comrade-in-arms? i thought you northern men were supposed to have manners.”

he took a step closer, deliberately crowding amir’s space, smirk still firmly in place. “but i’ll admit, you’re right about one thing. you don’t look like a drunk woman—drunk women usually know how to have a good time.” his smirk widened, sharp as a blade. “you, on the other hand, always look like you’re bracing for someone to kick you in the teeth.” he tilted his head slightly. “is that just your natural state, or did i ruin you that badly?”

axell let the words linger, watching his face for any reaction at all. a slow satisfaction unfurled in his chest. he had spent too many years making sure amir manderly knew exactly where axell believed he stood—beneath him.

at amir’s final words, axell exhaled a short laugh, tipping his goblet slightly in mock salute. “girls?” he echoed, feigning confusion. “i didn’t realize you kept track of my interests. that’s cute.” he leaned in, voice dropping low enough that only amir could hear. “but if you’re worried i’ll be sniffing around someone you care about, you should say it plainly.”

amir’s jaw flexed, and though his body didn’t shift, his eyes cut sharp to axell’s face. there was that tone again, the way the man slid words in like a knife under the ribs, slow and deliberate, with that twisted humour that always felt like it was crawling over his skin. he hated the way axell spoke—like he was toying with something he thought fragile, like he could break it just because it amused him. “see, that right there,” amir said low, his voice hard and flat as stone as he extended his hand as axell leaned in, not directly pushing him away, but acting as a block in itself. "“is why your big brother need to get you back on your leash."

"talk too greasy. all that ‘ruin you’ shit—man, don’t let them big shoulders gas you, all it'll take is one pop to the head and i'll listen to whatever shit your blood got to say to me when you already six feet under seeing your mama again.”

his lip curled just slightly as he finally turned to face him, letting him see the look in his eye: sharp, unblinking, coiled like a spring. “and let me clear somethin’ up—you ain't ruin shit. which is why i be stood here, talkin this shit in your face.” he shifted his weight slightly, a small step that squared him up without making a scene, but it was enough to show he wasn’t budging an inch. "and i been talking that shit to your face, nah?" he wasn’t as big as axell, never would be, but he had that wiry muscle, that speed, and a reputation for putting men on their backs with his fists when a sword weren’t close to hand.

his gaze flicked, deliberate, from the hilt of axell’s sword back to his face.

"might have been the feathers," her head tilted as he brought her back into him, both their heads inclined as though sharing secrets in the strictest of confidence. "not everyone can pull them off. maybe that's what did it, the pure unfiltered jealousy." it was uncanny how well he could slip into the accent of estermont, and had it been anybody else, she might have been offended by it, but she wasn't. perhaps it was because she liked the way it sounded in the rich timbre of his voice, something that was both familiar and warm and yet new and exciting enough to raise her pulse as they spun. "how'd you know our house words?" she shot back at him, as innocently as she could from her smirking mouth.

"last carnival i had the pattern of the waves. here," she lifted her hand from her shoulder to brush her finger in a light semi circle around her eye, from the top of her brow bone around her temple and across her cheek. "and here," her hand lowered, neck elongating as though inviting him to look as fingers now traced a line across her collarbone. she wanted him to look.

at least, for a moment, before she came to her senses, and remembered that it was not just the two of them in the room, that brianna wasn't far and could be watching, that her mother and her brothers were all in attendance tonight, and her hand returned to his shoulder, and she was laughing again. "the seashell on the forehead, though, that's not a bad idea. might try it next year." her lips pursed in thought, looking at him appraisingly. "i don't think the face paint's your vibe. if you wanted to come this year. you'd suit a few feathers, though." she was buying herself time before she had to answer his question, for she hadn't thought that far ahead when concocting her little story. "you know, none of us thought to remember his name, actually. i've a great aunt who swears he had a massive tattoo of a kraken on his arse, but she won't tell any of us how she knows it."

it was undeniable that something shifted, not in a way that felt bad or wrong, just different from the patter that had developed between them. the way he was smiling at her had changed, and when he told her she could be whatever she want, in that moment minty felt it, not as words offered to placate or encourage, but words spoken because they might be true. "amir hassan manderly," she spoke in words little louder than breath as she savoured the shape of the words when she spoke them. "i like it. it's a good name."

she was biting back the urge to ask if she had to make him dinner now when his second little fact drew an involuntary scoff from her, for minthara had grown up around water and men who knew it well, had spent hours in the sea until the skin of her fingers and toes remained wrinkled for hours after, and never once had she seen anyone hold their breath for so long. "nah, nah, you're lying," her head shook in disbelief, though there was challenge in her eyes, a dare to prove her wrong. "i'll make a bet with you here and now that you can't hold your breath for ten minutes. and if i win, you have to let me do your face paint for carnival." so confident was she that he was exaggerating that she did not even bother to think of a forfeit for if she lost.

amir didn’t answer her straight away, though his mouth twitched like he meant to. instead, he let the moment stretch—just long enough to catch the movement of her fingers as they traced the memory of last carnival across her skin. his gaze followed, not hungrily, but with the deliberate attention of a man who’d spent his life reading star charts and coastlines, trained to notice detail and direction. he looked, and then looked away, slow enough that she’d know he had. respectful, but not blind. he exhaled, soft through his nose, and said, “yeah, it might’ve been the feathers.” there was a little warmth in his voice, almost amusement, like he could still see the way she’d moved just before she caught herself.

he drew her in again, and their heads bent together in a mock-conspiratorial lean, though his voice didn’t drop quite as low. “as for the house words—” he gave a small shrug with one shoulder, “—i like to know what people fly under. words say a lot, yeah? yours are good ones. strong folk.” he didn’t say that he’d learned them years ago, from a dusty old navy ledger with a fleet’s worth of heraldry scribbled in the margins. he liked the way she’d asked, like it was a game, not an interrogation. that deserved better than dry truth.

"ours are a promise was made - refers to when we swore fealty to the starks thousand years ago, after our arses got chased out of the reach for trifling too much. not like there's any bad blood though; tion peake is my older brother's closest friend."

her talk of the kraken tattoo made his mouth twitch again, though he didn’t laugh this time—just gave her a look that was all raised brow and no belief. “your great aunt’s got stories, then. sounds like she’s the dangerous one. i’ll steer clear.” his fingers shifted slightly at her waist, not pulling her in, just steadying the turn as he guided them through a narrower space on the floor. “and i’ll take the compliment,” he added, nodding once. “feathers over face paint? nah, hit me with the face paint. i want that same glitter you've got right now; though i got a perfection issue yeah. it needs be neater." he was teasing in that regard, indicating to the curve on her face where the glitter seemed to only illuminate her eyes more.

when she repeated his name, something in him stilled—not stiff, not defensive, just… stilled. people said his name all the time. but she’d spoken it like it meant something. "yes ma'am. shit sounds serious."

“cheers,” he said after a beat, voice quieter now, like her tone had earned something in return. “it’s been a decent enough name. kept me steady.” her disbelief at his breath-holding pulled a grin from him again, and this time the laugh came with it, deep and rough-edged. “did i stutter? i said ten whole minutes,” he said, lifting his brows. “i don’t lie about water, estermont. but all right, we’ll make the bet. though you better start planning that face paint, ‘cause you’re going to owe me an apology when i win.” he quietly noted that she made no reference to a forefit, something he would definitely bring up when the time was right and if the condition suited him.

and then she gave her two, and he listened properly—head tipped slightly, eyes following the movement of her skirt, then rising again, sharp with attention. the handstand fact amused him, but the last one made him grin, full and bright. “an open window?” he echoed, laughing now. “shit, that’d kill me up north. it's a whole wrap, i'm telling you. one night like that and i’d be found frozen to the sheets, chest caved in from the cold. you’d have to come up to white harbour just to thaw a man out.” he took a sip of his drink, the hint of a smile still ghosting his mouth, then leaned in again—closer this time, but easy with it, like he was asking without asking.

"obviously there's a reason," she said, solemnly - all together too solemnly, which made it plain that nothing she was about to say was true. she paused, both for dramatic effect, and to give herself a moment to think of something worth saying. "ancient tradition, goes back to the first estermonts. see, there was this pirate from the stepstones. horrid man, terrifying. used to raid up and down the island, stealing everything that wasn't nailed down - fish, wine, women, you name it." she paused for a moment to draw her breath, unable to keep the smirk from her face. "anyway, he tried to sack greenstone during one of my ancestors' wedding feast. waited until they were all deep in their cups to attack, thought it would give him the upper hand. only us estermonts get rowdy when we're pissed. ended up chasing him back into the sea in all our wedding finery, feathers, face paint, the works. so we declared ourselves protected by the sacred power of pleasure, and every year we commemorate it by drinking, dancing, and getting loud. never had a pirate make it past the reef since. can't be a coincidence, can it?"

minty didn't know how she got through it without laughing, though she somehow managed it. her skirts were still swaying about her ankles from when he had spun her, and she scoffed after he had spoke. "ain't no kindness in that, amir," she pointed out. "this is the westerlands. they can barely two-step in time with the music. throw a proper beat at them and i'm not sure they'd survive it without a maester on standby."

she adjusted her hand in his grip, ensuring their fingers were laced together more comfortably. "can't i be both? the island and the storm?" she asked, lighter than she felt. it was a question that she'd been asking herself more often lately, and one she never quite had the answer to. the estermonts by their very existence occupied space in two different worlds, and yet she was always too much of one thing and not enough of the other. "you're a sailor, aren't you? you know that the tide knows how to rage when it feels like it." she shrugged her shoulders. "no reason i can't have the sun on my skin and thunder in my chest, is there?"

she wasn't sure, in that moment, that she was all too bothered with what was polite and proper, but any thought of demanding he take her for his sailor's swill was pushed from her mind by the simplicity of his statement - i like talking to you. there was something about the way he said it that had her grin softening at the edges, as though he'd offered her a small, private gift. it was becoming abundantly clear that there was something about amir manderly, something other than his charm and his grin and the bravado of it all. "all right, then," she agreed. "something else."

amir’s laugh came quick and rich, the kind that shook through his ribs and warmed the skin of his chest beneath the fine layers he wore. he spun her again just because he could, because she looked too good in motion not to, skirts flaring and catching candlelight as they turned. his gaze swept across her—not greedy, not rude, but appreciative in a way he didn’t bother disguising. she danced like she meant it, like her bones remembered salt and sun and heat in ways her words hadn’t yet confessed. she looked like freedom, and it would’ve been a damned waste not to admire her for it.

“you lot really chased pirates off in your wedding finery?” he drawled, his grin curling with disbelief. “don’t suppose they were scared off by the fashion, were they? feathers too fierce, paint too bold?” he leaned in just a little, mischief flickering behind his eyes like the promise of a wave about to break. and suddenly, he had slipped back into the thick accent of greenstone, his hand briefly resting on the curve of his jaw as he was deep in thought. “mi can just see it now—some uncle in a lace doublet shoutin’, ‘run yuh rass clart outta here before mi beat yuh with mi wedding fan, yuh dutty salt-faced tief!’ there was laughter that slipped from him at her face changing as he spoke in her accent again, and he cared not who heard him laughing.

“what kind of face paint we talkin’? greenstone green, all tribal lines and sea serpent swirls? or was it something softer—little flower tucked behind the ear, maybe a nice seashell glued to the forehead for good luck?” he kept dancing, smooth as a tide, his hand at her waist shifting subtly to guide the next turn without rushing it. “and this pirate—got a name? ‘cause you tell a story that good, i’m expectin’ something strong. don’t tell me he was just called roger or some shit. i want blood in it. darien the dread. something sharp.” his teeth flashed, white against the warm brown of his skin, dark eyes catching hers with the gleam of someone entirely aware of the game being played and eager to keep playing it. he laughed again, softer this time, and shook his head like even he knew he was taking the piss.

“nah, i vibe with it,” he admitted. “bit of history, bit of myth, little splash of theatre. it suits you.” and then she asked him if she could be both, island and storm, and his grin shifted—not gone, just tilted into something realer, a little weightier. he looked at her for a beat, really looked at her, the way someone might watch the horizon just to see what kind of weather it planned on bringing. “you can be whatever you want,” he said plainly, like it was a fact and not a kindness.

“i don’t reckon there’s a soul in this room bold enough to tell you otherwise and come out clean on the other side. not when you move the way you do.” he noticed the change in her face before she even spoke—something in her mouth went shy around the edges, like the smile wasn’t sure whether to curl or stay still. the words that followed made him chuckle low in his chest, warm and pleased and just the tiniest bit smug. not in a way that mocked her, never that, but in the way of a man who’d seen a secret thing happen and promised to keep it safe.

“all right,” he said, hand tightening slightly around hers as they turned again, “i’ll go first. two facts. just for you. one—my middle name’s hassan. barely anyone knows that. my grandparents called me that when i was little. my grandad especially. only time anyone gets away with sayin’ it now is if they’re older than me or made me dinner.”

lucerys had been warned to pace himself — “it’s a weeks-long event, luc, not a sprint” — but it was proving impossible. highgarden had never looked more alive. music drifted faintly through the winding garden paths, punctuated by bursts of applause or thoughtful murmuring from the open-air forums.

he stood at the edge of one such pavilion now, a leather-bound notebook tucked under his arm, cheeks still flushed from the last discussion he’d stumbled into — something on the ethics of alchemical advancement and the moral obligation of progress. he hadn’t meant to speak, but someone had misquoted maester edryn on the nature of equilibrium, and, well… it would’ve haunted him all week if he hadn’t corrected it.

now he lingered, scribbling half-formed thoughts onto the page. his glasses had slid down his nose again, ink smudged on the side of his hand.

"gods," he whispered to himself, grinning. “it’s like the citadel if no one ever told you to shut up during a lesson"

a breeze stirred the silken banners above. somewhere nearby, someone was demonstrating a waterwheel-powered loom. elsewhere, he could hear laughter — or maybe debate; it was hard to tell here.

luc turned, scanning the growing crowd with quiet excitement. familiar faces, curious strangers, potential allies — or perhaps just someone to talk philosophy or anything with.

he adjusted his spectacles and smiled, open and eager. for once he felt….social? like his normal nerves just melted away “did you catch the last forum?” he asked, the person next to him who had also stopped at the debate. “i think the speaker misattributed that bit on civic harmony but overall it was very interesting”

amir clocked him from halfway across the garden on the other side of a makeshift fence—sat there like he’d built the damn pavilion himself, notebook tucked under his arm, lips moving like he was about to school the whole realm on civil harmony. of course lucerys was deep in some debate, sucked in all his focus as he chattered away with another likeminded person sat next to him. the youngest manderly amir didn’t even bother keeping his voice down as he made his way over, hand going onto the fence to casually jump over it with only the flippancy of a young northern lord.

“aye, look who’s out here actin’ like a whole maester of the realm!” he called, grinning wide as he yanked the notebook clean out of luc’s hands before the boy could even blink. “i swear, you and this book got a deeper relationship than most marriages.”

“man, you better not be out here writin’ your memoirs already,” he called out, grinning as he strode right up and snatched the notebook clean from luc’s hands. “don’t tell me you brought this same notebook from the vale. that book older than your fashion sense.” he held it up like he was gonna whack luc over the head with it, eyebrows raised, smirk wide. “you really sat in a whole field of music, food, good-lookin’ people—and you scribblin’ footnotes?” he turned a page, pretending to squint. “what you even writin’ in here? ‘dear diary, today i corrected three fools and got applauded once’?” he closed it, half laughing as he passed it back to lucerys, warm dark orbs all but sparkling with happiness considering he finally bumped into the estermont he had known the longest.

KEITH POWERS

emira exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the murmured conversations filling the room. she had been trying, all evening, to push past the weight in her chest—to focus on the familiar faces, the quiet hum of voices, anything to keep herself from truly sitting with what had happened. but now, standing beside amir, she found it impossible to ignore.

she still couldn’t believe demir was gone.

her fingers curled and uncurled around the fabric of her veil as she turned to him, trying to grasp onto something steady. amir is steady. amir is always steady.

“i’ll whisper their names and they will hear it a mile away to come running back over i swear it” she mumbled. “they hear nothing all day until it’s their own name” it was an attempt at lightness, but the usual ease wasn’t there. the words felt hollow, as if she were trying to fill the space with something—anything—other than the reality of where they were, why they were here. but she pushed forward, forced herself to light more. trying to enjoy her time with amir. “honestly it’s better they ask you questions. you can give them a one word answer and they will nod and understand i will and i get a barrage of questions. i think they are just expecting im going to say more”

her lips quirked faintly in amsile as he nudged her back, though her hands remained tense at her sides. “but i do mean it,” she added after a moment, in a familiar pointed tone. “if naijia and you are leaving i wont be far behind”

she let out a breath, glancing toward the flickering candlelight, her expression unreadable. “we should be safe here,” she said finally, the words more to herself than to him. “we should be.” and yet, the unease coiled in her stomach, the feeling that something was wrong, that demir’s death was not the end of it.

she swallowed, then forced herself to look at him again. “just… stay close, alright? we all should” the words came out softer than she intended, unguarded in a way she didn’t like. “i don’t want to find out if i’m right to feel like this.” she couldn’t explain it. some gut feeling she couldnt shake away no matter how many times she told herself she was overrecting

amir shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shoulders rising with a quiet inhale before he turned slightly toward her, eyes flicking to her veil again, to the way her fingers fidgeted like they were trying to speak for her. "why don't you just hiss at them? that'll do the job." he muttered back quietly to her, sitting back against the wall and stretching, feeling his limbs stretch - it had been hours they were sat along the pews during the funeral, and then he needed to stand in the graveyard when lowering the man's corpse into the ground. he ignored the sound of the slight shake of nervousness to her voice, as she didn’t like when her voice trembled, even if it only did so in her own mind.

she’d never say it aloud, but he’d known her long enough to tell. emira mallister was a storm disguised as a tide—controlled, rhythmic, until she wasn’t. and something in the set of her jaw now told him she was doing everything not to crash. "we're not in the north." was the quiet statement he gave to reassure her; there was nothing cynical in his words, nothing cryptic, but perhaps that made it even worse - to hear the way amir manderly spoke of his own homelands, and the nature in which he knew he was in danger. it were hard to feel as though his people were not increasingly isolated in the north, but the reality that his people were possibly too being isolated even with the halls of oldtown was enough to momentarily make his mind blank.

as though it would never end; their names never mattered, their thoughts never mattered - they ended up being isolated. “you know,” he said, his tone low, but casual in that deliberate way he always used when he didn’t want her to brace for something heavier. “i’ve been thinking, after having a conversation with younes,” he started, voice low but steady, “about us. not just you and me, but the lot of us—the families, the ones raised like we were. the old way.” his thumb brushed against the rim of his cup, more a habit than anything. “we used to marry in. keep things tight. alliances were tidy, predictable. now it’s all over the place. not bad, just… different. and i'm beginning to wonder if this is the consequence for that.”

he didn’t look at her when he said it. not at first. he looked ahead, into the firelight dancing across the goblets and solemn faces, his own hands loose at his sides. “our parents did it, but us?” he finally glanced at her then, the corner of his mouth twitching into something wry, almost half amused. “now you’re marrying ben blackwood, somehow. the poor man did get done dirty with that one.” he paused just long enough to let the name hang between them, though his voice wasn’t accusing—just curious. maybe a little resigned. “not that i’ve heard a poor word about him. but still. it surprised me.”

he didn’t say it to wound. if anything, it was just the truth. and he was tired of dressing his truths up in pleasantries.

he shifted his weight, sighing through his nose. “i guess what i’m wondering is—did our parents basically raise us all too close? like siblings. so close it’s weird to think about marriage, even when it’s expected. maybe that’s why things keep changing. people look outside the usual matches because it doesn’t feel right anymore. or maybe we’re just out of step. maybe it’s not about right or wrong, just different rules now.” he didn’t want to press too much—especially not now, not when she already looked like she was holding herself together with string and willpower. his voice dropped a little, softer now. “you know i’m staying. don’t need to ask. i’ll keep close, alright? i already told you i’m not letting you wander off into the sea unless you’ve got a proper plan.” he made a quiet note to speak to the high commander of the reach and ask him directly if it were worth increasing their household security in oldtown.

The Great Hall of Winterfell roared with life. The longtables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, and trenches of steaming stews thick with barley and herbs. Horns of ale and spiced cider passed from hand to hand, and the music—pipes, drums, and old Northern fiddles—rolled through the rafters like a storm threatening to never end. The fires were high in the hearths, casting golden light across the faces of warriors and lords, ladies and singers, even the occasional knight who bore no love for snow yet found themselves drawn north for the name day of a king.

King Owen Stark stood at the center of it all, shirt discarded, sweat at his brow, and a grin spread wide across his face. A goblet of dark beer was raised in one hand, while the other was being shaken by a red-faced northern knight who had just been bested in a wrestling match.

“Next time, Ser Harwin, keep your knees under you!” Owen laughed, clapping the man on the back with enough force to stagger a lesser soul. “You almost had me before your arse kissed the flagstones!”

Owen Stark had sent invitations far and wide. To bannermen and strangers, allies and rivals—even the lion’s kin, should they dare enter the heart of the wolf’s den. His message had been clear:

"All are welcome, if they come in peace. I was born in winter. Let’s see if fire and frost can drink from the same cup."

There was no crown on his brow tonight, no heavy cloak about his shoulders. Just the man, the king, and the wolf in him all laid bare for the feast. His dark hair was tousled, his beard damp with drink, and his laughter came easily—too easily, some might say, for a man with enemies watching from the shadows of his hall.

amir manderly laughed, loud and from the belly, arms folded across his broad chest as he leaned a touch too far back on his heels, like he didn’t mind if he fell over with it. the wrestling ring in winterfell’s great hall had become a magnet for that sort of joy—rough and breathless, clumsy with sweat and roaring pride—and amir, never one to shy away from spectacle, was standing right beside his king, eyes alight, taking it all in with a sort of boyish glee. "you’ve coin on the big lad?" he asked, teeth flashing white as he grinned sidelong at owen. “gods, your grace, the poor bastard looks like he fights with his dinner more than his fists.” his accent bent every word into something warmer than mockery—he wasn’t cruel, not really, just amused.

the man in question was near double the size of his opponent, but amir’s keen eye saw where the weight settled: too much in the belly, not enough in the thighs. no power in that stance, just wobble and sweat. “i’ll place mine on the lean one. quick hands, low centre of gravity. if he knows how to duck, it’ll be done in two.” still chuckling, amir shifted his weight, scanning the crowd. his eyes, sharp beneath the lamp-lit shadow of his brow, searched the faces beyond the ring. he was looking for nasir—his brother should’ve returned by now. just off to splash water on his face, that’s all he’d said, but he had a way of vanishing at parties like these, where the noise grew thick and the company thicker.

it wasn’t like nasir to be drawn away from wrestling; on the other hand, boxing had always been amir’s calling.

fists, footwork, the give of flesh beneath knuckle. he missed it, in truth. missed the simplicity of it. but tonight, he was content to watch. his eyes slid back to owen then, this king of theirs, shirtless and shining like some ancient first man carved of sweat and pinewood, and there it was—that flicker. not distrust, not exactly, but something close to wariness. not because owen had drawn too close to the manderly name, but because he had not yet tripped over it. because he wore it lightly, as if centuries of loyalty and pride could be shrugged into laughter, pressed into the meat of a feast and the thud of a backslap. amir didn’t know what that meant—not yet. he wasn’t a suspicious man by nature, but he wasn’t naive either.

but he didn’t let it show. not in his face, not in his voice. his laugh returned as he watched the fighters circle, his hand thudding once against owen’s shoulder in a gesture that was brotherly and rough. “look at that footwork! i told you. he’s got it in the hips. belly won’t save you when a man dances ‘round your fists like smoke.” he tilted his head, grinning again. “and anyway, it ain't real until someone breaks their nose. that’s the trouble with wrestling—too much hugging, not enough bleeding. now boxing? boxing’s where you find the truth of a man.”

she did not need to think, did not even hesitate when he took her hand and tugged her to the dancefloor, fingers weaving effortlessly with his own. "i don't need your help to dance," she snorted. "no rhythm," the look she shot him would have been reproachful, if not for the light still sparking in her eyes. "you ain't seen me at the estermont carnival."

the weight of his hand at her waist kept her in place, and they began to move. "i'm not worried," a toss of her head sent her hair flying over her shoulder. "i'm a stormlander, yeah? i'm used to dancing through storms. just wondering if you can keep up." it was clear from the expression on her face that she was thoroughly enjoying this, the playfulness, the competition, the way they were skirting around the edges of flirtation. it was a feeling that left her cheeks flushed, and in that moment, it was all minty could think about ; so much so that she did not notice the typical awkwardness or missteps that usually came the first time two people danced with one another.

what she did note was the weight of his hand as it encircled her waist, the way he stood a little too close to be proper, and she had to remind herself not to let the moment carry her away. when it came to it, she didn't really know amir manderly. this may not have been unusual behaviour for him, even if it felt to her like something far more consequential. she glanced up at him as they danced, doing her best to conceal what was running through her mind with the same playful smirk she had worn since they had encountered one another again, and the sort of confidence that matched his.

but when he spoke again, all thoughts of the façade of bravado was banished from her mind, because amir had once again thrown her for a loop. she did not need to examine the meaning behind the words - it seemed, to her, all too plain. it made the grand ballroom around them suddenly feel much smaller, much more intimate. her head tilted to one side, the momentary surprise on giving way as her mouth curled into a knowing grin, and she shifted on her feet to lean in to the warmth of his body as her hand gripped his a little more firmly. "utter disaster," she agreed. "could you imagine? i'd have to sit next to you at every family feast, watching you chew with your mouth open." her eyes rolled, as though such a thing were a trial to be endured. "think i'll leave you wondering what i'll call you, though."

the music drifted into a different tempo, a plucked string here, a ripple of harp there, something dainty and very western in its bones, but lord amir manderly had never much cared for dancing by someone else’s rhythm. the beat was fine—light, floaty, inoffensive—but it wasn’t his. still, he adjusted his step, only just, enough to let the thread of their shared movement remain taut and unbroken as he led minthara estermont across the floor. she moved like she had a secret tucked beneath her ribs and it might escape at any moment if she laughed too hard. that, of course, only made him want to keep her laughing.

"carnival, is it?" he said, a grin already rising on his lips. “is there a reason it happens when it does back home, or d’you lot just pick a day and decide it’s time for feathers and half the island drunk before noon?” his tone was curious but light, teasing—like he was inviting her to lie to him if it made the story better. “because if there’s method to the madness, i’d love to hear it. if not—well. no shame in pleasure for pleasure’s sake.” he spun her lightly, just enough for her skirts to catch the air before he pulled her back in, close again, the press of her hand still firm in his.

“speaking of,” he chuckled, shaking his head as if already amused by his own imagining, lowering his voice so only she could hear; it was in that moment, seeing the way the candlelight reflected from her skin, he confirmed in his own mind he did find her attractive. “i’d kill to take over this music right now. give me five minutes and i’d switch it up enough to get the crackers on the edge of the floor bobbing their heads—then just when they start feelin’ themselves, switch. throw off the beat. leave ‘em lookin’ confused.” he was laughing now, not softly either, a warm sound that rumbled low in his chest as though the thought delighted him entirely too much. “it’s a kindness, really. man's just keepin’ them humble.”

minthara had said something about storms earlier, about dancing through them like it was a part of her, and that—he liked. that was the sort of talk that made him take a second look at a woman. but still, the smile playing across his face bent into something more mischievous as he leaned in slightly, voice lowered with fond amusement. “stormlander, is it? funny. ‘cause from where i’m standin’, you’re all island, minty. white sands, hot sun. the kind of girl who don’t flinch from heat, who probably learned to dance with the tide rolling in behind her.” his dark eyes glinted, like he could see it—the image of her barefoot and laughing on greenstone’s shores—and liked it enough to linger there a moment longer than was strictly polite.

his free hand, the one resting at her waist, flexed just slightly as they turned again with the music. “i’ll confess, i’ve got no rum aboard my ships these days, been cutting back,” he said, voice full of mock regret. “there’s nasty liquor for the sailors—burns goin’ down and makes ‘em forget the taste of salt—but i wouldn’t put that in your hands. tastes awful.” the look he gave her then was entirely deliberate: flirty, but not crude, warm with a kind of chivalry he’d been raised to wear like a second skin. “not that i’d expect you to get drunk with a man you just met. wouldn’t be proper.” and yet the grin that followed didn’t seem too fussed with proper at all. he swayed with her a beat longer, the rhythm easing between them like it had always been there. it was strange, how natural this all felt—how easily she kept pace with him.